Larry Brooks's Blog, page 35

Confessions of a Pantser, or What I Failed To Learn in Grad School

A guest post by Eric Neyer

When I was in my late 20s I spent two years working toward an MFA in Creative Writing degree at a small university in the western U.S. From the standpoint of expanding my creative perspective and developing relationships with fellow writers, those were the most productive and incredibly satisfying years of my life. I would never trade the experience for a different one.

And yet now, fifteen years later, neither I nor any other writer in my graduating class has a novel or story collection in mass publication.

Why no commercial successes, one might wonder? I can only speak for myself, but I don’t believe it is a lack of talent inherent in my classmates, nor any shortcomings of the teachers. The instructors were, as a rule, thoughtful, generous and insightful, and nine out of ten students in the program could craft a more poetically beautiful sentence than most best-selling authors. The issue lay elsewhere.

My final thesis was a collection of short stories, but it was clear to all of us fiction writers that novels were the only commercially viable medium for an aspiring fiction writer.

Once I graduated I was faced with a choice: pursue the academic route as a teacher or seek work in a professional field. I had some ideas for writing a novel, but since I needed to repay student loans and cover the rent, I landed a job as a technical writer. In my free time I struggled with sustaining a regular fiction writing habit, but I never got past the brainstorming and first couple chapters with any of my novel ideas.

I couldn’t exactly pinpoint the source of my frustration. I thought that I didn’t have the proper work ethic, or that I didn’t have the “storytelling gene.” My stories had generally garnered more positive than negative criticism in workshops, but to me there was always something vital missing. Over the years I’d published a few pieces without pay in tiny journals and obscure online venues. I did submit stories to The New Yorker and several other prestigious outlets, knowing that the work was below their standards.

Then, last year, I resolved to try once again to appease my still-simmering desires by signing up for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I thought that a deadline and some emotional support from other participants might provide a semblance of the motivation that had driven me in graduate school. I did not meet the 50,000-word quota by the end of November, for various reasons, but something even better happened. I discovered Larry Brooks’ website, through his daily posting of NaNoWriMo tips, and ultimately his book, Story Engineering. Immediately I knew what had been absent from the entirety of my work as a fiction writer.

And lo, thy name be Structure.

As an ex-composition instructor, I was aware of the importance of organization to effective writing. But as an artistically inclined writer, I had a prejudice against too much conscious plotting–”plots are for semi-literate hacks,” would probably fairly summarize my feelings. As with many humans, when faced with a discrepancy between intellectual knowledge and emotions, I let my irrational impulses win out. And in the cozy womb of a graduate writing program, that attitude was amply rewarded. In the real world of attracting readers and selling books, though, I realized…not so much.

As I was reading Larry’s blog posts last November and then his book, I became convinced that my stereotype about plotting was ridiculous and self-limiting. If I had gone to my first MFA workshop and the teacher had told me, “You should put the first plot point at the 20-25% mark of your story,” I would’ve marched straight to the admissions office and demanded a refund. I didn’t think, and still don’t, that graduate-level teachers should strive for that kind of proscription. And yet, how many years of yearning might have been avoided had I been open to the simple exercises of developing a compelling concept and defining specific points of action in a story?

Perhaps this analogy will better illustrate my point. In my creative writing program I learned a great deal about the theories of writing, but I felt there was little focus on the mechanics of constructing a story. (Workshop critiquers comments on structure tended to be arbitrary and conflicting.) And just as you might not want a theoretical physicist to work on your car’s transmission, MFA graduates are often ill-equipped to write stories for a general readership.

I am still essentially an unpublished wannabe, so why put any stock in my opinion? Consider this example. What is Shakespeare best known for, outside of his plays? That’s right, his sonnets. What could be more limiting in structure than requiring 14 lines of 10 syllables each and a repetitive rhyming pattern?

Rather than limiting his creativity, however, it allowed the originality of his voice to flourish. And imposing a strict structure on your storytelling can do the same. Write a literary novel, use a surreal or stream-of-consciousness style, throw in the most lush and alluring language you can skillfully wield, but write using a proven structure and see whether your art improves.

All of this is not to presume that Larry’s suggested practices will put your writing process on auto-pilot. Writing well remains hard work. And perhaps my previous failings have more to do with analytical laziness and aesthetic arrogance than any systemic flaw in my education.

It doesn’t matter, though, because I truly feel that I’ve discovered the secret to my future success as a writer. Whether I am able to apply these lessons is up to me, but I will never again have the feeling that I don’t know what my work is missing, that I must set out willy-nilly and wait for inspiration to strike. Thanks to Larry, my writing career is fully in my own hands, and I couldn’t possibly be more thrilled.

Eric Neyer is a freelance technical and Web content writer in Denver, Colorado. He continues working toward a career as a full-time fiction writer and novelist. Read samples of his work at ericneyer.com .

*****

Workshop, anyone?

What are you doing on November 10th?  One day… maybe the day that your writing dream gets real.

It’s called “STORY 404 — Advanced Story Development and Execution for Serious Writers.”

That’s you, right?  Thought so.  Come join me.  Click HERE for more.

Confessions of a Pantser, or What I Failed To Learn in Grad School is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

“The Words” — A Must-See Movie For Writers and Those Who Love Them

It’s good to be a writer.  Because somebody may one day write about you.

There are two excellent films now out that have writer-protagonists.  The first is Ruby Sparks, a “little” film (Hollywood speak for a movies that doesn’t star someone named Cruise, Streep, Pitt, Jolie, Tatum or Hemsworth) about a writer whose imagination gets positively realized… sparks ensue (no pun intended; cliche leveraged).  Well worth the time for the writing and acting alone, especially Paul Dano as the young writer.  (An irony here — maybe just a coincidence, if any reading audience could tell the difference it’s you guys — Dano starred in another “little” movie with a big name, Robert Deniro, who plays his failed novelist father.)

But that’s not the movie of the day.  This weekend was the debut of another writer’s movie, The Words, starring Bradley Cooper and, in an Oscar-buzz role, Jeremy Irons.  I’ll go so far as to say this: you have to see it.  Because it’s about us.

No spoilers here, the plot is outed in the trailer (which you can watch on the linked site above): a frustrated writer who begins to doubt both his talent and his future comes across a long-lost manuscript.  He reads it, it speaks to him — it blows him away — and in a fit of wine-fueled poor judgment, begins to type it out, word for word on his laptop right under his own name.

Guess which plot point that is.

What happens next is, well, inevitable.  The book hits.  Cooper is the next Franzen.  All of his dreams come true, all of his problems are solved.  He even succeeds, for a while, at fooling himself into a state of suspended amnesia as he allows the truth to fade from his fame-glutted awareness.  Oh, the on-the-nose theme of it all.

And the the anticipated other shoe drops — hello dramatic tension.  The real writer (Irons) shows up, and he’s… upset.  The party is over as the karma train pulls out of the station.

But there’s more going on here, a thread not remotely alluded to in the trailer.  I won’t tell you, see if you can figure it out early.  It’s brilliant, and for this reason: it substantiates all my ranting and railing about the need for concept in our stories.  In this case, the concept — this particular twist – is what makes this movie work, elevating it above the one-note (although a sweet one) and obvious-from-square-one dramatic sequence of the fraudlent-author story, which nonetheless works as a vicarious experience — that being one of the six essences of story physics — especially for us writers.

In fact — here’s another reason you should see it — the film is a clinic on story structure. 

See if you can find the major milestones (first plot point, a killer first pinch point, mid-point, second plot point), and notice how the four contextual parts of the story visibly align with their defined missions. 

In fact, come back here and tell us what you think in that regard. 

Another reason, perhaps a better one, is that the film is a love letter to writers, a sonnet on writing itself.

If you’ve ever tried to tell a non-writer about your love affair with words and stories, about the bliss of losing yourself in your characters and their delicious doings, then get ready to feel the love.  It”ll touch you, remind you of why we do this.

And one more reason to see it: Olivia Wilde confirms that she is one of the five most beautiful women on planet Earth, and that she can bring a character to complex life despite the fact.

*****

A personal update…

This week I signed a contract with Turner Publishing for the release of my new novel, Deadly Faux.  It’s the next undercover assignment for my hero from Bait and Switch (2004), Wolfgang Schmitt (original title: Schmitt Happens, but, like William Goldman said, in writing we have to kill our darlings…) , the chin with the attitude and the go-to guy for the Feds when they need someone seduced and trapped under the radar.

The book will be released in mid-to-later 2013 from Writers Digest Books.  And just as cool, at least for me… Turner is also re-releasing my four thrillers originally published by Penguin: Darkness Bound, Pressure Points, Serpent’s Dance and Bait and Switch (my latest novel, Whisper of the Seventh Thunder, remains available from Sons of Liberty press).  All four of the earlier books and the new novel will appear as trade paperbacks and ebooks sold on all the regular channels.

Also, my new writing book — “Story Physics: Harnessing the Underlying Forces of Storytelling,” which takes the model from my current writing book (“Story Engineering“, see the new Amazon review just posted, literally as I was writing this post) to a deeper, more cause-and-effect level.  Release date is June 18, 2013… it’s on Amazon now for pre-sale with a placeholder cover design (not to worry).

Thanks for all the support from so many. 

*****

Do you suspect your story is broken? 

That it may not be as good as it could be?   Should be?  I can help.  Even if you haven’t written it yet, or you’rea in the process of writing it, or you have a draft you’d like checked out before hitting the Send button.

It’s my new program, “The Amazing $100 Story Coaching and Empowerment Adventure,” and it’s only a hundred bucks (compared to, in my case, $1500 to analyze an entire finished manuscript, and in pretty much every other case, more than that).  It’s like an MRI for your story, but without the claustrophobia.  Learn more HERE.

Here’s some feedback on this program:

“My experience with Larry’s story review service made me realize why I’ve spent so long on a story that should have been finished years ago — if I had planned it. If I’d known HOW to plan it. If you have any doubt whether your story is doing well or still limping along, take him up on his review service. Best money I ever spent. Now I see what parts of Story Engineering I had confusion over.”

Can’t promise you it won’t hurt, but I can promise it’ll help.

 

 

 

 

 

“The Words” — A Must-See Movie For Writers and Those Who Love Them is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

In Defense of Story Architecture

I have no idea what the etiquette is on posting a third party review of one’s own book.  On one hand it seems, well, fine… though some would perceive it as a bit self-serving. 

 

But that’s what I’m doing.  It’s pasted in below, straight from Amazon.com.

I’m not doing this to try to sell you my book.  I’m thinking that most of you who come here already have it, or know about it, so that’s not the point. 

I’m also not doing it as an in-your-face response to my critics, some of whom actually like the content but don’t care so much for (or just don’t get) my approach.  Fair enough, in some cases.  A few have been downright rude and personal , and to them I say… read this review, you may have missed something.    

I’m posting it because this guy gets it. 

He represents a common first impression and then a sweet little Epiphany when it comes to being introduced to the principles of story architecture.  He speaks directly to those who either don’t get it or don’t like it because it flies in the face of the belief that there is something mystical about it all, that it is something you can plan for and execute.

So here it is.  And if it makes you want to buy the book, hey,that’s good, too.  Not going to apologize for the link here.  Maybe it’ll help take you to where you want to be with your writing dream.  That’s the point, afterall.

*****

Now I finally get it…
September 2, 2012


By 
Ray Peden “riverrat” (Frankfort, KY) – See all my reviews

(REAL NAME)   

 

Amazon Verified Purchase(What’s this?)
This review is from: Story Engineering (Paperback)

Story Engineering is Larry Brooks’ subtly brilliant conribution to the legions of books on the craft of writing. But it distinguishes itself: like a life-experienced parent imparting wisdom to a know-it-all child, it illuminated how little I really knew. Most of the concepts in his 6 Core Competencies are likely well-known in the time-tested literary world of novels and screenplays, and I intuitively already had some grasp of them. It’s the nuances of what I DIDN’T know that made this clearly the most valuable addition to my shelf, and which I believe will be the tripwire that allows me to go from “promising” to “published” author.

It’s much more than another book on craft. It’s an invaluable file cabinet of information, and once I began to realize this, I pounced on it like an eager med student with his first anatomy textbook, underlining key passages, putting two and two together. And the light began to grow brighter. I recognized that the professor was indeed smarter than the student. Once I finished, I eagerly went back and re-read the underlines, and like Grasshopper, I was enlightened.

But Story Engineering reads nothing like a textbook. Brooks has a direct, sly sense of humor that he spreads freely throughout the pages, and the metaphors and analogous stories abound, which only makes the information that much easier to absorb. The negative reviewers apparently didn’t have that same sense of humor; some felt like they were being talked down to. On the other hand I felt like Brooks was my personal mentor, Master Po if you will, with a sharp cutting edge, and more importantly, the stuff I sorely lacked. Maybe those detractors needed the info just as much as I did but couldn’t accept it.

One recurring criticism suggested that Brooks talked down to the “pantsers”, those that did not outline. Not true, and he said as much on pg 225. “To write a successful story…doesn’t mean you need an outline, it means you need a foundational core competency in story architecture.”

If you read this piece of gold, you, like I, will be equipped to use whatever talent we posess, and have a legitimate shot at getting published. Those that ignore it…do so at their own peril. They can take solace while they write negative reviews of my upcoming novel as they’re trying to figure out why incompetent agents and editors just don’t understand the true genius of their manuscript that was just tossed in the slush pile.

*****

Check out my new and ridiculously affordable story review and coaching service HERE.

 
 

In Defense of Story Architecture is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Fix Is In: The Square-One Story Killer

Not long ago I wrote about a toxic, epidemic story problem that is killing the chances of passionate, well-intended writers who aren’t aware that they’re playing with fire.  

I’m going to do it again here, from a different perspective… because it’s that pervasive and consistently deadly.

Here’s the SOLUTION – the cure, the fix, the higher ground – that works without forcing you to give up the thing that draws you to your story in the first place.

If someone asked you what your story is about, what would you say?

If your answer sounds like this – “My story is about a woman trying to find her way in the world”… or, “It’s a story about a man you must reconcile his past before he can move on…” – then further questions ensue.  Because those are statements of thematic sub-text, which is a valid answer and a worthy starting point for a story.

But it’s not a story.  Not yet.  It is an idea.  An intention. 

It is not even a concept for a story.  And an effective story is, ultimately, about its concept.

A Bestselling Example

“The Help” was about racial conditions in the South on one level, no argument there.  But it’s not a STORY yet, based only on that description.  The racial angle is pure thematic – not conceptual – sub-text.  Powerful, wonderful, effective, permeating everything on every page.  But alone, not enough to propel a story into being.

From the reader’s perspective, that’s what “The Help” is about: racial prejudice.

But from a writer’s perspective – the one YOU need to adopt – it’s about a young woman who wants to write a book to launch her journalism career, and needs the help of local domestic employees to do so, but who are reluctant because it could cost them their jobs in a racially prejudiced community, or worse, put their safety at risk.

That’s what “The Help” is about… on another level… on the level that matters if the story is to work.

What’s your story about?

I’ve been seeing with this a lot lately in my new story coaching service. 

I’d say that half of the answers to that question – it’s the second question asked in the Big Bad Questionnaire that provides the raw grist for analysis, because it identifies your intention while providing an architectural preview – are just like that: stories that rely on theme without a cradle to grave conceptual arc anywhere on the horizon.

So then I ask another question.  “What’s your hero’s problem or goal in the story, and what opposes it?”  Something you absolutely need to know at some point in the process.

And that answer – if there is one; too often there isn’t — becomes fodder for a concept.  Slap a compelling “what if?” on it and suddenly you’re in the hunt.

Bottom line: if you don’t have a conceptual, conflict-driven answer before you write a draft of your story, then for the story to succeed you’ll have to set out on a search and discover phase — the search for a concept – as you write it.  Which is inherently risky and a low percentage strategy.  

Another approach is to pre-plan the story, nailing the concept before you write.  To know both your concept and your thematic focus is like putting jumper cables on your draft. 

Both search process can work.  Because both have identical criteria and goals for the end game. 

The Big Mistake, the Great and Deadly Pit into which your story could easily fall, is to write a “story” in which your hero wanders around looking for her/himself.  Literally.  Episodically.  Using this as exposition rather than context.  

But there’s a fix for that.  An essential realization that must be nternalized before you can turn such a story – any story – into a winner.

The Fix 

Your hero needs a problem to solve, and a goal to strive for.  There needs to be opposition in play, and stakes evident. 

There needs to be CONFLICT.

And it need to be something other than – alongside and catalytic to – the character’s arc and inner demons. The theme.  Or, in the case of my opening example, the search for self.

That’s the 411 on the 101.  You know that.  If nothing else, because I keep drilling it into you here.

But here’s the way to get to that: you need a story arc that offers EXTERNAL opposition.  External conflict.  Giving your hero something to do… an external problem to solve… an external goal to strive for.

That pursuit is where those inner demons show up to complicate things, and ultimately becomes the stage upon which your thematic intentions get their moment in the spotlight. 

External conflict should never occur episodically. 

This happens then that happens then something else happens… the only connection being that it all happens to the same character, your protagonist.  Few or none of the episodes clearly connects to the others… it just happened, further showcasing the deep cah-cah your hero is in emotionally.

Rather, your scenes should become a connected, integrated and unfolding dramatic sequence – a story thread – that adheres to the principles of story structure.

Every scene, every moment in “The Help” and in any other character-driven story that works, contributes toward a forward-moving exposition of a conflict-driven story,with an external source of dramatic tension providing the fuel.

In fact, it is that EXTERNAL dramatic exposition that defines the four parts of the story and the major milestone scenes that divide them (story structure).  Your intended internal, sub-textual exposition will then naturally align with that structure, because it manifests through what the hero DOES on that path.

The moment you understand and accept this as part of the process, one we all must embrace, is the moment your story stands a chance.  Until then… not so much.

If you’d like to see if your story cuts this tricky mustard, click HERE to learn about my new story coaching program… it costs less than two tanks of gas and can save you months or even years of misdirected work and frustration (half empty)…  and turn your storytelling into the bliss that comes from knowing you are doing it right.

Or, if you’ve already written a draft, this works like an MRI on your story, detecting potentially fatal flaws and weak spots before you hit the SEND button.

The Fix Is In: The Square-One Story Killer is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Seductive But Deadly Sin That Wants to Kill Your Story

See if you can diagnose the writer’s problem in the following fictional – but all too common – exchange.

I have it all too frequently as I coach writers on their stories.  At conferences.  In emails.  As part of my new story coaching program.  It goes like this:

“What’s your story about?” I ask.

“It’s about a woman who needs to find her place in the world.”

“I see,” I say.  “A coming of age story.  Excellent.  So what’s the concept?”

“A woman goes into the world in search of herself.  To find her way.”

“You realize I asked for your concept, but you gave me thematic sub-text.”

A blank stare ensues.

“So…” I press forward into this abyss, “tell me what your protagonist wants in your story, and what she does to get it.  What she is up against.  Her problem.  A goal to strive for.  What she must do or accomplish, what is at stake, and what opposes her in that quest.”

A moment of quiet pondering usually inserts itself here.

“Well,” says the writer, “she needs to find her way in the world.  That’s her problem.  She’s lost her way.  Actually, she’s never found her way.  What opposes her is herself, her lack of confidence.  My story is about that.  That’s my concept.”

Now it is me who is pondering.  Pondering a way to turn this ship around.

“Okay,” I say, “let’s try this. What’s the conflict in your story?”

“She doesn’t know who she is, who she needs to be.  The story is about her finding out.  She can’t… that’s the conflict.”

“Maybe she could,” I suggest, “if you put her into a situation in which she has to.  In order to survive.  Or simply thrive.  To find love.  To change.  To gain something.”

“Oh… you mean, like.. a plot?  This is a character-driven story.”

“Fine,” I say,” but what does she DO in the story?  And what DRIVES her to do it?”

“What does she do?  She tries to find herself.  She lives her life and learns her lessons.”

 Stares are once again traded.  One blank, the other patient.  For now.

“How?” I finally ask.

“Well,” I often hear at this point, “she has these experiences and adventures, and eventually, because nothing is going well for her, she finally discovers who she is.”

“Who or what is the antagonist?” I ask.  “You know, the bad guy.”

“Oh that?  There is no bad guy.  It’s just her.  Her lack of self-confidence.  She has no dream, no direction.  Like millions of people out there.”

I want to say she has no plot, either, but I press on.  “How far into it are you?”

“I’ve finished a first pass at it.”

“Great.  How does it end?  Does she find herself?”

“Yes she does. That’s how it ends.”

“How does she find herself?” I ask, trying to sound as redundant as possible.

A slightly confused expression almost always manifests before I hear, “She just realizes she’s had enough of her old self, and decides to be different.  She wakes up one day and it’s suddenly clear.”

“That’s how it ends?”  Ah, the old wake up and smell the coffee ending.

“Yes.  She had to find herself, and she finally does.  Life happens, we live and learn.”

“But you can’t tell me how.  Process wise.  What on-going, connected, dramatic path led her to it.”

“Life doesn’t work that way,” I am told.  “One day we just realize who we are, we live and we learn, and then it happens.  My story about that.”

“With no bad guy.  No problem to solve.  No drama.  No stakes.  Just her and her inner demons.  Walking through life together.  Another day, another thing.  The story of her life.”

“Yes.  The story of her life.  What’s your point here, Mr. Storyfixer dude?”

I get this a lot. 

With thrillers or dramas, this isn’t usually the problem.  They are about dramatic tension… which is a good thing.  If anything, those stories are challenged by heroes without an inner landscape, but that’s another post. 

But with “softer” stories, so-called character-driven stories, especially inspired-by-the-author’s-life-experience stories, the focus on character arc can be fatal, if it consumes the writer’s focus to the point they forget to give us a reasonable, compelling plot. 

One plot.  A strong, single dramatic arc that leads the protagonist through the discovery and growth process by having them square off with external conflict and tension.

It’s a death sentence when that doesn’t happen.

Because the story won’t work.  Or at least it won’t work well enough.  It doesn’t stand a chance.  Here’s why.

There is no EXTERNAL CONFLICT in play. 

And there needs to be.  Always.  External conflict provides dramatic tension, which is one of the most power essences of story physics available to us.

Even love stories, including romances, have external conflict-driven storylines in play. 

But in these problematic “personal growth” stories, what little dramatic tension there is takes place sporadically, episodically – just snippets and moments from real life, showcasing the hero’s flawed inner self – without ever developing into an actual story at all.  Without a connected arc. These episodes unfold much like a series of short stories, each isolated from the others, each about how she feels rather than what she does. 

There is no external conflict.  There is nothing for the hero to do.

Allow me to repeat myself.  This is something you should staple to your forehead, written backwards, so you see it every time you look in a mirror.

An effective story isn’t about something.  It is about something happening.

It’s great to write a story in which your hero needs to find herself.  Or come of age.  But there’s a way to do it right, and there’s a way that will get you rejected almost every time.

The way you do it right is to give your hero a problem, and/or a goal. 

Give her (or him) something or someone standing in the way of what she needs and/or wants.   Give her obstacles to conquer on that path.  Give her something to DO in facing those obstackes. Make sure there are consequences hanging in the balance (stakes).  And have her DISCOVER WHO SHE IS – allow her to summon her inner hero self – along the way to becoming the primary factor in the conquering of those obstacles and the resolution of her problem, need or goal.

It boils down to this: her old, insecure, directionless self couldn’t solve the problem.  So she is forced to grow, to change, in order to succeed in resolving the problem or reaching the goal.

That’s how she’ll find out who she is.  Not through real life, not through a bunch of episodes and short stories masquerading as a novel or screenplay.  Give your story a spine, a drama.  Make it an EXTERNAL spine or drama.

You’ll find almost no exceptions… at least on bookshelves and on movie screens. 

Chances are you have been enchanted by stories of personal discovery. 

The hero comes of age.  That’s the thing that moved you.  Perhaps moved you so much, in fact, that you failed to notice that these protagonists were given SOMETHING TO DO in the story, a task, a problem, a goal, that put them in growth’s way.  A quest that forces the hero to face herself and make changes, to do something differently.

Success in storytelling can be summed up in two words: EXTERNAL CONFLICT. 

Designed to test and prod and lead and tempt and pull and seduce and affirm your hero… the one with the self-image and personal vision problems.  The external drama becomes the catalyst, the STAGE upon which the inner demons of your hero are slain, upon which the hero redeems and discovers and validates herself.

I see so many story plans, in the form of summaries and synopses and outlines, in which this critical – this NECESSARY – element is completely missing, or under-valued.

Don’t let it be you.  If you find yourself describing your story strictly in terms of your hero’s inner journey, make sure you have a killer external drama to thrust upon them.

Redemption may be organic in real life, the sum of experiences seasoned over time… but it usually makes for one boring read.  We (readers) don’t want reality, we want a provocative ride that we can translate into our reality, on our terms.  Without external dramatic tension in play, we’re pretty much left with a fictional diary… and unless your name is Anne Frank, diaries don’t get published.

Then again, poor Anne had quite an external drama to live through… just sayin’.

A great story isn’t “about” a theme.  Theme is the result of a successful story  Theme is sub-text. No, a great story is about something HAPPENING.  Theme emerges from a dramatic landscape… it rarely IS the dramatic landscape.

See my earlier post, “When Your Passion Kills Your Plot,” for more on this deadly little story development trap.

Want to see if your story cuts the mustard?  Check out my new “Amazing $100 Story Coaching and Empowerment Adventure,” (click HERE, or see the sidebar)… just possibly the most exciting and affordable story development opportunity… ever. 

The Big Bad Questionnaire I’ll send you is, alone, worth twice the money… but you get so much more in the form of actual feedback you can trust and apply immediately, no matter where you are in the process. 

The Seductive But Deadly Sin That Wants to Kill Your Story is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Killer One-Two Punch that Launches Dramatic Tension in Your Story

You get that you need to setup your story.

You get that you need to present your hero with a problem and/or a goal.  Something to DO.  With something standing in the hero’s way, an entity with their own opposing needs and goals. 

And, with something at stake for both your hero and that opposing entity.

You may even get  – and I hope that you do –that there is a moment in your story (the First Plot Point) when the hero’s quest toward that goal fully really underway, when the first dealt hand is in play, even after what seems like a starting point but, in retrospect, was not fully informed. 

This Big Moment quest-launch arrives in context to the presence of an antagonist force, also known as the bad guy(s), which may have been off-the-grid earlier.

You get that. 

You need to get that.  Because that moment, the First Plot Point, is the most important moment in your story.  Everything that happens before it is a setup for it, and everything that happens after it is a response to it.

Do it too early and we don’t have adequate time and context to fully understand and empathize with the hero and the situation at hand.  And you need that empathy to be in play.

Do it too late and the story may be too slow, or overly complex.  You risk losing the reader to the dreaded response: “when is something going to HAPPEN in this damn story?”

You’ve been there as a reader.  You don’t want to risk being there as the writer, which is what happens when you mess up your First Plot Point.

That’s the 101 of it.  The 411 for freshmen writers.  Now…

Here’s the 202 of it, a way to make this strategy even more powerful.

Some writers hear the wrong thing when I rant and rave about the First Plot Point.  They think it’s merely a Big Twist in the story.  The unexpected happens.  A moment when everything changes.  They think that this is the criteria for the FPP, the moment when the story goes in a new direction.

That’s not wrong.  It’s just not right enough.

It’s potentially confusing because the First Plot Point IS those things. It does change the story.  It is unexpected (or can be).  

But it needs to be more.

One of the tools of dramatic tension we can apply to our Part 1 set-up quartile is the use of Inciting Incidents.  Which are, in fact, also all of those things: dropping a bomb into the story, changing it, twisting it, starting things moving.

Or, an inciting incident can be something nearly invisible, a whisper, an implication that changes everything, or means something.

You can do that multiple times in your story BEFORE you reach the First Plot Point milestone moment (at about the 20th percentile).  Your opening hook can be an Inciting Incident.  You can explode the story once or twice in the pages leading up to the FPP using other inciting incidents.

In fact, it’s a GREAT idea to do that.

But be clear. That pre-First Plot Point inciting incident moment, however huge and drastic and unexpected, may look like the FPP in the sense that it changes everything… but it’s NOT the FPP because it doesn’t do the rest of the FPP’s job.

Which is, to send the hero down a path.  A path with meaning.  With stakes.  With visible (to the reader, and often to the hero) antagonist.  And  most of all with STAKES.

That’s why the FPP is the most important moment in your story.  Because it actually launches the story by turning the corner from setup to a parted curtain.

Think of this as a one-two punch. 

You drop the bomb at, say the 15th percent mark, and then, at the FPP (say, the 22nd percent mark), you let the hero know what it means to them for the rest of the story.  By giving them something specific to respond to, to shoot for, to avoid, or to deal with.  Your hero now has a new purpose, something to deal with that has stakes attached.

The first bomb simply rocked their world.  But when the rest of it hangs there as a question posed, unaddressed and unanswered… that’s the first blow in this one-two punch strategy. 

Then comes the FPP moment, when – even if this ISN’T a bomb dropping – meaning and purpose and deeper implications are suddenly on the table. And because of that, now the real story is fully underway.

Here are Three Examples of what this looks like. 

ONE: You are writing a love story.  For forty pages we meet the players (setup), get to know them, and come to root for the hero.  Then, on page 45, the hero’s wife is murdered.  The new love interest – heretofore merely a chemical attraction with co-worker, comes forward to be our hero’s sounding board and shoulder.  Which brings them closer.

But that’s NOT the story you’re telling.  Which is why it’s not the FPP.  It’s merely the setup for it.  The first blow in a one-two punch strategy.  It’s huge.  Everything changes.  But we don’t yet know what it means… to the hero, and to the story itself.

Later, on page 70, we come to the actual, functional First Plot Point, which is the second blow in this one-two punch strategy.  Because now that first blow will suddenly take on new meaning and implication: the comforting co-worker confesses that it was who killed his wife, so they can be together.   She’s a psychopath.  She says that if he doesn’t love her back, if he goes to the police with this, she’ll kill his family, them him, then herself.

Now he has a problem.  A higher level of dramatic tension.  Much more so than when the original bomb dropped.  Now that bomb has fallout, now the story has a defined  hero’s problem and his journey is underway, with stakes and against a visible antagonist.

Bottom line: the writer needs to be clear on WHICH story they are telling.  The CORE story.  The spine of the story.  

The one-two punch strategy depends on a first blow that knocks the hero off his/her feet, and then follows up with a second blow (or a whisper) that threatens and sends the hero off on a journey toward survival, redemption or resolution. 

TWO: This is from the film Collateral, starring Tom Cruise and Jamie Fox. 

Fox drives a taxi in Los Angeles.  He picks up a fare, Cruise, who says he needs to hire him for a few hours to make a few stops around town.

At the second stop, Cruise goes into a building, tells Fox to wait around back.  Fox does, studying his business plan for a new taxi company (backstory and our reason to root for this guy), when a body falls on top of the taxi.  Cruise had shot the guy, who then fell out of a third floor window onto Fox’s cab.

This is as huge as it gets.  Unexpected.  Out of nowhere.  A bonafide OMG. It changes everything.  It certainly implies that Fox has a problem.

But it’s just an Inciting Incident, even though it feels like a plot point, because it’s at the 15th percentile.  And moreover, because it poses more questions than it does answers… we have no idea what this really means to Fox.

Two scenes later, in a calm, action-void scene inside the taxi, Cruise explains what it all means (which is the very criteria for a First Plot Point).  He’s an assassin for hire, out mopping up the garbage of humanity for a fee.  He has more stops to make.  Fox will drive him around to make this happen, and if he keeps it together he’ll be paid $700.  If not, he’ll die.

NOW Jamie has a real problem.  He has a journey to take.  A goa to pursel.  With visible opposition, and certainly with huge stakes.  And, we’re going to root for him along the way.

This was a one-two punch in which the first blow was massive, and where the second blow, the FPP, was simply the exposing of meaning, stakes and implication for the hero.  A moment that launched the CORE story.  The murder and body dropping on the car, that was a just part of the setup.

THREE: This strategy doesn’t only apply to action stories.  The blows, both one and two, can be softer, more veiled. 

You’re writing a story about a 1930s family in rural Iowa.  The central thrust will be their challenge to keep the farm in a small town where the local banker is mercilessly scooping up delinquent loans.

In Part 1 we meet the family, including the hero (the wife), who must be strong because her husband is an alcoholic who has already given up.

The first blow, somewhere between the 12th and 16th percentile, is when the bank serves a foreclosure notice.  This is huge.  It changes everything.

But it’s NOT the story you are telling.  It is only a setup for it.

At the FPP, we learn that the banker has other options, ones that don’t result inforeclosure.  But he has a past with the alcoholic husband, something about the banker’s wife years earlier, and the banker is on a personal vendetta.  The story here is about how the wife steps up to save the farm by beating the banker at his own game, through her ingenuity in digging up dirt on the guy and forcing a stalemate.

The CORE STORY begins at the FPP, when the banker’s wife confesses the whole backstory vendetta thing to our hero (the wife) at church, and wishes her well.  Her husband is a horrible man, and she promises to help.  (Later, at the Mid-Point, she turns up dead, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves here.)   Our hero now has a problem, a quest, a goal, with visible stakes and on-the-table opposition.

A one-two punch that makes both the setup and the First Plot Pont even more powerful.  And we’ll be rooting for her along the way.

Not every story does this. 

But you can, if it fits your vision for the story, and if you’re looking for a way to take the tension to a higher level.  The key resides in knowing your core story (no matter how you come to know it, either through vetting expositional options in a planning phase, or a draft-writing phase). 

Once you know your story, then (and only then) can you create a sequence of scenes that OPTIMIZES the underlying story physics that dictate how the story plays.  If you’re looking to blow readers out of the water, consider a one-two punch strategy and watch it happen.

My next writing book, “Story Physics,” will come out from Writers Digest Books in 2013.  If you want a head start on how to craft stories that work, please consider my current book, “Story Engineering,” a bestseller in the writing craft niche.

The Killer One-Two Punch that Launches Dramatic Tension in Your Story is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Are you “Terrified” of Story Structure?

Or maybe just pissed off at it.

I’d like to share an exchange I recently had with a Storyfix reader.  I think it speaks for a silent constituency out there, those to fall into either of the categories defined above.

But don’t be scared.  Don’t be angry.  Structure loves you.  Structure wants to liberate you from frustration, it promises to set you free.  It might just get you published.  When you marry it to your muse and embrace it with your inner literary genius, miracles ensue. 

Because you see, structure is inevitable.  You can’t escape it.  It’s not even a story until structure gets in the game.  Even when you think you’ve eluded it, perhaps conquered it through the sheer force of your lyric writing voice, after you’re beaten your story into submission with a deliberate obliviousness to it… when the story finally works, structure will be there.  Uninvited, silently liberating your frustrated self.

It will be why it works.  

Because story structure is synomymous with effective storytelling.  Structure is the vehicle for all things artistic about a story: dramatic tension, pace, empathy for the hero, a vicarious experience, and emotional Epiphany, a window into truth.  They are all born on the wings of structure.

Dear Storfixer:

I just read your latest blog installment and the comments left by those that “get it”. I am left wondering what the hell is wrong with me? I purchased your book, Story Structure – Demystified when it came out and everytime I read it I just become overwhelmed and I don’t understand why. I actually have physical symptoms of the shoulders creeping up to my neck until cramping starts, a sheer sign of that nasty “s” word, stress, and it is curtains from there.

 

I have what I think is a decent story but I can’t figure out how to make it structured the way you’ve written. I have tried bite sized pieces and still I sit with a blinking cursor and blankity, blank curse words stomping around in my head because I’m stuck at go. Obviously your book works, there are too many successful testimonials to attest to this fact.  Soooooo…that means it’s gotta be me. I’m so irked with whatever is keeping me from getting the meat of the lesson. I’m not an idiot so that makes this even harder to swallow. Can you help?

Sincerely, Scared in Sarasota.

Dear Scared:

I feel your pain.  This is challenging stuff.  so be patient with yourself, nobody totally gets it at first.  Here are some thoughts that might bring you closer to getting it.

Structure defins and manages the dramatic arc of your story.   Something you absolutely need.  You don’t have to make it up, it’s already there, as a theory, as a sequence, waiting to make your story better.  You don’t even have to fully understand it — though you’ll want to when you see what it does for you – you just have to apply it.

Structure gives sequence and placement to the PRIMARY CONFLICT and HERO’S QUEST in a story.  It’s a time management tool, making sure that your exposition of these things isn’t too fast, too slow or otherwise off topic.  These are things that, ultimately, at some point in your search for story, you absolutely need to know about.  When you do, it is structure that defines pacing through specific milestones, which are points at which the story changes in a certain contextual direction, for a certain reason.  That reason being… it works better this way.

It’s physics.  And like other kinds of physics, these principles are there to be harnessed for good.   

Here’s what might be going on for you. 

If you are focusing elsewhere in your storytelling (setting, character, theme, true facts), then this can lead to weak or nearly absent dramatic tension (plot), favoring episodic vignettes instead.  Episodic scenes are a virus in a story, they’ll kill it if they take it over.  A story without linear, accellerating tension driving forward motion and exposition is a story that won’t be as good as it could be.  A story that won’t make the cut. 

Instead, try to isolate what your story is about, OTHER THAN character and theme and a cool setting.  Make it about something unfolding, emerging, and finally revolving.  Avoid episodic storytelling by sequencing scenes and story points as parts of a whole that LEAD somewhere, rather than simply EXPLORING something (like a character, a place, a time, or an issue).

Start here at the very root of it all: a story is about a hero who is given a problem, a need, sent on a quest, with a goal at the end of it.  There are stakes at hand.  There is opposition to the hero’s intentions.  We care about this hero, about this outcome, because we can relate to the stakes.  This is what makes a story work.  An effective story asks a dramatic question that demands an answer, rather than painting a freeze frame of an isolated… something.

Writers who don’t see this, or agree with this… they struggle.  Their stories become a focus on a thing, a time, a place.  They are about something… when it would be better served to be about something happening.  The solving of the hero’s dilemna or problem.  The reaching of the hero’s goal.  Not merely a tour of the times.

When Dickens said “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” he was setting a stage upon which to introduce a cast of characters with needs and goals, not telling you what the story was about. 

Try this focus on dramatic tension.  Strip your story down to its essence in terms of CONFLICT and OUTCOME, and then see how much more powerful your themes — the “things” you care about and want to explore in your story — become.  The part of structure that intimidates is just the vernacular and the rhetoric of it, when in fact structure is the essentials physics of storytelling, the very things you seek in the first place. 

And it is a language, a template, that can be learned.

Once you do, you’ll see it everywhere. in every bestseller, in every good film.  You’ll wonder why you never saw it before, and you’ll be certain, once you connect its presence to the effectiveness of these stories, you won’t ever take it for granted again.

Hope this helps. 

L.

Hope it helps you, too.

Are you “Terrified” of Story Structure? is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Secret Weapon of Crafting Effective Heroes

I promise this isn’t a sermon. 

This isn’t even remotely religious, other than this short snippet of scripture – as in, THE Scripture – which sets the stage.  It’s from First Corinthians 13:13, and it sticks in the brain as much as it rolls easily off the tongue:

But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.

True that. You may have heard this one at a wedding or two.  Say what you will, those guys could write. 

If the Apostle Paul had been a writing teacher – picture it, a distinguished white-bearded dude wearing a tweed jacket speaking confidently during the keynote at a writing conference about how to craft your hero in a way that injects incredible narrative power into your story – he might have said this:

You’ve been told since your freshman writing class about hero complexity, likeability, and even sympathy. All good.  But if you really want to jack your story into a higher gear, consider “rootability” and empathy.   Hey, abide them ‘em if that’s your thing.  But know this: the greatest of these, all of these, is empathy.

Behold… the gospel truth for storytellers. 

Think of this as the 13:13 of storytelling effectiveness.

In this age of the antihero, the darkly complex protagonist, the tormented main character… the usefulness of “likeability” has been rendered moot, if not entirely antiquated.  Good when it suits the story, but certainly no longer the benchmark your first writing teachers told you it was.

The real essence of effective drama is putting your hero in harm’s way, or at least, dangling a goal and then tormenting them by keeping it tantalizingly out of reach.  The level at which we root for the hero in that quest – whether we like them or not — is the measure of the story’s inherent potential. 

It’s story physics.  It’s the new math of storytelling.

But there’s an even more powerful literary steroid that surpasses even “rootability” in its power to transform a story into a vicarious experience.  And that is empathy.

It’s a double-edged deal: empathy for the situation the hero is in… empathy for the person the hero IS in that situation.

You don’t have to have empathy in play to put “rootability” in play.  That said, if you can do both, you’ve lifted your story to the highest level of impact.  And if you pay attention, this is precisely what bestsellers and hit films do.

Let’s say your hero is a doctor who is being fired because she ignored instructions from the Chief of Surgery and administered an experimental drug that saved a patient’s life, even though it exposed the hospital to liability had it turned out otherwise.  Very heroic.  We root for her in this situation.  But… do we empathize with her?

Maybe.  But we certainly empathize with her IF the patient in question is… her daughter.

That, we can relate to.  That, we can feel.  Deeper and more vicariously than looking on from a grandstand seat and rooting for the good guy.  When the good guy could be us, and when we can feel the heat of the moment because it touches us in a personal, vicarious way… the proximity of danger, the sweet scent of approaching success, the stakes…

… the story just works better.

The good news here: the difference is totally something the author controls.  Simply by making a choice about the dynamics of the situations into which their hero is plopped.

The Genius of The Hunger Games? 

Did we root for Katniss?  Certainly.  But, did we also feel – did with empathize with – the situation she was in?  Yes we did.  Much more so than, say, the dilemma of a college student trying to get into a good sorority. 

We can root for that, but empathy isn’t the first word that comes to mind.

And empathy is the greatest of these things what we can feel.

And, that we can craft as authors.

The Sunday school writing lesson here is this: craft your stories with a view toward jacking the stakes and optimizing the underlying story physics.  One of which is hero empathy, which quickly leads to another, vicarious journey.

Make us feel that empathy for your hero and an entire new level of story potential is suddenly yours.

Stay tuned for a staggering opportunity to have your story physics and potential evaluated, for a miniscule fraction of the investment required to have an entire manuscript critiqued.  Even before you’ve written it, if that’s where you are.

The Secret Weapon of Crafting Effective Heroes is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Booster Shots for your Search for Story

Things to keep in mind as you plan, draft, revise and  dream, in no particular order… because there is no particular order:

An “idea” for a story is NOT a story.  Any more than a seed is a tree.  You have lots of watering and fertilizing to do before the seed becomes something that will live.

There are, at minimum, eleven qualities and specific focuses you need to deliver to your story.  You can stumble upon them or you can shoot for them from an informed baseline of knowledge… your call.

There are six specific realms of “story physics” that determine it’s level of effectiveness and power.  These are the qualitative essences of a story: a compelling premise… dramatic tension… effective pacing… hero empathy… vicarious experience… functional execution. 

That last one is composed of six core competencies (so we don’t count it twice, resulting in 11 things you need to know).  These comprise the toolbox, the design kit, for your story: concept… character… theme… structure (with about 10 sub-topics included here)… scene execution and writing voice.

If you go 11 for 11, you stand a shot.  If you choose to disregard or take for granted any of these eleven variables, you’re playing loose with your odds.  And if you have no real understanding of them as an integrated whole… well, this is why writing a great story is so  hard. 

There is a meaningful difference — in writing and in reading — between a novel and a memoir.  When you try to blur the fence between them in your fiction, then the structural criteria for the novel trumps the sequential telling of what really happened.

Truth may be stranger than fiction, but within a novel the truth about what really happened may not be your best dramatic option.

Know what your story is about.  If your take on this is that it’s about a place, an issue, a character, a true account of something, or anything else that isn’t conflict-focused, then your answer is incomplete.  A story is about something happening… with stakes hanging in the balance.  It’s not a story until that takes center stage.

If there’s no conflict, there’s no tension.  No tension, no story.  No stakes, no tension.  It’s simple, really.

Your hero needs a goal to reach, a problem to solve, a quest calling them, a journey to take, or some combination of these… unfolding in context to palpable opposition that will block their path as it (the antagonistic force or character) seeks opposing objectives, and/or simply seeks to defeat and torment your hero.  

Your bad guy needs a motive, too.

Character-based fiction is not immune to this universal law of dramatic physics.  No conflict, no story. 

If you are writing a series and you haven’t been published, then you are better served by writing the first book as a stand-alone.  Because you won’t get to write the series until the first book succeeds in the marketplace.  And for that to manifest, you simply can’t present a “stay tuned for Book #2 to see what happens” ending. 

Anything over 100,000 words is too long in today’s market.  Shoot for 80,000 or less.  This is true for historical and sci-fi/fantasy, too.  Those books you love that are longer than that are by authors who play by different rules than newbies. 

Never let exceptions to any of this seduce you into believing you can be one of them.

You can’t  invent a new story structure.  Even if you try, it must conform to certain narrative expectations.  This was true for Quentin Tarantino, and it’s true for you.  Be creative, be fresh, be innovative, give us something we haven’t seen before.  But it can’t be a new species of fiction.  This is professional writing – for money – not experimental writing.

All writing teachers worth their salt are telling you the same basic things, using different contexts and languages and models.  Which is all good.  The essence of 4-part story structure is nothing but an expansion (necesssary and valuable, because it is clarifying) on classic 3-part dramatic narrative.  It’s the Hero’s Journey without the character-focused, softer vocabulary.  It goes deeper in one direction, while applying specificity in another.  They compliment each other with perfect harmony and fluid logic.

All the paint and accessories and scented leather in the world isn’t worth a dime in the fiction world if the engine doesn’t work.

There is a huge and significant difference between your theme and your plot.  When you write a story that is a thinly disguised platform for your passionate views and beliefs, without conflict at the center of it all, you’ll find the going rough.  You may like the outcome, but agents and editors will say, “yeah, but what’s the story?”  The DaVinci Code had a plot.  And if it pissed you off, then it had a theme, too… one you’d have never heard about had it not been for that plot.

Do you really know what the word “story” means?  If not — and there are criteria here — stop everything and go back to this all-important Square One.  I’ve met writers who have been drafying manuscripts for decades who really didn’t understand what a true story is made of. 

If asked what the most important, required, non-negotiable single word in fiction is, if your answer isn’t “conflict,” then you don’t really know what a story is.

If your story is “character-driven,” you are by no means immune to the necessity to have a plot that presents conflict and stakes.  Plot is the stage upon which character unfolds.  Without that stage, your character is standing on a corner preaching to passing traffic.

The stories put forth by proven A-list writers may not be sufficient models for writers looking to break in.  The game at that level is entirely different, including where the bar resides.   An A-list writer has an entire floor full of editors contributing to the moulding and polishing of the story you read under their name.  You have nothing other than your own sense of craft.  

Your idea, and the story that springs from it, needs a large dose of heat and fascination.  The concept that arises from your idea (note how that works) must ask a question that that reader yearns to have answered.  If the question at the heart of your is banal, vanilla or otherwise old news, there’s not much you can do to pump new life into its execution.  A great character interacting with a boring plot will sink you.  

You can’t write a story about anything, relying on execution to make it work.  The cliche is true: in fiction you really can’t make chicken salad out of chicken… droppings.  Work on the strength of your idea/concept/premise first, jack it to its highest inherent potential, before you begin to develop a vision for the story that ensues from it.  Sometimes you have to actually write that story to discover this… just make sure you recognize what you’re doing in that case — you are engaging in the search for story.  Don’t shortcut it, this is where the gold is found.

Are you writing your story because you really want to write a story, any story… or are you writing a story because the premise keeps you up at night?  This alone is often the difference between success and failure.  The forced concoction of the unlikely and the mundane and the illogical and the ridiculous is the common threat of the slush pile.

There is a difference between a Prologue and an opening chapter.  Both can — and should — deliver a hook. 

If you can’t adequately describe your story in a 30-second elevator pitch, leaving the listener wanting to know what happens, or if you can’t write that down in two pages or less with the same result… if you excuse this by saying, “well, it’s sort of complicated“… then you may, a) not be ready to actually write it; or b) be in trouble if you try; and for sure, c) won’t be able to pitch it to an agent successfully.  Knowing the core essence of your story, the spine, the central conflict and how it relates to your hero, is the essence of knowing your story.  Which you must before you can write it with optimal effectiveness.  Which should be your goal.  

In short, there is more than one way to skin the storytelling cat, but at the end of the day it was still a cat before you took a knife and hammer to it.

If you’re struggling with what to write, in what order, and why… find a published story (preferrably a movie on DVD) similar to yours (yes, you can) and study it.  Break it down.  Notice the structure.  The sub-plot and the subtext.

Sub-plot and sub-text are different things, often wearing the same set of clothes.

Each scene you write should have a succinct expositional mission.  Something to contribute to the unfolding plot, building toward something.  It should also – not as its mission, but as an expectation – illustrate and contribute toward character and sub-text.  A scene that does one without the other is weak.  A scene that does too much of either is also weak.  You don’t seal the marraige deal on the first date, you don’t win the World Series in one inning,so don’t try.

One of the key fatal words in storytelling: episodic.  If you concoct a series of things that happen to your hero, each shown as a new scene, simply to demonstrate how the hero reacts to that particular moment (characterization), one after another, leading to nothing other than a full exposition of a character’s life or experience within a given time span… that’s episodic fiction.  Not good.

The antidote to episodic fiction: a plot.  A problem for your hero to solve, a goal to reach, with an obstacle to it, with something at stake.  One spine, even if it bends.

If you’re stuck – you call it “blocked” – then something may be wrong with your story.  Not you.  It’s your inner editor trying to get your attention, and doing so by shutting down the screen of your imagination, so you won’t continue to pursue a broken idea.  There are two ways out of this mess: return to the basics of story structure and the power of story physics (those 11 things mentioned earlier), and change something.  Play “what if?” games with what you started with, where you are, and where you’d like to end up.  Take risks, think outside the box, and listen when your inner editor begins to scream with approval.

Take inventory of where you are in your story, and ask yourself, for any given moment and every scene and story point… can this be better?  A better setting?  A better backstory?  What will jack up the tension here?  What would make this character, this moment, or empathic and vicarious for my reader?  What would make this more interesting?

Unless your plot dictates what your hero does for a living, give her or him something fascinating as a career.  IN a good way, or even a creepy way.  Something we don’t see everyday, something that takes place behind the common curtain of awareness.  And then pull that curtain back for us to see.  If this becomes part of the story, contributing context or a story point, then you have an “arena” story on your hands… a very good thing.  I’ve said this before, but here goes: a love story set in an accounting office… boring.  A love story set in a convent… now that’s interesting.

There is a critical difference between a hook, an inciting incident and a First Plot Point.  All three are powerful tools in the Part 1 (first quartile) set-up of your story.  Know the difference, because any attempt to swap one for the other, including a casual placement that doesn’t optimize story physics, will render your story in a lesser form.

The First Plot Point is the most important – and the most heavily imbued with purpose – moment in your story.  Screw this up and everything in your story suffers for it.

Overwriting, trying to make the reader notice your eloquence or style or wit to the point where they are distracted, will hurt your chances.  Your writing voice is like a scent in the air: be careful you don’t stink up the place with too much cologne.  Less is more.  Timing and subtlety are everything.

Story trumps prose.  Story trumps character.  Story trumps theme.  If you doubt this, ask an agent or an editor in the publishing business.  Oh, they’ll tell you that its all important… but if the story doesn’t cut it, no matter how good the rest of the effort, they’ll reject you.

Agents and editors view prose, character and theme as minimum requirements, and when judged as weak it becomes excuse to reject the work (see if this sounds familiar: “You write beautifully, but I couldn’t invest in your hero and found myself skimming, the story needs more meat.”)  What they’re looking for most of all is the home run story, the killer premise, the original idea.  They’ll tell an interviewer they’re looking for “the next great writing voice,” which they are, but within a story that rocks their world. 

When a reader “doesn’t get” your story, especially a professional reader, its your fault.  It wasn’t written well enough. When you hear that feedback, it’s an opportunity.  Say thank you and go into revision mode, they may have just saved a year of your writing life.  Don’t shoot the messenger.  

Everybody is a story planner.  It’s just a question of how you plan.  Your story won’t work until you find it, hone it, reduce it to a core essence and build upon it.  Only then can you really execute it to its highest potential.  Whether you outline or pants a draft isn’t the issue — you’re still planning. 

This realization will empower you to recognize when you are crossing the line from planning to meaningful drafting.  The Great Fatal Error of fiction is that you mistake one for the other along the way.  It’s all “story planning” until you decide you have the story where you want it, where you need it to be.  At its optimal level of execution.  Which won’t be the first draft.  But it doesn’t have to wait until the fourth or eleventh draft, either, that’s just a function of process, which may or may not be yours.  Knowing when it reaches that level, knowing when your search is over and you’re ready to execute the final draft, is the key to success.

Please consider my book, “Story Engineering,” if you’d like to learn more about any of this, especially those 11 essential essences and core competencies.

Feeling inpetuous?  Join me next week in Portland, Oregon at the Willamette Writers Conference (along with about 2000 other writers from around the country, including more than a few from elsewhere), where I’ll be doing three workshops on, well, all of the above.  August 3 -5.

Booster Shots for your Search for Story is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

About this little blue sign in box…

… I have no clue.  Neither does my site hosting service, my webmaster, or anyone else.  It showed up today, and I’m hoping it goes away on its own.  Or that a fix turns up.

Until then, just hit CANCEL and it’ll disappear, and the site will funciton as normal.  Thanks for your patience.  L.

About this little blue sign in box… is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com