Larry Brooks's Blog, page 39

The Learning Curve That Keeps On Curving

In all my years as a writer, writing teacher and blogger, I've never run into anybody who claims to know everything there is to know about storytelling.

That's because the more you know, the more you realize how complex and deep it all can be.  Stories are like people, no two are completely alike, and therefore each needs to be regarded, analyzed, appreciated and repaired separately.

That said, certain fundamental principles and physics apply. 

Just like they do to people.  And they can be learned.

And yet, while nobody is claiming to know it all, I have run into writers who claim they don't need to pay attention to those pesky fundamental principles and storytelling physics.  They say something like this:

"Don't over-think it, just sit down and do it, let the story flow, trust your instinct, do whatever the hell you want, keep working on it and it'll turn out like it's supposed to. There are no rules."

Not long ago I flew into Salt Lake to give a keynote and writing workshop at a major conference.  The young writer who picked me up at the airport was curious about my book (which is all about writing fundamentals and storytelling physics), and in the course of our conversation told me that one of writers who would be attending the conference – an older guy who had been writing for years – said my book was ridiculous, that there are only three things a writer needs to ultimately know, the rest is just hot air: the beginning, the middle and the end.

That's it?  Who knew.  All these years, I've missed that one on the writing shelf.  This is the same guy who claims all he needs in life is "three hots and a cot."

I asked now many books this guy had published.  The answer was none.

Interesting.  While I have run into writers who line up behind this simplistic belief system, none of them – zero – have been published.

Coincidence?  I think not.

And when it does happen – and I'm sure it does – it isn't proof of the theory.  Rather, it's the writer not understanding what just happened.

There are a few Big Names out there who claim to be listening to some muse, that they simply sit down and channel it.  But the truth (IMO) is one of three things: this is a transparent stab at modesty, they have a great editor, or they're truly clueless and therefore just lucky to be where they are.

I don't think the last two are it.  Such writers probably write organically, on instinct… but what is instinct if not the expression of something that has been learned?

In essence these writers are saying that they're some kind of genius. 

Diana Gabaldon comes to mind.  As does Stephen King, who is a genius, but in talking about "how to write" laughably discounts the fact he's published hundreds of stories over many decades, which by definition means he's learned something along the way, which again by definition means if something can be learned, it can be sought-out and it can be taught, if nothing else through acknowledgement.

Just because you haven't filed a flight plan, it doesn't mean you don't know how to fly the airplane.  No, that part you have to learn.

Life itself the palette for the art and craft of writing.

Nobody argues that craft cannot be learned.  It is always a learned thing. 

And because few argue that life can be fully and completely understood, that the learning about life stops at some point, the same must be applied to writing about it.

We are always in school.  The learning is always available.  The only time we are excused from class is when we turn our back on it.  And then, we are very much on our own.  In which case you better be a genius to get anywhere.

Great storytelling is hard.  It is complex.  It is a pool with no bottom, an ocean full of darkness and beauty and forces we do not understand.  And so, some minds shut down and turn to the quote given above, instead of learning how to swim.

At a glance one might suggest that old-timers have been exposed to all the learning, that the only available growth option is practice.  But I promise you, every day we live, and every time we read a story or see a film, we are learning. 

The proving of a truth is, in fact, a means of learning that truth.

The ignorance of a truth is, too often… fatal.

You can't go out there and prove the earth is round. 

You just accept that it is.  You have pictures from the space shuttle that make you believe.  Just like we have stories that make us believe, even when we don't understand the forces that make them work.

But you can go out and prove that a story without certain things going for it won't work.  In fact, it's actually harder to prove that it won't than it is to prove that it will work.   

Doubt this?  Go ahead, write a story without compelling dramatic tension, with a hero who is not easily empathized with or easy to root for, without emotional resonance, without pace, without sub-text, without thematic depth, without voice. 

You can prove that these principles work simply by writing a story without them.

Watch what happens then.

The proof is that the story will be rejected. 

And it will continue to be rejected until you learn to apply the truth about storytelling fundamentals and physics.  Even then, though, it will need something else, including a dash of luck, to stand out from the crowd.  To prove that it can work.

Successful storytelling isn't about the math.  Sometimes it doesn't add up.  It can't work if certain fundamental principles and physics are not there… yet it might work if they are.

You get to choose which game you're playing.

That is the art of it.  An art that depends almost entirely on the craft upon which it is based.

Check out the March/April issue of Writers Digest… I have an article on page 55, about how to deliver "voice" in your stories.

I also recommend Andrea Hurst's webinar, "Crafting Fiction and Memoir that Sells: An Agent's Point of View," this Thursday at 1:00 pm (Eastern). Click HERE to learn more.

 

 

The Learning Curve That Keeps On Curving is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Secret Weapon of Storytelling… Right Under Your Nose

It's good to find an edge.  Something extracted from the vast wealth of storytelling tips, techniques, principles and strategies already on your radar.  Something that is rarely talked about.  Yet when you know what it is, you see it everywhere. 

Once recognized and understood, you begin to see how it elevates a story into print, onto bestseller lists, and into theaters.

Any genre.  Any writer.  Any story. 

The nice thing about this little kernel of literary gold is that makes virtually any story better.  Even stories in which setting, in a more obvious context, isn't all that critical.  Sometimes in these stories this little tactic is precisely what makes such a story a winner. 

All the writer has to do is recognize its power, then choose to build their story around it.  To optimize this ingredient.

I wrote about it earlier this week.  I call it vicarious experience, one of the major underlying story forces – essences – that impart power, weight and impact to novels and screenplays.

Vicarious experience is delivered either through setting, or though social, cultural or relational dynamics. 

By definition, it means transporting the reader to a place, time or into a situation that:

a) they can't or probably won't ever experience in real life…

b) is inherently exciting, curious, dangerous, titillating or rewarding…

c) is forbidden and/or impossible, or…

d) is inherently compelling for some other reason.  Like, it really happened.

Using those letter denotations, this translates to: a) afterlife stories, historical stories, supernatural stories… b) arena stories (The Vatican, a corrupt law firm, a crack den, a major league baseball office), adventure stories, mob stories, stories about storms and mountains and sinking ships, dark love stories, prison stories… c) ghost stories, meth lab stories, corrupt cop stories, speculative fiction… d) issue-driven stories (like "The Help"), true stories, war stories, historical event stories, etc.

This is so common that it is often taken for granted. 

Every story unfolds upon a dramatic stage.  What we're talking about is recognizing the opportunity to make that stage – both in support of your story, and as an independent source of focus and fascination – more compelling.  This is the forgotten step-child of both story planning and story "pantsing," when in fact it can empower either process.

A love story set in rural Idaho?  This relies almost entirely on the character dynamic, nobody out there  is really wondering about the experience of being inTwin Falls.  But a love story set in, say… the White House… a nunnery… a pro sports team… the space shuttle… another planet… the afterlife… a big-timeHollywoodtalent agency or studio…

… you get the idea.  Same love story, better setting.  It's vicariously rewarding just to be there.  The setting itself (as defined above, in this context)  has inherent appeal and reward for the reader.

It is the nature of the experience of being in such a setting that delivers vicarious experience.  We can't go back to 1962 Jackson, Mississippi (nor would we choose to), but we can go there in The Help, which empowers its thematic intentions with the vivid landscape of its setting. 

When you add your story to a setting that delivers vicarious experience – when you set your story within this time, place or context that is, when regarded alone, inherently interesting – then you get a sum in excess of the parts.

Some stories are almost entirely about the vicarious experience.  Remember Top Gun?  A pretty pedestrian story.  And yet, it put us in the cockpit of a jet fighter, resulting in a billion dollar box office.

You seen this executed over and over, but perhaps haven't recognized what it has contributed to the reader (or viewing) experience.

Never again.

Let me show you how this exists out there right now.

One of the hot new novels these days is The Darlings, by Cristina Alger.  It's a coming of age story set during the 2008 financial collapse in a family of billionaires living in the Upper East Side inManhattan.  The reviews almost entirely focused on this contextual setting – how it takes us into this forbidden realm – made all the juicer by the fact that the author is the daughter of a real-life hedge fund Big Cheese. 

Pure vicarious experience.  Same story, set on a cattle farm inKansas… it wouldn't fly, wouldn't get the buzz. 

Occupying the #6 position on the bestseller list is Anne Rice's The Wolf Gift, about – wait for it – werewolves.  It's fantasy, but like all of Rice's novels, it's vicarious in that it allows us to live inside a world in which such creatures exist.  Not only exist, but love.

Harry Potter and Twilight and The Hunger Games all rely on pure vicarious experience.  We get to go to Hogwarts, we get to make love to the living and gorgeous dead, we get to live in a post-apocalyptic world in which moral sensibilities have melted down.  All of these stories have characters and plots and sub-plots – the author could have set them virtually anywhere and in any time — but they are all rendered special and defined by the vicarious experience they deliver.

When Stephanie Meyer decided to write about vampires (and largely reinvent the mythology), she was opting to deliver a vicarious experience.

Same with James Cameron when he made Titanic.  The vicarious experience of being on that ship as it went down was the central appeal of the whole thing.

I lived this firsthand, with my 2004 novel Bait and Switch.  Virtually every review (including the starred review from Publishers Weekly) mentioned "the world into which" I took the reader, that of Silicon Valley high tech billionaires and their trophy wives – a place where none of us can go, many of us wonder about, and where intrigue, danger and private jets await. 

You already understand the importance of setting. 

But vicarious experience, as a goal, can be more than simple time and place.  You can be delivered through social and character dynamics, as well.  What would it be like to be married to a serial killer?  To discover your child has supernatural abilities?  To be suddenly possessed of supernatural abilities yourself?  To live in a world in which aliens have taken over?

The answer to each of these is pure vicarious experience.  These are contextual story landscapes that could unfold in any place, at any time, and within any social system.

So there is it, a secret weapon just waiting for you.

Take a look at your story and ask yourself what kind of vicarious experience you are delivering to your reader.  All stories take us out of our own lives and into another existence, but does your setting – either time, place, contextual or relational –contribute to the reading experience in an exciting, compelling, even frightening way?  One that is vicarious?  One that readers will be drawn to – drawn into – by virtue of this alone?

Like everything else about your story, you get to choose. 

When you understand the power of your choices, not to mention the consequences, more than ever you begin to comprehend that the future upside of your story is yours to craft.

What stories can you think of that leverage the power of vicarious experience to make the story elements even more compelling?

The Secret Weapon of Storytelling… Right Under Your Nose is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

How to Position Your Book To Go Viral

It is the Holy Grail of instant success as an author.  The elusive grand slam home run of literary home runs.  It is better – beyond – getting published, or even making a bestseller list. 

It is the dream.  Bigger than your highest vision of The Dream.

It is called "going viral." 

For in the Luddites among us… going viral means that word-of-mouth and the media, especially the internet – which in this case are simply responding to an initial word-of-mouth phenomena — conspire in a dance of co-dependent cause and effect to explode a book beyond the bestseller lists into a feeding frenzy of attention, demand, praise and bookstore waiting lists.

For most readers, this sudden attention is the first time they'll hear about the title, or its author. 

Think The DaVinci Code, Twilight, The Hunger Games, The Lovely Bones, The Help, The Bridges of Madison County… books that seemingly appear out of nowhere and sell millions within a few weeks, and more millions afterward, almost always resulting in a movie and a sequel.

People who wouldn't have been interested before are now clicking onto Amazon to pick up a copy, in some cases simply because they want to see what all the buzz is about.

How did they do that?  How can we do that?

Good news and bad news: we can enter the game, we can go for it, but once qualified and out there, it's a total crapshoot.  One over which you have, after meeting the criteria for viral consideration, absolutely no control.

It is beyond social media.  You can't tweet or Facebook yourself into viral status. Your publisher can't even make it happen.  It rarely happens to the common A-list author names – they became A-listers after their viral debut – it's usually something fresh, from a fresh face.

And yet, going viral is a paradox. 

It is something you can wish for, but once the book has been written, cannot create or execute.  The best you can do is write a book that is positioned – that delivers the right stuff – to be discovered, ignited and launched on a viral journey at the scale required to wear this nametag.

Many books qualify.  Few hear their name called.

The paradox is this:

The criteria for putting your book into a position to go viral is almost exactly that associated with getting published in the first place.  The book has to work.  Really, really well.

That said, viral books tend to do a couple of specific things really well:

They are often "high concept" (rather than character-driven, even though they introduce great characters), with exceptional execution across all of the Six Core Competencies.

They also deliver something else, almost without exception: they seize the inherent compelling power of underlying story physics in way that exceeds the competition.

These two realms of story – compelling concept, with exceptionally strong underlying essences, is what gets you into the viral game.

And if that sounds underwhelming, welcome to the paradox.  Doesn't everybody try for a compelling concept and the blowing of their story physics out of the water?

Answer: not really. Mostly because they don't address these as goals.  Some authors just write their story, write it well, let it unspool organically, and hope somebody out there gets it.  This may get them published, but it doesn't usually get them on Good Morning America.

If you want to go viral, you should address high concept and the optimization of story physics in the story development process.  You should be aware of their inherent compelling power, or not.  And if the latter, jack it higher.

The Latest Example of the Viral Dream Come True

Just this morning Good Morning America did a feature on the latest viral sensation in the book world.  It described a mad frenzy of word-of-mouth obsession, and during the segment the GMA anchors were literally grabbing the book from each other's hands to swoon over randomly selected sentences.

Not because the sentences were astoundingly eloquent.  Rather, because the sentences deliver more than one of the basic elements of story physics like a bullet to the brain.

The book is called "50 Shades of Grey," dubbed an erotic novel (part of a trilogy) by a little known English author named E.L. James.  As I write this, a mere four hours after the GMA lovefest, less than two weeks after initial release, it resides at #1 on the Amazon Kindle list, and #4 on the overall bestselling books list.

Almost all because of reader word-of-mouth.  And media that listens and jumps on board.

Interestlingly, it isn't yet registering on the New York Times bestseller list.  Why?  Because that's an insider industry list based on wholesale distribution to bookstores and a lagging nod to digital books, and 50 Shades of Grey is barely in bookstores and is too new to crack the old boy network that the NYT represents.

But wait 'til next week.  It'll be there, and probably at #1.

Let me tell you why this book has gone viral.

And in doing so, identify the simple elements of story physics that this book delivers.  Read and learn, this is your ticket not only to the viral world, but to finding a publisher and a readership, as well.

The book is about a young woman who has an affair with a billionaire.  In one reader's words, it is full of sex, money and clothes.  It is Sex in the City times ten.

One interviewed reader calls it "mommy porn."  A guilty pleasure perfectly suited to the anonymity of a Kindle in a crowded mall.

High concept?  Not particularly.  But here's what it does do well:

It is fueled by two things, both of them among the short list of essential story physics that capture readers:

The book is driven by hero empathy, while delivering a vicarious ride.

Read that again.  It isn't the plot, and it isn't character.  No, this is about the reader.  This strategy shoots for the result of what you've written, the impact on a reader that creates a reading experience beyond the intellectual curiosity of plot, the reward of laughter or any marveling at great art.

It's about the reader transporting themselves into this world… going on this ride… feeling it… wanting to be the hero… wishing it was them… the reader completely engaging in this journey on a personal level.

You may enjoy the heck out of the latest detective thriller, but really, is this something you want to actually do?  To actually feel?  No, that's a voyeuristic read.  50 Shades of Grey, while perhaps voyeuristic, is actually more masturbatory and vicarious in nature.  It delivers an emotional experience that taps into something deep and forbidden and unavailable. 

It mines pure gold from the power of its underlying story physics.

That's it.  Do this, and do it within a compelling premise with professional-level execution, and you are in a position to go viral.

And if you don't happen to win that particular lottery, at least you'll have increased your chances at publication or digital success exponentially.

More on this in a day or two. 

For now, ask yourself what about your story delivers a vicarious ride, where your story takes the reader, and at what level your story makes the reader feel and actually become a part of the story in a vicarious and personally empathetic way… rather than sitting in the literary grandstands and watching it all go down.

Read more about story physics here.

Read about how to deliver them to your reader here.

How to Position Your Book To Go Viral is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

David Gerrold and the Cabin by the Lake: A Guest Post by Art Holcomb

 "The novel is an event in consciousness. Our aim isn't to copy actuality, but to modify and recreate our sense of it. The novelist is inviting the reader to watch a performance in his own brain."

                                                                                             - George Buchanan

It was the late 1980's and my writing had stalled. 

I'd finished college and I hadn't published a poem or short story in over a year.  On that hot Riverside, California night in July, I sat at my makeshift desk and – at about 2 am – thought I might be well and truly finished.  I knew I wanted a wider audience and I knew that I was drawn much more to movies, TV and plays – scriptwriting – than I was to the long form of novels. But, in the stillness of that morning, I just wasn't sure how to start. I worried that this was the end of my fledgling career.  And, on top of that, I felt myself getting blocked for the first time in my life.

Something that had been a part of me had dried up in the relentless summer heat.

In the following week, I was inconsolable. Then someone, I cannot remember who, gave me a copy of the catalog for the Learning Annex, an adult community learning center in Los Angeles. In it they offered a number of writing classes, including one taught by David Gerrold, the renowned science fiction writer of books like When HARLEY Was One (1970) and The Man Who Folded Himself (1973), and – most importantly – my favorite STAR TREK episode, "The Trouble with Tribbles". 

I read the course description. The class was six weeks long.

It was going to cost me money I wasn't sure I had.

It meant a drive about a hundred miles each way on every Thursday night.

But  none of that mattered.  I was desperate.  And so I went . . .

 . . . and it changed everything.

In that classroom twenty-five years ago, David Gerrold did a number of unique things:

(1)    He had us set a page goal for the week. 

Not a daily goal and not one expressed in the form of "I will write some set number of short stories or chapters over the course of the class."  He just asked us to a set number of pages per week. And he made no suggestion as to how many, either.  Several people said they'd do ten pages a day (70 per week) and another said they would try to get one done in that weeks' time.  David didn't object to either goal, but he was firm on the commitment we were making to ourselves to get it done.  If we succeeded, the pride would be ours – if we failed, we would own that too.  This put the emphasis and obligation where it belonged: on ourselves.

(2)    He workshopped the writer rather than the writing.

Critiquing an individual piece could give you a well-written piece, but improving the writer made everything better.  This was different than any college classes I'd ever taken.

(3)    He answered our questions. 

Standing in front of me for the first time in my life was a produced and published screenwriter and novelist.  He never balked at any question no matter how elementary.  And he shared with us something more important: we learned about a writer's life.  Dealings with producers, editors, directors, deadlines, writer's block.  The joys when things led to creative success –which meant  from idea to finished product – and the sorrows when they did not. And always, it was about the work.

(4)    He had us read our work aloud at a coffee shop where we met after class. 

I learned about rhythm from hearing my voice. I learned what worked and did not from the reaction of the audience more than from their critiques afterward.  And I could see how my work compared amongst my peers and was pleased to find that I didn't really suck.

However, there was one night near the end of the class that meant the most to me. David was taking questions when somebody mentioned that she kept losing track of what their characters were doing halfway through her short story.

DAVID: What do you mean "lose track"?

WRITER: The characters are so clear in the beginning and then again at the end, but I lose them in the middle.

DAVID: Maybe you're not sitting where you can see them.

He then had us all close our eyes (unfortunately, I was more likely rolling my eyes at this point, thinking this was a bit "touchy-feely" for me).  He said to bring up image of a place where we were peaceful and comfortable, and make sure that we imagined this place as somewhere far away so that might take a journey to get to.  There, we were to build a perfect and unique structure to live in, dress out in any way we liked, but to make sure that it had one door inside that led to a secret room, which he described this way:

"The place is bare except for a small desk and a chair facing a makeshift stage or projection screen.  Sit at the desk and when you're ready, the house lights will come down and the performance of your story will place out in from of you.  Watch.  Take note.  Object.  Applaud.  Make changes to the performance as you see fit because anything can happen here.  Everything is available to you. Then just describe what you see and hear and feel.  Take dictation from your story."

That day, I created my vacation house, a small cabin on a lake in British Columbia. Each time I write now – especially when I'm struggling – I set out on that long journey.  More than 25 years later, that stage still is there, worn but still inviting, and that image centers me no matter where I'm at or what I'm doing.  I fear no story, no new idea, because it already exists for me.  The stage and players are always ready.  And I merely watch, take it all down and rewrite until it's done.

The Dream and the Draft

It was there that I forged the connection between The Dream and The Draft – that dark translation where writers often lose their way.  That cabin on the lake became my bridge between the two.

I was nearly too cool to try the one thing that saved my writing.  The things learned in David's class became my best practices and, in a real way, made possible my career.

 Because I learned that I can't sell anything until I write it . . .

. . . and I can't write it until I see it.

Thanks, David.

The Second Act of my career began with you.

Art Holcomb is a screenwriter and frequent contributor to Storyfix.com, whose work has appeared on the SHOWTIME Channel and a comic book author of such comics as Marvel's X-MEN and Acclaim's ETERNAL WARRIORS.  A number of his recent posts appear in the Larry Brooks' collection: Warm Hugs for Writers: Comfort and Commiseration of The Writing Life.  He appears and teaches at San Diego Comic-Con and other writing and media conventions.  His most recent screenplay is 4EVER (a techno-thriller set in the Afterlife) and is completing a work book for writers entitled,  The Pass:  A Proven System for Getting from Notion to Finished Manuscript.  He lives in Southern California.

The March issue of "Writers On The Brink – A Storyfix Newsletter, was sent out this week.  You can read it HERE, and if you like what you see, subscribe from that page (top left) or from this website (top right).

 

David Gerrold and the Cabin by the Lake: A Guest Post by Art Holcomb is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Your Story: It's All in the Mix

You may be aware of my penchant for analogies.  A tool that paints a clear picture of the complexities and choices and skillsets involved in writing a great story.  I did a workshop this weekend and managed to cram about eight of them into a single 50-minute lecture.

Only one person fled the room.

I do this because I like mental models.  Writing a story is not, in my view, intuitively complex – although that's a false mask, the truth is it is magnificently complex – and yet it is the absence of complexity that can render a story flat and vanilla. 

So when we compare storytelling to other avocations and tasks that seem, at a glance, to be linear and singular in focus, and discover that success at the professional level depends on the mastery of nuance, balance, harmony, complexity and the unspoken… all rendered with the touch of an artist, those examples become windows of learning for us, we who are storytellers.

It is that mastery of nuance that imbues the work with artfulness. 

Without it, craft only takes you so far.

So consider this: writing a story casts you in several critical roles: designer… architect… general contractor (big picture)… craftsman (for the detail work; use of the word here intended to be gender-free, by the way;)… and – don't short-change yourself by taking this one for granted – engineer.

You are the producer of your story.  Before, during and after your role as the composer and artist of your story.

Here's the analogy of the day: this dynamic parallels the means by which music is composed, compiled and rendered to a hard disk in a studio. 

If you've seen a mixing board in a professional studio, you know it competes with the cockpit of the space shuttle in complexity and options.  More knobs, gauges, levers and buttons than one who is not a sound engineer could possibly comprehend.  And yet, to the engineer, they are all viable candidates in the ultimate mix, each controlling some nuance of the whole, each subject to artful taste and a vision for the end product.

The touch of an artist, extending that of the composer and the performer.

Notice, too, how in this analogy nobody is playing with those knobs all that much while the musicians are jamming behind the glass.  No, the mixing takes place after the tracks have been laid down… which parallels our process of revising and polishing our stories after we've discovered them via planning or through drafting.

A great story is just too complex to pour out of your head as a fully nuanced whole without consideration, after the discovery of the story, of the mix.

Facing the variables in your story.

Here's a list, off the top of my head. 

Certainly not complete – mixing boards come in all sizes. 

You can create music by attending to only a few of the myriad sliding levers, or you can consider them all… some get a nudge, others are jacked up to eleven. 

It's always your call. 

And while some of those choices are made in the studio while the tracks are being laid down, most often the genius touch of the engineer comes forth in the mix, turning the live performance into harmonic, layered perfection.

Okay, that list.  Here are the knobs on your story mixing board:

Conceptual strength and focus… originality… a fresh twist… leveraging the familiar… scene strategy… chapterization… arena… setting… time-frame… social context… credibility… genre… target readers… marketability… visualization…

…dramatic tension… story complexity… layering… degree and nature of set-up… power of the hook… context… stakes… sub-plot… sub-text… pre—plot point worldview… sequencing… twists… plot points… pinch points… the mid-point…

… the whole row of knobs and sliders that comprise story structure… (opening, prologue, hook, part one, plot point one, part two, first pinch point, mid-point, part three, second pinch point, second plot point, part four, denouement, close, epilogue)…

… antagonistic nature… antagonistic force… that backstory… bad guy's goals and motivations… obstacles offered… obstacles encountered… the dark game plan… antagonistic metaphor… window into life itself…

… hero backstory… inner demons and obstacles… character arc… the hero's journey… the hero's need… the hero's stakes… the shifting landscape of the story… secondary characters… catalytic characters… background characters… sidebar moments… flashbacks… fast-forwards…

… imagery… point… counter-point… theme… vicariousness… empathy… likeability… or not… emotion… meaning… relevance… hypothesis… history… fact vs. fiction… legality… gray areas… sex… violence… reader manipulation…

…voice (first person? third person?  both?)… volume… harmony… humor… point of view… backgrounds… foregrounds… dialogue… exposition… pace…

… outcome.

That's a lot of little knobs and sliders to consider. 

Each one an entire workshop.  No wonder it can take years to even crack the surface of an understanding of this thing we call storytelling.

Each one is addressed in context to what took place behind the glass, where the voices and instruments are: melody, harmony, structure, tonality, emotion, musicianship, voice.

All those knobs, staring up at you.  Waiting to be set just so.  Hoping they won't be ignored, because if they are, they'll set themselves in context to the rest of the settings, and do so at a lowest common denominator.

You are the story engineer.  Before, during and after you are the author of the story itself.  At some point they become one in the same. 

Just know that when you change hats, and how, will make a significant difference in how your story ultimately works.

Check out my latest guest post, now up at Writetodone.com: The Chicken-Egg Paradox of Storytelling.  There are links to five other guest posts at the bottom of the page.

Image courtesy of Samuel M. Livingston.

Your Story: It's All in the Mix is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Elevate Your Story Through the Sublime – and Subliminal – Use of Sub-Text

All stories have sub-text.  No exceptions.  Because life itself is riddled with it.

The real issue for writers, then – the real opportunity – becomes this: will anyone notice?  Will the sub-text of your story contribute to a sense of tension, emotional layering and expositional opportunities?

An under-appreciated truth: in a world full of genre-based fiction and character-driven mainstream stories, sub-text is perhaps the most differentiating and inherently powerful aspect of storytelling.

If you're looking for an edge, an advanced tip, a "secret the bestselling authors don't want you to know"… this is it.  Master this and you're immediately playing in a league above the norm.

To not proactively address the issue of sub-text with the intention of harnessing it's power in your story is like a musician ignoring harmony.  Because there is so much inherent potential above, below and between the layers of the main melody-line.

Without the use of differentiating, compelling sub-text in your stories, you are singing a cappella.  And when was the last time you heard that on the Top-100 list?

You don't have to completely understand sub-text to actually use it to your advantage as a writer of fiction.  Because sub-text is the offspring of setting, characterization, backstory and dramatic exposition.

Sub-text in your story is like stuff growing in your yard.  You can seed it and care for it, or you can let it spring up on its own.  Either way, it defines the street appeal of your home, either adding to or compromising what you're going for.

That said, sub-text is always an available layer to make your story richer, deeper and more compelling.  The evolved, professional writer gets this.

Of course, knowing what sub-text even means is the starting point. 

So let's go there.

You already know that you must set your story somewhere.  That your story unfolds in a world of your creation, either real or surreal.  

In a setting.  A location, a timeframe, a culture or society, even within a family or a workplace dynamic of some kind.

But it is more than setting, too.  Sub-text often equates to, and facilitates, theme.  It's fair to say that setting becomes theme when proactively applied as sub-text.

When you make choices about setting, physical and cultural, you are choosing your sub-text.  Because these choices apply certain pressures – forces – that define and influence what happens within the settings and themes you've chosen.

To optimize sub-text, the writer elects to make the story about the setting, time, place or social context by making those pressures and forces actual factors in how the story unfolds.

Remember the movie "Witness," with Harrison Ford? 

The witness to the crime that anchors the plot was Amish, a belief system that applies significant pressure to the choices of those who adopt it, and defines how the outside world views those who adopt it.  And thus, that sub-text was key to the story.

Without that particular sub-text, "Witness" is just another mystery.  One without eight (1885) Academy Award nominations and two wins. 

In "The Help," both book and film, sub-text was the most significant thing about the entire story – the racial biases, norms and inequities of the chosen time and place.  When Kathryn Stockett set out to write this story – it's entirely possible the term "sub-text" never entered her mind — she knew her story was about this thematic issue, and everything that happens character-wise, and plot-wise, connects to and is informed by it.

Imagine that story unfolding today, anywhere.  It might work, but it would be a completely different dramatic paradigm.  This next Sunday you'll see the fruit of Stockett's choice, beyond the tens of millions of copies she's sold – Academy Awards up the wazoo. 

Remember Grisham's first novel, "A Time to Kill"?  Pure sub-text.  Without that southern setting from the 1950s, it would all be old news.  When a novel uses sub-text to define the times, that's seizing an inherent opportunity beyond the compelling nature of its plot.

"The Davinci Code"… duh. 

In fact, when you look closely at iconic bestsellers and critically-acclaimed movies, you'll see sub-text as the essence-in-common.  Watch, read and learn.

Examples are everywhere.

In romances, sub-text is often the social barriers that separate lovers.  The era of the story, and the social norms of the culture, defines what can happen and what can't.  Which is the sub-text, if not the theme itself.

In mysteries, sub-text is often police corruption, sexual deviation, corporate or political greed and self-service, or a landscape of human darkness springing from jealously, sociopathology, opportunism, fear or hatred.

In science fiction, sub-text might be the impending death of a planet, or a post-apocalyptic setting in which survival is defined by the environment, or the presence of non-human intelligence.  Technology versus humanity.

Every story has sub-text. 

You have a choice – you can manage it, or allow it to manage your story for you.  But know this: without throwing a lasso around it, followed by a harness, it'll run wild and perhaps run away, rather than leading you somewhere it might not otherwise go.

The Optimization of Sub-Text

As story developers, we are always making decisions in the realm of setting, character arc and dramatic tension.  So it is easy to overlook or take for granted the role of sub-text in how our stories play out.

Sub-text is conceptual (one of the Six Core Competencies), in that your choice of setting or underlying story forces creates the compelling X-factor of the story.  A love story set in rural Iowa farmland… you better be Jonathan Franzen or you're bucking the odds. 

A love story set in a nunnery… that's a lasso that can make you famous.

What was the sub-text in some of your favorite novels?

Can you describe the sub-text in your current novel or screenplay, and in doing so, is it adding impact and weight to your story?

Personal Newsflash

I'm excited to announce that I'm now represented by the Andrea Hurst & Associates Literary Agency, with three submittable new projects and a backlist still alive and kicking. 

Landing a new agent is a Big Deal.  My wish for you is that, if you haven't already, you soon experience the sense of purpose and hope that having the right agent brings to your work, and your life.

Thanks for reading Storyfix.com. I'm here to help you get there. L.

 

 

Elevate Your Story Through the Sublime – and Subliminal – Use of Sub-Text is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Power of Symbolism: A Guest Post by Nann Dunne

by Nann Dunne

Recently, I watched an episode of CSI:NY that had a scene that impressed me enough to stick in my mind. In the scene setup, the character Jo, a policewoman played by Sela Ward, accompanies a female witness home.

Shortly after the woman goes into her bedroom to get some clothes, Jo calls out a question to her. When the woman doesn't answer, Jo walks to the bedroom door. She sees the woman's legs on the floor past the end of the bed. She draws her gun and slips into the room. She gets punched in the face, and the gun drops from her hand.

Fade out.

Fade in, minutes or hours later, we aren't sure.

Jo is lying on the living room floor, regaining awareness. A man, the serial rapist her unit has been pursuing, forces her to her feet, beats her with his fists, and slams her against a wall mirror. She falls to the floor, bleeding and barely conscious.

The rapist has her gun. He ejects the magazine into his hand and sets the gun on the coffee table. He sits in a chair and slowly flicks the bullets out of the magazine at Jo, one by one. All the while, he taunts her about how he has outsmarted the police.

He laughs and even encourages Jo as she inches across the floor to the table and wraps her hand around the gun butt.

Finally, the gun now in her hand, she struggles to a sitting position, points it at him and says in a raspy voice, "You know how most gun accidents happen and people shoot themselves?"

The guy, now sneering at her, stands up and spreads his arms wide. "Bang! You got me. You finally got me." 

Jo gets that look on her face. You know the one. When a person is sure she's won the battle.

The unspoken moment between them — which we understand better than he does — is priceless.

She says, "They always forget the one in the chamber."

The camera cuts to the rapist. Realization dawns. His face sobers. His body twitches. The camera turns back to Jo… she pulls the trigger.

Out of the thousands of scenes I've watched over the years, this onewill stay with me.

We all like to see the bad guy get his due, and in most crime shows, he or she usually does. I asked myself what makes this scene more memorable than those others?

The answer I arrived at? The symbolism of the bullet in the chamber.

The scene is an allegory of life.

We can be sailing along with everything going smoothly, then, bam! Something turns our little part of the world topsy-turvy. The upset can affect us physically, mentally, or emotionally; it can be as small as fighting a case of the flu or as large as losing a loved one to the finality of death. Often it seems our small segment of the world shows no sympathy, even laughing at us, as we battle to return to stability.

If we keep our wits about us, as Jo did, and do our best to resolve the situation, we can find deep inside ourselves the power that the bullet symbolizes—the steel force we have ingrained in us that can give us the strength and courage to win against the struggles we face.

Symbolism in writing is a mighty tool.

We who are authors should strive to write memorable scenes that mean more than their face value. We can't use symbolism in every scene, but two or three per book is a reachable goal.

Some common symbols, for example, are flags for patriotism; rings for commitment; the Statue of Liberty for freedom, smiley faces for happiness and friendship. We also have the not-so-nice symbols: finger-flipping for contempt; the "raspberry" for derision; the twirling finger at the temple for craziness.

And there are uncommon symbols. Images and moments that allow the reader to assign their own meaning.

Have you read or seen scenes that had such a strong effect on you that you still remember them? Ask yourself why—was symbolism involved? Use that memory as a basis to fashion your own original symbols within your story. Work to strengthen your recognition of symbolism – read some poetry, listen to songs… poets and lyricists rely on symbolism to imbue their work with power and depth.

Symbolism reaches into our readers' minds and hearts and touch them in ways they didn't foresee. To create these moments in our stories is to write with power.

Remember the bullet still in the chamber. Use it in your writing—and in your life.

Have you written any symbolism in your work? Do you remember any outstanding use of symbolism in what you've read?  

Nann Dunne is the a uthor of Dunne With Editing: A Last Look At Your Manuscript

Check it out at www.nanndunnebooks.com.

See Nann's novels at www.nanndunne.com.

Read Nann's blog at www.justaboutwrite.com/blog

Image courtesy of kcdsTM

Also… check out a guest post by frequent Storyfix contributor Art Holcomb on Routines For Writers.

The Power of Symbolism: A Guest Post by Nann Dunne is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Three Layers of Story Engineering, Architecture, and Art

Everything can be broken down.  Plant and animal.  Fact and fallacy.  Art and science. 

Sliced, diced, eviscerated, deconstructed, analyzed, charted, graphed, melted, spectra-analyzed and debated.  Sometimes this yields precision, other times a vague generality.

Either way, from this process of breakdown comes illumination.  Visibility.  Clarity of purpose, design and effectiveness.

And then… often only then… understanding.

Some resist the slicing and dicing of craft. 

They believe it to be antithetical to the "art" of storytelling.  IMO, that couldn't be more wrong, or naïve.   

Imagine building something without an understand of the physics involved.  Imagine healing something without a keen awareness of the principles that make healing possible. 

Telling a story isn't like driving a car or flying an airplane.  Telling a story is like designing and building a car or an airplane.  You better know your way around the engineering phase.  You better know your physics.

Because whether one looks or not, the underlying physics of things are always there, dictating parameters and outcomes.  

No matter how loud one yells "this is art, dammit!"

The more you know about them, the better your pantsing ways might actually  work (writing on instinct… instinct being a innate, even subconscious grasp of these principles), and the less critical a deep planning phase becomes. 

It's one of the purest cases of irony I've ever seen.  One of the best examples of knowledge begetting art, too.  You just can't beat a learning curve.

Writing stories is never only craft and never only art.  

The second you honor one above the other you are toast.  It is always a dance with both, to the sound of music with these three harmonies.

In your creation of art, do you really believe you are inventing a new type of canvas, a new formula of paint, a new kind of brush that nobody has seen before… that you're really rendering images that have never been visualized before?  That you are really the Chosen One that is licensed to ignore all that is true and powerful about what makes art – in this case, a story – work?

No matter what the image, there's always the same set of reasons residing under the paint that it does.

There are three levels of storytelling art and craft.

Recognition of these three dynamics opens the door to an understanding that will elevate  your art while empowering your craft.

Think of your story as a building.  That building has three fundamental levels, perhaps better thought of as "realms of dependent development" – it sits on a foundation, which, if not strong, will ultimately collapse or slide away… it is built in a certain way intended to comfortably and safely house inhabitants of some kind… and it has a unique presence or personality to it.  Or not.

The terminology here is mine.  The principles are universal and belong to all of us.  Make no mistake, a story that works has all three of these going for it.  Whether the writer knows it or not.

Professional writers – no matter what they say about their process – do know.

Level One: The Underlying Physics.

Stories have gravity.  Literary law that is very much like physical law.  Non-negotiable.  The management and leverage of gravity resides at the core of everything we build – our constructions must bear weight and withstand pressures.

There are a handful of basic storytelling physics available to us.  We get to choose whether we manage and leverage them, or not.  The latter ("or not") usually results in rejection, because nobody is going to publish (or buy) a story without…

… dramatic tension… character empathy and arc … a vicarious experience (including a specific arena; this is also known as setting)… emotional resonance… an effective delivery mechanism (the voice of the story).

None of these directly dictate the nature and flow of your story.  These are the qualities of your story.  The factors that give your story power and originality. 

When you plan your story – whether ahead of time, or via a series of drafts – your goal should be to jack these through the roof.

Level Two: The Ways and Means of Execution

Of course, those story qualities are basic and obvious.  And yet, they too often get shoved aside in the focus on execution – you get too focused on plot or character, or you begin to preach a theme – and to an extent that they get short-changed.

To create a tight union between the underlying physics and the process of story development, there exists a set of tools that channel the energy of the former into the design wrought by the latter.

I call these the Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling.  In essence they are an organized, criteria-based menu of ways of making sure you have adequate power and balance among the underlying physics… that your story is designed in such a way that these parts coalesce in to whole that exceeds the sum of their parts.

They are: concept…. Character… theme… structure (the sequence of the story)… scene execution… writing voice.

Virtually every aspect of the process falls into one of these six buckets.  None are optional.

Level Three: The Sensibility of Optimization

One of the scariest parts of professional aspiration can be explained from two contexts.

First, you already recognize how complex and necessary those first two levels are.  They may not be new to you, but they are always challenging, even to the best of us.  You understand that knowing does not equate to doing.

But here's the scary part, the other context… they're just the ante-in.  The baseline level of proficiency that gets you into the chase.

To emerge from the pack of otherwise solid submissions you need to wield those tools, based on those underlying story physics, with power and nuance and the sensilibility of an artist.

Yes, the word art finally applies.  Right here.  Prior to this level, it's all craft.

Some call this phase talent.  Others, experience.  Some… an ear, a sense, a knack. 

Call it what you will… you'll need to cultivate it to raise your story from a bedrock of dramatic theory supporting a masterpiece of architecture, into the realm of publishability.

Doable.  Especially when you see this three-lane road ahead of you.

Did you get my new newsletter, Edition 1?  Like to?  Click HERE.

Are you new to the Six Core Competencies?  Use the search box to find posts on any and all of them – concept, character, theme, structure, scene writing and writing voice… or you can find them all in my bestselling writing book, "Story Engineering."

Need a hug after all this?  Click HERE.

The Three Layers of Story Engineering, Architecture, and Art is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Produce… X 3

Please click HERE to see an interview/discussion I had with Authornomics.com, who ask some great questions about story architecture, process and why it works.
Then come on back to read another piece from regular Storyfix contributor Art Holcomb.
 
Produce, Produce, Produce
a guest post by Art Holcomb

"Two pieces of paper hang above my desk."

The first, you may remember, is a portrait of Scheherazade.

The other is the following quote copied in my own hand from 1975:

"Produce, produce, produce . . . for, I tell you, the night is coming.

Whether it is, as stated here, a quote from the British poet and critic Mathew Arnold, or as paraphrased in the New Testament (John 9:4), or as a line in a Supertramp song, the sentiment is the same.

Your hours are finite.

Your time at the keyboard is stolen from your other life.  If Larry is correct and it will take you a daunting 10,000 hours to hone your craft to the point that it is ready to show your wit and skill to others, you know that you have to make each moment count.  

Each story, each poem, each capsule of yourself that you set out on the page must be the best that it can be.  

You are finite; your words are not.  Your immortality lies in your ability to tell that story and through it to make the connection to another person that you have been so desperate to make all this time.

Publishing is important but it's not why you write.  It is not the point of your work.  To you, in the moments you write, what are important are the secrets that you learn about yourself and the world in which you live.    Your ability to translate those experiences and dreams into something the reader/viewer can feel – that ability to take the reader/viewer somewhere they have never been – is at the heart of being a writer.

You have so much more to say than you know.  And the night is coming, and sooner than we imagine.  Whether your desire is to have a book with your name on it, a credit on a film or a poem that will be recited by another, it will all depend on your ability to build your stories as well as you can and move on to the next challenge.  

That means you must learn your craft. 

No more hemming and hawing. No more stumbling into your story while freewriting.

Never in the history of Man were the tools needed by a writer to make glorious story more easily and readily available. 

You've already taken a giant step. You've found this website and the treasures within.

Find the tools.  Own the tools  . . .

And then use them to create something new, something better.

Something amazing.

That's the way to create a body of work.  

That's the way to build a career.

 

Art Holcomb is a screenwriter whose work has appeared on the SHOWTIME Channel and a comic book author of such comics as Marvel's X-MEN and Acclaim's ETERNAL WARRIORS. He is a regular guest blogger to STORYFIX.COM.  A number of his recent posts appear in the Larry Brooks' collection: Warm Hugs for Writers: Comfort and Commiseration of The Writing Life.  He appears and teaches at San Diego Comic-Con and other writing and media conventions.  His most recent screenplay is 4EVER (a techno-thriller set in the Afterlife) and is completing a work book for writers entitled,  The Pass:  A Proven System for Getting from Notion to Finished Manuscript.  He lives in Southern California.

 

Produce… X 3 is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

So What's Your Story(ies)?

Usually, when you let it slip that you're a writer, the response is, "what do you write?"  As if you'd just said the most unexpected thing possible.

Everybody's a writer, it seems (that comes out later), but hardly anyone admits it.

And when you say "novels" or "screenplays," one of two things is likely to happen.

Most often you get a polite nod, perhaps a flash of confusion and then, "wow, cool."  Or  maybe just a nod that says, "okay then, we're done with that."  

Or once in a rare while the dreaded follow up: "have you published anything?"

Now there's a dance and a half for you.  The answer is no more comfortable if you can yes than it is when you say not yet.  Trust me on this.

It's possible, though, that the rare genuinely curious might ask you to tell them your story.  Ask you what it's about.

Good luck with that.  You have about a 30 second window before their eyes glaze and you find yourself speaking to a blank albeit polite stare. You lost them at, "Well, it's about…"

If this happens in casual conversation, your answer could be just about anything, focusing on any one of the four elements (that's all you'll have time for… trust me on that, too) of the Six Core Competencies:

It's about a guy who… (character).

It's about what would happen if… (concept).

It's a story about love or… (theme).

It's the story of growing up with an alcoholic mother who ends up in prison for… (structure, possibly inspired by something that actually happened).

You can make any one of these into a compelling elevator pitch.  In fact, eventually, by the time you have a draft that is worthy of submitting, you absolutely will.

But what if you haven't finished it yet? 

What if you're pitching your "story" to an agent at a workshop?  Which story will you tell?

As a writer developing a novel or a screenplay, it doesn't matter what you say within the safe confines of an elevator.  But it's absolutely essential that when it counts – when pitching to an agent, or at some point, when you're actually writing it – you have a solid answer for all four of those elements: character, concept, theme and structure.

Because all four of them are stories.  Essential ones.

Stories that concurrently unfold in combination with the other elements, with edges and transitions known only to you, the author… and on their own.

Because you never know which of the stories a reader might react to first, or strongest.

This has always been true, but what may be new to you is an appreciation for the mindset of visualizing our stories as a melting pot for several conjoined storylines at once, each of them contributing to the other.

Consider your favorite novels and movies, and you'll discover…

… there is a foreground story.

A background story.

A character-driven story.

A sub-plot story.

A sub-textual story.

An arena story.

An emerging story.

A departing story.

A thematic story.

A surprising story.

A touching story.

A gripping story.

A story of empathy.

A story of emotion and meaning.

The context and intention of the above is not to be considered as descriptions.  As adjectives.  No, I'm saying that these stories – like different people occupying the same room, all exist and unfold as discreet storylines within the pages of your manuscript.

Need an example?  Let's look at The Davinci Code.

The foreground story is Langdon's journey as an interpreter of symbols and clues in pursuit of a killer.  His journey, juxtaposed against his own belief systems, becomes a character-driven story, as well.

The background story, which emerges gradually, is the underlying cause of this skullduggery, in the form of an ancient sect of Catholic monks hell-bent on hiding the truth behind their religion.

The sub-plot story involves the nature of the woman called in to help him. Which ultimately links to sub-textual story about what really happened 2000 years ago.

The emerging story is the existence of a centuries-old sect of assassins working at the behest of the Church to hide certain truths, which poses a challenge to the belief system the Catholic Church has been protecting and wielding for over 2000 years, and what may or may not be true.  Which is part of the sub-textual story.

The thematic story is the relevance of this hypothesis to our very real modern lives, which haven't been privy to the backstory this novel suggests.

The gripping story (dramatic tension) is Langdon's survival in pursuit of the truth… will they kill him before he finds that truth?  Notice how this differs from the foreground story – the murder mystery – and that it overwhelms it in the final act.

It's also gripping in its use of Leonardo Davinci and his art as a cryptic time capsule of meaning, using the real thing to whet our appetite for more. 

A story of emotion and meaning… because chances are this novel (and the movie) pissed you off or shocked you into doubt.  Which is why you talked about it, which is part of why it exploded.

A story of empathy because to some extent you care about poor Langdon, because he is metaphorically chasing down the truth of a religion that has always troubled you to some extent.  Or not.  For some, Langdon was them.

All this… in one little story that happened to sell over 80 million hardcopies, just as many paperbacks and fuel two movies and the author's backlist into immortality.

Do we think Brown pantsed all this stuff?  

Stumbled upon it as he wrote?  Made it up as he went along?  And if he did, do you think he got it all down in a couple of drafts?  That he's really that good?

Maybe this list allows you to appreciate the genius of this novel a little more, and the opportunity to go there for yourself.  When Nelson Demille was asked for a blurb by the publisher, he turned in four words: "This is pure genius."

The truth is more likely this: Dan Brown considered all these stories as parts of a whole, existing independently, yet depending on each other.  Chances are he planned it all ahead of time, story by story, beat by beat.

And thus we look in the mirror and ask ourselves… do I do that?  Can I do that?  Should I do that?

The answer to the latter is… absolutely, you should.  If you want to break in, to write a story that leaves a mark, then absolutely you should.

Think about it ahead of time, that is.

And if you pants (make it all up as you go along), do you realize that this process is nothing other than, nothing more than, a search for all these stories?  And that only after you've discovered them, vetted them, played with them, can you actually optimize a draft that marries them seamlessly? 

Ever tried to play with an idea within a draft?  That's why some writers require years and year to finish.  I'm here to tell you, you can play with an idea in your head, in conversation and using beat sheets, to almost a full extent before you write a work. 

Notice how each of the various stories going on – in The Davinci Code, in virtually every other sophisticated novel that works, and in your own stories —  has a beginning, middle and an ending resolution.  How the driving force that moves them through this 3-part grid (or it's inherent 4-part dramatic unfolding: set-up… response… attack… resolution) is dramatic tension, which can be defined as: something that needs to be done, something opposing it, with stakes and consequences for both.

That's what a story is.  For each of these levels of storytelling.

In a story that works, there are at least this many stories going on at once… sometimes more.

As authors with professional aspirations, it's easy to focus on one or two of these stories in context to our Big Idea (whichever of the four elements that it initially emerges from) and let the others take care of themselves.  But as story architects, we always benefit from a view of the nuances of all the stories that are unfolding in our novels and screenplays, because only with this proactive knowledge can we manipulate and optimize them.

We almost always begin with at least some idea in our heads.   

We then attempt, or should attempt, to evolve that idea into a Big Idea.  And right there we face a critical crossroads:

To begin writing, or to continue the search for the rest of the stories (plural intended) that are required to exist arm in arm, dancing to the same music, within the whole of our narrative.  To make those parts a sum in excess of the whole. 

If the writing of drafts is your chosen path toward the discovery of all these concurrent stories (nothing wrong with that, but if you don't get this, then it's really really hard to pull off), then you need to know that you'll have to go back and smooth the edges between them (the various stories), because it's virtually impossible to optimize this dance until you know the entire arc of all the stories.

And in this market, you do need to optimize them to compete.

And you thought this was going to be easy.

Simply by acknowledging the need to tell all of these stories in context to each other and your Big Idea… you just made it easier, if only a little.

And a little is far better than hoping you'll get lucky.

If you missed the inaugural Storyfix newsletter (February edition), you can get it HERE. 

If you like what you see, you can subscribe to future editions (it's free) in the upper left-hand corner of that page… or the upper right-hand corner of this one.  Hope you'll give it a shot.

That "tip jar" issue (mentioned in the newsletter) has been resolved, it's bottom right.  This is the last time I'll mention it here… unless there's relevant news.

And if you're new to the approach described in this post (the Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling), please consider my bestselling book on the subject… HERE.

Please help me grow this site in 2012.  If you benefitted from this post, please send it along to your writer friends and collegues.

So What's Your Story(ies)? is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com