Larry Brooks's Blog, page 56

The Holy Grail of Getting Published Big

That's what we all want, right?  In our secret heart of hearts we want it all, the window position at Borders, a spot on the Times list, maybe a morning shot on GMA. 

Truth be known, that little secret desire resides right next to the unflagging belief that we can write as well as the Big Name authors who are living that dream now.  That knowledge torments us as we lay awake nights wondering how they made it happen before we did.

And so we labor over our craft.  We read and we go to conferences and we bang out draft after draft of story after story.  Paying our dues, honing our chops. We're doing this the right way, shelving what we know may be a delusion in a sincere campaign to be worthy when opportunity knocks.

But here's the deal.  And it involves understanding – and possibly seizing – what those successful authors know that you don't.

There are two levels of getting published. 

One is just getting into the game.  The other is getting a featured billing and, we pray, an enduring career. 

They are as different as being an extra on a movie set or getting top billing and a trailer.  Even if you're better looking than the star with the name on that door.

The enlightened writer understands that the established names – the ones you're sure you can already out-write on a good day – play by a different set of rules.  They have contracts.  They have a floor full of editors waiting to turn their chicken droppings into chicken salad.

They can rewrite the Walla Walla phone book and someone will publish it.  And because their name is on the cover, it will sell.

Of course, that never happens.  Why?  Because the people writing the checks won't let it happen.

When we submit something that reeks of imperfection, we are rejected. 

When an A-list author does so – and rest assured, they do – they get rescued.

When we write something that is pretty damn good, but doesn't stand out from the pile on the editor's desk, we also get rejected.  When an A-list writer pens something that is pretty damn good they get a review in People Magazine and a publicist.

The equity, or lack thereof, of that isn't the point. 

Nobody who has ever tried, even those who have succeeded, will claim that the publishing process is fair.  It doesn't try to be. 

The salient point here, though, is looking closer at who reaches that level, and why.  Under that discerning microscope there awaits a tiny morsel of insight that, if it applies, might just propel you into the epicenter of your writing dream.

Take a long hard look at the famous authors you admire, and chances are you might see something there that you've missed before.  Once you see it you'll shake your head at its obviousness, but still, you haven't compared yourself to that standard yet.

Maybe you should. 

Maybe you already have what they have.

I'm not talking about talent or skill.  I'm talking about a life experience worth writing about.  Or if not about, per se, then using as an arena for your next story.

That's precisely what a significant percentage of the authors you've heard of do.

Next time a "first novel" gets a lot of pre-publication hype, look closely at the background of the author.  Odds are there's something there that connects to the story they've told, something that separates them – other than talent – from the hoards of others submitting manuscripts in the very same genre or niche.

That Big New Novel that exposes the underbelly of the movie industry?  You can bet the author used to be a player in that very business, rather than some schmoe from Fort Worth who spent a month of Sundays on the internet getting up to snuff.

Case in point: Nelson Demille. 

My hands-down favorite author, by the way.

He writes cynical, wry thrillers that always relate to a situation, or a hero, that connects to military intelligence and crime, and/or national security.  He has written 12 NY Times bestsellers doing this.  And guess what… before he was a writer, he worked in military intelligence and security.

His Vietnam masterpiece, 2004's Up Country, was more autobiographical than anyone knows.  Nobody else on the planet could have written that novel, that way.

My favorite whodunit author is Michael Connelly.  He writes stories set on the mean streets of Los Angeles.  And guess what… before he was an author of novels, he was a beat crime writer in – wait for it – Los Angeles.

Coincidence?  I think not.

Have you read Patricia Cornwall or Kathy Reichs?  If not, I'm certain you've heard of them, especially if you've strolled past that Border's window.  They write mysteries that center around forensic science and the gritty realism of the autopsy room, and guess what… both worked in the coroner trade before they began writing novels.

The TV show Bones?  That's all based on Reich's books and her career. 

Here's the bottom line. 

It's full of holes and exceptions, but that doesn't remotely water down the opportunity that just might be calling your name.

The best spy thrillers are written by ex-spies.  Or someone who worked in the CIA in some form, even if it was in the mailroom.

John Grisham writes legal thrillers.  John Grisham was a lawyer.  Same with Scott Turow.  And my friend Phil Margolin.  And pretty much anybody else who has written a bestseller starring a lawyer and involving that trade.

Remember an author named John Nance?  He had a bunch of bestsellers in the 80s and 90s about aviation.  He also had a gig on one of the morning talk shows you're desperately dreaming of being on as their aviation correspondent.  Guess what… he moonlighted as a pilot for Alaska Airlines.

Examples of this are everywhere.  So much so, that they are screaming to become a fact of writing and publishing life.

But what about genre, you might ask?

Granted, not all novels are set in an arena that has inherent career opportunities afoot.  What about family dramas, romances, teen adventures… are those authors all professional family therapists, divorce lawyers, adulterers, hookers and high school counselors?

No.  But they could be. 

And if you happen to be any one of those in a past life, pay attention, that's the point we're kicking around today.  Because you just might have a leg up on authors who don't have the benefit of a personal resume that brings a sense of realism and vicarious thrill to the experience of the story itself.

Have you been there, done that?  Perhaps you should consider writing about it.

Not every writer can say they've lived into this opportunity.  Not all of our lives and careers are fascinating and involve dead bodies, treacherous spies, military lack of intelligence and the gritty danger of life on the street.

But take a look at your life.

What do you know that the vast majority of readers don't?  Whatever it is, it might qualify you to layer a story over it – every story needs an environmental and societal landscape – that will set you apart from the truckload of submissions in the agent's mailroom.

Just a teacher?  How about a romance between faculty set in a stuffy private school?

A tax accountant?  What if a Big Wig with the mob comes in and asks you to do his 1040, and oh by the way, he knows where you live?

Worked at Burger King back when?  Or maybe now?  C'mon, there's gotta be something about the inside society of the fast food industry that is screaming for a story.  A comedy maybe.

You get the drift here.  You don't have to be a lawyer or a mortician – now there's an idea – to take us into a private world where you once did your thing.

You need to be set apart, too.  Your crackerjack writing and storytelling skills may not be enough.  Not when the manuscript right behind yours was written by a crack investigative journalist and her story is about the murder of a crack investigative journalist who was murdered because she had stumbled into the wrong dark corner in Georgetown.

There's nothing wrong with a housewife from Wisconsin setting out to write a sexy novel about a drug dealer operating out of Havana.  Research is a beautiful thing.  But the truth is, the real ex-Havana crack dealer writing the same story already has a leg up on her, and no research in the world can supplant the vicereral, minutea-bound credibility of someone who knows.

Sure, it's fiction, we get that.  But you have to bring it to life, and life is about truth.  And everybody has lived a truth worth telling.

 

So the next time you're waiting for the muse to bestow a career-making idea on you, ask her to take a look at your resume.  Maybe the opportunity you've been waiting for is already there.

Just add a story, stir in craft, shake until blended then bake until done… and who knows.  You might end up staring Matt Lauer in the eye one of these mornings a year or two down the road.

Hey, it could happen.  The path toward that end begins with the story you choose to write as much as it does your ability to write it.

Do you know of an author who has leveraged their background into a career?  Please share.

The Holy Grail of Getting Published Big is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Finding – and Leading With — Theme

(Note to skimmers – read to the end for a fun little storytelling exercise — and a contest!)

Some writers are completely and totally theme driven.  Every story they write has an agenda, a message to send and a point of view to either explore or sell.

Others are story-driven, and because their stories are rich with characters and compelling situations, themes seem to surface on their own.

Either way, though, theme remains an essential element of a successful story.  And because of that, both approaches eventually meet in the same place – a story in which the thematic resonance becomes palpable, if nothing else than through the sheer genius of the way in which the author has reflected life and caused us to think and feel.

Rarely is this an accident.  Rarer still is the story that sneaks onto the shelf or onto a movie screen (though it's admittedly more frequent in that particular venue) that doesn't have some form of thematic intention.

The key word here being intention. 

Which means, the writer did it on purpose.

Theme is as viable a place to begin a story as any other. 

A story begins with the seed of an idea, which with a little brainpower and the convergence of other creative forces evolves into a concept, a character, a structural sequence (this is where most true stories are hatched) or a theme.

It is from that first core competency, based on an idea, that the rest of the story begins to grow.  When that first core competency is theme, you've already got a literary tiger by the tail.

Because great stories always have strong themes.

But what about those who begin with theme?  How does that happen, and where do those ideas come from?

The answer is almost always the same – it comes from the heart.  From a need to explore or proclaim a point of view about a truth, an issue, an irony or a feeling that stems from the human experience.

Which begs the question, where do I find themes that are worthy of a story?  What if nothing moves me to the extent I want to spend the next six months of my life writing about it?

Here's a way to find out.  It involves your memory… and perhaps a radio.

Pop quiz: think of a song lyric. 

Something serious and weighty.  The first one that pops into your head.  Got one?  Got several?

It's important to notice that the lyric that came to mind has remained with you over time.  Maybe a long time.  Which means there's something about it that resonates with you. 

Your lyric is perhaps the gateway for a story that needs to be told.  And because it was you who remembered it, perhaps you might be the ideal writer to tell it.

Turning a song lyric – or any theme that won't leave you alone – into a story usually takes one of two paths: create a story that explores this theme from several angles… or write one that takes a stand and rams it directly down your reader's throat.

I don't know for sure because I haven't asked him (nor do I know him), but I wager you that John Irving began with the thematic issue of right-to-life clearly and passionately in mind when he began formulating the story that became The Cider House Rules.  The rest was his genius.

Ask Jodi Picoult if she begins with theme or story.  My money's on theme.

I doubt that John Irving got his idea for The Cider House Rules from a song, but hey, it could happen.

A great songwriter can illuminate a slice of life and shred it into clarity in three Top-40 minutes. 

In fact, I've found themes that I would happily – and in some cases, still intend to – devote a novel or screenplay to in many of my favorite songs. 

Back to that song lyric you just thought of.

Here's a little exercise for you to ponder.

The following are excerpts of lyrics of great songs from various genres – and there are millions of them out there – that are screaming for someone to write a novel around them, also in various genres. 

Feel free to add your own.  But for whichever you choose (these or your own), write a log-line (a one sentence story pitch) that takes the theme and gives it a story to thrive within.

Here's a few from my list, with my log-lines as examples.

From "Your Decision," by Alice In Chains:

Time to change has come and gone… once your fear becomes your God… it's your decision…

Log-line: A story about an aging actor who is given a second chance, but his fear of risk and facing a camera, in combination with the demons that have haunted him since his career took a header, stand in his way of returning to center stage.

From a rock song called "Life Is Beautiful" by a band called 6 A.M. (see, even the obscure can rock your world):

There's nothing like a trail of blood to find your way back home…

Log-line: A spy is being framed for a botched operation, and instead of taking the rap like a good soldier, he takes the truth about how it really went down and the political corruption behind it to a brave young Congressional investigator, at the risk of his and his family's life.

Here's one you've probably heard, by Billy Joel (imagine a love story built around this one):

She can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes… she'll casually cut you and laugh while you're bleeding… she'll bring out the best and worst you can be… blame it all on yourself cause she's always a woman to me…

Log-line: The unlikely love story of a couple navigating what their lawyers are making into a nasty divorce, and who discover forgiveness and the return of innocence as they realize what's important in their lives.

From "If I Die Young" by The Band Perry:

There's a boy here in town says he'll love me forever… Who would have thought forever could be severed by… The sharp knife of a short life…

Log-line: In the tradition of The Lovely Bones, how about a story about a dead girl who must return from the grave to save her young love from certain conviction on charges of her murder, which in reality occurred at the hands of the small town Mayor's son.  A three-hanky sure thing, this one.

From the Eagles' "One Of These Nights":

I've looking for the daughter of the devil himself, I've been lookin' for a woman in white… I've been lookin' for a woman who's a little of both, I can feel her but she's nowhere in sight…

Log-line: A dark love story about a man who meets the wrong woman at the wrong time in his life, and has to beat her at her own Machiavellian game to survive.  (Okay, I'm cheating… that was my first novel, Darkness Bound, which was a USA bestseller and twice optioned as a film.  And yes, it was in part inspired by this lyric.)

From Elton John's "The One," with lyrics by Bernie Taupin:

In the instant that you love someone… in the second that the hammer hits… reality runs up your spine… and the pieces finally fit…

Log-line… sorta: This is actually a true tale… my wife and I fell in love to this song, and that particular love story remains in full glorious process as we craft the sequel and the rest of the series together. 

I could go on… and on.   I bet, so inspired, you can, too.

When you write a theme-driven story well, you'll be encasing your theme within a story that has melody and tempo and rhythm, just like the song from which it came, or could have come.  When that happens the other five storytelling competencies have joined the band, lifting the lyric power of your theme straight into the mind and imagination of your reader.

Without that music, your story is just more elevator background noise.  Without theme, it's just the band warming up, playing separate riffs. 

But when it's all on the same page… magic.

Go write something magical today.

Send me your log-lines for these lyrics… or lyrics that have moved you and led you to a story idea.  Consider this a contest – I'll send a free ebook (your choice) to the author of the most compelling log line submitted. 

Learn more about the Core Competencies in Larry's new book, "Story Engineering: Mastering the Six Core Competencies of Successful Writing," available next month from Writers Digest Books.

Finding – and Leading With — Theme is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Elusive And Confounding Core Competency That Is "Theme"

Among the six core competencies that surface and triumph in a publishable story (that includes movie scripts, by the way), none are quite as slippery, challenging and, too often, confusing as theme.

Oh, it's gotta be there, no doubt about that.  But getting it into the narrative, as well as the sub-text of the narrative, and doing so effectively and with stealth, can be the Achilles Heel of storytelling. 

Try too hard and you're preaching.  Leave it to chance and your theme may be as elusive and fuzzy as an episode of Seinfeld, which proclaimed itself a show about nothing.

All effective stories are thematic.  Even if they're wildly entertaining and thrilling and scary, which isn't what makes them thematic but is often what makes a thematic story readable.

The reason stories work is that readers develop empathy for the character, which jacks the ensuing vicarious ride to a higher level.  Stories are always about characters, and characters don't work unless we care.  By definition, that alone is thematic,

Question is, is theme driving the story, is the story driving the theme?  Both can work… but only when the writer knows the difference and makes an informed choice on that issue.  

Choosing wrong can kill its chances.

So what is theme? 

If you have to ask, your story is already handicapped.

Theme is how a story touches you.  What and how it causes you to think about.  How the story mirrors and/or comments upon real life.  Theme says something worth saying, even when it's obvious.

"Love is complicated," for example.  Obvious, but worth saying over and over, and the fodder for an eternity of stories in all genres.

Theme is not concept.  Concept is what the story is about dramatically.  

Theme resides outside of the story, because it remains when the story is over.  Theme is truth, theme is belief, theme is consequence and meaning and importance.

Unlike concept and character and structure (core competencies all), you can actually stumble upon an effective theme without giving it a whole lot of literary thought.  It's almost impossible to write a story about human beings squaring off with problems without a theme emerging on some level.

If you write a story about a terrorist, for example, and that terrorist is your supposedly sympathetic hero, then you are saying something about terrorism, intentionally or not.

Intentionally is always better.

Theme is like a yard.  Stuff's gonna grow out there, even when you don't pay attention.  Question is, do you want a patch of weeds, or a carefully coiffed, Sunset-magazine quality showpiece that sticks in the memory?

If you want to publish, you need to lean toward the latter.

When a viable theme happens without the writer paying much attention – and it does happen – that's because theme is ingrained in the DNA of the story's other elements.  Some genres are actually theme-driven: it's hard to write a love story without a clear theme surfacing.  Everything about love is thematic, like it or not, realize it or not.

In the search for story – either organically growing the story through a series of drafts, or planning the story's sequence and elements ahead of time – theme can be proactively envisioned and engineered.  Trust me, when John Irving wrote The Cider House Rules, he knew precisely what he wanted to say about the issues of abortion and right to life, and like the literary puppet master he is, both sides of that coin were explored with deft sensitivity and impact.

When Stephanie Meyer writes about hot pubescent vampires, she's writing about young love and social separation.  Her stories don't work without that thematic level.  Maybe she intended it that way, maybe it just happened, but in either case her pages are chock full of thematic DNA.

Same with Dead Man Walking, the 1995 debate-fueler starring Sean Penn and Susan Sarandan, a film that challenged belief systems and no doubt changed a few minds by the closing credits.

A movie opens tomorrow called The Dilemma, produced by Ron Howard and starting some actor you don't normally think of as highly thematic.  The central question is all theme – what would you do if you saw your best friend's wife making nasty with someone else?  That's also the concept, by the way, but don't be confused, that isn't always the case.  In Raise the Titanic, for example, the concept was raising that ship from the ocean's floor, but that was definitely not its theme.  Government and Big Business corruption was.

Remember the 1993 film starring Robert Redford and Demi Moore?  Sure you do… you and your significant other argued about that one all the way home from the theater.  Why?  Because the theme slapped you upside the head.  You weren't arguing about the movie, you were arguing about reality, about your life and what you would do in that situation.

The concept was the proposition of allowing a spouse to sleep with someone else for a badly needed one million dollar payoff… while theme was delivered as questions: what would you do if faced with that same opportunity?  What is the nature and limits of fidelity and adultery?  Does mutual consent come with a price tag?  What are the consequences of shattering that which cannot be restored?

Character arc is theme.  Heroism is thematic.  Sub-text is a great vehicle to deliver theme, as is sub-plot.  Whodunit… that's not thematic until you add characters to the mix.

So many options, so little clarity.  Once you understand what theme is, and isn't,  and how it empowers stories to greatness,  you are suddenly able to design your stories for optimal thematic impact.

Even in mysteries.  Michael Connelly is the reigning king of the mystery whodunit, not because his other core competencies are the best you've seen in that genre (they're terrific, by the way), but because the thematic power of his stories are, and in a way that redefines his genre in that regard.

What stories have stuck in your mind because of their themes?

Next post: Can story development begin with theme in mind?  We'll look at one way – and it's already right under your nose – that you can make that work for you.

The Elusive And Confounding Core Competency That Is "Theme" is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Resurrect an Abandoned Story or Start Something New?

What's the newly enlightened writer to do?

Old, abandoned stories are very much like ex-lovers.   There was a time when they made your heart sing and your hormones percolate.

But it didn't quite work out.  You either dumped them or they ditched you.  Either way, there's an explanation that's often left hanging, perhaps unaddressed and never fully understood.

Only when you've moved on to the next level – in love and in literature – will that explanation make any sense to you.

Remember that as we plow into the scary proposition of returning to our lost stories now that we have a clue what we're doing.

If you haven't published a novel yet, then you're a first novelist. 

Even if you've written an attic full of completed manuscripts.  The term "first novelist," as used by reviewers, agents and publishers, is a misnomer.

In my case, I had six novels yellowing away on a shelf beneath a stack of rejection slips before I got that life-changing call from my agent… and became a first novelist in this context.

Nobody sells their first manuscript.  Nobody.

Which means, everybody has a backlog of stories they once loved enough to actually write (sometimes that process lasts longer than some of those discarded relationships), and often those stories haunt us.

Sometimes we admit that they sucked.  Sometimes we cling to the belief that the world isn't fair.

And then comes a moment when you know what you didn't know then.

What published novelists usually have in common is this: something – practice, old age, or a bombshell of a realization about what makes stories work – has enlightened them.  Raised their awareness and jacked their storytelling abilities (combined with a healthly dose of timing, perseverance and luck) to the point that they've actually sold something.

Such enlightenment takes many forms.  For me, and for many Storyfix readers, it was something called The Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling, which pretty much covers the gamut of what there is to know about telling stories at a publishable level 

That story that didn't sell?  I promise you, one or more of those Six Core Competencies was lacking.  Even if one or more of them was stellar.

Knowing and doing are quite different, of course. 

But knowing always comes first.

Once you know, you might venture back into that dark abyss of embalmed manuscripts and consider a do-over.  You might ask yourself: what's here worth saving?  What might I have done differently… better… that would have put the story over the top?

The question is a little like considering if you want to go back to a spouse or partner that dumped you and try again, or set out to find a new lover.

Things look different on the other side of enlightenment.  That lover you thought was so hot?  Maybe not so much, now that you know.   

That's the first question you must ask yourself in that situation, or relative to your old story: is he/she/it (your story) really worth it?  Or can I do better elsewhere?

The key lies in understanding why those stories tanked. 

Maybe you were trying to make a Jimmy Choo purse out of a possum's ass.  Having a great story to tell is every bit as important as having the chops to tell it greatly.

You need both.  And that is, perhaps, what you didn't know then that you fully understand now.

So how do you know, now that you know?

So… was it the story, or was it you?  And, on either count, could things be different this time?

Here's the Great Truth of the Six Core Competencies as they pertain to the unpublished or B-list author:

One or more of the four elemental core competencies – concept, character, theme or story structure – must be exceptionally compelling, original and mind-blowing.  If all four are simply good, that probably isn't enough to get you published, it merely blends you in the crowd.  Agents and publishers aren't looking to add to the crowd, they're looking for a home run to emerge from it.

And… both of the two execution-driven core competencies – scene execution and writing voice – need to be rendered at a professional level of excellence.  Doesn't need to be John Updike, but it can't have a amateur moment anywhere on the pages.

That's the ante-in.  The bar you must reach.  Now that the clouds have parted, you can see how high it is and what it will take to get there.

Did your abandoned story meet those standards? 

You thought so back then… but how about now?  Now that you know?

Too often our old stories are based on something we thought was a killer idea, but lacked the depth and sub-text and theme of a publishable novel.  You know now that an idea alone does not a great story make, and that even stellar characterization without a compelling dramatic landscape is nothing more than a series of vignettes with no outcome.

One of my losers was about the Kennedy assassination.  Yeah, like there weren't enough of those out there.  I figured the guys who knew the truth were getting long in the tooth, and perhaps one of them might find religion at the eleventh hour and confess the whole thing in a diary in an effort to save his mortal soul.  When he dies his son finds the diary, tries to take it to the press to expose the truth, and runs head-on with the continuing conspiracy. 

Instant Robert Ludlum meets Nelson Demille.  Or so I thought.

But it tanked.  Not only was my Big Idea not big enough, the other five core competencies were as vanilla as a Dick Cheney version of the National Anthem.

In fact, in looking at all six of my retired stories, I realized that they weren't worth the time and effort.  That bigger and better stories lay ahead, and that I was a far more enlightened writer in going there instead.

And then I got published.

Our old stories are a gift, actually.  They paved the path of our learning, they sharpened skills that we would later need.  They were the currency of the dues we are required to pay before they let us into the game for real.

A wise old editor once told me (in the rejection letter for that Kennedy manuscript) that nothing in the work of a real writer is ever wasted.  Maybe he was right.

So thank those old manuscripts, say a prayer over their grave and move on. 

Unless… the chemistry is still there and you realize you blew a shot at something special.  Something you now possess the skills to write well enough.  Second chances depend on that very same learning curve.

And the next time you see your ex, just smile and say thanks.  Because, regardless of whose fault it was, you get it now.  The future and a bigger, better story awaits.

Want more Six Core Competencies?  Click here to read blurbs, reviews and pre-order my new book, "Story Engineering: Mastering the Six Core Competencies of Successful Writing," coming from Writers Digest Books in February.

Resurrect an Abandoned Story or Start Something New? is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

A Mindset Shift That Can Get You Published

Today I offer you a new writing mantra. 

In fact, you can start right now – just say the following words, proud and out loud, as fast as you can:

Mindset shift.  Mindset shift.  Mindset shift.

As you just experienced, it's a lot harder than it seems.  Just like writing a killer, publishable story is a lot harder than it seems. 

Which is why you should adopt an empowering mindset toward your storytelling, instead of the naïve, short-sighted approach so many well-intentioned writers cling to.

Why do they cling to that which betrays them?  Because nobody's told them differently. 

But if they – perhaps you – can make just one critical shift in their thinking, they'll be taking a giant leap toward publication.  They'll be in the game in a way they weren't before.

I'm not saying you can't publish without this healthy mindset. 

Heck, stuff happens, crazy people (and celebrities) get published all the time.  What I am saying is that you'll get there quicker if you can get out of your own way and clear the rubble from your belief system about how an effective story is written.

Notice I said how.  Not what a publishable story is — that's always a crap shoot — but how it's written.

It's about recognizing and understanding the truth, and then incorporating the context of that truth into your creative approach, whatever that might be. 

Because in writing, as much as any other avocation on the planet, the truth really will set you free.  Especially this one.  While a naïve, romanticized and unenlightened mindset will almost always render the writing dream an elusive one.

Here it is.  Get ready for a mind blowing, career skyrocketing paradigm shift.

Or not.  You may already be on board with this and not even realize just how empowering it is.

The Two Realms of Story Development

How do you write a story?  Do you just sit down with your idea and start banging out a draft to see where it will go?  That's fine, it can work this way, but rest assured, it's like fighting a forest fire with a bucket and a garden hose.

Or, do you spend time envisioning and planning your story, considering options and weighing choices, before you write it all down?  Or, if you belong to the garden hose group above, you realize that what you're writing is really just a preliminary exercise in story development, rather than a draft itself?

And once you do write it down, are you doing it in context to the flexible yet unyielding physics of storytelling – if you're going to defy gravity, or the odds, you'll need some solid wings under you – or are you simply imitating what you've read elsewhere and/or inventing your own dramatic form?

That worked for a dude named Homer, but not for you and me.

I'm not here to argue for one over the other. 

I've done enough of that here, and you know where I stand.  Both approaches can work… but only if you understand the next paragraph.

Before you will ever write a draft that works – a draft that is publishable – you must first find your story.  And to find it, you must search for it.  A story is not an idea or even a concept, it is the flight plan that ensues from that starting point.

The point of every flight plan is a destination, delivered with a pleasurable flight experience.  Without either of those, you are skydiving with an umbrella.

Drafter or planner, you need to vet and cull out the many ways your story might unfold.  Consider the possible and the feasible and opt for the dramatically ideal.  All of this in context to an understanding of Big Picture literary principles and mechanics.

Like it or not, this is precisely what you're doing when you write an early, pre-enlightened draft. 

It is also precisely what you're doing when you are planning a story in some other form before you write a draft.

You are merely searching for your story.  The business of writing a publishable draft doesn't begin until you find it.

If you don't recognize this – and here is the potential mindset shift – if you believe you can just sail along through a draft while waiting for your characters to come alive, to start talking to you (they don't, by the way; that's just your literary subconscious whispering that you need to do something different with your story), for the perfect twist to emerge…

… if you do that, and if you just keep going as you sense you are finally on track, that the story is really coming alive now…

… and then you finish that draft, which has been saved in mid-flight, and you call it a final submittable draft…

… then you're toast.  It just won't work as well as it could.  Or should.  You've just slashed your chances of publication to a fraction of what they could have been.

And yet, this is precisely what an alarming number of writers do.  Because they come to the blank page with the wrong mindset.

In essence, story development separates into two sequential realms: the search for story… following by the rendering of story.

That first realm – the search for your story – can happen in many ways.  It can happen in your head.  It can happen through a series of drafts.  It can happen through an anal-retentive and madly obsessive process of story planning.  Or some combination of the above.

But no matter how it happens, here's what is unarguably – and in this case redundantly – true: you cannot write a publishable draft until you've discovered your story.  However you get there.

This is the fatal mindset that condemns so many stories to the slush pile. 

If you use drafting as a means of searching for and culling out your story, or worse (because drafting can work as a search tool), if you think you can just make up your story in sequence and then change things mid-stream as better options and ideas come along…

… and then if you finish that suddenly englightened draft, the first half of which is a random or even slightly inefficient search for your story (which it will be), and the second half of which has been written in context to the killer story you've finally landed upon…

… if you do this…

… you will most likely fail.

Why?  Because an effective, publishable story needs to be written in context to a full understanding of the Big Picture from the very first page.

Which means, if you arrived at the point in your draft where you finally wrap your head around your story, when it all comes together for you, you'll need another draft to actually write the whole thing the right way.

And that is the second realm of story development.

Nobody's buying a ticket for a flight bound for Miami that takes a hard left over Kansas and heads for Quebec.  No matter how smooth the landing.

If you use some form of story planning to discover and optimize your story, then your first draft might actually come close to the mark.  Because it will unfold in context to solid story architecture and rendered in context to ideas and choices that have been vetted and culled.

A story written this way doesn't turn on the gas in the middle, it's working from the first page forward.

This mindset is as liberating as it is powerful and valid. 

I'm not suggesting you become a planner if you are, by nature and preference, a pantser (an organic writer who makes it all up as you go along, letting the story unfold organically and in context to what's already been written, for better or worse). 

What I am suggesting is that you recognize that your draft doesn't stand a chance until the story is solidly, front to back, fully conceived.  If you haven't landed on a theme, a pace, on context and sub-text, if you haven't discovered what your character arc is, if you don't know how things are going to end… 

… you won't write optimally effective narrative until you do know these things.  To get published, your story needs to be optimally effective, beginning on page 1.

If you're a freaking genius – Stephen King comes to mind – then you can do all this searching and vetting and culling in one pass right out of your head, perhaps even as you write.  This, too, is a risky mindset, because that level of genius – it's a myth, really, King has written hundreds upon hundreds of stories and is a practiced story architect in every conceivable way – is rare.

Like, Holy Grail kind of rare.

Trust me, King and his few and far between prodigy peers do all their story planning in their heads before they write a word.  They do it instinctually, and with an innate sensibility that allows the story to spill onto the page the first time, or close to it.

Are you really that good?  How's that working for you so far?

Only when fully conceived, however that happens, will your story become fully and gloriously realized.  And that never happens in the middle of a manuscript.

If you'd like to learn more about how to get published, please consider my new ebook, Get Your Bad Self Published, for the unvarnished, impolite truth about what sells, what doesn't and why.

A Mindset Shift That Can Get You Published is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

12 Worthy Writing Resolutions – and One Life Resolution – for the New Year

Welcome to the first year in the rest of your writing life.   What kind of writer will you be this year?

You get to decide that one.

Parents, teachers, role models and a choir of the enlightened will continue to tell us something we need to hear very clearly: success, and what comes with it, is a choice we make.

If it ain't broke, don't fix it, just buff it up.  If it isn't working out for you, take the hint and choose to do it differently.

Knowing the difference is critical.  In this, and in any year.  In writing, and in life.

What we find difficult – and make no mistake, writing a publishable story is the very epitome of difficult – is conquered by a mysterious blending of hard work, smart work and, with many endeavors that involve the exchange of money, serendipitous good fortune.

While there are occasional exceptions, the latter is often the statistical product of the former.  With writing, you place yourself in good fortune's path by being ready with a killer manuscript when the moment arrives.

I know some writers who have been at this for decades, who attend every workshop, read every writing book, belong to all the critique groups… and nothing changes for them.  They choose to continue with the pounding of their square peg into the round holes the universe presents to us.

Maybe they love it the way it is.  Or maybe they don't understand they have options.   Maybe, deep inside, they yearn to get better at what they do, but aren't sure what that looks like beyond those workshops and books and critique groups.

All of this is a choice. 

But to choose wisely, one needs to be informed.

The following are some ways to think differently – and thus, choose differently – about the stories you write, the way you write them and what you seek to achieve in doing so.

Resolve well.  Because we all have to live with our choices. 

This year I will value craft as much as I value art.

Understand the difference between writing for pleasure and writing for publication.   One is finger painting, the other is construction under the watchful eye of building inspectors and a manual full of codes.  

You can paint it any color you want, but if the inspectors say it'll blow over with the first stiff wind, you aren't playing by their rules.

To publish, your work needs to align with certain standards and expectations.  After that, make your work as artful as you wish.

Art is elusive.  Craft is available to all. 

This year I will begin the novel I've not felt worthy to write.

Maybe you're not thinking big enough.

Maybe you pick your stories because you need something new to write, the inevitable next project, instead of waiting for a story to pick you and then haunt you until you give it some attention.

Is your story a cool idea or an exploration of something significant?  Is it a trick disguised as clues or the unraveling of something poignant and impactful? 

How many dimensions are you considering when you choose your stories?

Next time you see a name you don't recognize on the bestseller lists – it's rare, by the way – notice how the book that got them there is some combination of completely original, astoundingly powerful and brilliantly executed.

That's the bar, folks.  Make sure your story is up to it.

This year I will learn the difference between searching for my story and writing a serious draft of a story.

Think of your story as an audition.  You can't screw up the first half, then be brilliant in the second half and expect to land the gig.  Simon Cowell will rip your head off.

Too often organic writers slip here because they are using the drafting process – it's writing, after all, right? – to discover their story.  To stumble upon it.  Once they find it, they seek to forge ahead from there, to continue with something that's already broken and make it right through a smooth ending. 

That just never works.

Too often story planners don't know the basics of the foundational architecture of what they are planning.  They think they can make that part up – they can't, nor can organic writers – any more than a pilot can make up the principles of aerodynamics before filing a flight plan.

Pants or plan, you can't write a draft that works until you find your story.  Don't confuse that search with the actual writing of the story itself.

This year I will finally understand why my work hasn't been good enough to land an agent.

It won't happen until you wrap your head around the basic principles of story structure – which you can't make up – and character depth, combined with thematic resonance, scene construction and a professional level writing voice.

This year I will discover the principles of story architecture and see how they unfold in the stories – movies and books – that I encounter.

This may involve putting your story on hold until you finish ground school.

This year, as a novelist, I will discover what screenwriters know.

I've said it before, screenwriters begin their journey learning the very thing that some novelists never seem to find, and even some who do fail to recognize as the foundations of storytelling.

Novels are structure.  Every bit as much as films are structure.  Leave that to chance, or try to make it up for yourself, and you're in for another tough year.

This year, as a screenwriter, I will learn what novelists understand.

Quid pro quo here – words are important.  Timing and eloquence, subtlety and power, balance and edge… these are the chemicals that penetrate the consciousness of the reader.

Too often the screenwriter leaves these things to the actors and the director.  With novels, the writer owns all of those roles.

This year I will stop reinforcing that old definition of insanity.

How is your approach to storytelling working for you?

You do get to choose.

This year I will go beyond the rhetoric and embrace the truth about writing.

Your characters don't speak to you.  That's your inner storyteller telling you that you need to change something.

Every good story does not eventually find a publisher.  Editorial inboxes are full of "good" stories.  They are looking for home runs, not singles.

Established writers have different standards and rules than writers trying to break in.  They aren't necessarily better, they simply get a do-over in ways that unpublished writers don't.

Mistakes and weaknesses result in rejection slips, not notes and suggestions.

This isn't magic, it isn't whimsy and it isn't a place for the meek or short-sighted.  Leave the magic to your stories, and attack them with the analytical vigor of an engineer.

This year I will seek to deliver the world a story that will outlive me.

Once you get that Big Story in your head, don't settle for anything less than excellence in your execution.  Excellence, that is, in technical craft.

It's always a two-sided proposition: you need a Big Idea, and you need Stellar Execution.  Both in equal measure.

Fall in love with your story before you give it your life.

This year I will finally understand why agents are turning me down.

Ditto all of the above.  This is the sum of the journey.

This year I will officially turn pro as a storyteller.

You will establish a schedule.  You will set goals.  You will solicit feedback.  You will study, you will become a scholar of your genre. 

You will render yourself fluent in the language of your craft.

You are writing for an audience.  For money.  For your career.   Acceptance of that awareness changes everything.

The Eternal Resolution

This one applies to your life as much as it does your writing.  When the two become the same… now you're in the game:

Find something to die for.  And then live for it.

12 Worthy Writing Resolutions – and One Life Resolution – for the New Year is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Top 10 Storyfix Posts of 2010

It's been a good year, ending with a great month and an even greater week. 

As you may be aware by now, this site was selected to be among the Top 10 Writing blogs, as judged by readers and four of the top writing bloggers in the business.  In fact it was awarded the #1 spot on that list.

Huge thank yous to everyone who has supported this site.

This has brought many new readers to Storyfix — welcome, by the way, hope you'll stick around – some of whom may be wondering… how did this happen?  What's here that's worth my time?

The following list should help.  

If you've been here you'll remember them, and I encourage you to reread them, as they tend to dwell on the soul and essence of the storytelling craft.  There are plenty of solid nuts-and-bolts posts in the 2010 archives also, along with several series and some great guest blogs.  And, a few jokes just to break things up.

And of course, there is 2009's 10 Best Posts list, available HERE if you're interested.

A final note before the 2010 list…

Writers Digest magazine (somewhere in the same building with the folks who are publishing my new book come February) is taking nominations for their annual 101 Best Writing Websites list.  If you'd like to help, here's what you do:

Send an email to writersdigest@fwmedia.com… put "Best Websites" in the Subject line… then in the body of the email state your nomination (www.storyfix.com) and the supporting rationale.

Your continued support is very much appreciated.

And now, here's that list of 2010's best Storyfix posts.  Click on the title to go there.

10. Storytelling To the Beat of a Different Drummer 

9.   13 Writing Clichés That Will Kick Your Ass 

8.   Breaking In, Breaking Out, And Just Plain Catching A Break 

7.   Storytelling In Context To…What?  

6.   The Most Important Questions In Storytelling And The Ensuing Two Questions That Allow You To Answer

5.   The Big Daddy of Story Structure Visual Prompts

 4.  8  Moments You Absolutely Need To Deliver To Your Readers, And One That You Should Hope For

3.   The Most Important Thing You'll Ever Write 

2.   Know What "No" Really Means

And the #1 Storyfix Post of 2010 is…

1.   Give Thanks You Are A Writer

 Thank you all for a rewarding and illuminating 2010.  It was great sharing the writing life with you.  I look forward to 2011, and I commit to making Storyfix an even richer and more empowering resource in the coming year.

Top 10 Storyfix Posts of 2010 is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Most Important Thing You'll Ever Write

Maybe it's the holidays.  Sitting around watching the kids run wild, revisiting that tray of nasty pastries, listening as you go around a room littered with torn wrapping paper to share what we're most thankful for. Or if you were alone, wondering what that would be like.

Moments like these cause a writer to take pause. 

To pull back into another of our private little reveries and ponder perspective.

As writers of fiction or narrative of any kind, we're not exactly furthering the cause of humanity from the safety of our keyboards.  We're not defending our country, we're not saving souls, and we're certainly not getting rich.

A fuller perspective, however, doesn't dwell on those pesky truths.  Rather, it reminds us that we possess a resource, a tool chest, with which we can penetrate the consciousness of others.  And in doing so, deliver something beyond entertainment.

At a writing conference once, a woman looked at me and said, "I want to write beach trash… like you."

That moment was one reason I started this website. 

To apply what I do to something beyond my own shallow ambitions, which include a return to the top shelf at Borders and more appearances on morning talk shows.

Frankly, as this site has grown, I find this work – speaking directly to you, my peers in this game of writing – much more rewarding.

Even though I'm still not getting rich.  Monetarily, at least.

But there is an even higher realm of meaning and reward that we can access.  It is available to everyone, literate or not.  But we writers are humbly positioned to take advantage of it more than most.

To write something that truly, immeasurably, counts. 

I've done it a handful of times.  For a grand total of four people. 

I'd like to quickly share that with you today, in the hope that you might decide to target a similar audience with your gift of words, and the inherent and unavoidable gaze into the abyss that comes with it.

My Wife

It is perhaps a natural law of relationships that the most important truths too often remain unspoken.  As writers, we have the opportunity to convey our affection with words that transcend anything that the copy guys at Hallmark might come up with.

And so, from time to time – and including some scribbling on those very same Hallmark cards – I go deep into the throbbing, desperate depth of my love for my wife, and I write it down.

I tell her how much she means to me, and endeavor to define the depth of my love and commitment to her happiness.  Eye-rolling, blush-inducing hues of purple passion that neither of us can show anyone for fear of eternal banishment.

It makes her cry.  She can't unread this stuff.  And thus, it takes its place as the most important thing I will ever write. 

Because I mean every word of it.

My Son

My son is in college.  A big expensive school that stretches our resources beyond their means, while he struggles to understand the dimensions of the opportunity he has before him.

One of the most important things I've ever written – ever – was a letter during his freshman year telling him that I was withdrawing all funding for his education until he got his shit together. 

The immediate response was his announcement that he would be seeking emancipation.  Followed quickly by a sudden realization that his father was the only one speaking the truth with this level of clarity and consequence, and this firmly. 

He came to understand that what I had written to him represented the greatest gift he'd ever received – a firm shove toward integrity and maturity.  A lesson that would define him going forward.

Two years later he is an officer in his fraternity, and earning stellar grades.  He's lost 50 pounds (beware the Freshman Buffet Effect), works out daily and has landed on a promising career vision.

Would it have happened without my letter?  Perhaps.  Then again, I really don't think so.  Either way, it doesn't matter… because the letter did matter.

It was the most important thing I'd ever written.  And I continue to write him letters of fatherly encouragement and coaching to this day.

My Father

My father died of Alzheimers at the age of 76.  It happened in 1992 after stints in several nursing homes that could not handle him, leading toward his final months in the Oregon State Hospital, the very same place (perhaps even the same ward) in which One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was filmed. 

He wasn't a perfect father.  But his love was perfectly intended.

Which is why, about a year earlier, I wrote him a letter expressing my appreciation and love.  Telling him that, despite all else that hadn't worked in his life, his fathering had worked.  That he had succeeded in perhaps the most important role a man can assume.

It wasn't long.  But it carried the weight of an entire childhood, and it countered a life full of challenge and defeat.

I'd never seen my father weep before that moment, as he sat there reading my letter.  He didn't say a word.  But he did keep that piece of paper in his wallet until the day he died.

It was the most important thing I'd ever written. 

And it made me realize the power we wield as writers who are willing to take up the pen and craft the truth into something timely and beautiful.

To make our words a gift to others.  That context is the empowering magic pill of anything and everything we will ever write.

My Mother

I wrote my mother a letter, too.  But the circumstances were entirely different.

My mother was an alcoholic.  An emotional train wreck that didn't recognize the line between self-pity and abuse.  A binge drinker who would disappear for weeks or sometimes months into a dark place of rage and insanity.  The times between those binges weren't exactly the Cleavers, either.

I grew up with a skewed world view and a ton of rage and suppressed issues, some of which challenge me to this day.

Maybe that's why I became a writer in the first place.  I'll never know.

What I wrote to her exists to this day.  It is at this moment still clenched in her cold, dust-dry hands inside a box six feet beneath the surface of a perfectly coiffed lawn, occupying the space right above where my father rests in a military cemetery.

She never read it, of course.  It hadn't occurred to me to write something for her until she was gone.

But then – and I'm not defending my timing here – I didn't really write it for her. 

I wrote it for me.  Because writers come to realize – and we're not remotely unique in this realization – that forgiveness is a staggeringly powerful thing.

After six unpublished books, five published novels, a non-fiction book, over 500 produced corporate videos, a truck convoy full of printed crap selling all things corporate, over 600 online articles and nearly 300 posts on this very site, after reaching literally millions of readers…

.. it was the most important thing I've ever written. 

As this new writing year dawns, I encourage you to give yourself this gift. 

Write something that counts.  That touches the audience that's closest to you. 

Write something that will out-live you. 

When you do, you'll find yourself changed.  As a writer and a person.  Both will be better for it.

You need not ever publish a word of your writing to achieve the highest pinnacle of success as a writer.  You simply need to convey something you've written into the right hands, at the right moment.

When you do, you will have the changed the world.

Larry's new writing book, "Story Engineering: Mastering The Six Core Competencies of Successful Writing," comes out from Writers Digest Books in February 2011.

The Most Important Thing You'll Ever Write is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Part 2: How To Write A Home Run Story in 2011

Click HERE to read Part 1 of this two-parter.

Picking up with Segment 3 of this six-segment process model…

Segment 3: plan the story's architecture.

This is where those who know and those who think they know, but only see the intuitively obvious, part ways.

Story architecture is the marriage of structure and story arc.  It is knowing what to write, where to put it, and why.

It doesn't take a genius to know you need landing gear before the plane can touch down safely.  It takes a freaking engineer, however, to build that gear into the airframe of a viable flying machine.  And for that you need a blueprint.  Even if it's only in your head.

Are you a story engineer, or someone sitting beside the runway with a sack of burgers and a dream?  If the latter, see Segment 1.

This segment is the search for your story.  Its twists, turns, nuance, sub-text, thematic power, thrills, chills, and gloriously satisfying ending.

You can find all those things by writing a first draft (by pantsing, which is fatal if you fail the exam from Segment 1), or you can do it with a flowchart, yellow sticky notes, the back of a stack of old business cards, or an old school flipchart.

Which, if you're a genius, can exist only in your head.  But whether in your head, in your computer or on your refrigerator door, is must exist before your story will work.  Via pre-draft plan, or a draft that realizes it's only a story search tool that isn't in play… yet.

But here's the good news: if you do this architectural blueprinting well, the next draft you write (which may very well be the first draft if you've planned your story completely, rather than written a pantsed draft to find it) has a good shot at being good enough.  At being a polish-away from submittable.

Hold that thought up as your goal and your reward.

The result of this planning is what is known as a beat sheet: a sequential telling of the story – all the way to the end – in the right order, defining each moment of the narrative, scene by scene.

Expand that beat sheeting from bullets into sentences, and you have a bonafide outline.

If you're a pantser who has written a draft (or drafts) to finally land on the best architecture for your story, your beat sheet may indeed be that draft itself.  As long as you can see and understand the beats layered within all those pages, this is fine. 

Good luck with that.  A succinct beat sheet will always keep you safe and focused on the right things.  Those characters that talk to you during the writing process?  They might just be hijacking your story.  You can and should pre-empt the chatter with a solid story plan.

And surprisingly to many who are new to this, in the presence of a good story plan those chatter characters shut up and do as they are told.

Remember, an idea or a concept isn't a story.  And a pantsed draft that finally settles into the right groove halfway through (or any percentage of the way through) isn't a submittable story, either.

Only a draft written from a final story plan – be it a beat sheet, an outline or a pantsed draft that allows you to identify the very best creative choices for your story, in context to its ending – has a shot at being good enough.

Segment 4: write a draft that counts.

If the previous segments have been given their due attention and effort, then this one falls right into place.

In fact, it'll seem so smooth that you may be tempted to shortcut one of the previous segments the moment a hint of that forthcoming smoothness dawns on you.

Which it will.

Do this all in the right order, and this segment will feel like you're writing a final draft, not a first draft.  Even if it is a first draft.

And if you've come this far via pantsing, that's precisely the case.  Everything that came before in the form of a draft was just story planning in long form.

Segment 5: get feedback.

You know whose opinion you value and trust, and who will simply be nice to you.

The nicest thing anybody can do for you and your story at this point is to be honest with their feedback.  The more they know about storytelling, the better.

But that doesn't mean you shouldn't show the draft to a non-writer who is an avid reader.  Just like that person sitting on the edge of the runway, they'll know a crash-and-burn story when they read it.

Another strategy here is to put the thing away for a few weeks, do something else with your life, then come back to it.

Fresh eyes, in context to your command of Segment 1, can work miracles.

Segment 6: rewrite, revise and/or polish the draft.

Those three words – rewrite, revise and polish – are all very different things.  Which one pertains at this point depends on how well you've executed this sequence, in context to how well you have internalized and applied the basic principles of storytelling that comprise Segment 1.

There are many otherwise credible sources out there that will tell you this: a first draft is always crap, that is must be rewritten.   What they are really saying, even though they didn't use these words and might bristle at them, is this: your first draft is nothing more than a search for your story.

To that I respectfully say… bullshit.

It's only true for pantsers.  And it's only true for them if they've pantsed a draft in context to a command of the principles, because without that command a panster – or a story planner – will never write a draft that works.

But if you plan your story's architecture down to the scene, and if you understand the underlying principles – including how to execute a great scene, which is one of the Six Core Competencies of Storytelling – then… well, like I said… this you-must-rewrite-your-first-draft is nonsense.

Or at least, it can be nonsense for you. 

Because the first draft you write in context to this knowledge and awareness may very well be a polish away from a submission-worthy draft.

Welcome to 2011.  This just might be your year.

Click here to learn about Larry's ebook on story structure.  Or here for his development model for writing great characters.  Or here to get your bad self published in 2011.

We'll be back after a short Christmas break.  From Storyfix to you… we wish you the warmest of holiday seasons.

Part 2: How To Write A Home Run Story in 2011 is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

How To Write A Home Run Story in 2011

Part 1… of Two

We say the same thing every year right about now: this will be our year.  This, of course, meaning the fresh new year about to commence.

Because, perhaps on many fronts, the departing year definitely wasn't it.

Right about now is where one of the most tried and true truths of the universe applies, to the point of cliché.  It's that old definition of insanity: doing the same old thing while expecting different results.

Too many writers get stuck in this loop, many because they aren't aware there is a better way.  But there is.

Perhaps, in 2011, you should do something different. 

Where your story is concerned, the following sequential regimen and process just might qualify as something marvelously, brilliantly different.  The thing that could break you out of whatever loop, or rut, in which you consider yourself stuck.

And while I can't guarantee your success – nobody can do that in the writing game – I can do the next best thing.  Because your novel and/or screenplay – or whatever other kind of story you're writing – can't help but be better for it.

This process breaks down into six sequential parts.

Which means, you get to do the math any way you'd like, as long as you do this in the right order. 

I also highly recommend that you tackle these as equal segments of time, if nothing else than for the sake of discipline and focus. 

Could be that a lack of discipline and focus was your undoing in 2010.  Follow this story development process, and that particular issue will go away in 2011.

Which means, you can write your story in six 2-month segments, six 1-month segments, or six 3, 2 or one-week segments.  The further into that sentence you fall, the more projects you can write, and write successfully, in the next year.

Feel free to start in the middle if you're already somewhere down this path.  You may begin the year knowing precisely what story you hope to write, which means you can skip to Segment 3.  But, with an asterisk.

The asterisk is: you should never skip Segment 1 if, in the most objective dark corner of your writerly soul, you aren't completely sure that you're in command of the requisite tools of the trade.

If you aren't sure what those tools are beyond "a way with words," then you more than most are in need of Segment 1.

To skip Segment 1 is like trying to fly an airplane without ground school.  Or take out a spleen without medical school.  Or survive a troubled marriage without counseling.

You may think you know… but do you?  Really?

The lie you tell yourself in this regard is precisely what stands in your way of writing a story that will sell.  In this or any other year.

I also caution against jumping around in this sequence… that, too, could be part of the reason you remained unpublished in 2010.   The Great Fatal Mistake writers make is to skip one of these segments, or even just phone it in, in favor of the joy of actually writing the narrative.

Yeah, it's fun to fly an airplane, too… but just wait until you try to land.  You'd better know what you're doing.

The countryside is full of crashed writing dreams because the writer/pilot lied to themselves about Segment 1, and then, out of that ignorance, disregarded one of the other steps.

Don't let that be you.

Segment 1: prepare the storyteller.

You've just read my cautionary pleadings.  Now it's up to you.  This is the reason most writers can't sell their work.  It's not their story… it's them.

Are you fluent in dramatic theory?  Do you know the difference between sub-plot and sub-text?  Between concept and theme?  Because premise and concept?  Between inciting incident and the first plot point?  Do you even know what a first plot point is, and where it goes, and why, and how it detonates your story if you misplace it, as well as the other major story milestones?  Do you know what those milestones are?

More importantly, are you operating out of the belief that those questions are invalid for you, that there is some great and mysterious creative muse out there that will guide you through and around these story-killing obstacles?

These questions are just the tip of the iceberg.  You actually can write a home run story without knowing these things by summoning your intuitive, inner storytelling genius.

But let's get real.  There are only a few of them out there, and they are rich and famous.  The rest of the names you see on the bookshelves or on the opening credits of a film… they've immersed themselves in Segment 1.

It's your call.

Read Syd Field, whether you're a novelist or a screenwriter.  Ready my story structure ebook.  Immerse yourself in the realm of the Six Core Competencies of successful storytelling, available at this link in my new book, or here on the site in the archives.  Read The Writer's Journey, which is not available here.  Read about Randy Ingermanson's Snowflake methodology.  Read James Frye's How To Write A Damn Good Novel and his several genre-specific follow-ups.  Go to a Robert McKee workshop.

Then, read some bestsellers and not so bestsellers and watch it all unfold before your eyes.  Perhaps for the very first time.  Reading books in context to something valid, craft-wise, is the most beneficial thing you can do to prepare yourself for writing your own.

Reading or writing without that context… it's a crap shoot.  With very low odds.

Make sure you get it.  If you don't, you're on your own with that inner storyteller that thinks he/she does get it.

And, remains unpublished as 2010 leaves the building.

Segment 2: prepare your vision for the story.

What follows assumes you do get it.  That you've taken the time, put in the effort, and it all makes perfect, illuminating sense to you.

Now it's time to get to work on your story.

You need to have an idea for a story, and it has to have legs.  You need to live with that idea for a while, kick it around and bat it back and forth with your creative peers and mentors, to see if it really is a good idea after all.

Ideas are like cheap lovers.  Sometimes they don't look so hot in the morning.

Ideas are also like not-so-cheap lovers.  When you let them go, if they don't come back to you they were never really there.

But, as you hone your idea into great majesty, remember this: beginning a draft with only that idea on the table, without the following segments of the process having been addressed, is a commitment to using drafting as your vehicle for story discovery.  A long and arduous road.

If you do this, you are officially a pantser… someone who writes stories by the seat of their pants.  It can work, but it's the long hard road to get there.

Why?  Because there are three other essential elements, or essences, that you need to put into place before your story will work, and there are a list of criteria under each of them you should apply to your plan.

The only pantsers who stand a chance are the ones who know this.  Same with story planners, but by definition, what story planners plan is, in essence, those criteria-driven elements.

Once again… do the math.

Ready to commit to a long term relationship with that idea?  You're not done with this phase.  And you're not ready to write the story, either.

Has it been done before, and how, and by whom?  What is your genre, and does it fit?  What is the market appeal of this idea, assuming you can write it well enough, and does your idea fit, stretch or otherwise offend its given niche?  Why will anyone else care about this idea and the story that will spring from it? 

What gift does this idea bestow upon the reader?

What about this idea will grab a crusty old seen-it-all agent or editor and make them lose sleep until they can sign you?

To Be Continued…

Read Part 2 of "How To Write A Home Run Story in 2011″ early next week.

 

How To Write A Home Run Story in 2011 is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com