Alan Watt's Blog, page 17
April 3, 2014
Weights and Measures
PROXIMITY
Do our characters have to be two thousand miles apart, or three miles apart? If we are trying to convey a sense of distance, remember that distance is relative. Let’s say that our protagonist lives in Los Angeles while her mother lives in Akron. In the first draft, the mother flits in and out of her life while also holding down a full-time job in her hometown. The story might feel burdensome with the characters either engaged in long phone conversations or flying back and forth. Unless the true distance is germane to the story, we might ask why we have placed the mother on the other side of the country. Is it because this is where our own mother actually lives? Fiction writers frequently pull the wrong details from their lives. Perhaps the mother feels that she lives too far away, while the daughter feels that she's too close. Perhaps the author felt this when her mother was living in Akron, but when she puts this into a story, the reader does not experience a sense of the mother's intrusion. When we look at what we are attempting to express we will find a sense of proximity that best suits our story.
MEASUREMENTS OF TIME AND DISTANCE
It is important when using measurements of time and distance to not assume that our reader understands the context. Running a mile means different things to different people. To write “He stood fifty yards from the tiger,” could indicate danger or a lack of danger. What does it mean specifically for the character? Unless we provide our reader with context, its meaning will be lost.
To say, “Gloria stood five foot five,” does not necessarily mean anything. Although writers do this all the time, objective descriptions without a little authorial guidance will confuse our reader. What is the author’s reason for telling us her height? Is there something we are to cull from this description? Will her height affect the plot later on? Let’s look for ways to tell our reader through description something that adds meaning to our story. For example: “Gloria was of average height, average weight, and average intelligence. The only thing that wasn’t average about her was that she was the daughter of Johnny Chance, the world’s fastest go-cart driver.”
Remember that while you are busy describing the world of your story, your reader is searching for meaning.
Your fellow writer,
Al
Do our characters have to be two thousand miles apart, or three miles apart? If we are trying to convey a sense of distance, remember that distance is relative. Let’s say that our protagonist lives in Los Angeles while her mother lives in Akron. In the first draft, the mother flits in and out of her life while also holding down a full-time job in her hometown. The story might feel burdensome with the characters either engaged in long phone conversations or flying back and forth. Unless the true distance is germane to the story, we might ask why we have placed the mother on the other side of the country. Is it because this is where our own mother actually lives? Fiction writers frequently pull the wrong details from their lives. Perhaps the mother feels that she lives too far away, while the daughter feels that she's too close. Perhaps the author felt this when her mother was living in Akron, but when she puts this into a story, the reader does not experience a sense of the mother's intrusion. When we look at what we are attempting to express we will find a sense of proximity that best suits our story.
MEASUREMENTS OF TIME AND DISTANCE
It is important when using measurements of time and distance to not assume that our reader understands the context. Running a mile means different things to different people. To write “He stood fifty yards from the tiger,” could indicate danger or a lack of danger. What does it mean specifically for the character? Unless we provide our reader with context, its meaning will be lost.
To say, “Gloria stood five foot five,” does not necessarily mean anything. Although writers do this all the time, objective descriptions without a little authorial guidance will confuse our reader. What is the author’s reason for telling us her height? Is there something we are to cull from this description? Will her height affect the plot later on? Let’s look for ways to tell our reader through description something that adds meaning to our story. For example: “Gloria was of average height, average weight, and average intelligence. The only thing that wasn’t average about her was that she was the daughter of Johnny Chance, the world’s fastest go-cart driver.”
Remember that while you are busy describing the world of your story, your reader is searching for meaning.
Your fellow writer,
Al
March 5, 2014
Setting Up the Argument
Story is an argument. The theme (or dramatic question) is the thesis statement, and the story is the argument played out. Any argument requires opposing forces. These forces manifest as our antagonists. Antagonists are any characters that stand in the way of our hero getting what he wants. Antagonists are not necessarily villains. In the movie Big, Josh Baskin’s parents inhibit his idea of independence by insisting he take out the garbage. They embarrass him by taking his picture at the fairgrounds when he tries to impress the pretty girl. Josh wishes he were big. That would solve everything . . . or so he thinks.
Big is a story we have seen countless times. It’s a story of wish-fulfillment. “If I were bigger, my life would be perfect.” To explore this argument, we must create a situation for the question to get played out, and we must have antagonists to illustrate the fallacy.
Becoming big is a metaphor. We all understand the feeling of being not enough, of wanting to be different in order to feel OK. In Act One, Josh is an average 13-year-old kid. What he struggles with is universal: he wants to be a grown up. On page ten, he gets his wish with a Zoltar machine . . . and he is terrified! His mother doesn’t know who he is – believing he is an intruder, she chases him out of the house with a butcher knife. This is the setup of the argument. Frightened and lonely, Josh goes into the city to find the Zoltar machine so he can return home. Was this wish worth it, he wonders? What has he gotten himself into? Complications ensue. It is going to take four to six weeks for the paperwork to get processed so that the city can tell him where the Zoltar machine is. Now what? He makes a decision to get a job. He is going to stay in the city and adapt to his new situation. End of Act One.
Act One is the setup of the argument leading to the hero’s decision. At the end of Act One, Josh is going to accept his wish and learn how to live in the “big” world.
Let’s be curious about the argument we are setting up. The argument is presented early on (around page three to five) as a dramatic question. This is done through action. We see Josh’s predicament and we understand his wish. We feel for him as we watch him struggle with his embarrassment at not being allowed on the ride because of his size. Following the inciting incident, we watch our hero respond to his new situation. What is he going to do? How is he going to make his situation workable? This is the second half of our first act. Let’s be curious about how we can show our hero dealing with this new situation.
Your fellow writer,
Al
Big is a story we have seen countless times. It’s a story of wish-fulfillment. “If I were bigger, my life would be perfect.” To explore this argument, we must create a situation for the question to get played out, and we must have antagonists to illustrate the fallacy.
Becoming big is a metaphor. We all understand the feeling of being not enough, of wanting to be different in order to feel OK. In Act One, Josh is an average 13-year-old kid. What he struggles with is universal: he wants to be a grown up. On page ten, he gets his wish with a Zoltar machine . . . and he is terrified! His mother doesn’t know who he is – believing he is an intruder, she chases him out of the house with a butcher knife. This is the setup of the argument. Frightened and lonely, Josh goes into the city to find the Zoltar machine so he can return home. Was this wish worth it, he wonders? What has he gotten himself into? Complications ensue. It is going to take four to six weeks for the paperwork to get processed so that the city can tell him where the Zoltar machine is. Now what? He makes a decision to get a job. He is going to stay in the city and adapt to his new situation. End of Act One.
Act One is the setup of the argument leading to the hero’s decision. At the end of Act One, Josh is going to accept his wish and learn how to live in the “big” world.
Let’s be curious about the argument we are setting up. The argument is presented early on (around page three to five) as a dramatic question. This is done through action. We see Josh’s predicament and we understand his wish. We feel for him as we watch him struggle with his embarrassment at not being allowed on the ride because of his size. Following the inciting incident, we watch our hero respond to his new situation. What is he going to do? How is he going to make his situation workable? This is the second half of our first act. Let’s be curious about how we can show our hero dealing with this new situation.
Your fellow writer,
Al
February 5, 2014
Story Structure
(This month's post is an excerpt from The 90-Day Screenplay, coming out Feb. 21st.)
Creating a story is a process of moving from the general to the specific. We begin with a basic sense of a story, and through inquiry, our imagination fills in the details of character and circumstance. If we hold on tightly to any story element, we limit our story from moving in the direction of its most fully realized form.
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ seminal book On Death and Dying illustrates five key experiences that one moves through in the grief process. In the same way, there are a series of experiences that are essential in tracing our protagonist’s arc leading to his transformation.
Although the five stages of grief may overlap, they tend to move in a particular direction: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Just as the five stages of grief are universal, so are the key experiential stages that lead to our protagonist’s transformation. Notice that the five stages of grief cannot exist without an individual wanting something. Without a desire to live, none of these stages can follow. It is the same with our story. Our protagonist must want something, and the stakes must be life and death.
By exploring the key experiences in our hero’s journey, we will discover moments that make our story more dynamic and help us see beyond our fixed idea of how the story ought to go. Here are the key experiences in our hero’s journey:
ACT ONE
OPENING/FALSE BELIEF: (page 1) Our hero wants something. Without a powerful want, there is no story. Our protagonist also carries with him a false belief, a mistaken idea of himself and/or his world. Because the purpose of transformation is to reveal a wider perspective, the story often begins with a false belief that is founded on a set of incontestable facts, but as the story progresses, the interpretation of these facts evolves.
DILEMMA: (page 3-5) Our hero’s desire is wrapped up in a false belief about what his goal actually means, which creates a dilemma. For example, a character may want love because he believes that it will complete him. Through the story, he may learn that his desire for love actually prevents him from ever having it because, as long as he believes that he requires love in order to feel complete, he will be unable to accept that he is already complete.
INCITING INCIDENT: (page 10) This is the “Why is this day unlike any other?” moment. Whether it is Toto’s disappearance in The Wizard of Oz or Katniss’ sister being chosen as a tribute in The Hunger Games, something happens that causes our protagonist to respond, thus providing a context for the dilemma. It might originally have been universal, but now we understand how it is personal to the hero.
OPPOSING ARGUMENT: (page 15-20) This is a moment in the middle of Act One where we realize the problem is greater than it initially appeared. This moment is necessary because it clarifies the hero’s dilemma. Until our reader understands the nature of the dilemma, as opposed to the appearance of the problem, there will be no context for his decision at the end of Act One.
DECISION: (page 25-30) At the end of Act One our protagonist makes a decision that he cannot go back on. Notice the reluctance that precedes this decision. Without reluctance, we will not have a context for the dilemma.
ACT TWO
FALSE HOPE: (page 40-45) Our hero achieves success toward achieving his goal. It appears that his goal is within reach. Without this moment, we do not have a context for the meaning that he makes out of his goal. If his desire is to be loved and he succeeds in getting a woman to fall for him, he has yet to confront the real problem, which may be the meaning that he has made out of her love.
MIDPOINT: (page 50-55) As a result of our hero’s false hope, an event happens that causes our hero to respond through temptation. He is pulled in two different directions between what he wants and what he needs. He has come a long way and has made great strides, but is now faced with a crisis of conscience: he can take a shortcut or risk everything for his dream.
SUFFERING: (page 70-75) He had no idea it was going to be this difficult! If he had known, he might never have begun this journey. The suffering is a direct result of the hero’s dawning suspicion that what he wants is impossible to achieve. His suffering is the death rattle of his old identity. He’s going to give it one last try.
SURRENDER: (page 85-90) We surrender when we have run out of choices. The end of Act Two is where our protagonist recognizes the impossibility of achieving his goal.
ACT THREE
ACCEPTING REALITY: (This scene immediately follows the surrender) By reframing his relationship to his goal, he accepts the reality of his situation. In Argo, when Tony Mendez realizes that the CIA care more about their image than they do about the hostages, he understands the true nature of his situation: if the hostages are to be rescued, he will have to put his own life on the line.
ACTION: (page 90 - 110) This is the meat of Act Three. Our protagonist takes action toward giving himself what he needs. Rocky may still want to win the fight, but what he needs is to go the distance. The action he takes is to fight Apollo Creed in spite of the fact that he cannot win.
BATTLE SCENE: (page 110-115) This is the climax where our protagonist makes a choice between what he wants and what he needs. In Goodfellas, Henry Hill must make a choice between snitching on his friends, or going to prison for a long time.
NEW EQUILIBRIUM: (page 120) This is the ending of our story, where our hero is returned home. How is he relating differently to the other characters in the story? What has he come to understand? How can we show, through a single image, the arc of our protagonist’s journey? In Goodfellas, Henry Hill stands at the doorway of his suburban tract house while he tells us that in the suburbs he is no longer feared and respected. And the spaghetti is lousy.
Creating a story is a process of moving from the general to the specific. We begin with a basic sense of a story, and through inquiry, our imagination fills in the details of character and circumstance. If we hold on tightly to any story element, we limit our story from moving in the direction of its most fully realized form.
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ seminal book On Death and Dying illustrates five key experiences that one moves through in the grief process. In the same way, there are a series of experiences that are essential in tracing our protagonist’s arc leading to his transformation.
Although the five stages of grief may overlap, they tend to move in a particular direction: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Just as the five stages of grief are universal, so are the key experiential stages that lead to our protagonist’s transformation. Notice that the five stages of grief cannot exist without an individual wanting something. Without a desire to live, none of these stages can follow. It is the same with our story. Our protagonist must want something, and the stakes must be life and death.
By exploring the key experiences in our hero’s journey, we will discover moments that make our story more dynamic and help us see beyond our fixed idea of how the story ought to go. Here are the key experiences in our hero’s journey:
ACT ONE
OPENING/FALSE BELIEF: (page 1) Our hero wants something. Without a powerful want, there is no story. Our protagonist also carries with him a false belief, a mistaken idea of himself and/or his world. Because the purpose of transformation is to reveal a wider perspective, the story often begins with a false belief that is founded on a set of incontestable facts, but as the story progresses, the interpretation of these facts evolves.
DILEMMA: (page 3-5) Our hero’s desire is wrapped up in a false belief about what his goal actually means, which creates a dilemma. For example, a character may want love because he believes that it will complete him. Through the story, he may learn that his desire for love actually prevents him from ever having it because, as long as he believes that he requires love in order to feel complete, he will be unable to accept that he is already complete.
INCITING INCIDENT: (page 10) This is the “Why is this day unlike any other?” moment. Whether it is Toto’s disappearance in The Wizard of Oz or Katniss’ sister being chosen as a tribute in The Hunger Games, something happens that causes our protagonist to respond, thus providing a context for the dilemma. It might originally have been universal, but now we understand how it is personal to the hero.
OPPOSING ARGUMENT: (page 15-20) This is a moment in the middle of Act One where we realize the problem is greater than it initially appeared. This moment is necessary because it clarifies the hero’s dilemma. Until our reader understands the nature of the dilemma, as opposed to the appearance of the problem, there will be no context for his decision at the end of Act One.
DECISION: (page 25-30) At the end of Act One our protagonist makes a decision that he cannot go back on. Notice the reluctance that precedes this decision. Without reluctance, we will not have a context for the dilemma.
ACT TWO
FALSE HOPE: (page 40-45) Our hero achieves success toward achieving his goal. It appears that his goal is within reach. Without this moment, we do not have a context for the meaning that he makes out of his goal. If his desire is to be loved and he succeeds in getting a woman to fall for him, he has yet to confront the real problem, which may be the meaning that he has made out of her love.
MIDPOINT: (page 50-55) As a result of our hero’s false hope, an event happens that causes our hero to respond through temptation. He is pulled in two different directions between what he wants and what he needs. He has come a long way and has made great strides, but is now faced with a crisis of conscience: he can take a shortcut or risk everything for his dream.
SUFFERING: (page 70-75) He had no idea it was going to be this difficult! If he had known, he might never have begun this journey. The suffering is a direct result of the hero’s dawning suspicion that what he wants is impossible to achieve. His suffering is the death rattle of his old identity. He’s going to give it one last try.
SURRENDER: (page 85-90) We surrender when we have run out of choices. The end of Act Two is where our protagonist recognizes the impossibility of achieving his goal.
ACT THREE
ACCEPTING REALITY: (This scene immediately follows the surrender) By reframing his relationship to his goal, he accepts the reality of his situation. In Argo, when Tony Mendez realizes that the CIA care more about their image than they do about the hostages, he understands the true nature of his situation: if the hostages are to be rescued, he will have to put his own life on the line.
ACTION: (page 90 - 110) This is the meat of Act Three. Our protagonist takes action toward giving himself what he needs. Rocky may still want to win the fight, but what he needs is to go the distance. The action he takes is to fight Apollo Creed in spite of the fact that he cannot win.
BATTLE SCENE: (page 110-115) This is the climax where our protagonist makes a choice between what he wants and what he needs. In Goodfellas, Henry Hill must make a choice between snitching on his friends, or going to prison for a long time.
NEW EQUILIBRIUM: (page 120) This is the ending of our story, where our hero is returned home. How is he relating differently to the other characters in the story? What has he come to understand? How can we show, through a single image, the arc of our protagonist’s journey? In Goodfellas, Henry Hill stands at the doorway of his suburban tract house while he tells us that in the suburbs he is no longer feared and respected. And the spaghetti is lousy.
January 7, 2014
With Purpose
Hi Writers,
What are your plans for this year? Are you going to remodel your kitchen? Work on those abs? Oh wait, those are my plans!
How often do we get distracted by “important tasks” that pull us away from our deeper purpose? Fantasy football sounds like a hoot, but if it is keeping you from writing the book that has been nagging at you for five years, then it is not a hobby, but a distraction.
With the Internet, and social media, we can now feel busy without getting anything done. The irony is that we make art to feel connected, but can now accomplish that through Facebook – except that the connection we receive through social media is transient. It is junk food. We can eat it all day long, and experience the immediate gratification of being “liked” yet not feel any closer to knowing ourselves or others.
Or . . .
We can shut ourselves away in a room for hours on end, pouring our thoughts and ideas onto the page, with no guarantee that anyone will ever read a word of it.
Why would anyone choose the latter?
My friend, the author Eric Miles Williamson, says, “I hate writing. I just hate the feeling of not having written even more.” He’s written seven books.
We are all here to fulfill a purpose. Whether we do or not is up to us. When we approach our creative work as a practice, and begin to celebrate our progress, we are often surprised by the result.
This is your time. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Let’s begin.
Happy New Year!
Your fellow writer,
Al
What are your plans for this year? Are you going to remodel your kitchen? Work on those abs? Oh wait, those are my plans!
How often do we get distracted by “important tasks” that pull us away from our deeper purpose? Fantasy football sounds like a hoot, but if it is keeping you from writing the book that has been nagging at you for five years, then it is not a hobby, but a distraction.
With the Internet, and social media, we can now feel busy without getting anything done. The irony is that we make art to feel connected, but can now accomplish that through Facebook – except that the connection we receive through social media is transient. It is junk food. We can eat it all day long, and experience the immediate gratification of being “liked” yet not feel any closer to knowing ourselves or others.
Or . . .
We can shut ourselves away in a room for hours on end, pouring our thoughts and ideas onto the page, with no guarantee that anyone will ever read a word of it.
Why would anyone choose the latter?
My friend, the author Eric Miles Williamson, says, “I hate writing. I just hate the feeling of not having written even more.” He’s written seven books.
We are all here to fulfill a purpose. Whether we do or not is up to us. When we approach our creative work as a practice, and begin to celebrate our progress, we are often surprised by the result.
This is your time. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Let’s begin.
Happy New Year!
Your fellow writer,
Al
December 3, 2013
Where Did Our Story Come From?
Perhaps our story began as a premise, a character, or a single idea, but underlying these impulses was a subconscious quest for resolution. The creative impulse seeks to make order from chaos, to contextualize a series of events with the intention of making new meaning from them. As storytellers, we’re drawn to unresolved situations: Will Jimmy Stewart leave Bedford Falls? Will Dorothy’s dreams come true somewhere over the rainbow? Will Harry Potter triumph over Lord Voldemort?
These questions appear to present a problem but they are actually providing a context through which we can explore a resolution to a dilemma. If Jimmy Stewart did leave Bedford Falls at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, we would be disappointed because he would not have wrestled with his dilemma and learned that his life is already wonderful. Similarly, if Dorothy’s dreams did come true somewhere over the rainbow, we would miss the point, and if Harry Potter simply destroyed Lord Voldemort and that was the end of it, there would be no context for the theme, which is that good and evil must coexist.
STORY MAXIM: The desire to write is connected to the desire to resolve something we seek to understand. By noticing the central dilemma in our story, we will see where it exists in our life. By exploring its resolution in our life, we will find its resolution in our story.
Here are some examples of dilemmas:
- I want intimacy, but I do not want to reveal myself.
- I want to be successful, but I do not want to overshadow my father.
- I want to move on from my mother’s death, but I don’t want to say goodbye to her.
- I want to know what happens when I die, so that I will know how to live.
- I want to have faith, but I do not trust God.
- I want to be forgiven, but I do not want to confess.
- I want love, but I do not want to commit.
- I want to control my thoughts, so that I can have peace.
- I want to be true to myself, but I do not want to disappoint anybody.
- Notice how dilemmas are visceral. They invite up images which lead to story.
HOW DO WE IDENTIFY THE DILEMMA IN OUR STORY?
There are two ingredients to a dilemma:
- A powerful desire
- A false belief
DESIRE
If we believe that love will make us complete, we might set out on a search for love and misinterpret each relationship that does not resemble completeness as an absence of love. Or we might seek success because we believe it will bring us joy, and with each achievement we find ourselves despairing at the elusiveness of joy. Obviously there is nothing wrong with our characters wanting love, or wanting to be successful, but when they make meaning out of these goals they actually create the impossibility of achieving them. By exploring the meaning that our protagonist makes out of her goal, we begin to get a glimpse of her dilemma.
STORY MAXIM: Our protagonist does not rid himself of his desire, but when he reframes the meaning he makes out of his desire, he is no longer ruled by it.
FALSE BELIEF
Since the purpose of story is to reveal a transformation, the arc of the story moves from a place of not knowing to knowing. Whether the story illustrates the journey from fear to love, ignorance to wisdom, revenge to forgiveness, denial to acceptance, or some other journey, it is through the protagonist’s false belief that our reader is led to a new understanding. It is not that our protagonist’s belief is incorrect; it is just not the whole story. The protagonist’s false belief is going to be tested through the story, and this will lead him to a new understanding. For example, in John Grisham’s The Firm, the protagonist, Mitch McDeere believes that money will solve his problems. He takes a well-paying job with a firm that he knows nothing about, and soon discovers that he is working for the mob and can never get out. It is true that money can solve some of his problems, but until he is willing to lose everything, he is a hostage to this false belief.
We tend to focus on our immediate problem rather than on its underlying cause. Let’s say that our protagonist Bill has a few drinks at the bar, and while driving home he gets a DUI. At this point, he most assuredly has a problem, but underlying his problem may be a dilemma. Perhaps Bill is an alcoholic and wants to get sober but believes that he cannot survive the anxiety of sobriety. Although the problem may be the DUI and its attendant inconveniences, underlying this problem is the false belief that he cannot survive as a sober person. By noticing our character’s desire coupled with his false belief, we begin to see the dilemma.
Until next month,
Al
These questions appear to present a problem but they are actually providing a context through which we can explore a resolution to a dilemma. If Jimmy Stewart did leave Bedford Falls at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, we would be disappointed because he would not have wrestled with his dilemma and learned that his life is already wonderful. Similarly, if Dorothy’s dreams did come true somewhere over the rainbow, we would miss the point, and if Harry Potter simply destroyed Lord Voldemort and that was the end of it, there would be no context for the theme, which is that good and evil must coexist.
STORY MAXIM: The desire to write is connected to the desire to resolve something we seek to understand. By noticing the central dilemma in our story, we will see where it exists in our life. By exploring its resolution in our life, we will find its resolution in our story.
Here are some examples of dilemmas:
- I want intimacy, but I do not want to reveal myself.
- I want to be successful, but I do not want to overshadow my father.
- I want to move on from my mother’s death, but I don’t want to say goodbye to her.
- I want to know what happens when I die, so that I will know how to live.
- I want to have faith, but I do not trust God.
- I want to be forgiven, but I do not want to confess.
- I want love, but I do not want to commit.
- I want to control my thoughts, so that I can have peace.
- I want to be true to myself, but I do not want to disappoint anybody.
- Notice how dilemmas are visceral. They invite up images which lead to story.
HOW DO WE IDENTIFY THE DILEMMA IN OUR STORY?
There are two ingredients to a dilemma:
- A powerful desire
- A false belief
DESIRE
If we believe that love will make us complete, we might set out on a search for love and misinterpret each relationship that does not resemble completeness as an absence of love. Or we might seek success because we believe it will bring us joy, and with each achievement we find ourselves despairing at the elusiveness of joy. Obviously there is nothing wrong with our characters wanting love, or wanting to be successful, but when they make meaning out of these goals they actually create the impossibility of achieving them. By exploring the meaning that our protagonist makes out of her goal, we begin to get a glimpse of her dilemma.
STORY MAXIM: Our protagonist does not rid himself of his desire, but when he reframes the meaning he makes out of his desire, he is no longer ruled by it.
FALSE BELIEF
Since the purpose of story is to reveal a transformation, the arc of the story moves from a place of not knowing to knowing. Whether the story illustrates the journey from fear to love, ignorance to wisdom, revenge to forgiveness, denial to acceptance, or some other journey, it is through the protagonist’s false belief that our reader is led to a new understanding. It is not that our protagonist’s belief is incorrect; it is just not the whole story. The protagonist’s false belief is going to be tested through the story, and this will lead him to a new understanding. For example, in John Grisham’s The Firm, the protagonist, Mitch McDeere believes that money will solve his problems. He takes a well-paying job with a firm that he knows nothing about, and soon discovers that he is working for the mob and can never get out. It is true that money can solve some of his problems, but until he is willing to lose everything, he is a hostage to this false belief.
We tend to focus on our immediate problem rather than on its underlying cause. Let’s say that our protagonist Bill has a few drinks at the bar, and while driving home he gets a DUI. At this point, he most assuredly has a problem, but underlying his problem may be a dilemma. Perhaps Bill is an alcoholic and wants to get sober but believes that he cannot survive the anxiety of sobriety. Although the problem may be the DUI and its attendant inconveniences, underlying this problem is the false belief that he cannot survive as a sober person. By noticing our character’s desire coupled with his false belief, we begin to see the dilemma.
Until next month,
Al
November 1, 2013
Make it Dramatic
The movement of a story happens as the result of complications that arise, not out of plot, but out of character and theme. As our protagonist attempts to get what he wants, he must overcome obstacles. Antagonists force our hero to react, respond, and to rethink his position toward getting what he wants, but this never happens in a straight line. In other words, if our hero wants success, he does not set out on a quest that moves him continually closer to his goal. What likely happens is that he repeatedly attempts to achieve his idea of success until arriving at the realization that it is impossible to achieve based on his current approach.
Think about Seth Rogen in Knocked Up. He seeks to build an empire by developing an Internet subscription series where folks pay a monthly fee to gaze at film stills of naked starlets. As the story progresses, he reframes his relationship to success and in the process grows up.
Story is not about our hero getting what he wants; it is about him reaching a point where he recognizes the impossibility of getting it, thus reframing the meaning he made out of this goal in order to give himself what he needs. Ultimately, story involves the resolution to a dilemma, and our characters are simply functions of this investigation.
Story is alchemy. By putting our hero under pressure he reaches a breaking point where his perspective on his goal shifts and he is transformed. As writers we are searching for conflict, not to milk the scene, but to clarify for the audience what is at stake.
Attempts at subtlety, realism, or naturalism risk obfuscating the underlying meaning. What we are after is the appearance of realism. If we simply dictated moments from our real lives, the scene would not only be crashingly boring, it would not make sense, because amidst the appearance of realism we are also underlining the scene’s thematic relevance.
Do not be subtle.
Be clear about what is driving your protagonist. Even if it is an unconscious drive like “When Jim gets Sally to go out with him he will know he is worthy of love.” Jim still wants Sally to go out with him. Make your hero’s want active. Make it playable. If it is not playable, no one will understand what is going on. Our job as writers is to find creative ways to show the internal struggles of our characters.
Until next month,
Al
Think about Seth Rogen in Knocked Up. He seeks to build an empire by developing an Internet subscription series where folks pay a monthly fee to gaze at film stills of naked starlets. As the story progresses, he reframes his relationship to success and in the process grows up.
Story is not about our hero getting what he wants; it is about him reaching a point where he recognizes the impossibility of getting it, thus reframing the meaning he made out of this goal in order to give himself what he needs. Ultimately, story involves the resolution to a dilemma, and our characters are simply functions of this investigation.
Story is alchemy. By putting our hero under pressure he reaches a breaking point where his perspective on his goal shifts and he is transformed. As writers we are searching for conflict, not to milk the scene, but to clarify for the audience what is at stake.
Attempts at subtlety, realism, or naturalism risk obfuscating the underlying meaning. What we are after is the appearance of realism. If we simply dictated moments from our real lives, the scene would not only be crashingly boring, it would not make sense, because amidst the appearance of realism we are also underlining the scene’s thematic relevance.
Do not be subtle.
Be clear about what is driving your protagonist. Even if it is an unconscious drive like “When Jim gets Sally to go out with him he will know he is worthy of love.” Jim still wants Sally to go out with him. Make your hero’s want active. Make it playable. If it is not playable, no one will understand what is going on. Our job as writers is to find creative ways to show the internal struggles of our characters.
Until next month,
Al
October 3, 2013
Setting Up the Argument
Story is an argument. The theme (or dramatic question) is the thesis statement, and the story is the argument played out. Any argument requires opposing forces. These forces manifest as our antagonists. Antagonists are any characters that stand in the way of our hero getting what he wants. Antagonists are not necessarily villains. In the movie Big, Josh Baskin’s parents inhibit his idea of independence by insisting he take out the garbage. They embarrass him by taking his picture at the fairgrounds when he tries to impress the pretty girl. Josh wishes he were "Big." That would solve everything . . . or so he thinks.
Big is a story we have seen countless times. It’s a story of wish-fulfillment. “If I were bigger, my life would be perfect.” To explore this argument we must create a situation for the question to get played out, and we must have antagonists to illustrate the fallacy.
Becoming "Big" is a metaphor. We all understand the feeling of being not enough, of wanting to be different in order to feel OK. In Act One, Josh is an average 13-year old kid. What he struggles with is universal. He wants to be a grown up. On page ten he gets his wish and . . . he is terrified! His mother doesn’t know who he is. Believing he is an intruder, she chases him out of the house with a butcher knife. This is the setup of the argument. Frightened and lonely, he goes into the city to find the Zoltar machine so he can return home. Was this wish worth it, he wonders? What has he gotten himself into? Complications ensue. It is going to take 4 to 6 weeks for the paperwork to get processed so that the city can tell him where the Zoltar machine is. Now what? He makes a decision to get a job. He is going to stay in the city and adapt to his new situation. End of Act One.
Act One is the setup of the argument leading to the hero’s decision. At the end of Act One, Josh is going to accept his wish and learn how to live in the Big world.
Be curious about the argument you are setting up. The argument is presented early on (around page 3-5) as a dramatic question. This is done through action. We see Josh’s predicament and we understand his wish. We feel for him as we watch him struggle with his embarrassment at not being allowed on the ride because of his size. Following the inciting incident, we watch the hero respond to his new situation. What is he going to do? How is he going to make his situation workable? This is the second half of the first act. Be curious about how you can show your hero dealing with his new situation.
The goal of Act One is to help the audience understand the hero's dilemma. The dilemma is illustrated through action. As the stakes rise through the first act, we understand that what initially seemed like a problem at the inciting incident becomes a dilemma by around two-thirds of the way through the act. This happens as a result of a response from an antagonist. This response illustrates that the problem is much larger than he initially thought. In Big, it is the moment when Josh discovers that he can't simply repeat his exchange with the Zoltar machine, and that he must live as an adult, at least temporarily.
This moment, which I call the opposing argument, keeps the audience connected to the dilemma. The goal is to explore this dilemma from all angles in order to resolve it at the climax by revealing a deeper truth.
Until next month,
Al
Big is a story we have seen countless times. It’s a story of wish-fulfillment. “If I were bigger, my life would be perfect.” To explore this argument we must create a situation for the question to get played out, and we must have antagonists to illustrate the fallacy.
Becoming "Big" is a metaphor. We all understand the feeling of being not enough, of wanting to be different in order to feel OK. In Act One, Josh is an average 13-year old kid. What he struggles with is universal. He wants to be a grown up. On page ten he gets his wish and . . . he is terrified! His mother doesn’t know who he is. Believing he is an intruder, she chases him out of the house with a butcher knife. This is the setup of the argument. Frightened and lonely, he goes into the city to find the Zoltar machine so he can return home. Was this wish worth it, he wonders? What has he gotten himself into? Complications ensue. It is going to take 4 to 6 weeks for the paperwork to get processed so that the city can tell him where the Zoltar machine is. Now what? He makes a decision to get a job. He is going to stay in the city and adapt to his new situation. End of Act One.
Act One is the setup of the argument leading to the hero’s decision. At the end of Act One, Josh is going to accept his wish and learn how to live in the Big world.
Be curious about the argument you are setting up. The argument is presented early on (around page 3-5) as a dramatic question. This is done through action. We see Josh’s predicament and we understand his wish. We feel for him as we watch him struggle with his embarrassment at not being allowed on the ride because of his size. Following the inciting incident, we watch the hero respond to his new situation. What is he going to do? How is he going to make his situation workable? This is the second half of the first act. Be curious about how you can show your hero dealing with his new situation.
The goal of Act One is to help the audience understand the hero's dilemma. The dilemma is illustrated through action. As the stakes rise through the first act, we understand that what initially seemed like a problem at the inciting incident becomes a dilemma by around two-thirds of the way through the act. This happens as a result of a response from an antagonist. This response illustrates that the problem is much larger than he initially thought. In Big, it is the moment when Josh discovers that he can't simply repeat his exchange with the Zoltar machine, and that he must live as an adult, at least temporarily.
This moment, which I call the opposing argument, keeps the audience connected to the dilemma. The goal is to explore this dilemma from all angles in order to resolve it at the climax by revealing a deeper truth.
Until next month,
Al
September 5, 2013
Hold the Story Loosely
“Film is a dramatized reality and it is the director’s job to make it appear real . . . an audience should not be conscious of technique.”
- David Lean
Our idea of the story is never the whole story. The act of writing a screenplay is a way of developing a coherent narrative for something that began as a simple idea or image. We are piecing together a series of emotional experiences that lead to a transformation. The plot, the “stuff that happens,” grows out of these experiences. It’s sort of like climbing a mountain and then looking back and wondering “How did I get here?” We write to retrace our steps as a document or emotional map for others to follow.
Think about any well-told story, from Casablanca to The 40-Year Old Virgin. Underneath the plot lies an emotional arc for the protagonist. Whether it is his journey from fear to love, or from ignorance to wisdom, what we create as artists is often a byproduct of our own individual growth. At the heart of our creation is a search for meaning.
It is important as we write the first draft that we continue to hold our story loosely. This means that we are always open to new and more specific ways of expressing what wants to be channeled through us. For example, I might be certain that a particular scene must occur in order to move my story forward, yet as I begin to write it I discover that it does not want to be written as I had imagined it. It is important that I don’t force it, but rather, that I become curious about the essence of what I want to express.
By holding my ideas loosely, the truth can emerge. I used to be amazed as I watched a story reveal itself to me on the page. I would revel at the infinite number of ways I could get the story wrong. It felt like I was walking a tight rope and all I had to do was make one wrong choice and my story would collapse. It seemed so precarious, impossible even.
When our first draft is approached from this analytical perspective, it is impossible. Yet, haven’t we all had the experience of losing a piece of writing and having to rewrite it? Then later, we find the original, only to discover how much of it we had actually retained? It is alarming. The story was not residing in our brain. It sprang from a much deeper place. We were not required to remember it, as we may have fretted. Our stories are stored somewhere in our DNA. They live fully and completely within us. When we relax and hold it loosely, it is revealed to us.
- David Lean
Our idea of the story is never the whole story. The act of writing a screenplay is a way of developing a coherent narrative for something that began as a simple idea or image. We are piecing together a series of emotional experiences that lead to a transformation. The plot, the “stuff that happens,” grows out of these experiences. It’s sort of like climbing a mountain and then looking back and wondering “How did I get here?” We write to retrace our steps as a document or emotional map for others to follow.
Think about any well-told story, from Casablanca to The 40-Year Old Virgin. Underneath the plot lies an emotional arc for the protagonist. Whether it is his journey from fear to love, or from ignorance to wisdom, what we create as artists is often a byproduct of our own individual growth. At the heart of our creation is a search for meaning.
It is important as we write the first draft that we continue to hold our story loosely. This means that we are always open to new and more specific ways of expressing what wants to be channeled through us. For example, I might be certain that a particular scene must occur in order to move my story forward, yet as I begin to write it I discover that it does not want to be written as I had imagined it. It is important that I don’t force it, but rather, that I become curious about the essence of what I want to express.
By holding my ideas loosely, the truth can emerge. I used to be amazed as I watched a story reveal itself to me on the page. I would revel at the infinite number of ways I could get the story wrong. It felt like I was walking a tight rope and all I had to do was make one wrong choice and my story would collapse. It seemed so precarious, impossible even.
When our first draft is approached from this analytical perspective, it is impossible. Yet, haven’t we all had the experience of losing a piece of writing and having to rewrite it? Then later, we find the original, only to discover how much of it we had actually retained? It is alarming. The story was not residing in our brain. It sprang from a much deeper place. We were not required to remember it, as we may have fretted. Our stories are stored somewhere in our DNA. They live fully and completely within us. When we relax and hold it loosely, it is revealed to us.
August 2, 2013
Character suggests Plot
“Be curious, not judgmental.” – Walt Whitman
Hi Writers,
A fatal mistake many writers make in beginning a new story, is allowing themselves to be seduced by their premise. They set about trying to figure out their plot at the expense of allowing their characters to live. It is crucial to understand that character suggests plot, and that when we put plot before character we tend to get mired in our idea of the story.
The first step in creating a fully alive story is imagining the world, which simply means envisioning your characters in relation to each other and asking “What happens next?” With each idea or image that springs to mind, we follow it to its conclusion. At this point we are not trying to figure out our story, we are just panning for gold.
Let’s say we imagine our protagonist having an argument with his wife. What happens next? Does he confess something? Does she reveal something? How does it escalate? How does the story turn? And then what? And then what? Keep asking, “What happens next?”
Here is what we are not doing: we are not trying to figure out a plot so that we can place our characters into it. Character suggests plot. As we imagine our characters in relationship to each other, situations naturally emerge.
I work with many writers who cling desperately to their idea of the plot only to realize later that they have painted themselves into a corner. They reach a point in the story where they are moving their characters around like chess pieces, trying to keep the story interesting, yet the characters’ behaviors no longer ring true. By allowing our characters to live and interact in our imagination without following a prescribed plan, our subconscious is free to make non-linear connections that our conscious mind would never have delivered.
This process is thrilling because our characters are alive. They are engaging with each other because we have not restricted ourselves by prematurely imposing a plot. They can change with a flick of our pen. We are not bound to a single plot, because we have not labored for months, refining scenes that may not make the final draft. What if our hero, a hardened New York cop, suddenly tells us that he is a she? What if our romantic comedy suddenly tells us that it wants to move from a sweltering summer in New Orleans to Christmas in Vermont? Great! We have not become so tied down by details that we cannot pick them up and move them across the country or switch their gender.
Hi Writers,
A fatal mistake many writers make in beginning a new story, is allowing themselves to be seduced by their premise. They set about trying to figure out their plot at the expense of allowing their characters to live. It is crucial to understand that character suggests plot, and that when we put plot before character we tend to get mired in our idea of the story.
The first step in creating a fully alive story is imagining the world, which simply means envisioning your characters in relation to each other and asking “What happens next?” With each idea or image that springs to mind, we follow it to its conclusion. At this point we are not trying to figure out our story, we are just panning for gold.
Let’s say we imagine our protagonist having an argument with his wife. What happens next? Does he confess something? Does she reveal something? How does it escalate? How does the story turn? And then what? And then what? Keep asking, “What happens next?”
Here is what we are not doing: we are not trying to figure out a plot so that we can place our characters into it. Character suggests plot. As we imagine our characters in relationship to each other, situations naturally emerge.
I work with many writers who cling desperately to their idea of the plot only to realize later that they have painted themselves into a corner. They reach a point in the story where they are moving their characters around like chess pieces, trying to keep the story interesting, yet the characters’ behaviors no longer ring true. By allowing our characters to live and interact in our imagination without following a prescribed plan, our subconscious is free to make non-linear connections that our conscious mind would never have delivered.
This process is thrilling because our characters are alive. They are engaging with each other because we have not restricted ourselves by prematurely imposing a plot. They can change with a flick of our pen. We are not bound to a single plot, because we have not labored for months, refining scenes that may not make the final draft. What if our hero, a hardened New York cop, suddenly tells us that he is a she? What if our romantic comedy suddenly tells us that it wants to move from a sweltering summer in New Orleans to Christmas in Vermont? Great! We have not become so tied down by details that we cannot pick them up and move them across the country or switch their gender.
April 17, 2013
What do I write next?
Writers tell me frequently: “I have three ideas. Which one should I write next?”
In the 90-day novel workshop, the first exercise we do is we write for five minutes, beginning with: “My story is about….”
And the writer says, “But I don’t know which story to write about.”
I tell them, just start writing. 90% of the time, this does the trick. Our subconscious knows which story wants to be told next. We tend to get in the way with all sorts of noise about what we think the market is looking for, and trying to figure out which story will change our life and provide the quickest route to quitting our day job.
All of the stories will be told in time. We will get to them eventually. We may even discover that what we wanted to be expressed in one story gets expressed in another.
The most important thing is to make a choice! Ideas are a dime a dozen. Don’t use your abundance of ideas as a reason to procrastinate.
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what you write. Our work guides us inexorably to a greater understanding of ourselves. Since the purpose of story is to reveal a transformation, our work is simply a byproduct of our growth.
Just start writing.
