Alan Watt's Blog, page 4

Trust

I grew up in a very bright, academic family, but at times I felt alone. My family members were very logical, reasonable people. I was not. I was more interested in the nature of things and the unseen than I was in hard evidence or statistics. I never trusted statistics, because in my mind, they failed to show the whole picture and, in isolating data, one could draw all sorts of factual conclusions that could actually lead you away from the truth you were seeking. Sometimes we are not even conscious of the assumptions that we make.

For a long time I assumed that I was nuts. As I became a writer, the greatest challenge for me was to trust the experience that I was writing about. If my family didn’t know what I was talking about, then how could I trust that I would be able to transmit these ideas through the story to complete strangers?

Learning to trust ourselves is a process. Storytelling is an art, not a science. We can’t approach our story as if it were a math problem. If our characters are puzzling us, applying hard logic rarely helps. We must go deeper and inquire into the seemingly counter-intuitive impulses that continually arise. I always tell writers that our idea of the story is never the whole story. It’s not that our idea is incorrect, but that it is incomplete.

Writing is a process of being willing to follow patterns and lines of thought, even as they often lead to dead ends. By letting go of the expectation that every session must bear fruit, we relax and we don’t burn out so easily.

When we feel discouraged, impatient, or simply unwilling to pick up our red pen, we just need to remember that the rewrite is about consistently inquiring into what we are attempting to express, and developing a deeper, and more specific relationship to our story.

Our story is about something beyond plot. Our subconscious has made all sorts of connections in the first draft that speak directly to the nature of the dilemma at the heart of our story. In the rewrite, we are invited to make these connections conscious, to create something more than a sensory experience for our reader. We are the only person who can truly know what our story is about. Sort of terrifying, isn’t it? Because even we aren’t quite sure what it’s about, at least not entirely.

Our creative work is a byproduct of our own growth. The confusion and discomfort we may experience is part of the work, and necessary for us to understand our story in a more specific way. We’re creating a document that says, “Here is what I know to be true.” Why would we subcontract this task out to someone less qualified?

If we’re willing to sit with the confusion and occasional panic, and show up to do our daily work, we will be rewarded with insight. When we don’t trust ourselves, we seek a second opinion. This can be dangerous, especially if we do it too early in our process. Too often, our friend’s “notes” are based on how they would tell the story. I’ve seen many works-in-progress lose steam, sputter, and die due to this lack of self-trust.

As artists, logic will kill you. There is nothing logical about human behavior. Why would someone drink their self to death? Why would someone leave a seemingly happy marriage to run off with a criminal? Why would a child beg to be reunited with her abusive mother? These actions defy logic, yet they are the seeds from which stories arise. What we seek to express is valid. The rewrite is a process of distilling our ideas to their nature so that they are universally relatable.

Your fellow writer,

Al

Writing Memoir: Personal & Universal

The challenge in writing a memoir is that self-examination is not typically meant to be shared. The goal in writing a dynamic memoir lies in offering a transformative experience for our protagonist (our self) by making the personal universal. We all have the story that we tell, either to our self or others, and although the facts may be indisputable, our perception of these facts is subjective. How we interpret the facts determines the meaning we make out of the events, and commonly our idea of our story is never the whole story. Though our ideas are never incorrect, they are often incomplete.

So, how do we write our memoir if we don’t know the whole story? By trusting our subconscious. Our subconscious is the seat of our genius. It is able to make connections and uncover meaning in areas we might never have explored. Our subconscious is not interested in protecting our ego. It wants the truth.

EIGHT THINGS TO CONSIDER

1) Begin with the end in mind. I’ve heard writers say, “How can I write my ending when I’m still living my life?” The ending of your memoir is not the end of your life (though it might feel like that.) It is the completion of a theme.

2) A memoir is not a journal. Material from your journal might find its way into your memoir, however, a memoir is written from a place of understanding while a journal is an attempt to understand. The memoirist is the wise man or woman on the hill recounting the significant moments of their life in order to illuminate this journey toward transformation (a shift in perception).

3) Don’t think that because your mother still drives you nuts that you have not had a shift in perception. Even though it still annoys you when she tells you how to live your life, this does not disqualify you from writing your memoir. A shift in perception does not mean that we are forever liberated from anxiety and self-doubt. These are human experiences. Our shift in perception simply means that we now understand our situation more clearly, and we know that when we expect our mother to mind her own business, we will be let down. In other words, we have accepted the reality of our situation, and in doing so, our life has become manageable.

4) Memoir is a search for meaning. When you recount the argument that you had with your spouse about how you wanted a kid but they didn’t, be curious about why you are telling us this. What is the argument really about? What is it that you want? What does having a kid represent? Does it represent security, identity, validation, purpose, power, fulfillment? Always be asking yourself, “What am I trying to express through this scene?”

5) Context: Don’t assume that your reader understands the context. We’re not interested in what happened, but in what it means to you. Have you ever had someone tell you a story and you still had no idea what they were trying to say. For example, if someone says, “My wife told me she wants a divorce,” we still don’t know what it means. It could be devastating, comical or a relief to the husband. Without context we have no idea what you’re talking about. As storytellers we must be curious not only about the events we are relaying, but the underlying meaning of these events.

6) Order of events: It is not just the stories that we tell, but the order of events in which they are told, that convey meaning.

7) Our protagonist must be active. I don’t mean that she does Pilates, but that he or she is always making choices. As writers we tend to be passive observers, and there can be a tendency, particularly in memoir, to have a reactive protagonist – one who merely reacts to each event. You might say, “But that is what happened.” No. That is only what appeared to happen. We are always making choices toward getting what we want. Staying in a lousy marriage is a choice. Remaining silent is a choice. Don’t confuse inertia with passivity. We are interested in your inner life. What is going on? For example: Let’s say I tell a story about my piano teacher who repeatedly told me that I had two left hands, and I remained silent each time he insulted me. The first time I might choose to believe him. The second time I might congratulate myself for my improvement, and the next time I might find a teacher who supports me in learning this new skill. So, although I appeared passive, the meaning shifted with each insult, which finally led to a new behavior. In other words, our choices indicate our characters’ wants or desires — and that provides our story with meaning. Make your protagonist active so that we understand what he or she wants.

8) Feelings: Writing a memoir often brings up feelings of guilt, shame and betrayal. After all, we are opening the closet and exposing the skeletons. It is important to write the first draft for yourself. Do not show it to anyone, at least not while you are writing it. You will often discover that as you write it, you begin to see your story differently. Your perspective widens. The events don’t change, but your relationship to these events shifts. You might fear that if you expose the truth, that you will discover something terrible about yourself. You might. But here’s the thing: The answer is always love. The answer is always freedom. The answer is always forgiveness. In writing a story about freedom, we must show bondage. In writing a story about love, we must show fear. In writing a story about forgiveness, we must show resentment. It is important to hold onto your ending as you march through the middle, otherwise you can become lost in the feelings and they will overpower you.

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.

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.

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

HOLD THE STORY LOOSELY

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.

Simplicity

Forward, he cried

From the rear

And the front ranks died.

Pink Floyd (Us and Them)

 

Hi Writers,

We can tell a whole world in a sentence.  The rewrite is where we polish our prose until it gleams.  We remove all that does not belong in order to experiencewhat remains.  In the rewrite, we ask ourselves, ‘Is this word or sentence necessary?’  A single word can kill a sentence, can cloud its meaning, and halt the rhythm.

 

Ernest Hemingway wrote a six-word short story.  It has a beginning, middle, and end. It tells us all we need to know and our imagination fills in the rest.  Here it is.

 

“For Sale.  Baby shoes. Never worn.”

Let’s tell our story, and nothing more.

 

 

SIMPLICITY

Forward, he cried

From the rear

And the front ranks died.

Pink Floyd (Us and Them)

 

Hi Writers,

We can tell a whole world in a sentence.  The rewrite is where we polish our prose until it gleams.  We remove all that does not belong in order to experiencewhat remains.  In the rewrite, we ask ourselves, ‘Is this word or sentence necessary?’  A single word can kill a sentence, can cloud its meaning, and halt the rhythm.

 

Ernest Hemingway wrote a six-word short story.  It has a beginning, middle, and end. It tells us all we need to know and our imagination fills in the rest.  Here it is.

 

“For Sale.  Baby shoes. Never worn.”

Let’s tell our story, and nothing more.

 

 

Dilemma: The Source of Our Story

 

At the heart of every story lies a dilemma. It is not a question

of whether or not our protagonist has a dilemma, but rather, how

effectively it has been explored. By exploring our protagonist’s

dilemma, we are led to the most dynamic version of our story. The

dilemma is our story’s source, from which all tension and

conflict arise. Exploring the dilemma helps distill our story to

its clearest meaning. It sheds light on what does not belong,

those random digressions that are not germane to the central

conflict and that may obfuscate its meaning. It offers clues to

what still needs to be rewritten and leads us to the most

effective order of events.

By definition, a dilemma cannot be figured out. In order to

connect to it, we must become invested in our characters.

Sometimes there can be a tendency to hold so tightly to our idea

of our characters that we choke them into submission and are left

with two-dimensional versions of what they could have been. By

inquiring into the dilemma, we are free to explore our characters

in surprising ways, and our screenplay can move inexorably to a

climax that reveals a transformation.

STORY MAXIM #1: The purpose of story is to reveal a

transformation.

An understanding of transformation is crucial to having anything

more than an intellectual relationship to our story’s dilemma.

When we think of the word transformation, it may conjure images

of some grand occurrence, a vision of enlightenment, but

transformation is simply a shift in perception. It is the moment

that we see something in a new way. Yet, when we have seen

something a particular way our entire life, and then, in an

instant, we see it differently, it is both miraculous and as

common as dirt. When a transformation occurs, the tension

vanishes, the fight disappears, and we are left with a new

understanding.

WHAT IS A DILEMMA?

A dilemma is a problem that cannot be solved without creating

another problem. Many writing books talk about the dramatic

problem, the thing that the protagonist is attempting to solve or

overcome throughout the story. However, after years of working

with screenwriters and novelists, I have discovered that the

notion of a dramatic problem actually limits the writer’s

understanding of his story. When we approach our story as if our

protagonist is struggling with a problem, we tend to try to

figure out a way to fix it, which can short-circuit our work,

because underlying our protagonist’s apparent problem is a

dilemma. By inquiring into the dilemma, we begin to understand

the nature of our theme, and consequently, we see our story from

a wider perspective.

STORY MAXIM #2: Problems are solved, while dilemmas are resolved

through a shift in perception.

It is unlikely that most screenwriters are even conscious of

their story’s dilemma. In fact, I have talked to successful

writers who only seem to have a vague sense of it. They are aware

of the mechanics – that each scene must contain tension, and that

this tension should build through the story to its eventual

climax. This alone is not always enough to create a thoroughly

satisfying story. By exploring the nature of the dilemma, we are

led to more dynamic situations for our characters.

PLOT VERSUS THEME

Plot can be defined as the series of obstacles our protagonist

encounters and overcomes throughout the story. When we explore

these problems as a whole, we begin to notice underlying patterns

that reveal the dilemma, which relates directly to our theme.

Typically, we tend to see our situations as problems. We may

believe that if only we got the promotion, our life would be

better, or that if we lost weight, or quit smoking, or got a

girlfriend, or moved out of our parents’ basement, then

everything would be just fine.

Beneath these apparent problems is a deeper reason for why

we have not accomplished our goal. The fact is that the meaning

we attach to our goal actually prevents us from achieving our

goal. It is not that our desire is bad or wrong; it is that until

we reframe our reason for wanting something, we are forever in

bondage to the object of our desire. If I believe that when I

find true love I will be complete, I may set out on a quest to

find a mate only to discover that no one makes me feel complete.

I end the relationships, only to repeat the pattern again. It is

only after I reframe my relationship to completeness and

recognize that the experience must come from within that it

becomes possible to find a lasting relationship. Or I might think

that when I get a promotion, I will be validated, but until the

validation comes from within, my desire to be approved of is

never satisfied.

In other words, it is literally impossible for me to

experience validation through my goal of rising through the

ranks. It is only by resolving my dilemma through reframing my

relationship to validation that it becomes possible to get the

promotion, if the promotion belongs in my life. Sometimes, at the

end of the story, the protagonist discovers that the thing he

wanted no longer matters to him and that the journey was

necessary simply for him to reframe his values.

WHERE DID OUR STORY COME FROM?

Perhaps our story began as a premise, a character, or even a

single image, but beneath 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

actually provide a context through which we can explore the

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 resolved his dilemma and learned that

his life was 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 #3: The desire to write is connected to the desire to

resolve something we seek to understand.

By exploring the dilemma in our screenplay, we often see where it

exists in our life. By exploring its resolution in our life, we

often find its resolution in our screenplay.

EXAMPLES OF DILEMMAS

A dilemma is not a theme, yet, it is the vehicle through which

every theme is explored. It provides the ongoing conflict that

leads to the protagonist’s surrender of his false belief and,

finally, his shift in perception, where the dilemma is resolved.

This is by no means an exhaustive list of examples.

• I want love and acceptance, but I don’t want to reveal

myself. (Roxanne, Catch Me if You Can, Lars and the Real

Girl, City Lights, Burn After Reading, The Breakfast Club,

Tootsie)

• I want to succeed, but not at the expense of losing my

integrity. (The Social Network, The Candidate, Wall Street,

Working Girl, Network, Say Anything, The Ides of March,

Jerry Maguire, Man on the Moon, Amadeus)

• I want to move on, but I cannot say goodbye. (Ordinary

People, The Lovely Bones, The Sixth Sense)

• I want to know what happens when I die, so that I will know

how to live. (Harold and Maude)

Notice that dilemmas are visceral. They engage the

imagination and create an emotional response. Notice, also, that

every single character in the story wants the same thing, though

this desire manifests itself in very different ways. This is

because our characters are all a function of the story, thus they

all constellate around the dilemma. For example, each character

in The Godfather struggles with loyalty. It’s not just Michael

Corleone who is torn between his love for Kay and his loyalty to

his mafia family. His father, Vito, struggles with his loyalty to

the values of his past, and the new wave of drugs that threaten

to disrupt his family business. Kay is loyal to Michael, even as

she watches their love dissolve. Hot-tempered Sonny is loyal to

“Pop,” even as he is passed over as head of the family for the

more stable Michael. Each character constellates around this

struggle for loyalty, leading to a climax where the theme becomes

clear: Our desire to be loyal at the expense of our core values

leads to the betrayal of self and others.

DILEMMA TRANSCENDS GENRE

Dilemma is not a function of genre. Although there are basic

rules to genre – in a romantic comedy, the couple will probably

end up together, and in a thriller the hero will discover that

he’s incapable of overpowering the villain through force and must

change in order to succeed – there is no formula that we can

apply in exploring the dilemma at the heart of our story. Each

dilemma has infinite manifestations, and yet, when distilled to

its nature, it is universal.

 

DILEMMA: THE SOURCE OF OUR STORY

 

 

At the heart of every story lies a dilemma. It is not a question

of whether or not our protagonist has a dilemma, but rather, how

effectively it has been explored. By exploring our protagonist’s

dilemma, we are led to the most dynamic version of our story. The

dilemma is our story’s source, from which all tension and

conflict arise. Exploring the dilemma helps distill our story to

its clearest meaning. It sheds light on what does not belong,

those random digressions that are not germane to the central

conflict and that may obfuscate its meaning. It offers clues to

what still needs to be rewritten and leads us to the most

effective order of events.

By definition, a dilemma cannot be figured out. In order to

connect to it, we must become invested in our characters.

Sometimes there can be a tendency to hold so tightly to our idea

of our characters that we choke them into submission and are left

with two-dimensional versions of what they could have been. By

inquiring into the dilemma, we are free to explore our characters

in surprising ways, and our screenplay can move inexorably to a

climax that reveals a transformation.

STORY MAXIM #1: The purpose of story is to reveal a

transformation.

An understanding of transformation is crucial to having anything

more than an intellectual relationship to our story’s dilemma.

When we think of the word transformation, it may conjure images

of some grand occurrence, a vision of enlightenment, but

transformation is simply a shift in perception. It is the moment

that we see something in a new way. Yet, when we have seen

something a particular way our entire life, and then, in an

instant, we see it differently, it is both miraculous and as

common as dirt. When a transformation occurs, the tension

vanishes, the fight disappears, and we are left with a new

understanding.

WHAT IS A DILEMMA?

A dilemma is a problem that cannot be solved without creating

another problem. Many writing books talk about the dramatic

problem, the thing that the protagonist is attempting to solve or

overcome throughout the story. However, after years of working

with screenwriters and novelists, I have discovered that the

notion of a dramatic problem actually limits the writer’s

understanding of his story. When we approach our story as if our

protagonist is struggling with a problem, we tend to try to

figure out a way to fix it, which can short-circuit our work,

because underlying our protagonist’s apparent problem is a

dilemma. By inquiring into the dilemma, we begin to understand

the nature of our theme, and consequently, we see our story from

a wider perspective.

STORY MAXIM #2: Problems are solved, while dilemmas are resolved

through a shift in perception.

It is unlikely that most screenwriters are even conscious of

their story’s dilemma. In fact, I have talked to successful

writers who only seem to have a vague sense of it. They are aware

of the mechanics – that each scene must contain tension, and that

this tension should build through the story to its eventual

climax. This alone is not always enough to create a thoroughly

satisfying story. By exploring the nature of the dilemma, we are

led to more dynamic situations for our characters.

PLOT VERSUS THEME

Plot can be defined as the series of obstacles our protagonist

encounters and overcomes throughout the story. When we explore

these problems as a whole, we begin to notice underlying patterns

that reveal the dilemma, which relates directly to our theme.

Typically, we tend to see our situations as problems. We may

believe that if only we got the promotion, our life would be

better, or that if we lost weight, or quit smoking, or got a

girlfriend, or moved out of our parents’ basement, then

everything would be just fine.

Beneath these apparent problems is a deeper reason for why

we have not accomplished our goal. The fact is that the meaning

we attach to our goal actually prevents us from achieving our

goal. It is not that our desire is bad or wrong; it is that until

we reframe our reason for wanting something, we are forever in

bondage to the object of our desire. If I believe that when I

find true love I will be complete, I may set out on a quest to

find a mate only to discover that no one makes me feel complete.

I end the relationships, only to repeat the pattern again. It is

only after I reframe my relationship to completeness and

recognize that the experience must come from within that it

becomes possible to find a lasting relationship. Or I might think

that when I get a promotion, I will be validated, but until the

validation comes from within, my desire to be approved of is

never satisfied.

In other words, it is literally impossible for me to

experience validation through my goal of rising through the

ranks. It is only by resolving my dilemma through reframing my

relationship to validation that it becomes possible to get the

promotion, if the promotion belongs in my life. Sometimes, at the

end of the story, the protagonist discovers that the thing he

wanted no longer matters to him and that the journey was

necessary simply for him to reframe his values.

WHERE DID OUR STORY COME FROM?

Perhaps our story began as a premise, a character, or even a

single image, but beneath 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

actually provide a context through which we can explore the

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 resolved his dilemma and learned that

his life was 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 #3: The desire to write is connected to the desire to

resolve something we seek to understand.

By exploring the dilemma in our screenplay, we often see where it

exists in our life. By exploring its resolution in our life, we

often find its resolution in our screenplay.

EXAMPLES OF DILEMMAS

A dilemma is not a theme, yet, it is the vehicle through which

every theme is explored. It provides the ongoing conflict that

leads to the protagonist’s surrender of his false belief and,

finally, his shift in perception, where the dilemma is resolved.

This is by no means an exhaustive list of examples.

• I want love and acceptance, but I don’t want to reveal

myself. (Roxanne, Catch Me if You Can, Lars and the Real

Girl, City Lights, Burn After Reading, The Breakfast Club,

Tootsie)

• I want to succeed, but not at the expense of losing my

integrity. (The Social Network, The Candidate, Wall Street,

Working Girl, Network, Say Anything, The Ides of March,

Jerry Maguire, Man on the Moon, Amadeus)

• I want to move on, but I cannot say goodbye. (Ordinary

People, The Lovely Bones, The Sixth Sense)

• I want to know what happens when I die, so that I will know

how to live. (Harold and Maude)

Notice that dilemmas are visceral. They engage the

imagination and create an emotional response. Notice, also, that

every single character in the story wants the same thing, though

this desire manifests itself in very different ways. This is

because our characters are all a function of the story, thus they

all constellate around the dilemma. For example, each character

in The Godfather struggles with loyalty. It’s not just Michael

Corleone who is torn between his love for Kay and his loyalty to

his mafia family. His father, Vito, struggles with his loyalty to

the values of his past, and the new wave of drugs that threaten

to disrupt his family business. Kay is loyal to Michael, even as

she watches their love dissolve. Hot-tempered Sonny is loyal to

“Pop,” even as he is passed over as head of the family for the

more stable Michael. Each character constellates around this

struggle for loyalty, leading to a climax where the theme becomes

clear: Our desire to be loyal at the expense of our core values

leads to the betrayal of self and others.

DILEMMA TRANSCENDS GENRE

Dilemma is not a function of genre. Although there are basic

rules to genre – in a romantic comedy, the couple will probably

end up together, and in a thriller the hero will discover that

he’s incapable of overpowering the villain through force and must

change in order to succeed – there is no formula that we can

apply in exploring the dilemma at the heart of our story. Each

dilemma has infinite manifestations, and yet, when distilled to

its nature, it is universal.

 

No Good Guys, No Bad Guys

 

I think there are times, as a storyteller, that I can be so bull-headedabout what I want to express, that I end up pushing an agenda rather than telling a story.  I create ‘good guys and bad guys’, and in so doing, my writing becomes general, turgid, boring.  This may seem obvious, but at times it can be subtle and insidious. I believe that my challenge in ‘writing the truth’ is to be vigilantly open to the fact that I never know the whole story, that, in fact, I am always simply a channel for the story that wants to be told through me.

As soon as we create good guys and bad guys, we have taken a position, which is not our job.  We cannot afford to make value judgments. Story is not about making moral judgments, though some will tell you it is.  It is about cause and effect.

This means, that on some level, we must always be willing to let our story collapse in order for our characters to live.  This is where storytelling becomes an act of faith, because we are often writing againstthe direction we think our story is heading.  For example, if I’m writing a romantic comedy about a boy who meets a girl, loses her, then gets her back, I need to be watchful that when he loses her, he has genuinely lost her in some real and fundamental way.  It is not enough for the couple to simply have a disagreement or misunderstanding, and then later, reunite. I want to thoroughly investigate his experience of losing her. It is only in the losing that he can experience a surrender of his old identity, thereby creating a space for him to have a shift in perception (a new understanding of the nature of things).

The truth is far more complex (and interesting) than our idea of the story.  It is in the nuance, the specificity, that the story gets juicy.  The more willing we are to recognize that our hero and antagonist both want the same thing, the more human they become.  Often, the only thing separating our hero from our antagonist is that our hero is willing to surrender his old identity.

True writers are humble (at least in relation to their writing).  Storytelling is an act of humility, and our stories are simply a by-product of our new understanding, a document of how we got from there to here.  Story asks everything of us for a reason. If it didn’t, we would never surrender. The tendency to push an agenda exists to the extent that we are unwilling to surrender.  Frankly, there are many noted writers who seem to get away with this. Their facility with language, their powers of persuasion often trump any universal truth.  They will categorize it as post-modern lit, get some critics behind it, and lo and behold, art has been reduced to an intellectual cluster f#@!.

Perhaps it is expecting too much to speak of being a channel for our stories.  When we are a channel, meaning when we are willing to tap into something universal, we come into contact with our ‘basic goodness’.  Now, perhaps this is just me forcing my own agenda, but I believe that mankind’s resting state is love, that conflict is born out of fear.  I believe it is our challenge in every story to define love. I mean this in terms of approaching life from a spirit of evolution. Love is the ultimate object of subjectivity, it has a million different meanings.  It is the ultimate mystery, and lies at the heart of every story.  When we relegate characters to certain camps, we deny that mystery.  In fact, we play God, not allowing for the truth of the world to unfold for us.

Why do some stories have an ineffable ‘alive’ quality, while others do not?

Great storytelling gives us a glimpse into the true nature of things.  At the heart of all great writing is a surrendered quality, an acceptance of the way things are, as if the writer had lost touch with the civilized world and was taking dictation from another plane.  Great writing transcends knowledge. It enters the realm of the imagination, where we risk all that we know, so that a new order can be born.