Steven Pressfield's Blog, page 26

Thank You, Tom Guinzburg

My original manuscript for Gates of Fire, back in 1996, was 802 pages long.

My agent told me he had no chance of selling it unless I could cut three hundred.

Here’s the story:

P.S. A couple of biographical notes re Tom Guinzburg: he was the first managing editor of The Paris Review … and he was awarded a Purple Heart as a Marine on Iwo Jima.

The post Thank You, Tom Guinzburg first appeared on Steven Pressfield.

The Girl in the Moon

When you and I as writers are looking to deliver a Big Moment, we often think it has to come in a rock-em-sock-em, five-star, dyn-o-mite scene in which characters are passionately declaiming at one another, if not firing guns, crashing cars, and blowing up the planet.

But often it’s the quiet scenes that produce the most powerful impact.

Let’s continue last week’s examination of Private Moments.

If you recall, here’s what we said about this type of scene:

A private moment, in a movie or a book, is a scene where a character (usually the lead, but not always) is alone with his or her thoughts. It’s a contemplative moment. It’s in a minor key. Almost always there’s no dialogue. Everything is communicated by facial expression, body language, or action. Often this is extremely subtle.

We cited, last week, a scene with Robert DeNiro from the movie True Confessions. 

Here’s another from one of my all-time faves, Paper Moon.

Tatum O’Neal and Ryan O’Neal have a disagreement in “Paper Moon”

Paper Moon (1973) is about a father and daughter, Moses Pray and Addie Loggins, played by real-life father and daughter, Ryan and Tatum O’Neal. Moses is a flim-flam man, selling Bibles door-to-door in Depression-era Kansas. He agrees, for totally self-serving reasons, to deliver recently-orphaned Addie (who suspects Moses is her biological dad, even though he denies this vehemently) to her aunt in St. Joseph, Missouri—a trip, in Moses’ jalopy, that will take a couple of weeks at the least.

Along the way, Addie proves to be an unexpectedly clever and resourceful partner in Moses’ scams. The pair start to have fun together. They begin to bond. In the audience, it’s clear to us that Addie is Moses’ daughter—though he repeatedly and vigorously seeks to avoid acknowledging this. What would a man in his line of work do with a nine-year-old girl? 

At one point in the story, Addie gets her photo taken at a booth in a state fair. She has to sit in a paper model of a sliver moon. She tries to get Moses to sit with her but he’s off chasing an exotic dancer, Miss Trixie Delight (Madelyn Kahn).

In the film’s penultimate scene, Moses delivers Addie to her aunt in St. Joe. He drives off in the sputtering, backfiring farm truck he has acquired, fleeing the law. Though Addie’s aunt is a decent, kind person, it’s clear that Addie will be miserable with her and that life would be much more fun if she could only somehow stay with Moses.

Here’s the Private Moment:

Moses has driven a mile or so down the deserted, two-lane country road. Something makes him pull over and stop. He lights a cigarette and sits pensively behind the wheel. Then he notices something on the seat beside him. An envelope. He picks it up and opens it. Inside is the photo that Addie had taken at the state fair. Clearly Addie has left this on the seat as a farewell token for Moses. The photo is of herself “sitting in the moon.”

Moses regards the photo. He doesn’t say anything. His expression alters only slightly. Clearly however he is thinking, “Have I made a mistake leaving Addie with her aunt? She is my daughter. I know it in my bones, no matter how vehemently I’ve denied it.”

I won’t ruin the end of the film for you. (There’s still a twist or two to come.)

The point is the power of the emotion produced in the audience by this spare, no-dialogue scene that relies for its potency on one simple prop—the photo of the girl in the moon.

The post The Girl in the Moon first appeared on Steven Pressfield.

Episode Fifty: The Warrior Going Forward

In today’s episode, we’ll attempt to bring all the threads of this series together — Spartans and Athenians, Alexander the Great, Arjuna and Krishna, the concept of the Inner War, and evolution of the Archetypes.

Don’t worry, there will be more episodes going forward, in which we’ll dig even more deeply into this amazing and fascinating subject.

Thanks for sticking with us!

The post Episode Fifty: The Warrior Going Forward first appeared on Steven Pressfield.

Robert DeNiro sits in a chair

I was working on a screenplay with director Andy Davis (The Fugitive, Under Siege, Above the Law) when he got an odd, dissatisfied look on his face.

“Something’s missing in this sequence. We need a Private Moment.”

I can be pretty dumb sometimes. I opened my mouth. “What’s a Private Moment?”

Robert DeNiro in “True Confessions”

Andy answered. ‘Did you ever see True Confessions? Remember the scene where Robert DeNiro goes back to his room and sits in the chair? That’s a Private Moment.”

Let me explain.

A private moment, in a movie or a book, is a scene where a character (usually the lead, but not always) is alone with his or her thoughts. It’s a contemplative moment. It’s in a minor key. Almost always there’s no dialogue. Everything is communicated by facial expression, body language, or action. Often this is extremely subtle.

In True Confessions (1981), Robert DeNiro plays a rising young monsignor in the Los Angeles diocese. He’s not a priest who ministers to a congregation, he’s the right hand man to the powerful cardinal (Cyril Cusack). His duties include acquiring land for schools, hiring contractors, overseeing and trouble-shooting many of the financial and political intrigues that the diocese of necessity finds itself involved in.

He’s a fixer. An operator. He’s ambitious. One day, we imagine, he’ll be a cardinal himself.

The overall scheme of the film is that it’s based loosely on the true-life “Black Dahlia” murder of 1947. Robert Duvall plays DeNiro’s brother, Det. Tom Spellacy, a jaded homicide cop investigating this horrific crime. 

P.S. The screenplay is by Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne.

But back to DeNiro. In the scene preceding his Private Moment, he’s on the golf course with some L.A. big shots, making deals for the diocese. He’s dressed in civilian clothes. He wields power. He’s driving hard bargains on behalf of the Church.

After golf, DeNiro goes home. He returns to the residence he shares with other monsignors and high-ranking prelates. Here’s the scene:

DeNiro enters the residence in his civilian attire—slacks, a cardigan, a short-sleeved shirt. He mounts the stairs to a second story. The residence is like a dormitory. We glimpse on the hall several other priests. One passes in slippers and a bathrobe, carrying a towel and a shaving kit, apparently returning to his room from a communal bathroom.

DeNiro enters his own room and closes the door. The space is spartan in the extreme. A bed. A chair. An armoire. DeNiro opens the armoire. He hangs his cardigan sweater on a hanger. Inside the armoire are only one or two other items of apparel, on simple wire hangers. 

DeNiro’s posture and expression throughout are weary, self-reflective, melancholy. He seems to regard his surroundings and what they represent with a sense of defeat and futility, even despair.

He sits slowly on the single chair and stares pensively into nowhere.

That’s the scene.

What does it communicate? In the audience, we can’t be sure yet (and we won’t know until a few scenes later) but we sense that if DeNiro’s character were to articulate overtly what he is feeling (which of course he would never do), it might go something like this:

I entered the priesthood understanding the sacrifices I would have to make, exemplified by the barrenness of this room. I sought this humility deliberately, so that I could be of service to others, so that I could be a priest. Now look at me. I’m making deals like a gangster. What happened to me? I can’t go on like this.

All this is communicated powerfully with no dialogue and absolutely minimal action. More importantly, because the scene is so spare of cues, the audience is drawn in and asked to read DeNiro’s interior experience without the aid of words or other overt expression..

That’s a private moment. More on this in the next few weeks.

P.S. The story I’ve heard (I can’t vouch for its truth) is that this scene was not in the screenplay. DeNiro himself asked for it during the shooting. He felt something was missing. He felt his character needed a private moment.

The post Robert DeNiro sits in a chair first appeared on Steven Pressfield.

Episode Forty-Nine: Who Is the Enemy?

If the human being was born for adversity … and if the Warrior Archetype was implanted within our psyche (or evolved on its own) to assist us in fighting wars … what war should we fight?

Who is the enemy?

Today’s episode makes the case that there’s only one real war — and that’s the war inside ourselves.

Do you want to call yourself a man (or a woman)?

Fight THAT war.

Stand up to THAT enemy.

The post Episode Forty-Nine: Who Is the Enemy? first appeared on Steven Pressfield.

Episode Forty-Eight: Beyond the Warrior Archetype

The Warrior Archetype is tremendously empowering.

It can aid us in overcoming obstacles, external and internal. It can be virtuous, noble, honorable, even sacred. But it is not the be-all and end-all of your life or mine.

What lies beyond the Warrior Archetype are the archetypes of the Mentor, the Teacher, the Father (or Mother), the King (or Queen), the Sage, and the Mystic.

Today, we’ll talk about building upon the noble foundation of the Warrior, as we evolve to higher and more inclusive expressions of ourselves.

The post Episode Forty-Eight: Beyond the Warrior Archetype first appeared on Steven Pressfield.

Inciting Incident #8

We were talking last week about one of the qualities of the Inciting Incident, the moment in Act One when the story actually STARTS. We said that

in the inciting incident, the hero acquires his/her intention.

Rocky acquires the intention to battle the champ.

Jake Gittes acquires the intention to find out who’s been making a fool of him with this fake Evelyn Mulwray business.

Bogey acquires the intention to win Ingrid back.

But …

But, we suggested,

that intention can (and even MUST) change as the story unfolds.

In some stories, the hero’s intention doesn’t change. Those stories can still work and even succeed spectacularly (Star Wars, Taken, The French Connection). But they feel a bit straight and ordinary, don’t they?

The hero’s intention must change because, as the story advances, the hero changes. 

As the hero battles his way through Act Two, confronting adversaries, uncovering mysteries, being aided by unexpected allies, his understanding of his dilemma and of himself deepens.

Rocky realizes he can’t beat the champ. Apollo Creed is in a whole other league. Rocky must recalibrate his aspirations. “If I can just go the distance with Creed. Nobody’s ever done that … “

Jake Gittes comes to grasp the depth of the evil he has stumbled onto … and the true peril to his client Evelyn Mulwray and her daughter Katherine. “Pack your bags. I’m gonna get you outa here … “

Bogey realizes his own selfish needs are not as important as combatting the greater Nazi danger to the whole world. “If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with [your husband, Resistance leader Victor Laszlo], you’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon, and for the rest of your life.”

In fact, you could say the whole point of these stories is that the hero’s intention MUST change. She must come to some personal crisis. She must make a choice. She must go from her earlier, facile, usually self-interested intention to something greater, nobler, and more inclusive … or at least more aligned with bedrock reality.

Brienne and Jaime

This principle holds true even in subplots and individual scenes. I’ve been binge-watching Games of Thrones lately. Remember the subsidiary story about Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth? Jaime, the selfish stud, sets out originally (as Brienne guards him as her prisoner) to escape. That’s his intention. He ridicules and humiliates her. Clearly he would even kill her, if he could, to make his getaway.

But as their adventures together unfold, Jaime comes to see Brienne’s graceless but passionate decency and her deep commitment to honor. He comes to respect and even to like her. By the final season, he has taken her as a lover, knighted her, and even, we might say, fallen in love with her.

Jaime’s intention changes, based on a changed reality or a changed perception of an existing reality. That’s growth. That’s self-awareness. That’s evolution. 

That’s what a hero, even the hero of a subplot, is supposed to do.

The post Inciting Incident #8 first appeared on Steven Pressfield.

Episode Forty-Seven: Are You a Western Hero?

Why has the genre of the American Western retained such power generation to generation?

(I include samurai films, detective stories, mutant tales, and most video games under this heading.)

Is it because these tales of the solitary “man with a code” resonate with the lives you and I live today … and the issues, both external and internal, that we continue to struggle with?

The post Episode Forty-Seven: Are You a Western Hero? first appeared on Steven Pressfield.

Episode Forty-Six: A Digression: The Western Movie

The hero in American Westerns (and Samurai tales and post-apocalyptic movies like “Mad Max”) is the Warrior Archetype personified, at least in its latter-day configuration of the solitary man of violence, who lives by his own code and operates as a law unto himself.

In this episode, we’ll attempt to tie this figure into the world we’ve been describing through our prior 45 episodes.

The post Episode Forty-Six: A Digression: The Western Movie first appeared on Steven Pressfield.

The Inciting Incident #7

I wrote this in Nobody Wants to Read Your Sh*t:

I took Robert McKee’s class. It was called Screenplay Structure then. The class was three days—half of Friday and all day Saturday and Sunday. It cost $199, I think. The class was full of other aspiring screenwriters, as well as actors and actresses, studio execs and development guys and gals.

We were all desperate to find out what made a movie work.

McKee delivered.

About an hour into Friday evening’s class, he introduced the concept of the Inciting Incident.  

The Inciting Incident is the event that makes the story start.

It may come anywhere between Minute One and Minute Twenty-Five. But it must happen somewhere within Act One.

It had never occurred to me that a story needed to start.

I thought it started all by itself.

And I certainly had never realized that the writer had to consciously craft that specific moment when the story starts.

Is this stuff simply academic? Or does a writer actually use it when she’s structuring a story?

I can tell you that I, absolutely and with total conscious attention, craft an Inciting Incident using all the checkpoints I’ve learned over the years:

In the inciting incident, the hero acquires his or her intention.

The climax is embedded within the inciting incident.

The inciting incident = “the Call” in the hero’s journey template.

Here’s a link to the first five chapters of my upcoming novel of the ancient world, A Man at Arms. (I’m not trying to inflict a chore of reading on you. Skip over this if you’d like.)

I actually learned something new working on this Inciting Incident. I’ve followed the principle for years that “the hero acquires his or her intention” in the Inciting Incident. Think about Rocky when he’s picked by Apollo Creed to get a shot at the title … or Ethan Edwards (John Wayne) in The Searchers when his niece Debbie (Natalie Wood) is kidnapped by Comanches. Both heroes acquire their intention in those inciting moments.

But what I hadn’t thought about (though I certainly should have) was that the hero’s intention inevitably changes as the story progresses. In fact you could make a strong case that, if the story is going to be more complex than straight-ahead vanilla, the hero’s intention must change.

Consider the Detective or Private Eye story. The detective acquires his intention when he’s assigned to the case. “Find my missing daughter.” “Recover the stolen jewels.” “Track down the Maltese Falcon.” And the detective indeed starts out on that trail.

But inevitably things change. The private eye or homicide cop learns things he wasn’t supposed to. He uncovers secrets. By the time the story reaches its Act Two Curtain, everything the detective believed at the start has been turned on its head.

In A Man at Arms, the hero too is given an assignment. (You’ll see the moment in the first five chapters.) As I was working on this scene, I was thinking, “Yes, this is the Inciting Incident.” But …

But indeed the hero’s intention does change. It has to, or the story would remain “first-level” and the hero would be revealed to be one-dimensional. 

How the hero changes and what his intention changes to … that’s what makes the story interesting—and reveals the protagonist’s deep character. 

I learned something new working on A Man at Arms.

The hero’s intention can (and must) change as he or she progresses through the events of the narrative.

The post The Inciting Incident #7 first appeared on Steven Pressfield.