Story Genius: How to Use Brain Science to Go Beyond Outlining and Write a Riveting Novel (Before You Waste Three Years Writing 327 Pages That Go Nowhere)

by Lisa Cron

How else could we gauge the meaning of what does happen? In a scene this is often where the real conflict and tension come in, as we watch the protagonist struggle to reconcile what she expected would happen with what’s actually happening—while trying not to let anyone see her sweat.

What triggers her misbelief might be the realization that she’s getting it for the exact opposite reason than she thought she would. This is a very good thing, because it shatters her internal expectations, which is what matters most.

It’s now time to write the scene in which your protagonist’s expectations will most definitely not be met, and in which his worldview will be skewed. He may emerge emotionally battered and bruised, he may feel triumphant, or he may think that he just dodged a bullet, but as far as he’s concerned, life just taught him an important lesson when it comes to navigating the world.

my advice is to write this scene in the first person, because it’s the best way to truly experience the immediacy of what’s happening from your protagonist’s point of view. In fact, even if you are planning to write your novel in the third person, I would advise you to write every backstory scene in the first person—whether it’s your protagonist’s backstory or that of a secondary character. You can switch back to third person when you start writing the first scene of the novel itself.

Now it’s your turn to capture the moment when your protagonist’s worldview shifted, and her misbelief took root in her brain, where it’s been coloring how she’s seen the world from that moment on. Write a full-fledged scene. Don’t be worried if it takes several tries to nail it.

So rather than now leapfrogging to the beginning of your novel, in this chapter we’re going to spend a little time tracking how your protagonist’s misbelief has skewed his life—via three story-specific, conflict-ridden, crossroads moments—keeping him safe (or so he thinks) right up to the second when life (aka your plot) will force him to go after the thing he’s always wanted, overcoming his misbelief in the process.

By establishing the moments in your protagonist’s past that are relevant to the story you’re telling, you’ll have the material from which to build a solid blueprint. The scenes you’ll write will capture moments that have not only actively driven your protagonist’s life in the past but are still behind the wheel. In fact, many of these scenes will appear in snippets and as flashbacks in the novel itself.

When it comes to blueprinting your novel, the law of cause and effect is one of your most useful tools. Like a very strong flashlight on a very dark night, it reveals the logic behind, well, everything. It’s a mathematical proof that you can, with surprising ease, apply to both levels of your novel: the internal story level and the external plot level. On the internal level, the question is, what would my protagonist’s belief/past experience cause him to do in this situation? On the external level, the question is, how will the other character(s) and the world react to what my protagonist will do? In other words, cause and effect supplies both the internal and the external logic that underlies and orders your blueprint, ensuring that each event triggers the next.

Your goal is to zero in on three turning point scenes that will yield the most story-specific info, the most potent grist for the mill, so that you can, indeed, begin your novel in medias res. You may come up with many more than three, some of which you’ll dismiss out of hand, and others that you may decide to explore in addition to the three you’ll pick. That’s fine. Just remember that the goal is to have at least three scenes so you can begin to see the escalating arc of your story. Sketch them out the way Jennie did, being as specific as possible. Remember, the more specific you are, the more the scene comes into focus. Specifics play forward; generalities don’t.

Start with the first of your three turning points, and write each scene in chronological order. You’ve already been to this rodeo; you earned your spurs when you wrote your origin scene. That scene is going to come in handy now. Take a minute and reread it. Put yourself in your protagonist’s brain, see the world through her eyes. Now, turn those eyes toward the three scenes you’re about to write.

Plot Problem Test 1: Can the Problem Sustain the Entire Novel from the First Page to the Last?

The problem that kicks into gear on page one must have the stamina to play through your entire novel, sparking the third rail and picking up speed as it thunders forward.

So look over your list and cross out any problem that falls short of the mark because it’s too easily resolved, or not specific enough to really challenge your protagonist in a meaningful (and hopefully painful) way.

Is there a real-world, specific, impending consequence that this escalating problem will give my protagonist no choice but to face?

There must be something clear and definite that will occur if the protagonist fails or, worse, doesn’t take action. It can’t be vague, conceptual, or iffy.

Is there a clear-cut deadline, a ticking clock counting down to that consequence?

A key rule of thumb is this: if at any point your protagonist can simply decide to give up without suffering great personal cost due to her inaction, you do not have a story.

Plot Problem Test 2: Is the Problem Capable of Forcing Your Protagonist to Make the Inner Change That Your Novel Is Actually About?

Will the problem’s impending consequence force my protagonist to struggle with her misbelief?

Regardless of whether or not my protagonist achieves his goal, will the approaching consequence cost him something big—emotionally speaking, that is?

The good news is, your novel’s ticking clock will lead you directly to the answer. It’s simply a matter of zeroing in on that seminal tick. And just like in real life, it’s never the first tick. You rarely even notice the first tick as anything out of the ordinary. It’s not until the fourth or fifth tick that the sound breaks into your consciousness and it dawns on you that something just might be wrong—and by then, the problem has usually grown considerably.

Your goal is to find the tick that catapults your protagonist into unavoidable action. You’ll know it when you get there, because you’ll feel a strong tug of forward momentum—a sense that your protagonist must act and must act now. Keep the clock ticking until you get there. Don’t be afraid to try this again and again until you get a tick that has everything it needs—the overarching plot problem, the main ticking clock, the third rail. Once you’ve nailed that tick (could be your third or fourth or seventh tick—there’s no prescribed number), you’ll be ready to delve into the opening scene of your novel, which means you’ll now be blueprinting in earnest.

The left side represents the cause side of the cause-and-effect equation. ♦ For the plot, that’s what happens in the first half of the scene. ♦ For the third rail, that’s why what is happening matters to your protagonist, given his or her agenda. • The right side is the effect side. ♦ For the plot, that is the external consequence of what happens in the scene. Be very clear: this is the consequence that takes place within the scene itself, not the consequence it will have in the next scene. ♦ For the third rail, it’s the internal change, the realization that the event triggers in the protagonist. (Or, if the protagonist is not in the scene, the realization it triggers in the scene’s POV character, and also the realization it will trigger in the protagonist when he or she finds out.) This realization must lead to action—often to the very next thing the protagonist does. In other words, the realization causes him—in ways large or small—to shift his game plan.

you, the author, need to know what the future holds for your protagonist right now in order to create the road to get her there.

letting readers know where the novel is headed is actually the very thing that lures them in. And it goes without saying (she said anyway) that the only way to do that is to know the ending up front, allowing you to take John Irving’s advice: “Whenever possible, tell the entire story of the novel in the first sentence.”2 For instance, here’s the opening sentence of Irving’s own A Prayer for Owen Meany:

writers very often stop writing after the first twenty pages because they have no idea what comes next, either. The problem is that because there are so many options, it’s the same as having none. It soon begins to feel so overwhelming that they decide to take a little break from writing, you know, for a day or two so they can regroup. And we all know how that one ends.

I am totally here!

The point is not that she makes the change, it’s how she gets there—internally—that counts.

So that you don’t inadvertently step over it, it helps to keep in mind that while the “aha!” moment always comes late in the novel, it doesn’t necessarily come at the very end, when the plot itself concludes. Sometimes it comes just before the end and is what gives the protagonist the courage to face that final, often excruciating external hurdle. Sometimes it comes at the very moment the protagonist is locked in that last all-out battle, and it’s what gives him the courage, strength, and wisdom to keep going against all odds. And sometimes the “aha!” moment comes right afterward, as the protagonist is making sense of what just happened, surprised that it leaves him feeling very differently from what he’d expected.

3 different types of endings - -Story ends first, fueling protag to the end -Story and plot end at the same time, sorry it's the key to solving the plot -Plot ends first, story ends in character's unexpected reaction to what happened

In order to gather the information you’ll need to write this very first, exploratory iteration of your “aha!” moment, there are three questions to ask. At the End, Will Your Protagonist Achieve Her External Goal?

My advice, as with your opening scene, is to play it out both ways here, and see which one resonates most with you. Always keep in mind that the goal is to shove your protagonist as far out of his comfort zone as possible, the better for him to ultimately realize that it wasn’t nearly as comfortable, or as safe, as he’d thought.

What Will Change for Your Protagonist Internally?

What Will Happen Externally in This Scene That Forces Your Protagonist to Confront, and Hopefully Overcome, Her Misbelief?

Not to go all new-agey on you, but it’s often the case that when writers are deep in a project, bits and pieces of helpful information begin to crop up, seemingly on their own.

Now, as best you can, answer the three questions we just went through. Remember, you’re exploring here; there is no right answer. Take as much time as you need, and don’t be afraid of writing too much, or even of dithering a bit along the way.

Consider writing out plot planning like writing a letter to a muse.

First, take a minute and review everything you already know about your protagonist. Reread every scene you’ve already written. Make a note of the memories your protagonist might call on during this scene as she struggles to makes sense of what’s happening and what she should do about it. Imagine her boxed into a corner, with no choice but to take action. Or, if she can choose not to take a stand, then make sure that by opting out she would lose something she dearly wants—often the most meaningful, closely guarded thing a person has: their sense of self-worth. In other words, your protagonist has arrived in the land of now or never. Now you’re ready to develop your Scene Card and then write your protagonist’s “aha!” moment scene. If you’re wondering how the hell you’re going to do this, you’re in good company. This is scary, because there is no right or wrong. The goal here is to take everything you know will happen, merge it with what you suspect might happen, and then wing it! Maybe even write several versions. Sometimes the way writers realize that they want their protagonist to perish in the end is by first writing an ending in which the protagonist survives. Or, more commonly, vice versa. But here’s the irony: it’s only when you’re in possession of the vast amount of info you already have that you can effectively wing it. Luck, as they say, favors the prepared.

You do not, however, have to finish all your cards before you begin writing your novel. My advice is to begin writing once you’ve fully fleshed out Scene Cards for the first five scenes, in order, along with the last scene

No matter which method you choose, you will need a folder for the following six categories, and you’ll need a table of contents for each folder. The table of contents will grow and then shrink as scenes either advance to the next folder or are permanently booted once and for all. The folders are as follows: • Key Characters. Every key character will have his or her or its (should it be a robot, cyborg, or Brave Little Toaster) own folder. This is where you’ll place their story-specific bio (which we’ll discuss in chapter 14), along with any backstory scene in which the character appears. For scenes in which two or more characters appear, put a copy into each character’s folder. As these folders grow, they’ll become a font of inside info from which you’ll constantly be drawing. • The Rules of the World. If you’re writing a novel that unfolds in a world different from the one we wake up to every morning—think sci-fi, horror, magical realism, futuristic, historical fiction, and all things speculative—you’ll need to keep a keen eye on what is possible in the world you’re creating, what is patently impossible, and most importantly, why. Simply put: This is where you will keep track of the logical framework in which the world is grounded. After all, it’s the world your protagonist not only will have to deal with but has most likely grown up in. • Idea List. This is where you’ll put ideas that are still too fuzzy or too conceptual for you to envision as an actual scene. Things li...

You’re going to follow every “why?” that pops up—and as you’ll see, every question you answer tends to give rise to a handful of other questions, so you’re going to encounter a lot of “whys.” It’s a messy process, and it might feel chaotic at first. You’ll be sniffing out information on myriad layers, going in several directions at once. What will keep it from actually being chaotic are the Scene Cards. They will allow you to grab, concretize, and organize that information, not in general, but specifically, and—this is the

It’s a trajectory that will never stray from the single, complicating problem that your novel revolves around, because what propels it forward aren’t random, external events, but the power of your protagonist’s reaction to what happens.

This is why it will take you awhile to fully develop your first five Scene Cards. Because—just as in life—in a novel everything is intertwined, so what looks like a single step forward is actually several steps, all taken in unison. As physicist M. Mitchell Waldrop said of the universe, “Everything affects everything else, and you have to understand that whole web of connections.”1 The same is true of the world of your novel.

Take a little time and sketch out the scope of your story the way Jennie just did. What is the time frame, and how big is your stage? Consider the external plot and the internal struggle. Keep it short, always peering beneath each “What” to find its underlying “Why.” If any new “Why” questions arise—and chances are they will—take a bit of time and pin down the specific answer, just as Jennie did with the source of Rufus’s angst. It’ll save you a lot of angst later.

The problem with solely focusing on the main storyline as you develop your story is that it soon becomes predictable and surprisingly flat, because such a narrow outlook flies in the face of what we were just discussing: everything that happens affects, and is affected by, everything else. We are all connected, and very often those connections are precisely what reveal the “Why” behind what’s really going on.

When blueprinting a novel, each layer is laid down one by one, so while in the end every scene will advance multiple subplots, deepen characters, and foreshadow the future, each of those layers was developed and woven in separately. In other words, what looks like one fluid step to the reader, for the writer is actually several individual steps taken in unison, synchronized into what appears to be a single movement.

a novel’s principal subplots tend to spring from two story areas that you’ve already developed and that often overlap: • External events that were set into motion before the novel began, and that have impending consequences that will affect the protagonist’s quest • Secondary characters (basically, anyone other than the protagonist)

Take a look at the list you just made of possible subplots already in play when your novel begins. The good news is that if it’s on your list, you already know it has story relevance. The first question to ask is always, Why will this matter to my protagonist, given her quest? The answer, even when it’s fuzzy, will tell you where to begin digging into the past, so you can zero in on the precise events that will make it specific, concrete, and viable. Chances are you’ll end up with several potential scenes for each subplot you’ve identified.

It means when you develop your secondary characters you need to think about them in the same way you think about your protagonist. Each character has his or her own driving agenda, realizations, and, often, their own arc.

These are not bios of the “Nora, this is your life!” variety. Instead, as with the bio you did of your protagonist, it’s story specific. The most important thing to keep in mind as you develop your secondary characters is that each one must be conceived and developed in accordance with the role he or she will play in your protagonist’s story. Thus the first question to ask of each one is Okay, how will this character’s agenda fit into the story I’m going to tell?

If you’re writing a mystery, a thriller, anything at all involving intrigue, you must know your bad guy’s agenda, and—this is utterly crucial—what he or she has done thus far to actualize it. For instance, if they’re a murderer, and your novel is about how your detective catches them, you need to know, in specific detail, whom they killed, how, why, and where all the clues are buried before you send your detective into the field to hunt for them. Without that knowledge, how would you, let alone your detective, know what to look for, where to search for it, or the significance of anything they found? The answer is simple: neither of you would have a clue.

Now it’s your turn to pick a character to develop. If you’re writing a romance, your protagonist’s beloved is a great place to start. If you’re writing a mystery or a thriller, then your best candidate is the bad guy (or spy, or political operative—in essence, your protagonist’s nemesis). If, like Jennie, neither of these apply, look over your list. Is there a character who’s madly waving his or her hand in the air, screaming, Choose me, choose me? If so, go for it. Otherwise, start with the character who will appear first in your novel. Remembering that your goal is to create a character who’ll either challenge or reaffirm your protagonist’s misbelief, ask yourself, What, in general, might this character open my protagonist’s eyes to? Write it down, even if it’s just a wisp of an idea, even if it feels fleeting and wobbly, or cliché.

It’s a complete cause-and-effect trajectory—each event triggers the next. • It’s specific; every bullet point is something that actually happened. • It tells how each event affects Tony internally, and the meaning he reads into it. Thus we know why he makes every decision, takes every action, and what his underlying motivation is at each turn. • It addresses only the parts of Tony’s life that are relevant to Ruby’s journey. It covers the dog, Tony’s desire for love, but not his no doubt tragic, but irrelevant, painfully awkward high school years.