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

You’d think they were channeling the muse, but what’s really going on is even more amazing, because it’s something you can control, and therefore count on. It’s this: once you’ve created your story, and your characters have taken on the shape, depth, and complexity of a fully formed past, they begin reacting to the present as if on their own. The same is true of events, subplots, everything—they begin to suggest themselves, based on what has happened up to that moment.

Create a bio for every secondary character you’ve identified thus far, just as Jennie did for Tony. Take a look at each one and see if there is anything that leaps out at you as scene potential.

Is there anyone in your story who, like Henry, played a big part in your protagonist’s past? You’re looking for characters who helped shape your protagonist’s story-specific worldview, because they’re who she will think of as she struggles to make sense of what’s happening in the present. It might be your protagonist’s mother, father, sibling(s), old flame, or even imaginary friend. Make a list of these characters, and take a moment to begin to envision them. Who are they? Write out a quick story-specific bio

You now have story-specific bios for every character you’ve thus far identified. If any of them have a shared history with your protagonist, see if you can begin to flesh it out. You’re not looking for everything they ever did together. For instance, Ruby and Henry might have spent every summer hang gliding off La Bajada Ridge in New Mexico, every New Year’s Eve binge watching old episodes of Father Knows Best till dawn, and every Sunday afternoon square dancing, and it wouldn’t matter an iota. (Oh all right, they never would have done any of that, because I just made it up.) But if they had done it behind Jennie’s back, it still wouldn’t be on the list. Because it has nothing to do with the story she’s telling. So keep your eyes on the prize as you make your list. You’re looking for only the moments when what happened between the protagonist and the character in question has story relevance. Once complete, transfer anything still too conceptual or general to visualize to your Idea List, and begin Scene Cards for those that you can sit back, close your eyes, and actually begin to see.

At this stage, if there are logic gaps they shouldn’t be hard to identify, and with the skills you’ve acquired, you know what to dig for in order to fill them in. The trick is to make sure that each scene touches the third rail, forcing your protagonist to make a difficult decision that’s part of an escalating cause-and-effect trajectory. You want to plunge us into action, and at the same time—this is the crucial part—give us enough insight into your protagonist to understand what the action means to her. In other words: We need to know what’s really at stake.

While yes, we want to be in Ruby’s head as she comes up with the dognapping scheme, it would be even better if something external happened to spark the notion. Because just as action is meaningless unless it’s having an effect on someone, abstract thought is boring unless it’s spurred by action.

While the Scene Cards you have for events further down your novel’s timeline may still have nothing more than their Alpha Point noted, chances are Scene Cards #2 through #5 are probably just about complete. If not, do what Jennie just did, asking questions and filling in any logic gaps that leap out at you until these cards are ready to transition into an actual scene.

Your protagonist needs to react internally to everything that happens, in the moment, as he struggles to make sense of it and so bend it to his advantage. This means he thinks about what is happening. Not in the abstract. Not in long, rambling stream-of-consciousness musings. But with urgency, in service of a decision that must be made right now. The rule is this: he can’t notice or comment on anything—even if it’s just a description of what someone is wearing—unless he then draws a strategic conclusion that affects what he’s doing or how he interprets what’s happening. And he must do this every minute of every day—just like we do.

When conveying how a character feels, the answer isn’t happy, sad, angry, jealous, or bereft, gut wrenching or otherwise. Why? Because those things are, you guessed it, general. They are the “What,” when, as always, what the reader wants to know is, Why? The secret is this: the emotion emanates from how the character makes sense of what’s happening, rather than mentioning the nearest big emotion that sums it up. Your goal isn’t to tell us how they feel, so we know it intellectually; it’s to put us in their skin as they struggle, which then evokes the same emotion in us. That feeling will be subtle, nuanced, and layered. And, most likely, ineffable, which is why you want to shun those massive generalizations.