Monthly Archives: March 2011

Six Core Analogies for the Six Core Competencies

We get stuff stuck in our heads.  One way to get the wrong stuff unstuck and the right stuff successfully installed is to experience the learning – the truth – in different ways.

Some refer to these different ways as learning styles.  Cognitive.  Kinesthetic.  Active.  Inactive.  Two-by-four to the skull.

It’s all good if it gets the right stuff into the proper brain cells.

When it comes to writing, we must acknowledge we are dealing with some abstract, fluid and frankly cloudy issues which sometimes elude us.  Contradictory opinion makes this landscape even more nefarious, like trying to land an airplane in a fog bank during an earthquake with no fuel and no landing gear.

Even when we see it on the page, sometimes we aren’t quite sure what just happened.

As writers seeking to be successful, we must be sure.

That’s why I use so many analogies as I preach the gospel of the Six Core Competencies.  I describe my approach as a left-brained attack on a right-brained avocation, though I am quite certain a successful story draws equally from both hemispheres.

Here, then, are some analogies, one for each core competency, that might help the hemispheres of your brain collide and make magic.


An idea is a seed.  An idea is rarely a vetted, viable concept.

A ghost story about doctors.  That’s not a concept, it’s a seed, the germ of an idea.

A ghost story about a deceased doctor who keeps showing up in an inner city ER to save patients without insurance… that’s a concept.  An idea with legs.  An open door to the consideration of the other core competencies, which the seed alone doesn’t provide.

Seeds come in all sizes and shapes and purposes.  But without planting, without nourishment and watering, they are nothing more than little buds with no story to tell.

Unless you’re making a salad, the seed is never the end-game. 

Sometimes we aren’t sure what seed we hold in our hand.  So we plant it, nourish it, and soon it begins to show itself for what it is.  What it should become.  In which case, you may need to transplant it from a pot to a yard, because the thing was an oak instead of a tulip all along.

If you stare at the seed long enough, you begin to ask it questions.  Who are you?  What can you do?  And then, when you ask the right questions, those inspired by the literary license to transform any seed in the world to any plant/story species in the world – which we have as writers, by the way – the questions change.

You play with the seed until the questions – the what if? questions – begin to possess you.  When one of them quickens your pulse, you know your seed has just become a concept.


Two words: Charlie Sheen.

Love him or hate him, there’s no arguing he’s complicated.  Maybe a little sick.  Possibly as brilliant as he claims to be.  Certainly contrary to much of what we hold as heroic.  Inarguably multi-dimensional.

So is he the hero or the antagonist?  Too early to tell.  A plot twist may be coming.

He has a backstory.  He has character arc.   And – if you’ve been paying attention – he has an entire detox-center full of inner demons.

All of which he denies.  He is a case study in truth or dare, truth or consequences, true grit versus truly pathetic.

He shows us three dimensions of demonstrated character.  The guy on television, the character written for him, the man the show dictates must appear in that role.

The guy whose bluster is transparent and his fear palpable.

The guy we can relate to, or at least in this instance empathize with, because he has children he loves that a court of law says he can’t see.  He is a walking poster boy of sub-text.

The ending isn’t written yet, and the ending is where true, third-dimension character emerges.

The character is never the story.  The character is our window into the story.  There’s a funky guy in Albuquerque suing his employer, too, but we don’t care.  It’s the character that draws is in, and it’s what happens to the character that provides the stage for us to see who he is.


It’s Sunday.  You go to church with a heavy heart. 

The preacher opens with a story about his recent fishing trip.  About the ride out to the lake.  About the new gear in the back of the SUV.  About the stunning sunrise and the reflection of the mountains on a smooth glass of morning water.

About his complex relationship with the fish.

He cites scripture about becoming “fishers of men.”  

And you leave… clueless.  You have no idea what that fishing trip has to do with you, with life, or with scripture.

You just experienced a story without theme.  Without meaning and relevance.

Entertaining and interesting… yes.  The guy tells a great story. 

But it’s not what you came for.  The preacher was into it, passionate about it, and wanted to share it.  But it was about him, not you.  He wrote that sermon for himself, even though he believed others might get something from it.

You didn’t.  As a sermon, as it was written and presented, it was empty.  Void of meaning.  And you’ll forget it by next Sunday.  In which case, you just might try another church altogether.

The story has to pierce the heart of the reader.  A great story is always entertaining… and always relevant to life on a personal level… for the reader.


Let’s talk about sex.  About love making.  Romance.  Stage setting.  Foreplay.

Sex has structure to it.  Oh yes it does.  All the stuff you can think of that seems to defy structure in sexuality is really from, analogously, what would be the other five core competencies.  But when it comes to what happens when — not how — in what order and why, which is the essence of structure, things go down pretty much same for everybody.

And if you doubt that, when was the last time you began your love making with an orgasm and ended it by undressing your partner and pouring a glass of wine?

This is true even if you’re in the room alone.

And it’s especially true if you want to turn professional, which is another story altogether. 

Just sayin’.  That’s how you discover structure in storytelling… by looking beneath and beyond the concept and characters and theme and the inherent creative lattitude of storytelling and really comprehend the sequence of the story’s architecture.

Known fact: with sex, going too fast too soon doesn’t usually work.  Neither does going in the wrong direction, or – horror of horrors – screwing up the ending.  Satisfaction is at the heart of the implied contract between consenting participants.

The most powerful thing about love making is a sense of anticipation.  Of exploring sexual tension and expressing feelings.  The give and take.  The mystery and fascination.  The complete and total confidence and thrill that comes with submission and/or taking charge. 

If one party just lies there, the story isn’t a good one.

Some like it edgy, some prefer it safe.  It’s always a dance, never a solo.  At least when it’s good.

You understand the genre of what you’re about to do before you light the candles.  If you’re both on that particular page, then limits expand.  But woe to the lover who brings out the wet suit when the partner wants to stay on dry land.

It’s organic and natural, but it’s not.  You can play, but you dare not stray from the expected lane, even if you challenge it which can be fun if the swerve is mutual.  If you turn on Letterman in the middle of the story, you’ll lose your audience. 

The night has phases, and you know not to mess with them.  The dinner out.  The candles and music.  The dress code.  The limitations.  The context of the past (as in, make-up sex versus stranger sex versus first-time sex, versus agenda sex, etc.).  The passion of the present.  The learning curve and the open door.

You don’t make love between the salad and the entre.

It’s a sequence that never changes.  Even so, it has limited creative options and opportunities.

It’s all about the foreplay. The set-up.  The ying and the yang.  Don’t write a story without them.

You know how it ends before you begin.  Getting there is the real story.

Which, if you know what you’re doing, you time and execute perfectly.

Scene Execution

It’s time to drop to one knee and propose.  You pick the day.  The spot.  You buy the perfect ring.  And now you have some choices to make.  Because there are lots of ways to pull this off.

But because it’s so important, it has to be perfect.  You could do it easy, impulsively, off the top of your head (that’s for you, pantsers), what feels good in the moment… or you can plan it, in context to what you know about your story, so it’s perfect.

This scene has a succinctly defined mission, as all scenes should.  You know precisely what needs to be put into play. The mannin in which it changes the story going forward.  Now it’s a question of how to make it happen.

A proposal – just like a scene in a story – always happens in context to a past and a future.  How you got there matters.  What you do to prepare matters.  What happens next matters even more. 

What you know about your story, and your intended, also matters – you’re not going to shower flowers on someone who is allergic to pollen, and you’re not going to propose via text to a hopeless romantic.

Your creative choices don’t just forward the plot, they matter to all five of the other core competencies.  Just as much as the mission of the scene matters.  But no more or no less.  Because it will become part of your story.  It will forward it, energize it.

Writing Voice

You’re a talent scout for a major record company.  You used to be a book editor, but this pays more.  Someone recommends a local band, so you drive to Walla Walla to sit in on their gig at Monty’s Grill and Karaoke Bar.

The band is solid.  They write their own stuff, and it’s got edge.  Chicago meets Muse, with a dash of Jay-Z.  Not your typical garage fare.  The drummer is better than a lot of your contracted acts.  The guitars are tasty, too, ready for radio. 

But that singer… ouch.  Not that he/she is off tune, just… boring.  Nondescript.  High school talent show 101. 

Thing is, he/she is the founder of the band.  He/she is the band.  As in a story, there’s no separating the singer from the band.  The singer defines the band.

And so you pass.  The music is great, but the voice… not so much.  It won’t compete at a professional level.

Not that you need the next Daughtry or Josh Groban.  You should be so lucky.  A lot of bands do well with so-so singers, but the voice must at least compete.  This singer doesn’t have the chops, despite the killer songwriting.

It’s all about the story… until the voice detracts from it.  In that case it’s a deal killer.

Any light bulbs going off out there?  Hope so.

Larry Brooks is the author of “Story Engineering: Mastering the Six Core Competencies of Successful Writing,” just out from Writers Digest Books, and has spent much of the four weeks since its release as the #1 bestselling fiction writing book on

Special offer: if you forward a receipt to ( for an online purchase of the book (or not, I trust you) dated between today and the end of the month I’ll send you my ebook, “101 Slightly Unpredictable Tips for Novelists and Screenwriters” for free.  Just say “Storyfix sent me” in the subject line (or not) and the deal is yours.

And if you bought the book earlier, you have my sincere thanks, but not the free ebook.  Gotta get the rest of the gang off the procrastinating dime here.  My hope is that, having read it, you already feel like you’ve received more than your money’s worth.


Here’s a timely post that will help.  It’s from  Mary Jaksch at Goodlife Zen, a blog about how to get things done, and done right.  Click HERE to check it out.  Mary is also the editor over at, so she always reflects a writer’s point of view.


Filed under Six Core Competencies

Top Ten Tuesdays — Please Welcome Therese Walsh of

Welcome to  Top Ten Tuesdays, a series of guest blogs by winners of the “Top Ten Blogs for Writers” contest hosted at

Can Editing Be Fun? Maybe.

a guest post by Therese Walsh

First, I want to thank Larry for having me today on his fab site. It’s great to be here!

When I asked Larry what he might like for me to blog about, he gave me a few ideas. He knew I’d just turned a completed manuscript over to my editor and was waiting for the first round of notes and edits. Could I speak to the editing process? I thought about it; what did I have to offer here that might be fresh? And what I came back to is something Larry said: “I know in my experience this is the toughest stuff. The writing is bliss, the editing is WORK.”

You might think this crazy, but for me, editing is…fun. I have the harder time getting ideas onto the page to begin with. I toil over concepts, the timing of reveals, characterizations and descriptions and most especially the wording of my sentences (8,302 of them in my work-in-progress; I just counted).

Something happens to me, though, after I hit that final period in my draft—the end. I turn from fretful writer to dispassionate editor.

How? Why? And fun? Am I crazy?

Introducing Write Brain, Left Brain

When I complete a draft, the writer-me is exhausted and desperate for a break. But the part of me I’ve been suppressing—the manager who’s kept a mental tally of better ideas—is eager to have a turn. Some would say that the right hemisphere of the brain—the side that’s credited with our creative functioning—has just passed the baton to the left hemisphere—the more analytical part.

Bear with me as I ask you to envision these hemispheres as if they are real people. Right Brain is the artist—a little disheveled with a smudge of blue paint on her cheek and a half-dead daisy tucked behind her ear. Her long skirt is fringed with tiny bells. Left Brain is all business. Power suit. Flats. She carries a hatchet in one hand and a red pen in the other. Her smile is a little evil.

You can’t blame easy-going, love-my-bells Right Brain for hesitating to pass her work over to hatchet-happy, evil-smiling Left Brain, can you? But she’s exhausted, she needs a break, and Left Brain is there, waiting…

The Steps to Editing Acceptance

Feeling resistance to editing your work is completely normal. You’ve labored over your story for months, maybe years (six years for my debut!). You don’t want to change anything. You don’t feel you need to change anything. Or maybe you just don’t feel it’s fair you should have to change anything. All normal. But you also know that writers who don’t edit their work usually remain unpublished, so you’re going to do it. Here’s how to make the process a little easier for you and Right Brain, and even (gasp) fun.

1.     Create a safety net. Open the file containing your work-in-progress and use the “save as” function to give it a new name. You should now have two files—the original and this new one. Right Brain is content knowing that Left Brain can go hatchet crazy on a copy of the manuscript that isn’t hers.

2.     Make friends with the red pen. Not everyone may have this experience, but I find that I become a different sort of writer when I have a pen in hand. I adore the loops and arrows, the circles and splatter marks I make with a red pen on white paper. And I sense Right Brain’s approval of Left Brain’s unexpected creative streak. She relaxes a little; maybe Left Brain isn’t so evil after all.

3.     Start big. Right Brain’s anxiety doesn’t spike until you start messing with her words. She’s way less likely to freak on you if you move blocks of text around and delete nothing. If you have structural changes you’d like to make, do that first. Color code the moved blocks, too. It’ll help Left Brain keep everything in order, and the rainbow shades make Right Brain coo.

4.     Attack the sentences. Right Brain hates this part. Left Brain’s hatchet is out, she is slaying words, sentences, and full paragraphs, leaving them to die their red-ink deaths all over your carpet. Don’t delete-delete these sections. Tell Right Brain that you’re putting them on probation instead. If you use Word, you can use the comment function here. Cut-paste your deleted text into that comment box, and move on knowing all is not lost—just in case Left Brain doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

5.     Acknowledge smart changes. Once rearrangements have been made, once blocks of text have been deleted and new words added, Right Brain will get it. The rework is better than her original. Maybe not all of it. But most of it is an improvement. She accepts that editing is necessary, even…awesome.

6.     Observe a moment of silence. Right Brain is never going to be entirely happy about the dead darlings on the office floor, but she can keep their literary carcasses around if she’d like—in a separate file. And you can always do what I did and share one of them on your Facebook page, to give a prize darling a moment in the spotlight.

Ready for the Big Time

Best thing about learning how to love editing? When your actual editor comes back to you with her Left-Brain list of things to consider and change, your Right Brain Writer Self will recognize the process. There’s no evil here, only the desire by all brains involved to create the best product possible. And you will survive it. You will.

Do you love editing, or hate it? Have any tips or tricks you’d like to share? The floor is yours.

Write on!

Top-10 blogger Therese Walsh operates WriterUnboxed, a great resource about the craft and business of fiction.  She is also the author of a well-reviewed book, The Last Will of Moira Leahy: A Novel, which was a finalist for the 2010 RITA Award for Best First Novel.  She can be reached through her blog site, or at her author website.


Filed under Guest Bloggers