Sometimes it feels like I’ve been in a street fight for the last 30 months.

Pantsers vs. Planners.  Jets vs. Sharks.  Right vs. left.  Good vs. Evil.

You would not believe — I’ve only shared a sliver of it — the vitriolic venom sent my way when I’ve suggested that there exists an underlying, matrix-like set of structural principles and aesthetic sensibilities that, like the Gods looking down from Olympus through their enchanted reading glasses, determine the fate (readability, publishability) of our stories.

I’ve been misunderstood.  And indeed, I’ve been guitly of misunderstanding.  And… I’ve been overwhelmingly reinforced by a small army of writers who get it.

My position has… softened.  I’ve realized that the “fight” isn’t what I thought it was.  That there is significant gray imbued in all of this discussion about the writing process.

But there is no gray at all in the truth about what makes a story tick, and the precision of that truth.  We don’t get to define, or reinvent, the word “tick” in this context.  Not if you intend to throw your story out there with the intention of finding an audience.

I think I stumbled up on it.  I wrote it in my post of two days ago.  One sentence.  Not planned, but totally pantsed in the throes of writing that post.  Here it is again, slightly paraphrased for even further clarity.  It bears repeating. 

It warrants posting on your computer, maybe tattooing onto your body if you’re still confused:

Write your story however you need to write it, process-wise.  But don’t turn a blind eye to what’s true about the story itself, however you get there.  About what the story demands from you before it will work.

That’s non-negotiable.

Which means that, at the end of the day, planners and pantsers are two names for the very same pursuit.  Same game, different paths and styles.  But there is only one finish line.

So I’ll stop the divisive ratta-ratta if you will.

Like many Epiphanies, the problem is simplied when clarified.  And the polarization vanishes like smoke blown away in a relieved sigh of recognition.

I still have strong opinions about the creative process. 

You can build a castle with a blueprint and a forklift, or you can built it one handful of sand at a time.  The latter may be more romantic, it may be the only way you can wrap your head around it, but that doesn’t change the above Epiphany.

I still beleive that the more one understands those principles and criteria, the more the writer will be prone to plan, or at least realize the “search for story”  in real-time, rather than continue to just write with blind trust that there is some muse sitting on that Olympus cloud that will show you the path.  Or at least how your story will end.

Either way, though, the truth is clear.   Only the path remains shrouded in an intoxicating mist.

If you’d like to learn more about the principles and criteria mentioned in this post, CLICK HERE.  My little Epiphany changes nothing that I’ve written in that text. Or dive into the roughly 300 other posts on this website that scrutinize and contextualize them.

Epiphany: The Bottom Line, Revealed is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

But first… an Intro by Your Host

Here’s a confession.  I have mixed emotions about posting this article.  Not because it’s in any way unworthy.  It’s good.  Ultimately, that’s why it’s here.

But it reads a bit like a sales letter for one of my ebooks.  That makes me slightly uncomfortable, because  I don’t want appear overly self-promoting (I’ll leave that to the sidebars). 

So hear this: the article came in unsolicited, and like I said, it’s good.

In addition to its fresh voice, it’s good because it reflects an experience most of us who write stories have, sooner or later.  We get stuck in our own belief systems.  Our chosen process, which is often less than a fully informed choice.

Then we find something that helps get us unstuck.  This post might just might be that thing.

So if you prefer, every time the author references me or my ebook, just substitute “the principles of story structure.”  That’ll get you to the point the author and I both have in mind.

Huge thanks for Linda for sharing her experience.  If you’ve had a similar journey toward the discovery of story structure, or any of the other liberating principles of both process and its end-product, I invite you to share it here.

PS – you’ll notice that my sensitivity to self-promotion didn’t stop me from linking her references to the ebook.  One reason: it’ll help you, just as it did her.

Structural Difficulties

A Guest Post by Linda Yezak

Ever have a devil of a time getting a stalled story to kick in again?

No matter what you do, you just can’t seem to breathe life into it. I sympathize. I was ready to hit delete on one of my favorite manuscripts because I just couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it.

That’s when I remembered Story Structure–Demystified, by Larry Brooks.

I had begun Act I of The Cat Lady’s Secret perfectly, introducing most of the major characters and identifying their goals and the things they hold most dear. For my main character Emily, a woman who thrives on charitable giving, anonymity is vital, and I explained why in a sequence of scenes designed to rip at the hearts of the readers.

As I traveled along in the first act, I tossed in a few obstacles for Emily to stumble over–the home of friends being burned to the ground, a suddenly-empty bank account rendering her unable to help–then mistakenly believed I had established the first plot point. I was ready to drive my story sedan into Act II.

But the car stalled.

The conflicts I had presented were too easily settled, too easily side-stepped to challenge my main character and send her on a course to defend what she cherishes against a persistent foe. If the problems can be quickly solved, where’s the story?

I took forever trying to figure out how to get my stalled vehicle running again. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Nothing I tried worked.

Finally, after coming inches away from giving up, I realized the problem was structural. I yanked out my tool box and tweaked, tightened, and oiled until the motor sputtered to life. Then, I jumped behind the wheel, stepped on the gas . . . and smashed into a wall.

Realizing a road block is structural and knowing what to do about it are two different things.

That’s where Larry came in. His ebook showed me how to avoid the roadblock by identifyng the inciting incident (which can and very often does coincide with the first plot point) in my manuscript. Don’t get me wrong–I knew the definition of “plot points,” but the way Larry explained the FPP managed to reach through the fog created by constantly pounding my head for answers.

He asked these questions:

Does it appear in the right place?

Does it define and shift the need and quest of the hero from that point forward?

Does it create and clarify stakes?

Does it imply consequences that will stem from both the hero’s success and failure?

Does it create a sudden risk and opposition?

For both obstacles I’d set before Emily — the fire and the feeble bank account – the only “yes” answer was to the first question.

But further in the manuscript, deep into what I had thought was Act II, came a threat to Emily’s anonymity. A journalist hunts her true identity, scrambling for info, digging into county records. Publishing what he finds.

I ran the first incident with the journalist through Larry’s list, and lo-and-behold, it hit on all but the first–unless my cute little Chic-Lit novel is going to be 120,000 words.

After the journalist’s introduction should come a period of carelessness on Emily’s part, of her denying his ability to find her. Next would come a period of staying low to avoid detection. Finally, determination and confrontation and a battle royale to maintain her privacy.

That’s what should come next, but it doesn’t. Because I never properly identified my first plot point. I’m still smacking my head for not seeing it months ago.

I’m thirty thousand words into my manuscript. I submitted the required first fifteen pages to a nationwide writers’ competition and landed a spot among the finalists–something I discovered this past May. Plenty of time to finish the novel. But when I go to the conference in a few weeks, I won’t have a completed product to pitch because the novel wasn’t structurally sound enough to continue working on it. It soon will be, but not by conference time.

Never underestimate the value of solid structure. And don’t assume that just because you write “cute little Chick-Lit” stories (if you do) that you don’t need structure. Even romance needs conflict. Even comedy needs antagonists. And even seat-of-the-pants writers like me need a good grasp of story structure to be successful novelists.

Texas native Linda Yezak writes romantic comedy, and her first novel, Give the Lady a Ride, will debut in 2011. Linda holds a degree in English and teaches an adult creative writing class. She also speaks for various writers’ groups, works as a freelance editor, and is an editor for Port Yonder Press, a traditional publishing house catering to family-friendly novelists, poets, and non-fiction authors. Those interested can contact her through her blog, AuthorCulture, or through Port Yonder Press.

A Guest Post About Story Structure is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Monster post today.  Set aside a couple extra minutes to soak this one up.

I’ve heard from several readers on this sticky little issue.  Some quote books and workshop gurus who say you should present something early-on in a story to grab the reader.  To get the story moving quickly. 

In doing so, they seem to be challenging the notion of the location and even the viability of the First Plot Plot.  Or at least, seeking clarification.  Fair enough.

Let me say at the outset — I couldn’t agree more.  The sooner you grab your reader, and the more firm that grip, the better.  This goes for all genres, and happens in all sorts of ways.

Now let me say this — if you’re one of those challengers, then perhaps you don’t understand the nature and mission of the First Plot Point.  Because that early grip on the reader’s throat — or if you prefer, their mind and heart, or perhaps some other body part – isn’t at all a contradictory principle.

What you’re talking about is called a hook. 

And it’s a completely different, separate and narratively unique animal altogether.

At the end of this post I’ll give you a link to an opening chapter that buries a narrative hook deep and hard.  And because it happens on Page 4, it cannot be confused with a First Plot Point in any way. 

At least if you know the difference.

For now, though, allow me to continue to differentiate.

The First Plot Point is not totally dependent on what happens before it arrives (meaning it can come out of the blue… or not), other than the foreshadowing and ramp-up you give it.  In other words, you can put all the hooks, twists, surprises and stakes-defining moments into the first quarter of your story that you possibly can, that you could possibly desire, and it still wouldn’t change the placement, nature and mission of the First Plot Point.

A great hook also doesn’t excuse the omission of a First Plot Point.  If you omit that milestone you are committing a fatal storytelling error, even if your plot twist on Page 14 was the most dramatic thing to happen in a story since Titanic hit the iceberg.

The hook is a promising first date.  The First Plot Point is the wedding.

The rest of story is what happens after that.

The First Plot Point is like a 21st birthday. 

Doesn’t matter how many birthdays came before.  It changes everything.  It is a transition.  Because it means new things are possible. 

To take that deeper, imagine that you are graduating from college on your 21st birthday, the metaphoric equivalent of a First Plot Point.  Your college experience — indeed, all your scholastic and even life experiences thus far — have been leading up to this point.  On this day you make a shift from student to a full-fledged adult.  Your goals change.  Your future shifts, along with your priorities, stakes and the nature of your life’s path. 

 Your life begins now.  Who you are, what you bring to it, was the opening act of your life.  Not the story of your life.

No matter how many times you were surprised, knocked to the ground, failed, embraced, laid or otherwise led to change your mind in all those years leading up to this day.  Doesn’t matter.  It’s all been a set-up for what happens now.

It could be said that your life, your real life as a functional adult and citizen, actually and officially begins on the day you turn 21.  (If you’re looking for a way to defy this analogy — hey, it happens — “21″ in this context can mean the day you move out, the day you get married, the day you go into or get out of the military… or some other transition between child and adult.  Just trying to pound home a point… go with me on this.)

If you declared your intention to go to medical school at age five, for example, that may be a hook, an unexpected plot twist, it may indeed change the course of your childhood… but it doesn’t change the timing, impact, implication and transition that occurs when you turn 21.  The real story remains to be written… and read.

Your story turns a corner at the First Plot Point.  The road it heads down is the spine of the story you set out to tell.

Which is why, if you don’t know that intention when you begin a draft — any draft — you’ll never really get there… or anywhere. You have to know what you’re setting up — the FPP and what follows it – before you can do so successfully.

Examples please, she said.

In Nelson Demille’s 2004 bestseller Night Fall — the first book to knock The DaVinci Code out of the top spot on the New York Times bestseller list, albeit for just a week — the reader sees a hook in the first few pages.  Two couples are making love on the beach on Long Island.  They are videotaping it.  In the background, out over the water, they notice something unusual.  A streak of light zooms up from the horizon.  Then, moments later, a huge fiery explosion occurs.

The next day the world knows that TWA Flight 800 exploded 12 minutes after taking off from JFK.  But, in this fiction at least, the world has no idea the whole thing had been caught on tape.

This is a hook.  A plot twist, if you will.  But it’s not the First Plot Point, in the official-milestone sense, in this story.

Does it begin the action early?  Does it launch the story?  Does it provide stakes?

Yes, yes and yes.   But does that make a First Plot Point?  No.  If nothing else, because of where it appears.  And because, at that point, it really doesn’t mean all that it needs to mean to launch a story.  It simply happens.

You can’t mess with where a First Plot Point appears in your story.  Sorry if that offends your artistic sensibilities, but if you want to publish commercially-viable novels and screenplays, you need to adhere to commercially-viable standards, principles and expectations. 

It’s critical to be clear on the nature, mission and placement of your First Plot Point, and its relationship to however you’ve attempted to impart a hook early-on.  Because no matter how you’ve done so, or how well, you still need a well-thought-out First Plot Point to appear at about the 20th to 25th percentile of your story.

Or, you can send your kid to med school at age five.  Good luck with that.

In the fundamentals of story structure, this is non-negotiable. 

Because, for the most part, the First Plot Point is the most important moment in your entire novel or screenplay.

The key to understanding this is realizing that it is the mission of the First Plot Point that separates it from simply being just another plot twist.

Write this down: The First Plot point, which may or may not have been foreshadowed in previous pages, and may have even begun to appear in some form or fractional proportion, is the moment when the hero’s near-term priorities and goals change, either in the form or a need or a desire — such as survival, understanding, truth, justice, love, health… a long list of near-term goals — and it includes the presence or implication of an antagonistic force that seeks to oppose that journey.

This definition is, in fact, what your story is all about.  It’s not about what happened, as a primary thrust, before this point, because everything that happens before the FPP by definition appears for the purpose of setting-up this transitional moment.

The moment works in a dramatic sense precisely because you have set it up. 

In Night Fall, the First Plot Point is when someone comes forward to try to stop the hero from discovering the content and location of the video showing that the airliner was blown out of the sky.  Everything about the hero’s quest changes at that point, it has stakes and purpose, and we understand that there is now an antagonist involved with goals that are contrary to those of the hero.

To see this in play, rent virtually any DVD.  Something big happens — or not; not all stories have hooks – in the first ten minutes.  That’s a hook, if it’s there at all.  Then, with the criteria for the FPP in mind, begin looking for something to change at about the 20th percentile mark.  A new wrinkle.  A plot twist, but one with meaning. 

Something that either initially or further defines the hero’s journey going forward, something that changes the hero’s life and path, gives it meaning, gives it stakes, and does so in context to the presence — for the first really understandable time in the story — of an antagonistic force.  Or for lack of a better generic term, a bad guy.

Watch Collateral, starring Tom Cruise and Jamie Fox.

About 12 minutes in, a recently dead body will fall onto hero Fox’s taxi.  Everything changes, drastically and certainly.

But it’s not the First Plot Point Point.  It’s a late hook, perhaps, and it’s absolutely a plot twist.   One that looks and smells like it could be a plot point… but it’s too early.  And, it doesn’t tell us enough.

Remember, you can stuff all of those moments you want into Part 1 of your story, provided it fits in with the mission of Part 1.

No, the FPP occurs at about the 25 minute mark, right where it should, during a taxi ride.  Nothing remotely as dramatic as the falling body.  This demonstrats that a FPP doesn’t have to be visually or dramatically huge, it just needs to meet the mission-driven criteria established for it.

The FPP in Collateral occurs when Cruise tells Fox what’s going to happen next, the stakes of Fox doing it well, and the reasons behind it.  The dramatic tension changes completely at this point.  Fox’s story journey truly, in the biggest and most front-and-center sense, begins at that moment.  It’s a course-change from how it changed before, when the body fell and Cruise exposed himself as a bad guy.  Fox’s quest and need going forward has only now been fully defined. 

Everything prior to that moment has been a set-up for that moment.  

To read more about First Plot Point mission and criteria, click HERE, HERE and HERE.

To read a killer hook in play in a novel – quickly– click HERE. 

That’ll take you to the Amazon.com page for a novel I like a lot (because I wrote it, which means I’m pretty sure about the author’s intentions and strategy where the hook is concerned)… put your cursor over the book cover image at the left… click on “First Pages” in the pop-up window you’ll suddenly see; it’s the middle of three choices there… then you’ll be taken to the first page of a Prologue.

Read it. 

Click forward as you go.  It’s only slightly over three pages long, and at the end you’ll be treated to what is precisely intended to be a hook.  A killer one at that.

Oh… if you want to see where the FPP in this story is… you could always buy the book and find out.  (Insert massive wry grin here… of course I’d like you to buy and read the book, but I’m not holding the the FPP hostage to that, I’ll cover ithere soon — the point today is to know a hook when you see it, and master it when you write one.)

Hook vs. First Plot Point — Don’t Get Fooled is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

If you’ve just arrived here via Copyblogger, welcome!  We’re all about going deep into the infrastructure and principles of effective storytelling, and we’d love to have you join us.

Just saw Shutter Island, the Martin Scorsese film starring Leonardo DiCaprio based on the Dennis Lehane novel.  And I’m here to tell you, if you’re a writer of novels and/or screenplays who hopes to better wrap your head around the inherent power of narrative structure and character arc — in other words, story architecture – you should see it, too.

Not as a ticket-paying, popcorn-chewing audience peer, but as a note-taking, inquisitive budding author going to school on the best in the business.

Why?  Because I continue to believe that the most empowering skill-building thing we can do as writers is to critically analyze and deconstruct stories other than our own.  We can read the “how-to” until our eyes bleed, but when we see the principles in action we become believers.

Shutter Island is a clinic in delivering a clearly-delinated four part contextual structure, with each quartile separated and empowered by expositional milestones (two plot-points and a mid-point) that define the very essense of their mission.

It is those four very different contexts that make the story work.  That make any story work. 

Of course, if you don’t know what you’re looking for, then the deconsruction process won’t deliver a fraction of the benefit as compared to an informed process.  So I invite you to bone up on four part structure using the archived posts here on Storyfix, or my ebook on the topic.

The Payoff

In a few weeks I’ll post a deconstruction of BOTH the novel and the movie.

For now, see if you can spot the game-changing first plot point, the mid-point context shift and the fuse-igniting second plot point.  If you’re feeling ambitious, try to spot the two pinch points in the middle of Parts 2 and 3. 

At a very minimum, try to sense the different narrtive contexts between each of the four parts — set-up/orhpan… response/wanderer… attack/warrior… hero/martyr.

Fair warning, though.  Shutter Island is dark and frightening, and it isn’t remotely what you think it is, based either on the movie preview or the first half.  And that, in itself, is an opportunity to sit at the feet of perhaps the best literary thriller authors we have in their respective mediums, Dennis Lehane and Martin Scorsese. 

If even a fraction of their genius rubs off, we’ll all be orders of magnitude better for it. 

Image credit: Wolf Gang

Quick note: my publisher has completely revised the website for my new novel, Whisper of the Seventh Thunder (www.whisperofthesevenththunder.com), with a cool new look and new content.  Please check it out.

Your Next Deconstruction Challenge is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Went to a movie yesterday.  The new Clooney flick about staring at goats.  Not bad, a few grins, but in my view a little over-the-top silly at the end.

But that’s not my point today.  What happened before the movie is.

Because I saw a bunch of previews for upcoming films.  And in doing so, I realized how each of them, in their own way, is little workshop on story structure.

To see what I mean, go HERE and watch the preview for Mel Gibson’s new flick, Edge of Darkness.  I’m not a big Gibson fan – actors who go rogue in real life tend to sour me on their work – but this one looks pretty good.

Here’s the takeaway: the preview is pure story structure in all it’s glory.  Watch it now, then come back.  We need to talk.

Once You Know It, You Can’t Un-see It

If you understand story structure, with its attendant four parts and major milestones, you can’t help but see them – feel them – leaping off the screen at you in this preview.

And really – now that this can of worms has been opened – any preview.

Think about it.  The trailer opens with a Part 1 set-up.  Dad gets call from daughter, she’s coming to town.  They talk.  Relationship is chilly, need to reboot.  A little backstory, some inner Mel Gibson demons (irony at its best).  All classic Part 1 stuff.

Then the daughter is murdered.  Is that the Plot Point?  Could be, seems like one… but it’s not.  Because we don’t yet know what Mel’s new journey will be.  That’s the next clip.  They were after him. 

Or so we believe.

Now we have a Plot Point.  On to Part 2.

Mel reacts.  Outrage.  Fear.  New dark forces enter the story.  Mel is a wanderer.  Straight out of Part 2, the 101. 

Then, the film’s Mid-Point is shown.  There’s much Mel doesn’t know about his daughter.  Who she worked for, and how that connects to her death.  The curtain parts, the story has new context.

Now Mel has something to work with. 

Welcome to Part 3: Mel the warrior.  He’s Mr. Proactive, Mr. Pissed Off.  Kicking butt and taking names.  Getting closer to the truth.  Attacking.

The second Plot Point is a bit vague, as it often is in previews, since it would usually give away too much (this is a preview, after all).  But, we do see a lot of the action in Part 4, where Mel the wanderer turned warrior now becomes Mel the martyr.  Willing to do whatever is necessary to make things right.

And if you don’t think martyrdom is what you’re seeing, listen for the very last line he speaks in the preview.  It’s as if someone has been reading my new ebook.

And a Few Other Core Competencies, Too

It’s worth noting that previews aren’t just about the structure of the story.  There are five other storytelling competencies besides structure, and this preview, like most of them, touchs on them all in some way. 

The concept screams at you here: what if a guy’s daughter worked in some dark corner of the espionage world, got killed before your eyes, and now they want you?  A hundred ensuing drilled-down “what if” questions immediately coagulate in your brain.

Theme?  Listen to that last line again.  This story is all about theme.  As most effective stories are.

Character arc?  Oh yeah.  This is Mel’s comeback vehicle, and he’s all about growing and changing and showing us who he is, as a man, as a father, as an icon for justice and testosterone.

The Attack of the Movie Trailers

Once you analyze this preview through the lens of your understanding of story structure, you may never watch a movie preview the same way again.

Because they all do this. 

Virtually every trailer begins with the set-up… gives you a glimpse of an inciting incident (first Plot Point) that very clearly defines the hero’s forthcoming quest (hey, that’s what the story is about)… it shows you the hero staggering around, a bit lost (Part 2)… it tosses in a big not-everything-is-as-it-seems twist that is, in all likelihood, the Mid-Point… it’ll show the hero stepping up in attack mode (Part 3)… they’ll only hint at what the second Plot Point might be because they don’t want to give away too much… and then you’ll get a sense of how it all winds up.

All in about two minutes.

Every time.

Even if it’s not a thriller.  Comedies, science fiction, Nicholas Sparks’ romances… they all do it.   Even the trailer for Clooney’s new flick.

They’re all teaching you about story structure by using it to sell you a ticket.  Just like you’ll be using it to sell your story… to an agent, to an editor, to a studio hack… to a reader.

Have some fun with this. 

Watch a few previews (you can do that right here) and see if you can pick out the story’s four parts and the major story milestones.  Look for the concept, theme and character arc.  Look for the tone of the story (the equivalent of the writer’s voice, one of the six core competencies), it’ll be there in the form of music, style of editing and, if it’s a comedy, most of the movie’s good lines.

The more you see it, then the more you’re getting story structure.

And the more you don’t, the more these trailers have to teach you about it.  Because seeing is believing.

Which brings me to the Big Moment point for today.

Story structure is storytelling.  An effective trailer can’t help but rely on structure to intrigue you, because that’s the mission of structure in the first place.

No structure, no story.  No story, no sale.

 Learn more about how to engage the power of structure in your storytelling in Story Structure – Demystified.

How to Learn Story Structure in Two Minutes or Less is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

You may think us blogging/guru types wake up every morning wondering how we can sell more stuff to you.  I hope not — that’s pretty cynical — because it’s not true.

If we’re doing this right, we wake up every morning wondering how we might deliver something of value. 

There are theories about that, unique to the internet, that involve issues such as giving it away (been doing that for five months now), and the relationship-building that leads to folks actually buying something.  And nothing says relationship quite like a freebie, or even a killer deal.

Today’s post combines all that.  I woke up realizing that your writing/critique group can use what I have to offer.  So I’m offering it here.

There are two primary ways your writing/critique group can help its members.

The first is to read each other’s stuff and offer help.  I believe that “help” isn’t always in the form of criticism — it’s not exactly like John Irving is sitting among you, if you get my drift.  Help can and should include the sharing of knowledge — principles and tips and techniques and models to emulate — and then applying it to the specifics of your stories. 

Ask yourself how often that happens, versus the critical stuff.  Then read on.

The other is the discovery and exploration of that knowledge together.

And that’s where I can help.

One way I can help is to suggest your group read everything on this blog, especially my story structure series.  There is no more potent and condensed elevator to a higher level of storytelling proficiency than a thorough understanding of story structure.

Ignorance runs rampant out there.  But not within the ranks of the published. 

That’s all free, by the way.  Knock yourselves out.  And, you’re welcome.

The other way I can help is to offer you that knowledge in a condensed, win-win way.

I offered my first ebook (101 Tips) at a discounted rate for writing groups, and I’m doing it again here with my new ebook, Story Structure – Demystified.  The more copies you buy for your group (which equates to the larger your group is), the better the value.

Here’s how it works:

For the rest of November, if you supply me with the email addresses of your group members (no, I won’t spam ‘em), I’ll send them the ebook directly.

First, purchase ONE COPY of the ebook, through Clickbank, at the regular price.  You can do that HERE.

This next step is important, and a necessary step for a discount, because Clickbank doesn’t do discounts.  You’ll be buying the remaining copies directly from me.  Which means, you pay for the books via PAYPAL, using this destination address: storyfixer@gmail.com. (Discount pricing detailed below — send one total amount — that doesn’t include that first Click bank purchase.)

Then, from the email address used for the initial Clickbank copy, send me your order number (sort of a “proof of purchase” thing).  Also include all the email addresses of the recipients.

The normal price, the one you’ll pay for that first copy, is $14.95.  Based on results and reviews (if you need ‘em, let me know, I’ll overwhelm you with endorsements), it’s worth every nickel.

With this group discount, copies #2 through #5 will be only $10 each.  So, if your group consists of five members, you’d pay $14.95 for the first copy through Clickbank, then send me $40 via Paypal (with the email addresses) for the next four (4 times $10 each).

If the total copies exceed five, the remaining copies (after the initial purchase) are only $7.50 each.  So, for example, if you have, say, 8 members, you’d buy the first through Clickbank at $14.95, then send me $52.50 (7 times $7.50) for the other six via Paypal.

It gets even better, if you want it to.

If you’d also like my first ebook, 101 Slightly Unpredictable Tips for Novelists and Screenwriters” (regular price is $9.95) I’ll include one copy for each Story Structure ebook ordered (including the first one) at only FIVE BUCKS each.  Just make sure this is clear in your email, and that the additional funds are included with the Paypal payment.

So, in the case of the 7-copy order, if you also wanted the Tips ebook for all (8 copies), include another $40 for that.

A killer deal, and a win-win.  I hope you’ll consider it.  I can think of no more meaty, empowering tool for your writing group to use toward making you all better storytellers, and quickly.

Thanks for tolerating this marketing moment.  I can go back to bed now.

Special Offer to Writing/Critique Groups is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Two elements of my approach to teaching story have always been on the controversial side.  Wouldn’t have it any other way – if you want vanilla, take a community college writing class. 

If you want to publish, stick around here.

First, I advocate that novelists study movies, and screenwriters study literature.  And second, with regard to the former, I don’t hesitate to recommend a mediocre or even a bad film if it illustrates and clarifies some principle of storytelling.   Because often they do, and it may be that the very lack of subtlety in doing so is what turned the critics off. 

Then again, it might just suck, even though everything is in the right place.  This is art, and sometimes even art, done by the book, doesn’t hit a home run.  Go that store in the mall with all those beautiful oil paintings for 75 bucks… they’re all better than you and I can do — which means there’s something to learn from them – and they’re all technically sound, too.

The Maltese Falcon and Gone With the Wind and the literary work of Dostoyevsky teach us little about storytelling in today’s professional marketplace for commercial novels and screenplays, which is the point.

That’s why I’m recommending you see the current mind-warping film, “The Box,” based on a short story by Richard Matheson (of “I Am Legend” fame, and many other iconic stories), starring Cameron Diaz and James Marsden.

Here’s why.

Concept

I often talk about finding a concept that is highly original, wildly compelling and creates a robust dramatic stage upon which a story can unfold.  This story does that in spades. 

This is a huge “what if?” proposition: what if someone brought you a box with a button on it, and told you that if you pushed the button you’ll receive one million dollars, free and clear… but… someone, somewhere will die at the moment you do it?  What would you do?

The question merits, even demands, an answer.  Which is why it works. 

Theme

Theme is one of the six core competencies of storytelling – perhaps the toughest to wrap your head around – and this story is nothing if not wall to wall theme.  And it does it perfectly, without preaching, and within the context of dramatic narrative.  It asks the viewer to decide what they would do, and the answer is laden with consequences and agenda.

If you can’t catch the essence of a set of themes here, maybe you should take up oil painting.

Character

These characters – both good guys and bad guys and a few in between – are perfectly introduced in the Part 1 set-up, with meaningful backstories and agendas set into play that not only come into jeopardy after the first plot point, but also drive their response to that plot point, as well as our emotional investment in what happens next.  The stakes are huge, and they begin getting that way in Part 1.

And, the heroes here (there are two) clearly evolve through the four stages of orphan, wanderer, warrior and then, very literally martyr.  If that metaphor has confused you in the past, you can see it play out before your eyes here.

Structure

Structurally speaking, the movie is a model for the four-part sequence and its essential milestones.  All of them come straight at you, and they are all in the right place in the story sequence.

As in the Michael Mann-directed movie Collateral, a major plot twist comes after about 20 minutes, which is easily mistaken as the First Plot Point.  But it’s not… look for a scene about six or seven minutes later that explains what all this means to the characters going forward (in terms of defining the ensuing journey and its inherent stakes), and with the antagonistic force in full view, which is the very essence of a First Plot Point.

Watch and Learn

Nothing teaches the principles of storytelling, especially structure, better than experiencing a story well told.  “The Box” fits the bill, big time.

And who knows, you might even have a good time, or at least an intense vicarious experience.  Because like the old Robert Redford/Demi Moore flick Indecent Proposal (another iconic theme movie), you’ll find yourself thinking about – and perhaps arguing about – what you would have done, and for a long time after the credits role.

Learn more about story structure in my ebook, Story Structure – Demystified.  Available now, and on this site.

Why You Need to see “The Box” is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

“Story Structure — Demystified” is live.

I’m excited to announce the publication of my new ebook.  The preliminary reader response has been nothing short of astounding, and humbling.  Even for me.   Here’s just one of them:

“I’ve purchased and read at least ten books since last spring on writing and I’ve found nothing yet that explains story structure like this e-book. If you’re a newbie, like me, and you want to learn more about how to put your story together, I recommend this e-book. It’s energized my creativity and it is giving me more confidence in what I’m writing. I think it will greatly decrease the number of re-writes I’ll need to do as well. I like that!”  (attribution available upon request)

If you ordered a pre-release beta copy and would like the updated (sans typos) published version, send me the Paypal address you used and I’ll forward you the new version.  With my thanks. 

If you were tempted but didn’t bite, or if you’re new here and — in either case — would like to read a few objective, third party reviews, click HERE and HERE and HERE. 

What follows below is the first chapter of the book. 

It stands alone as a perspective on story structure and why you need it, and is valuable as a reinforcing reminder that this is absolutely essential stuff.  At least if you want to publish  your work or sell your screenplay.  Hopefully both.

If you want to read more about the book itself, click HERE for a look at the sales page (you can order from there, as well).

If you know you want this stuff and would like to order now, click HERE.  It sells for $14.95, and if you don’ think it’s worth every nickle, even in comparison to the best books on writing you’ve ever read, I’ll happily send all those nickels back to you.

Chapter 1: Why You Need to Break the Writing Process Down… into Structure

I think all teachings about writing are good.  Wonderful, in fact.  Taken as a whole, the body of knowledge kicking around out there is astounding, and because there are so many views on so many of the variables that comprise the creative writing process, in the end the writer gets to decide what works for them and what doesn’t.

I’ve discovered there’s a wide breadth of preferences on that particular issue.  Especially on the issue of story structure.

Unlike screenwriting, there are no strict rules when it comes to writing novels.  Especially if you don’t like the sound of the word rules.   But there are expectations and proven techniques that are accepted as fundamental principles, and if you want to publish your novel you will honor them.

Or at least you’ll learn to honor them when enough rejection slips collect in that desk drawer you rarely open because, like opening your 401K statement, it makes you nauseous.

Breaking Down the Fiction Writing Process

Next time you go to a writing workshop, notice how the topics on the agenda break down into bite-size segments, each of which gets the once-over from someone you’ve never heard of – famous writers hardly ever give writing workshops – who is nonetheless worthy of dishing it.  Titles like: How to add tension to your stories.  How to impress an agent.  Writing better titles.  Fun with sentence structure.  Tips for better dialogue.  Writing juicy sex scenes.  How to be more creative.

Lots of little buckets of information, all valid.  What’s lacking at most conferences, though, as well as on the bookshelves, is an understanding of what happens when you pour the contents of those buckets into the same vessel – your manuscript.

Because how those elements relate and interact, how they balance and empower each other, is the key to writing a great story.  And unless you look at the issue of melding them, in addition to understanding them as stand alone skills, you’re on your own to put them together.

Putting them together is the primary objective of this book.

Wrapping Your Head Around the Big Picture

I often open my workshops by asking the writers in attendance to define story using only one word.  There are usually five to ten nominations, all just fine and dandy, and usually someone nails the one I am going for, the one that defines the essence of a story, because without it the story doesn’t exist.

The word is conflict.  No conflict, no story.

But inherent to the notion of conflict is the architecture of how it is handled within the narrative.  And that’s where structure comes into play.  No structure, no story, either.  Because story is what turns conflict into dramatic tension, without which, again, you have no story.  It’s the full circle truth.

This is just a slice of the Big Picture approach you need to embrace before you can write a successful story.  You can be the best writer of sentences on the planet, but if you don’t understand story and the structure that makes it work, you’ll have to settle for love letters and poetry.  You can have killer ideas and craft characters that Meryl Streep would pay you to take on in the movie version, but there will be no movie version until you give that character a story to tell, one with structure.

In fact, once you do understand structure and the inherent potential of story architecture (which is the draping of structure with concept, character and theme, told through effective scenes; see page 110), your sentences don’t have to be poetic at all. 

They don’t even have to be much more than merely coherent. 

Because in today’s publishing world, story is everything. 

Narrative voice is just, well, nice when it happens.  But it’s not what they’re looking for.   Not remotely.  They’re looking for great stories, well told, with solid structure at their heart.

Rarely is this Big Picture approach to writing stories addressed.  I haven’t seen a writing workshop yet that offers an initial exploration of what “story” even is.  (You’d be shocked and dismayed at how many experienced writers aren’t able to articulate or implement an understanding of “story.”)   It sounds too entry-level, too basic.  Not something you can teach in an afternoon within the confines of a hotel conference center.

They assume everybody with an admission ticket has that one nailed.  And everybody doesn’t.  In fact, as someone who reads and coaches unpublished manuscripts for a living, I can tell you that the most common shortcoming of unpublished writing is, in fact, a lack of a solid grasp of storytelling.

Which means — if that’s you — as you listen to the breakout session at the next writing conference on How to Write a Better Sex Scene, you’ll do so without the essential context of the Big Picture.  You’ll get something out of it, sure, but too often you’re not sure what to do with it.  If you take that workshop but still don’t know how to write a story, at best you’ll end up with a broken novel or screenplay that has a great sex scene in it.

It’s like trying to build a car from scratch and taking a seminar on how to repair your brakes, when you’re not sure how the brake system interfaces with the brake pedal, or even why the brakes are necessary at all. 

Do you need to master the separate parts in order to master the Big Picture of storytelling? 

Absolutely yes.  Do you need to understand how the parts relate to each other?  Of course you do.  Do you need to wrap your head around how to make the collective gathering of those parts into something beautiful, a whole in excess the sum of the parts?  Well, that’s the idea, isn’t it. 

But that workshop isn’t out there. 

Neither is the book.  Not really, at least for novelists.  I’ve talked to students that after three decades of reading how-to books and going to workshops, their vision of that “collective whole” is still eluding them.  I read those hopeful manuscripts and realize that certain basic engine parts are missing, or if they’re present they’re in the wrong place for the wrong reasons. 

Which translates to: the writer doesn’t understand story structure.

The overwhelmingly common trait among unpublished manuscripts is the lack of big picture context that disempowers a relationship between the essential narrative parts.  This results in bland ideas with great characters.  Characters rendered one dimensionally.  Clever stories with no tangible theme, or stories with too many themes watered down to vagueness.  Stories told without dramatic tension and pace.  Out of whack scenes.  Riddled with wrong notes.  The complete and utter absence of stakes.  Pedestrian writing. 

Any one of these can kill your story.

That’s precisely why most novels and screenplays don’t get sold, despite perhaps being technically sound.  Because it’s art, and art cannot be quantified or reduced to a template.

Story structure is not a template.  It’s a set of principles that translate into sequential guidelines and criteria-driven content.

 Want more?  Click HERE to learn more about “Story Structure — Dymystified”… or HERE to buy it now.

Announcing the Launch of “Story Structure – Demystified” is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

If you’ve been challenged by the notion – or if you’re in complete denial – that effective stories can and should be broken down into sequential parts, that each of these parts has a unique contextual mission to fulfill, and that each segment is separated by a critical milestone that must accomplish certain storytelling feats… 

… if this is you, then get ready for some very good news.

Because the storytelling world isn’t really quite as black and white as I’ve made it out to be. 

If you’re a screenwriter, you’re still absolutely stuck with specific targets for the plot points in your stories.  But if you’re a novelist, you will be delighted to hear that what screenwriters must regard as a set of rules really function more like a set of principles where you’re concerned.

These principles are like traffic.  Consistently disregard them and chances are you won’t get a professional chauffer’s license.  But exceeding a few speed limits or cheating a stop sign now and then, that doesn’t mean you’ll end up in jail.  Or dead.  Or become the cause of someone else being dead.

It just means you got away with it.  Which, when it comes to writing fiction, may be perfectly fine.  This doesn’t negate the principle, it just serves your creative needs at the time.

Principles, like a moral code, still require a general sense of discipline and homage.  At least if you want to coexist in the society in which they prosper.

Or with writing, at least if you want to publish your work.

The Case of the Wandering Plot Point

Yesterday I used a five hour airplane ride to read a highly regarded thriller by a writer who lives in a neighboring zip code.  As usual, I found myself deconstructing the story as I went along, making sure the requisite plot points appear within their narrowly-defined range of locale, and that the four sequential parts did their generically-prescribed contextual job.

That’s the downside of studying story structure.  Every novel you read and every movie you see becomes a bit of a clinic.  Last time I just sat back and got lost in a story was when the Swiss Family Robinson was turning a confluence of vines into a foyer.

In my advocacy of story structure I encourage this deconstruction process as a means of understanding what the four parts of a story are intended to do, and how the milestones that separate them are the stuff of dramatic tension, pacing and character arc. 

So there I am, sitting in 24A somewhere between Honolulu and Seattle, waiting for the first plot point to appear where it should.  And waiting.  And waiting.  Past the prescribed 20^th percentile.  Past the 25^th.  Getting nervous as we zip through the 3oth.

The first plot point in this New York Times bestseller finally showed up on page 118 in a 356 page novel.  Do the math, that’s not supposed to happen.

Got me to thinking.  I need to take my musings on story structure a step further.

A plot point may not be what you think it is.

The definition of a first plot point is a change in the story that defines the hero’s quest and need going forward, and does so in the face of an antagonistic force that the reader suddenly understands to an extent that empathy and emotion are evoked, while creating obstacles to the hero’s quest, and thus creating stakes that depend on the hero’s ability to overcome those obstacles.

A mouthful.  Chew it carefully, because it will nourish your story.  Or kill it if you don’t swallow it all.

Because that is always what a first plot point does.

If you look closely, though, the essence of that definition is the grasping of what the plot point means, rather than what it is. 

Read that again.  It’s subtle, and it’s critical.

A husband suddenly dying of an accident may seem like a plot point, if nothing else than by the sheer magnitude of how it changes the widow’s life.  But, if the story is about how she is supposed to deal with the fact that the husband has left all the insurance money to a heretofore unknown mistress, it is the moment when that fact is revealed that becomes the plot point, rather than the death itself.

As you look for plot points in the work of others, don’t be seduced by magnitude.  Look for the narrative moment at which the story clarifies, when the hero’s quest truly begins an informed forward motion. 

When the story switches from set-up mode into reaction mode.

It’s the stakes that the first plot point creates that counts, not the size of the explosion.

A plot point may not appear precisely where it should.

I’ve said (as has Syd Field) that the first plot point should occur at a point between the 20^th and 25^th percentile in the story.

If you’ve perceived that to be a rule, that’s good, because it is the optimal range.  But you, the novelist, have the latitude to cheat that on either side, depending on the nature of the preceding set-up sequence (the very definition of Part 1). 

If you delay the first plot point past the 25^th percentile, then you’ll need several twists and a deepening of the stakes prior to that point.  Without them the set-up will take too long and you’ll lose the reader.

If you’re Big Bang plot point comes much earlier, then make sure you put another twist – one that deepens the stakes of the story – at about the 25^th percentile, making sure that it changes the course of the hero’s quest from what it was.

A plot point may be a sequence of scenes, versus a specific moment.

Sometimes the first plot point isn’t a sudden moment at all.  It can also be the consequence of a sequence of scenes or story points, all condensed around the prescribed vicinity where the plot point should occur.

Sometimes when it’s tough to nail down a plot point in a story we are reading or a movie we are seeing, it’s because several things happen that could be the plot point.  For instance, using the example from above…

The husband is seen cheating.  The husband dies.  The wife is told by the lawyer that the insurance policy doesn’t bear her name.  The mistress shows up at her house demanding the jewelry – including her wedding ring – that the dead husband has just left her in his will.

Obviously, the widow has a new quest and need, and she’s in reaction mode.  A plot point has definitely occurred.

But where?  Which moment defines the point plot? 

A plot point may occur as a sequence of scenes that occur from the 20^th to 28^th percentile of the story.  Each scene changes the nature of the widow’s quest, spinning the story in a new direction, but only after they’re all on the table do we fully understand what it means.

So which scene is the plot point itself?

Answer: it doesn’t matter.  At least not for the reader when the sequence is regarded as a whole.  The writer knows – my money is on the lawyer’s revelation that the mistress is the beneficiary – but post-execution it is the effect of the scenes, rather than the mission, that counts.

Relax.  Tell your story. 

But do so from within the context of understanding how and where story structure comes into play.  This will keep you safe and keep the story moving forward.

Just like a musician can’t go off riffing a solo until they understand the underlying melody.  Just like an athlete can’t successfully freelance a play until they understand where the rest of the team will be on the field. 

Don’t sweat the percentages.  Sweat the stakes, the dramatic tension and reader empathy.  If you’re simply in the neighborhood, story architecture will protect you.

But if you disregard its principles, be aware that this is a tough neighborhood, indeed.  Once lost, you may never be found.

At least, your story won’t be found in a bookstore, that is.

Shades of Gray: A Somewhat Liberating Spin on Story Structure is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

 I’ve been hearing that question a lot lately.  Story structure is old news, and frankly it rubs some writers the wrong way.  It shouldn’t – that’s like saying gravity and taxes rub you the wrong way.

Deny them all you want… they’re always there, inescapable, sucking you in.

Story architecture, on the other hand, isn’t always there.  While intuitively interpretable, this is a term I’ve coined to describe the collective whole that exceeds the sum of the storytelling parts.  Or what I call The Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling.

I like to think of this as the new conventional wisdom of storytelling.  I didn’t make up these truths, I’ve just made up the model and the name for a fresh new way of packaging and looking at them, and in a manner many tell me is the first clear path they’ve come across.

So is there a difference between story structure and story architecture?

Oh yeah.  You bet your thesaurus there is.

If You Build It They Will Read

The critical context of understanding the difference is to accept that story structure is a sub-set of story architecture.  In order to have solid story architecture you must first create an underlying structure… plus a bunch of other stuff.

Otherwise it’s like trying to put clothes on a jellyfish.  Trying to lay down a coat of paint on a pile of loose rocks.  Trying to stuff an aroma into a beautiful urn.  Or my favorite — attempting to stuff the toothpaste back into the tube.

No solid structure, no story.  No structure, no possibility of ensuing story architecture.

Let’s turn to the more common meaning of these two terms, from the building and construction trade.  Structure is the foundation, girders, support beams and floorplan that allows a building to stand upright.  To support weight.

Structure can be, and often is, bland and without art, completely void of heart and soul.  Like an empty warehouse or your local DMV office .  Nobody applies the term architecture to those places.

Architecture describes, at least in this metaphoric context, the artful aesthetic of a building.  It is structure enhanced by a host of beautiful elements and adornments, from arching doorways sculpted with scrolled designs and carvings to sweeping stairways with metallic accents and surfaces laced with designs and images and textures, all of it adorned with alluring lighting and well-placed works of art, embraced with landscaping and spiced with color.

All houses are structures.  But only a few are architecturally-designed houses.  And those are the ones that end up on the covers of magazines.

Which is precisely where you want your story to end up.  In other words… published.  Only architecturally-designed stories get published.

The aesthetic sum of these parts is art itself.  All of it beginning with a structure that was nothing more than a floorplan built over a solid foundation.

The Art and Craft of Story Architecture

Story structure is the sequence of your scenes that result in a story well told.

Story architecture is the empowerment of those scenes through compelling characterizations, powerful thematic intentions, a fresh and intriguing conceptual engine and a writing voice brings it all to life with personality and energy.

Structure is craft.  It can be studied, learned, practiced and implemented.  It is not talent-dependent (talent being a relative and elusive term), it is effort-dependent and knowledge-dependent.

Architecture is art.  It, too, can be studied, learned, emulated and implemented.  It is talent-dependent, with the acknowledgement that talent itself can be cultivated and evolved through learning and practice. 

Not every writer is born to be John Updike.  But every writer can bring architecture to their story, provided they open themselves to it.  Provided they don’t ascribe to the there-are-no-rules school of writing and immerse themselves in the proven truths that successful writers validate on every shelf in every bookstore you’ve ever been in.

Story architecture, in this sense, is what separates a story from the crowd.  It is the differentiator between non-published and published writing.

Gravity sucks.  Always has, always will.  And that’s not a bad thing.

Especially when you think of it this way: gravity is what empowers us to dance.

Storyfix brings you two posts today.  If you’ve just arrived, there’s a slightly more personalized post just below this one.

Story Structure vs. Story Architecture: “Dude… what’s the diff?” is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com