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

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

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 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

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

And now for the continuing run of yesterday’s milestone post:

A bold claim, that.  But I challenge you to read this stuff — which, when printed, really does fit onto one page — and then argue that you’ve seen a more empowering checklist of must-haves gathered in such a condensed space. 

There’s enough stuff here to fill up a bookshelf.  If you don’t know what these questions mean, then by all means go to that bookshelf and settle in.  If you do, then get busy, your bestseller awaits.

This is a listing of everything you need to know about your story before you can successfully finish it, stated in the form of a question.  There was a time when I would say this is everything you should know about your story before you write it, but that only applies to folks who want to write a first draft that’s basically, with a tweak or two, a polish away from being submittable. 

Crazy, I know, but it happens.  I’ve sold three first drafts using this approach.

For drafters — those allergic to story planning and who fight to the death for their defiance of outlining — this becomes a checklist of things you’re looking to discover (answer) in your series of inevitable drafts.  The more answers you can stuff into your next draft, the fewer subsequent draft you’ll need to write.

And if you leave only a few of these untouched  then no draft you write will ever be final.  Only abandoned.

Yeah, it’s that powerful. 

Print this baby  out and keep it in a safe place.  Frame it and put it next to your PC.  Whatever works.  Because when you fully understand what these questions mean to your story, and how to integrate the answers into it, you’re there. 

What is the conceptual hook/appeal of your story?

What is the theme(s) of your story?

How does your story open?  Is there an immediate hook?  And then…

• what is the hero doing in their life before the first plot point?
• what stakes are established prior to the first plot point?
• what is your character’s backstory?
• what inner demons show up here that will come to bear on the hero later in the story?
• what is foreshadowed prior to the first plot point?

What is the first plot point in your story?

• is it located properly within the story sequence?
• how does it change the hero’s agenda going forward?
• what is the nature of the hero’s new need/quest?
• what is at stake relative to meeting that need?
• what opposes the hero in meeting that need?
• what does the antagonistic force have at stake?
• why will the reader empathize with the hero at this point?
• how does the hero respond to the antagonistic force?

What is the mid-point contextual shift/twist in your story?

• how does it part the curtain of superior knowledge…
• … for the hero?…  and/or, for the reader?
• how does this shift the context of the story?
• how does this pump up dramatic tension and pace?

How does your hero begin to successfully attack their need/quest?

• how does the antagonistic force respond to this attack?
• how do the hero’s inner demons come to bear on this attack?

What is the all-is-lost lull just before the second plot point?

What is the second plot point in your story?

• how does this change or affect the hero’s proactive role?

How is your hero the primary catalyst for the successful resolution of the central problem or issue in this story?

• how does it meet the hero’s need and fulfill the quest?
• how does the hero demonstrate the conquering of inner demons?
• how are the stakes of the story paid off?
• what will be the reader’s emotional experience as the story concludes?

The frequent visitor to Storyfix.com will notice that these blocks of questions correspond to the four parts of story structure, as described in our recent 10-part series.

And how, upon closer examination, the list envelopes all of the four elemental components of the Six Core Competencies (concept, theme, character and structure), leaving the other two (scenes and writing voice) to your brilliant execution.

And if you aren’t a frequent visitor here, I submit to you that perhaps you should be.  If you can find one page of information this densely populated with relevant guidelines and empowering milestones, snatch it up.  But I’m betting you can’t, at least elsewhere. 

You’re here.  Welcome to the breakthrough in your writing journey you’ve been looking for.  Welcome to Storyfix.com

The Single Most Powerful Writing Tool You’ll Ever See That Fits On One Page is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

And oh… get ready for an onslaught of metaphors.

Every once in a while you’ll read about a neophyte swimmer getting into trouble in deep or fast water, and then, when a more experienced swimmer paddles out to help them – one who has themselves almost drowned on more than one occasion, and thus has learned how to remain buoyant – they fight off rescue with all their waning strength. 

The thing about panic is that it can get you killed.

What can kill you even quicker is not even knowing that you need rescuing.

The analogy hits home because every now and then, more often than you’d think, I encounter a writer who just won’t accept the unimpeachable truth and validity of story architecture.  They fight it off as if their writing dream is being mugged.  They reject it as formulaic, they do everything in their power to make it wrong.

Even when you show them that virtually every published novel and produced screenplay is, in fact, a natural product of solid story architecture.

To believe otherwise is like saying the aesthetic beauty of the halls of Versailles has nothing to do with poured concrete foundations and seamless masonry.  Or that, back in the day, there wasn’t an actual blueprint for it all.

These architectural atheists swear that writing a novel or a screenplay is, or should be, a process of random exploration, that their joy resides in following characters down blind alleys and allowing them to set their own pace from there, with no real knowledge of where they’re going.

This is like saying the joy of playing golf is wandering randomly around the course, crisscrossing fairways, club in hand, hitting balls at assorted greens as you please.

I don’t dispute the kick in such an approach.  Hey, random creativity can be fun… so can finger painting.  There’s an inherent kick in a lot of things: drugs, alcohol, sex with ex-spouses, Russian roulette… but that doesn’t make it smart or ultimately productive.

Me thinks these folks are confusing process with product. 

If you’re only in it for the process, hey, knock yourself out.  Just don’t expect to get published.

Writing without bringing a solid grasp of story architecture to the keyboard is like doing surgery without having gone to medical school.  It’s a recipe for frustration and inevitable rejection.  Because the patient’s gonna die.

Just because you’ve watched every episode of Grey’s Anatomy doesn’t mean you’re ready to do an appendectomy.  Just like having read everything Tom Clancy’s ever written doesn’t qualify you to write a publishable techno thriller.

Story architecture is nothing short of the holy grail of fiction writing.  Or if you prefer, the ante-in.  Tom Clancy and every other author in the bookstore understands this.  Even if they write from the center of the seat of their pants. 

How they write isn’t the issue.  What they know about what they write is.

You can write like Shakespeare in love and have the imagination of Tim Burton on crack, but if your stories aren’t built on solid and accepted structure  – which means, you don’t get to invent your own – you’ll be wallpapering your padded cell with rejection slips.

I’m not saying you have to outline your stories.  That’s not what story architecture means.  What I am saying is that you do have to apply the principles of story architecture to the story development process, outline or no outline.  At least, if you want to publish.  That’s just a fact.

That said, allow me to backtrack just a nudge or two. 

If you’re a screenwriter, the confines of the structural box within with you live are as inflexible as a Donald Trump pre-nuptial agreement.  Obey them or die trying to be the next Tarantino, who inexplicably got a free pass on all this stuff.  Screenwriters don’t mind the box into which they are stuffed, they accept it and go creatively hog wild within its comfy black and white confines.

But here’s the good news for novelists: life is easier for you.  All of the structural guidelines and story milestones put forth here in this 10-part series on story structure are offered as principles as opposed to commandments.  When I’ve specified a place to insert a milestone, you get to insert the word roughly into that specification.  When I’ve identified the length of a certain part of a story, you get to chop or add to a reasonable extent.

Stick close to these guidelines and you’ll be treading a proven and safe path. 

Disregard them, and you won’t sell your story.  Period.

Advocating story architecture is like teaching your kids about the world – you tell them to do as you say, not as you do, you tell them about the golden rule and the law of attraction and the mystical consequences of karma, and you do your best to explain that good things happen to good people who live by these creeds.

And when it doesn’t… well, that’s life, and it’s not always fair.  Doesn’t mean it’s not a valid principle.  There are orders of magnitude more examples of dreams gone down in flames from not observing them than there are of success stories arising from exceptions to these guidelines.

Lessons in hand, you watch your children leave the nest to live their lives according to their own whims and appetites.  Sometimes you win, sometimes… not so much.

Where teaching story structure is concerned – sometimes they publish, sometimes they don’t.  You can’t make someone live in a box, even if the sides are somewhat flexible and porous. 

It’s been a pleasure being your lifeguard for this swim in the waters of story architecture.  If you can see the shore, then keep paddling, you’ll get there.  And if you don’t, well, you keep stroking, too.

Because to tread water is to eventually drown.  Moving forward is your only hope of survival.  Unless, of course, you get a kick out of treading water. 

Just don’t kid yourself in the process.  Treading water can feel like swimming, like moving forward, but it’s not.  It’s only wearing you out.  And if you happen to get the aforementioned kick out of it, well, at least you’ll go down happy.

The only life raft coming your way in this sea of choices is one of your own construction.  Or should I say, choosing.

Chances are it has the words USS Story Architecture stenciled on the side.

Story Structure Series: Epilogue… the Fine Print is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

#10 — Part 4… the Final Act

There are more than a few writers and teachers out there, some of them orders of magnitude more famous than me (not hard to do), who don’t like to compartmentalize or even attempt to define the sequential parts and essential milestones of a story’s structure.  Too formulaic, they say.   Takes the fun and creativity out of it, they claim.  A write -by-the-numbers strategy for hacks, a vocal few plead.

And when they do talk about it, they tend to dress up all things structural with descriptions that are less engineering-speak in nature – “the hero’s journey” … “the inciting incident” … and more appropriate to a Lit class at Oxford.  Makes them sound – or more accurately, feel – more writerly.

What’s interesting is that the stories these writers create follow the exact same sequential paradigm, to whatever extent it can be exact.  Which it really can’t be in something as wide-open as storytelling… the paradigm is, with some exceptions, more directional than specific. 

Or, more likely, if they don’t follow it, they’re probably not published at all. 

None of how it’s labeled is inherently wrong, nor does it really matter.  What you call it is far less important than how you implement it.  And before that, how you understand it.

Thank God for screenwriters.  Because they call it like it is.  In fact, most of them think Oxford is a loafer.

Coming soon: what this has to do with Part 4

I, too, prefer – and based on feedback, a huge and growing constituency of writers also prefer – to call story structure what it is: four parts, four unique contexts and missions for the scenes in them.  Two major plot points and a mid-point.  Call them plot twists if you want to, the folks at Oxford won’t know.  A compelling hero’s need and quest.  Formidable obstacles.  A couple of pinch points.  A character who learns and grows, someone we can empathize with and root for.  Scenes that comprise connective tissue between them all.

All of it in context to a fresh and killer conceptual idea, a clear thematic intention, an interesting world view and a clever take on the plot.

I dunno, sounds pretty creative to me.

In other words, a blueprint for storytelling.  One that, when understood and marinated in artful nuance and dished with clean writing, becomes nothing less than the holy grail, the magic pill, of writing a novel or a screenplay.

Not remotely easy.  But perhaps for the first time, eminently clear.

And then we come to Part 4.  The finale of your story.  And guess what?

There is no blueprint for it.   And other than one, there are no rules, either.

Guidelines for an effective Part 4

The one rule of Part 4 – the resolution of your story – is that no new expositional information may enter the story after the Second Plot Point that commences it.  If something appears in the final act, it must have been foreshadowed, referenced or already in play.  This includes characters – no newcomers allowed.

Aside from that one rule, you’re on your own to craft the ending of your story.  And in doing so, the enlightened writer observes the following guidelines.

That’s why they still call this art.  You’re free to experiment as you please.  And if you’re unpublished, you do so at your own peril.

The hero needs to emerge as the primary catalyst in the resolution.  They can’t  merely observe and narrate, they can’t assume a supporting role, most of all they can’t be rescued.  They need to step up and take the lead.  And

The hero should demonstrate that she or he has conquered any inner demons that have stood in their way in the past, either in their life or specific to your story.  That may have begun in Part 3, but it’s put into use by the hero in Part 4.

They apply that inner learning curve toward their attack on the exterior conflict that blocks their path.

The hero should demonstrate courage, creativity, out-of-the-box thinking, even brilliance in setting the cogs in motion that will resolve the story.  In other words, this is where the protagonist earns the right to be called a hero.

The more your reader feels the ending – which depends on the degree to which you’ve emotionally vested them prior to Part 4, which in turn depends on the amount of vicarious emotion and empathy you’ve brought forth – the more effective the ending will be.  This is the key to a successful story, the pot of gold at the end of your storytelling rainbow.  If you can make them cry, make them cheer and applaud, make them remember – make them feel – then you’ve done your job as a storyteller.

You don’t have to tie off all loose ends.  Only the major ones.  A few flopping loose ends can leave your reader engaged and hoping for a sequel.

If you are writing a series, be very clear that your novel or screenplay needs to resolve the story-specific issues you’ve put in play at Plot Point One.   Your story needs to stand on its own.  What lives on to be published another day is usually character-oriented.  For example, in the Harry Potter series the hero solves a problem in each installment, but the overriding story of him finding and avenging his parents’ killer goes unresolved – though further along – in anticipation of the next installment.

And then something amazing happens…

Here’s the magic of Part 4.  If you’ve done your job well in the first three parts of your story, if you’ve plotted your story with powerful milestones in context to an effective hero’s quest and arc, then you’ll intuitively know how your story needs to end when you get there.  Or if not intuitively, then after some serious introspection and long walks in the woods with a digital recorder.

And by “get there” I’m not suggesting you write the first three parts and then see where you are.  Just shoot me if that’s what you think I mean.

No, I’m saying you should have strategized and plotted your main story pointsbeforehand – even if you aren’t yet sure of your ending – and in the process of developing the first three parts the final act will crystallize as part of the process.

If you do this through a series of drafts, you’ll need to write enough drafts to finally understand what Part 4 needs to be.  Same process, different tolerances for pain. 

And, if you’re a drafter instead of blueprinter (notice I didn’t say outliner, that’s a different process yet), the likelihood of you settling for mediocrity is orders of magnitude greater.  The prospect of rewriting the first 300 pages again does that to a writer.

Too many stories end disappointingly.  And yet they somehow get published and even succeed to some degree.  That’s because the rest of the story, the structure of it and the compelling essence of the character, triumphs to an extent that the ending doesn’t make or break the story at all.  It just is.

That said, better to make your ending a home run, especially if this is your first novel or you’re an unproduced screenwriter.   Anything less will get you rejected.  Only previously published, name-brand authors get away with mediocre endings.

It is the understanding of story architecture that empowers an effective ending.

If you can’t craft a killer ending after a requisite deep immersion into the infrastructure of the first three parts, then you haven’t yet gone deep enough.

Tomorrow’s post: Story Structure… the Fine Print.

Story Structure Series: #10 — Part 4… the Final Act is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com