And hopefully, an answer that will empower you.

I make a lot of noise (both in my book and here) about “mission-driven” storytelling.  Especially “mission-driven” scene development.

The bottom line is this: every scene should have an expositional mission.  Meaning, it delivers one piece of story that propells the narrative forward.  Think of your story as a puzzle… that moment of exposition in a scene is a piece of that puzzle.

If you have too many expositional pieces in a scene — two is often too many — the scene isn’t optimized.

Storyfix reader Gary MacLoud wasn’t exactly confused about the concept… but he did ask a very reasonable and important question about how this mission-driven context relates to characterization… which also a goal of every scene.

A bit of a can of worms.  So let’s discuss.

Here’s how Gary positioned the question:

I have been reading your Story Engineering book, and I am finding it a fascinating read. It’s great to see you expand on things I have read on your site over the last few years. However, one thing I am having difficulty with is understanding mission-driven scene writing. I understand that you want to always just have one mission you are working towards with each particular scene, but when you brought characterization into the mix and started talking about primary and secondary missions of a scene, I began to get confused.

I think I understand that we should always have two things in mind when crafting a scene – advancing plot and advancing characterization. More often than not we are simply advancing plot and the particular piece of plot information that is uncovered during the scene is the thing we have been ‘driving towards’, but should we still ensure characterization is maintained or advanced alongside this? If we are showing the reader something about the character, such as in DeMille’s The Lion second scene, does that mean we can’t uncover a particularly important piece of plot information in the same scene?

If we have an important point to make about the character, and an important piece of plot information to uncover, we can’t have them in the same scene because we would be driving towards two missions for that scene. Is that correct?

Or is it always a case of there is a primary mission and a secondary mission, either one being plot related or character related, but sometimes the characterization is stronger than the plot and that is obvious to the reader, so character is primary, and sometimes plot is stronger than the characterization, therefore plot becomes primary. Therefore, it becomes a case of which mission, primary or secondary, we want to apply more weight to in a scene, but both are most definitely needed. If this is the case, could you provide a brief example of primary and secondary missions in this manner in a scene.

This was my response:

Hi Gary — great questions.  And your take in the final paragraph is very solid.  The fact that you even notice a sense of flexibility in these principles (which I admit were put out there, or could be perceived, as rather inflexible) is a great sign that your inner storyteller is flexing.
 
At a professional level of anything, fundamentals are largely inflexible.  We should teach beginners about principles with this as context.  Michael Jordan can shoot a free throw with his eyes closed, Josh Groban can “speak” a lyric without holding to the melody, a painter can throw in a secret message… but one must earn one’s stripes to make this work.  It’s not about ”having a right” to do something out of the box (because this is “art” after all), but rather, having the skill and sensiblity to allow it to work within the sequence of the narrative, without becoming  disruption, a break in the rhythm or otherwise taking one’s eye off the expositional ball.

In other words, there are “general fundamentals” that become default contexts.  In scene writing, they are: always be true to (or further) characterization, and deliver a piece of story exposition that moves the story forward.
 
If a moment of characterization does, in fact, move the story forward, then THAT becomes the scene’s mission.  If it simply illustrates characterization that is already in place, then without an expositional revelation the scene becomes moot.  You can get away with this once or twice in story, but a pattern of character-only scenes quickly becomes a deal killer.
 
These decisions are the art of it all.  Characterization is like interior decorating in a fine restauant… it only goes so far if the food isn’t right.  But it can also define and differentiate.  People come for both reasons, and you need to serve both.
 
Sorry my answer isn’t more precise, but the question is bigger than that.  Thanks for asking, hope this helps.

Feel free to chime in on this.

If you haven’t subscribed to my newsletter yet, here’s at peek at the April issue, which contains a little ‘insider discount” with only a few days left to opt-in.  The May edition is brewing as we speak.

An Insightful Question from a Storyfix Reader is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Always wanted to write a headline like that.

Not everybody appreciates Romance novels.  Not everybody reads Romance novels.  That said, more people DO read Romance novels than any other single genre out there.  A genre that continues to grow.  A genre with more passionate readers and writers than any other.

Which means, we should all pay atention to what’s going on there.

I just got back from giving an intensive “advanced” workshop to about 100 Romance authors, a bash thrown by the Rose City Romance Writers, a wing of the Romance Writers of America that flutters hearts out of Portland, Oregon.  When I was invited to speak a while ago, I was immediately slammed by two realizations: a) I needed a quick crash course on the genre, and b) I was more than a little intimidated.

It happened.  I survived.  Am licking a few wounds.  And I’ve fallen in love.

Here’s what I learned.

I learned that from this point forward I will refer to the genre with a capital R.  The genre is Romance.

It deserves more respect than it gets outside of the club.  The novels are legitimately difficult to write.  They demand mastery of the most challenging of all the Six Core Competencies (characterization).  They have expectations and “rules” that are unique to the genre, and it’s a crowded market.

I learned they have more sub-genres than anywhere else.  If someone can fall in love, in any way, in any combination, in any place, at any point in time, in any dimension or on any planet, there’s a Romance sub-genre for it. 

My preparation not only included reading a few titles…

… but scouring the web for the conventional wisdom.  I was relieved to learn that the underlying fundamentals of story structure are no less valid in Romance than elsewhere… but they are somewhat complicated by the concurrent unfolding of two plotlines.  Not merely plot and sub-plot, but legitimately two story arcs that must eventually, if you’ll excuse the term, marry.

I’ve learned that the genre has evolved — loosened up with the times in terms of archetypes – but those expectations remain cast in stone: a HEA ending (Happily Ever After), a quick connection between a female protagonist and a male love interest who looks great with his shirt off.

I learned that the female protagonist is referred t0 (in the club) as “the heroine,” and that her shirtless male love interest is called “the hero.”  I gave in on that one, some things change easily… the story still has a primary protagonist, and it’s always the woman.  Which, in the larger vernacular of storytelling, makes her the hero… a word that is without genre in the writing world elsewhere.

No big deal, I can live with that.

I learned that scene execution is even more critical in the Romance genre.  These stories read like movies, there is very little expositional omnipotent connective narration, no musings about the state of things, just a tight focus on the moment.

I learned that these writers are smart.  Killer smart. 

On Day One, when I asked my usual warm-up question — how many of have been published? — well over half of the 30 available hands shot into the air.  I quickly learned that many of these writers had been extensively published, with 10 or more novels out there.  One had 23, another 24.  One had written over 40 — an admitted “pantser” who confessed that it took several dozen tries before the rhythms of structure became solid enough allow her pantsing ways to work… music to this Storyfixer’s ears.  Now she’s huge in the Romance game (see the cover shown above).

There was a sense that they had been there, heard that.  More than at any conference I’ve worked.  This tells me these writers are well-studied, that they haven’t grown their craft merely out of a vicarious reading experience, that they are far down the road to a professional level of craft.  Good on them.

I learned that these writers care as much about the “outside” source of story conflict (the non-Romance plotline) as they do the love story.  In fact, when we were offering and debating story ideas, hardly anyone gave the Romance plot any airtime in the discussion.  I found that fascinating… it was as if the Romance plot (which occupies up to 75 percent of the contextual content of the story) was a given, an easy-deal, and it was the exterior plot that challenged.

I learned that these writers were hungry for insight, tips and pointers that would empower them to elevate their work.  At the pace at which these writers work — some have contracts for three or four or more novels a year — this is a good thing.

I learned that these writers like sexual content, and context.  I mean, really like it.

I learned there is sometimes a vernacular attached to the genre that is misinterpreted, similar to the hero-heroine point above.  A misinterpretation can lead a writer to the conclusion that the rules of Romance fiction are separate from, and above, those that underpin any and all genres, and that the structure of Romance is immune to the natural laws of what makes a story work.

They aren’t.  My hope is that I convinced at least a few of these writers of this truth.

I left them with with two areas of emphasis. 

One: elevate your concepts.  Yes, Romance is driven by concept, too.  The stronger the better.  And Two: keep passion — you wouldn’t think I’d need to hammer this one, but I felt as if I did — as the driving fuel of the story. Not only to write about passion, but to write with it.

Love Your Genre

That’s critical, I think.  Consider writing in the genre you love to read.  To live in the world where your dreams, fantasies, experience and hopes reside.  Where your brain is challenged, your heart enriched and your hormones — whatever their flavor — are percolated.

And when you need a break, grab a romance and fall in love.

My personal bottom line — because I am a romantic by nature anyhow — I think I love this genre.  I think I might give it a go.  I even have a pen name in mind, one that would look totally hot on a book cover.

If you’d like to see what one of the attendees wrote on her website about this workshop, click HERE.  Still trying to figure out what she meant by not swooning… okay, sorry I don’t (or no longer) look like the guys on your covers.

What I Just Learned from a Room Full of Romance Writers is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Ask anyone who writes fiction how many issues an author needs to think about, how much stuff there is to know and execute, and you may get an answer that amounts to dozens, even hundreds of things.

That’s pretty accurate, actually. Few who have tried it are tempted to over-simplify.

You know my theory, my story development model:

All of those dozens of things, or hundreds of things, can be categorized into six discrete buckets of elements, nuances and requisite functions, each of which is essential to a successful story. I call them the Six Core Competencies of successful storytelling, and they really do cover the whole fiction enchilada.

Think of something you need to know, and it’ll fall into one of those six buckets.

That said, each of them is a matter of degree. For each thing within any of the six buckets, you can cover the base, or you can hit it out of the park.

Or six parks, for that matter.

Toward that end, it’s good to inventory your six buckets of storytelling strategy, and all their inherent nuts and bolts of content and technique… if nothing else to make sure you’re not taking anything for granted. You want your story to be the best it can possibly be, and it’s easy to settle in one category while pursuing excellence in another.

What follows is offered as a sort of checklist, organized as a good, better and best description under each of the Six Core Competencies. That’s 18 opportunities to improve your story.

My hope is that you’ll find something you can take to the next level.

Concept

Defined: the Big Idea of your story… the basic what if? proposition… the dramatic landscape… the window into plot… the source of conflict… the compelling question… the enticing situation… the promise of the story… the stage upon which character finds something to do.

Good: the reader is inherently drawn to the proposition through an attraction to the answer to the dramatic question posed.

Better: the reader can inherently experience the hero’s journey in pursuit of that answer. They can live the hero’s journey vicariously.

Best: the reader not only experiences the hero’s journey, but empathetically feels what’s at stake. The reader relates to the consequences of the resolution of the story.

Example: The Hunger Games. The concept alone is a home run. Then again, a novel like Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom relies more on character than concept (yes, it has one).

Lesson: the deeper you are within a genre — any given genre – the more critical concept becomes. Concept is the stage upon which character is allowed to unfold.

Character

Defined: the protagonist of the story, presented with layers of backstory, inner psychology, outer dimensions and a journey that will allow her or him to become heroic as they evolve as necessary to eventually serve as the primary catalyst of the story’s resolution (which is what heroes do).

Good: a protagonist we can root for.

Better: a protagonist we can relate to.

Best: a protagonist who feels what we feel, fears what we fear and steps into the hero’s role as we would hope we would… in other words, a vicarious juxtaposition between hero and reader on an emotional level.

Example: Holden Caufield in Catcher in the Rye. He’s us, at our most basic level of humanity.

Theme

Defined: the relevance and transparency of the human experience through the dynamics of the story, both in terms of character and conflict.

Good: a story that shows life as it really is. One that allows us to recognize the dynamics of being alive in whatever time the story reveals, while illuminating universal truths in any case.

Better: a story that shows the virtues of heroism as it plays out on a thematically rich and realistic stage.

Best: a story that pushes buttons, doesn’t flinch, one that demands the reader see both sides and all the options that attach to the hero’s choices, and teaches us truth and reality in the process.

Example: John Irving’s The Cider House Rules, which exposes both sides of a polarizing issue on a level that defies politics and religion and doesn’t flinch from consequences on either side.

And of course, Kathryn Stockett’s The Help is a clinic on theme.

Structure

Defined: the expositional unfolding of the story in a sequence that deepens stakes, presents twists while defining the reading experience.

Good: a solid four-part sequential presentation of the story: set-up… response (to the first plot point)… a proactive attack on the problem… resolution.

Better: a sequence that allows the reader to get lost in the story in a vicarious way, which is the deepening of the effectiveness and compelling nature of the four parts that comprise it.

Best: a story that surprises, intrigues, captures, and then rewards the reader on both an emotional and intellectual level.

Example: Dan Brown’s The Davinci Code. Love it or hate it, the story blends all six core competencies in a way that, literally, readers could not put down. All 80 million of them.

Scene Execution

Defined: blocks of narrative exposition that move the story forward in an optimal way, with equal attention to characterization and dramatic tension.

Good: scenes that are logical in order, that blend into subsequent scenes.

Better: scenes that play like little one-act dramas, each with a set-up, confrontation and resolution. Scenes that deliver one primary, salient point of plot exposition while contributing to characterization.

Best: scenes that cut quickly to the point of the scene, that resolve a moment while setting up a subsequent deepening of stakes, urgency, options and character arc.

Example: anything by Michael Connelly, Nelson Demille, or Jodi Picoult.

Writing Voice

Defined: the flavor of the writing itself (the prose), from the reader’s point of view.

Good: exposition that is clear, direct and uses adjectives and description sparsely yet effectively. Prose that is not conscious of itself for the sole purpose of stylistic effort. Prose that readers don’t really notice as they get lost in the story.

Better: prose that illuminates the sub-text of the moment, and of the characters involved.

Best: prose that goes down easy, with a hint of humor and spice, with nuance and subtletly where required, and the power of a blunt instrument when called for.

Example: John Updike was the modern master of voice.  Read Colin Harrison, too, who sets the bar here higher than anyone still breathing.

If you are drafter (pantser), you can discover these opportunities as you go, and revise and optimize as you do future drafts.

If you are planner, you can (and should) think of these at the both macro-story (plot and character exposition) and micro-story (sub-text and scenes), making sure they all seize their inherent potential to enrich your story.

Either way, all of these things will find a way onto the page by the time you’re done. The real question is… will they just show up, or will they be the best they can be?

Go deeper. Harder. Be in command of every moment of your story.

Can you think of other examples of stories that are stellar in any of these core competencies?

If you’d like more on the Six Core Competencies, please consider my book, “Story Engineering.”

See you this weekend at the Rose City Writers (Portland, OR) conference. Me and 200 romance-minded women talking story over four sessions totaling 10 classroom hours… doesn’t get any better than that.

If you’re looking for a workshop presenter for your next writing conference, let’s talk. I describe my workshops as intense, surprising, entertaining and, sometimes, slightly disturbing. Experiences that change your life usually are. References available.

Six Core Storytelling Competencies: Good… Better… Best. is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

A Guest Post by Art Holcomb

This is about the craft of writing stories in another person’s universe .

For ten years – between 1994 and 2004 – in addition to my work in comics and screenwriting, I was among a number of writers asked to pitch story ideas to Paramount Studios in Hollywood for all four of the recent STAR TREK shows (The Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, Voyager and Enterprise). 

Now, writing for such a show came with a number of restrictions:

-           The STAR TREK characters are well-known to millions of viewers and readers;  who they are is set in stone, and could not be altered through the course of any one story; that is, their natures could not change;

-           As in any serialized story, the writer must start the characters off at “Point A”, run them through their paces, complicate the heck out of them, but always return them to that “Point A”, wiser but unchanged. It was like borrowing a friend’s car to go on a trip, but having to make sure that you refill the tank, have it washed and park it in the same place when you’re done.

-           Any story I might create could not interfere with any continuing plotlines and upcoming story arcs that the staff writers had already created for the main characters.

-           I was never going to sell anything that is too expensive in terms of elaborate sets, specific actors or costly special effects.

-           And, above all, I could not violate the internal logic of the show. (Think: phasers and time travel were possible – dragons, not so much)

So . . . Ten years.

Hundreds of story ideas.

Thousands of hours – many of which felt as though they were spent putting square pegs into round holes or trying to write a haiku with only eight words. Especially hard at first for someone who had been used to creating his own characters and storylines.

But the opportunity was exciting and the training invaluable because every month I wrote and pitched new ideas to working TV story editors or producers and got detailed and pointed feedback on my work. These experienced, working writers’ sole job during these meetings was to find and develop new ideas for a show.  The stories they liked were then sent “upstairs” for review by the Executive Story Editor.  Many stories were dismissed as not suiting their needs, but all were discussed and critiqued and I was often sent back to take another pass at some of them for further review.  What was always scheduled to be a quick meeting sometimes went on for hours and I was dedicated to learning as much as I could here – in the time I had – from the very people who had the kind of job I wanted.

And it paid off.  I got better at writing in another’s universe and went on to sell more comic books and an animation script in part because l better understood the form, but also because I had learned how to pitch a story and how to be comfortable talking to people in power (more about that in a future post).

I found it took a large number of ideas to come up with every viable story, and the process taught me how to separate the wheat from the chaff.  Eventually, the harvest of ideas became more bountiful.

From the experience, I discovered some approaches that could help you develop new story ideas, for your own characters/universe or someone else’s:

(1)   UNIQUE COMBINATIONS AND CONNECTIONS: I started out by making a chart to look at all the possible character interactions for any possible points of conflict or interest.  Picard vs Riker, Picard vs Troi, Riker vs. Troi and so on.  This made me focus in turn on each interaction separately.  By concentrating on just two characters to exclusion of the others,  points in their backstory popped out – points that sometimes led to new insight and ideas;

(2)  FILLING HOLES.  Backstories are not airtight; some small facts casually mention in an episode could have excellent story possibility. That’s why reading the show bible and watching the episodes closely are part of a professional’s job. In addition, all characters have their own cast of backstory players: a stern parent, lost or wayward sibling, a favorite uncle/mentor/childhood friend. Like real life, these players float in and out of the character’s lives causing stress and conflict.  Make this new person unique and the problem compelling and you’ll find plenty of motivation there.

(3)  ASIMOV’S QUESTIONS: Isaac Asimov, the prolific author, said that all science fiction stories turn on three questions:

1. What if ____________ happened?
2. If only ___________ would happen?
3. If __________ goes on, then __________ must happen.

This approach worked well with both the technical and scientific aspect of this science fiction world, as well the natural extension of human beings and their lives together: characters fall in love (if even for just an episode) and they face death, longing and the failure of dreams like any of us. Not being a science-type guy, I tended to concentrate of the human stories, which worked out well for me later on, and these tools work just as well for alien attacks as unrequited love;

(4)  THE PROXIMATE FAILURE: “And when that fails, ___________ will happen.”  I like this one especially as it makes me think about consequences. Consider for a moment: a Hero fails most of the time in any given story. Those failure had better be the catalyst for the Hero’s next move, but each failure opens up the possibility for more innovative action by the Hero as well as the Writer.

(5)  SUBSTITUTION:  Sometimes changing one word of a log line can give you a great new idea.  For example, the Christmas story would have been quite different if “three wise GUYS came out of the East” rather than the traditional “wise MEN”.  Whole new set of images and possibilities.

I think that freedom in choices in a story can sometimes be more of a curse than a blessing. It makes for so many possibilities sometimes that you can become paralyzed from the variety of choice. Restrictions can be a good thing if it forces you to focus on structure and characterization.  These restrictions made me find better, tighter stories and develop new skills, because it increased the pressure to perform.

More pressure.  More heat.

That’s how diamonds are made. And stories, too.

Let me know what you think.

Art Holcomb is a screenwriter whose work has appeared on the SHOWTIME Channel, and a comic book author, including Marvel’s X-MEN and Acclaim’s ETERNAL WARRIORS. A number of his recent posts appear in Larry Brooks’ collection: Warm Hugs for Writers: Comfort and Commiseration of The Writing Life. He appears and teaches at San Diego Comic-Con and other conventions.  His most recent screenplay is 4EVER (a techno-thriller set in the Afterlife) and is completing a work book for writers entitled The Pass:  A Proven System for Getting Quickly from Notion to Finished Manuscript.

He lives inSouthern California.

Playing with The Neighbor Kid’s Toys is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

It’s good to find an edge.  Something extracted from the vast wealth of storytelling tips, techniques, principles and strategies already on your radar.  Something that is rarely talked about.  Yet when you know what it is, you see it everywhere. 

Once recognized and understood, you begin to see how it elevates a story into print, onto bestseller lists, and into theaters.

Any genre.  Any writer.  Any story. 

The nice thing about this little kernel of literary gold is that makes virtually any story better.  Even stories in which setting, in a more obvious context, isn’t all that critical.  Sometimes in these stories this little tactic is precisely what makes such a story a winner. 

All the writer has to do is recognize its power, then choose to build their story around it.  To optimize this ingredient.

I wrote about it earlier this week.  I call it vicarious experience, one of the major underlying story forces – essences – that impart power, weight and impact to novels and screenplays.

Vicarious experience is delivered through setting, or though social, cultural or relational dynamics. 

By definition, it means transporting the reader to a place, time or into a situation that:

a) they can’t or probably won’t ever experience in real life…

b) is inherently exciting, curious, dangerous, titillating or rewarding…

c) is forbidden and/or impossible, or…

d) is inherently compelling for some other reason.  Like, it really happened.

Using those letter denotations, this translates to: a) afterlife stories, historical stories, supernatural stories… b) arena stories (The Vatican, a corrupt law firm, a crack den, a major league baseball office), adventure stories, mob stories, stories about storms and mountains and sinking ships, dark love stories, prison stories… c) ghost stories, meth lab stories, corrupt cop stories, speculative fiction… d) issue-driven stories (like “The Help”), true stories, war stories, historical event stories, etc.

This is so common that it is often taken for granted. 

Every story unfolds upon a dramatic stage.  What we’re talking about is recognizing the opportunity to make that stage – both in support of your story, and as an independent source of focus and fascination – more compelling.  This is the forgotten step-child of both story planning and story “pantsing,” when in fact it can empower either process.

A love story set in rural Idaho?  This relies almost entirely on the character dynamic, nobody out there  is really wondering about the experience of being inTwin Falls.  But a love story set in, say… the White House… a nunnery… a pro sports team… the space shuttle… another planet… the afterlife… a big-timeHollywoodtalent agency or studio…

… you get the idea.  Same love story, better setting.  It’s vicariously rewarding just to be there.  The setting itself (as defined above, in this context)  has inherent appeal and reward for the reader.

It is the nature of the experience of being in such a setting that delivers vicarious experience.  We can’t go back to 1962 Jackson, Mississippi (nor would we choose to), but we can go there in The Help, which empowers its thematic intentions with the vivid landscape of its setting. 

When you add your story to a setting that delivers vicarious experience – when you set your story within this time, place or context that is, when regarded alone, inherently interesting – then you get a sum in excess of the parts.

Some stories are almost entirely about the vicarious experience.  Remember Top Gun?  A pretty pedestrian story.  And yet, it put us in the cockpit of a jet fighter, resulting in a billion dollar box office.

You’ve seen this executed over and over, but perhaps haven’t recognized what it has contributed to the reader (or viewing) experience.

Never again.

Let me show you how this exists out there right now.

One of the hot new novels these days is The Darlings, by Cristina Alger.  It’s a coming of age story set during the 2008 financial collapse in a family of billionaires living in the Upper East Side inManhattan.  The reviews almost entirely focused on this contextual setting – how it takes us into this forbidden realm – made all the juicer by the fact that the author is the daughter of a real-life hedge fund Big Cheese. 

Pure vicarious experience.  Same story, set on a cattle farm inKansas… it wouldn’t fly, wouldn’t get the buzz. 

Occupying the #6 position on the bestseller list is Anne Rice’s The Wolf Gift, about – wait for it – werewolves.  It’s fantasy, but like all of Rice’s novels, it’s vicarious in that it allows us to live inside a world in which such creatures exist.  Not only exist, but love.

Harry Potter and Twilight and The Hunger Games all rely on pure vicarious experience.  We get to go to Hogwarts, we get to make love to the living and gorgeous dead, we get to live in a post-apocalyptic world in which moral sensibilities have melted down.  All of these stories have characters and plots and sub-plots – the author could have set them virtually anywhere and in any time — but they are all rendered special and defined by the vicarious experience they deliver.

When Stephanie Meyer decided to write about vampires (and largely reinvent the mythology), she was opting to deliver a vicarious experience.

Same with James Cameron when he made Titanic.  The vicarious experience of being on that ship as it went down was the central appeal of the whole thing.

I lived this firsthand, with my 2004 novel Bait and Switch.  Virtually every review (including the starred review from Publishers Weekly) mentioned “the world into which” I took the reader, that of Silicon Valley high tech billionaires and their trophy wives – a place where none of us can go, many of us wonder about, and where intrigue, danger and private jets await. 

You already understand the importance of setting. 

But vicarious experience, as a goal, can be more than simple time and place.  You can be delivered through social and character dynamics, as well.  What would it be like to be married to a serial killer?  To discover your child has supernatural abilities?  To be suddenly possessed of supernatural abilities yourself?  To live in a world in which aliens have taken over?

The answer to each of these is pure vicarious experience.  These are contextual story landscapes that could unfold in any place, at any time, and within any social system.

So there is it, a secret weapon just waiting for you.

Take a look at your story and ask yourself what kind of vicarious experience you are delivering to your reader.  All stories take us out of our own lives and into another existence, but does your setting – either time, place, contextual or relational –contribute to the reading experience in an exciting, compelling, even frightening way?  One that is vicarious?  One that readers will be drawn to – drawn into – by virtue of this alone?

Like everything else about your story, you get to choose. 

When you understand the power of your choices, not to mention the consequences, more than ever you begin to comprehend that the future upside of your story is yours to craft.

What stories can you think of that leverage the power of vicarious experience to make the story elements even more compelling?

The Secret Weapon of Storytelling… Right Under Your Nose is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

You may be aware of my penchant for analogies.  A tool that paints a clear picture of the complexities and choices and skillsets involved in writing a great story.  I did a workshop this weekend and managed to cram about eight of them into a single 50-minute lecture.

Only one person fled the room.

I do this because I like mental models.  Writing a story is not, in my view, intuitively complex – although that’s a false mask, the truth is it is magnificently complex – and yet it is the absence of complexity that can render a story flat and vanilla. 

So when we compare storytelling to other avocations and tasks that seem, at a glance, to be linear and singular in focus, and discover that success at the professional level depends on the mastery of nuance, balance, harmony, complexity and the unspoken… all rendered with the touch of an artist, those examples become windows of learning for us, we who are storytellers.

It is that mastery of nuance that imbues the work with artfulness. 

Without it, craft only takes you so far.

So consider this: writing a story casts you in several critical roles: designer… architect… general contractor (big picture)… craftsman (for the detail work; use of the word here intended to be gender-free, by the way;)… and – don’t short-change yourself by taking this one for granted – engineer.

You are the producer of your story.  Before, during and after your role as the composer and artist of your story.

Here’s the analogy of the day: this dynamic parallels the means by which music is composed, compiled and rendered to a hard disk in a studio. 

If you’ve seen a mixing board in a professional studio, you know it competes with the cockpit of the space shuttle in complexity and options.  More knobs, gauges, levers and buttons than one who is not a sound engineer could possibly comprehend.  And yet, to the engineer, they are all viable candidates in the ultimate mix, each controlling some nuance of the whole, each subject to artful taste and a vision for the end product.

The touch of an artist, extending that of the composer and the performer.

Notice, too, how in this analogy nobody is playing with those knobs all that much while the musicians are jamming behind the glass.  No, the mixing takes place after the tracks have been laid down… which parallels our process of revising and polishing our stories after we’ve discovered them via planning or through drafting.

A great story is just too complex to pour out of your head as a fully nuanced whole without consideration, after the discovery of the story, of the mix.

Facing the variables in your story.

Here’s a list, off the top of my head. 

Certainly not complete – mixing boards come in all sizes. 

You can create music by attending to only a few of the myriad sliding levers, or you can consider them all… some get a nudge, others are jacked up to eleven. 

It’s always your call. 

And while some of those choices are made in the studio while the tracks are being laid down, most often the genius touch of the engineer comes forth in the mix, turning the live performance into harmonic, layered perfection.

Okay, that list.  Here are the knobs on your story mixing board:

Conceptual strength and focus… originality… a fresh twist… leveraging the familiar… scene strategy… chapterization… arena… setting… time-frame… social context… credibility… genre… target readers… marketability… visualization…

…dramatic tension… story complexity… layering… degree and nature of set-up… power of the hook… context… stakes… sub-plot… sub-text… pre—plot point worldview… sequencing… twists… plot points… pinch points… the mid-point…

… the whole row of knobs and sliders that comprise story structure… (opening, prologue, hook, part one, plot point one, part two, first pinch point, mid-point, part three, second pinch point, second plot point, part four, denouement, close, epilogue)…

… antagonistic nature… antagonistic force… that backstory… bad guy’s goals and motivations… obstacles offered… obstacles encountered… the dark game plan… antagonistic metaphor… window into life itself…

… hero backstory… inner demons and obstacles… character arc… the hero’s journey… the hero’s need… the hero’s stakes… the shifting landscape of the story… secondary characters… catalytic characters… background characters… sidebar moments… flashbacks… fast-forwards…

… imagery… point… counter-point… theme… vicariousness… empathy… likeability… or not… emotion… meaning… relevance… hypothesis… history… fact vs. fiction… legality… gray areas… sex… violence… reader manipulation…

…voice (first person? third person?  both?)… volume… harmony… humor… point of view… backgrounds… foregrounds… dialogue… exposition… pace…

… outcome.

That’s a lot of little knobs and sliders to consider. 

Each one an entire workshop.  No wonder it can take years to even crack the surface of an understanding of this thing we call storytelling.

Each one is addressed in context to what took place behind the glass, where the voices and instruments are: melody, harmony, structure, tonality, emotion, musicianship, voice.

All those knobs, staring up at you.  Waiting to be set just so.  Hoping they won’t be ignored, because if they are, they’ll set themselves in context to the rest of the settings, and do so at a lowest common denominator.

You are the story engineer.  Before, during and after you are the author of the story itself.  At some point they become one in the same. 

Just know that when you change hats, and how, will make a significant difference in how your story ultimately works.

Check out my latest guest post, now up at Writetodone.com: The Chicken-Egg Paradox of Storytelling.  There are links to five other guest posts at the bottom of the page.

Image courtesy of Samuel M. Livingston.

Your Story: It’s All in the Mix is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

All stories have sub-text.  No exceptions.  Because life itself is riddled with it.

The real issue for writers, then – the real opportunity – becomes this: will anyone notice?  Will the sub-text of your story contribute to a sense of tension, emotional layering and expositional opportunities?

An under-appreciated truth: in a world full of genre-based fiction and character-driven mainstream stories, sub-text is perhaps the most differentiating and inherently powerful aspect of storytelling.

If you’re looking for an edge, an advanced tip, a “secret the bestselling authors don’t want you to know”… this is it.  Master this and you’re immediately playing in a league above the norm.

To not proactively address the issue of sub-text with the intention of harnessing it’s power in your story is like a musician ignoring harmony.  Because there is so much inherent potential above, below and between the layers of the main melody-line.

Without the use of differentiating, compelling sub-text in your stories, you are singing a cappella.  And when was the last time you heard that on the Top-100 list?

You don’t have to completely understand sub-text to actually use it to your advantage as a writer of fiction.  Because sub-text is the offspring of setting, characterization, backstory and dramatic exposition.

Sub-text in your story is like stuff growing in your yard.  You can seed it and care for it, or you can let it spring up on its own.  Either way, it defines the street appeal of your home, either adding to or compromising what you’re going for.

That said, sub-text is always an available layer to make your story richer, deeper and more compelling.  The evolved, professional writer gets this.

Of course, knowing what sub-text even means is the starting point. 

So let’s go there.

You already know that you must set your story somewhere.  That your story unfolds in a world of your creation, either real or surreal.  

In a setting.  A location, a timeframe, a culture or society, even within a family or a workplace dynamic of some kind.

But it is more than setting, too.  Sub-text often equates to, and facilitates, theme.  It’s fair to say that setting becomes theme when proactively applied as sub-text.

When you make choices about setting, physical and cultural, you are choosing your sub-text.  Because these choices apply certain pressures – forces – that define and influence what happens within the settings and themes you’ve chosen.

To optimize sub-text, the writer elects to make the story about the setting, time, place or social context by making those pressures and forces actual factors in how the story unfolds.

Remember the movie “Witness,” with Harrison Ford? 

The witness to the crime that anchors the plot was Amish, a belief system that applies significant pressure to the choices of those who adopt it, and defines how the outside world views those who adopt it.  And thus, that sub-text was key to the story.

Without that particular sub-text, “Witness” is just another mystery.  One without eight (1885) Academy Award nominations and two wins. 

In “The Help,” both book and film, sub-text was the most significant thing about the entire story – the racial biases, norms and inequities of the chosen time and place.  When Kathryn Stockett set out to write this story – it’s entirely possible the term “sub-text” never entered her mind — she knew her story was about this thematic issue, and everything that happens character-wise, and plot-wise, connects to and is informed by it.

Imagine that story unfolding today, anywhere.  It might work, but it would be a completely different dramatic paradigm.  This next Sunday you’ll see the fruit of Stockett’s choice, beyond the tens of millions of copies she’s sold – Academy Awards up the wazoo. 

Remember Grisham’s first novel, “A Time to Kill”?  Pure sub-text.  Without that southern setting from the 1950s, it would all be old news.  When a novel uses sub-text to define the times, that’s seizing an inherent opportunity beyond the compelling nature of its plot.

“The Davinci Code”… duh. 

In fact, when you look closely at iconic bestsellers and critically-acclaimed movies, you’ll see sub-text as the essence-in-common.  Watch, read and learn.

Examples are everywhere.

In romances, sub-text is often the social barriers that separate lovers.  The era of the story, and the social norms of the culture, defines what can happen and what can’t.  Which is the sub-text, if not the theme itself.

In mysteries, sub-text is often police corruption, sexual deviation, corporate or political greed and self-service, or a landscape of human darkness springing from jealously, sociopathology, opportunism, fear or hatred.

In science fiction, sub-text might be the impending death of a planet, or a post-apocalyptic setting in which survival is defined by the environment, or the presence of non-human intelligence.  Technology versus humanity.

Every story has sub-text. 

You have a choice – you can manage it, or allow it to manage your story for you.  But know this: without throwing a lasso around it, followed by a harness, it’ll run wild and perhaps run away, rather than leading you somewhere it might not otherwise go.

The Optimization of Sub-Text

As story developers, we are always making decisions in the realm of setting, character arc and dramatic tension.  So it is easy to overlook or take for granted the role of sub-text in how our stories play out.

Sub-text is conceptual (one of the Six Core Competencies), in that your choice of setting or underlying story forces creates the compelling X-factor of the story.  A love story set in rural Iowa farmland… you better be Jonathan Franzen or you’re bucking the odds. 

A love story set in a nunnery… that’s a lasso that can make you famous.

What was the sub-text in some of your favorite novels?

Can you describe the sub-text in your current novel or screenplay, and in doing so, is it adding impact and weight to your story?

Personal Newsflash

I’m excited to announce that I’m now represented by the Andrea Hurst & Associates Literary Agency, with three submittable new projects and a backlist still alive and kicking. 

Landing a new agent is a Big Deal.  My wish for you is that, if you haven’t already, you soon experience the sense of purpose and hope that having the right agent brings to your work, and your life.

Thanks for reading Storyfix.com. I’m here to help you get there. L.

Elevate Your Story Through the Sublime – and Subliminal – Use of Sub-Text is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Everything can be broken down.  Plant and animal.  Fact and fallacy.  Art and science. 

Sliced, diced, eviscerated, deconstructed, analyzed, charted, graphed, melted, spectra-analyzed and debated.  Sometimes this yields precision, other times a vague generality.

Either way, from this process of breakdown comes illumination.  Visibility.  Clarity of purpose, design and effectiveness.

And then… often only then… understanding.

Some resist the slicing and dicing of craft. 

They believe it to be antithetical to the “art” of storytelling.  IMO, that couldn’t be more wrong, or naïve.   

Imagine building something without an understand of the physics involved.  Imagine healing something without a keen awareness of the principles that make healing possible. 

Telling a story isn’t like driving a car or flying an airplane.  Telling a story is like designing and building a car or an airplane.  You better know your way around the engineering phase.  You better know your physics.

Because whether one looks or not, the underlying physics of things are always there, dictating parameters and outcomes.  

No matter how loud one yells “this is art, dammit!”

The more you know about them, the better your pantsing ways might actually  work (writing on instinct… instinct being a innate, even subconscious grasp of these principles), and the less critical a deep planning phase becomes. 

It’s one of the purest cases of irony I’ve ever seen.  One of the best examples of knowledge begetting art, too.  You just can’t beat a learning curve.

Writing stories is never only craft and never only art.  

The second you honor one above the other you are toast.  It is always a dance with both, to the sound of music with these three harmonies.

In your creation of art, do you really believe you are inventing a new type of canvas, a new formula of paint, a new kind of brush that nobody has seen before… that you’re really rendering images that have never been visualized before?  That you are really the Chosen One that is licensed to ignore all that is true and powerful about what makes art – in this case, a story – work?

No matter what the image, there’s always the same set of reasons residing under the paint that it does.

There are three levels of storytelling art and craft.

Recognition of these three dynamics opens the door to an understanding that will elevate  your art while empowering your craft.

Think of your story as a building.  That building has three fundamental levels, perhaps better thought of as “realms of dependent development” – it sits on a foundation, which, if not strong, will ultimately collapse or slide away… it is built in a certain way intended to comfortably and safely house inhabitants of some kind… and it has a unique presence or personality to it.  Or not.

The terminology here is mine.  The principles are universal and belong to all of us.  Make no mistake, a story that works has all three of these going for it.  Whether the writer knows it or not.

Professional writers – no matter what they say about their process – do know.

Level One: The Underlying Physics.

Stories have gravity.  Literary law that is very much like physical law.  Non-negotiable.  The management and leverage of gravity resides at the core of everything we build – our constructions must bear weight and withstand pressures.

There are a handful of basic storytelling physics available to us.  We get to choose whether we manage and leverage them, or not.  The latter (“or not”) usually results in rejection, because nobody is going to publish (or buy) a story without…

… dramatic tension… character empathy and arc … a vicarious experience (including a specific arena; this is also known as setting)… emotional resonance… an effective delivery mechanism (the voice of the story).

None of these directly dictate the nature and flow of your story.  These are the qualities of your story.  The factors that give your story power and originality. 

When you plan your story – whether ahead of time, or via a series of drafts – your goal should be to jack these through the roof.

Level Two: The Ways and Means of Execution

Of course, those story qualities are basic and obvious.  And yet, they too often get shoved aside in the focus on execution – you get too focused on plot or character, or you begin to preach a theme – and to an extent that they get short-changed.

To create a tight union between the underlying physics and the process of story development, there exists a set of tools that channel the energy of the former into the design wrought by the latter.

I call these the Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling.  In essence they are an organized, criteria-based menu of ways of making sure you have adequate power and balance among the underlying physics… that your story is designed in such a way that these parts coalesce in to whole that exceeds the sum of their parts.

They are: concept…. Character… theme… structure (the sequence of the story)… scene execution… writing voice.

Virtually every aspect of the process falls into one of these six buckets.  None are optional.

Level Three: The Sensibility of Optimization

One of the scariest parts of professional aspiration can be explained from two contexts.

First, you already recognize how complex and necessary those first two levels are.  They may not be new to you, but they are always challenging, even to the best of us.  You understand that knowing does not equate to doing.

But here’s the scary part, the other context… they’re just the ante-in.  The baseline level of proficiency that gets you into the chase.

To emerge from the pack of otherwise solid submissions you need to wield those tools, based on those underlying story physics, with power and nuance and the sensilibility of an artist.

Yes, the word art finally applies.  Right here.  Prior to this level, it’s all craft.

Some call this phase talent.  Others, experience.  Some… an ear, a sense, a knack. 

Call it what you will… you’ll need to cultivate it to raise your story from a bedrock of dramatic theory supporting a masterpiece of architecture, into the realm of publishability.

Doable.  Especially when you see this three-lane road ahead of you.

Did you get my new newsletter, Edition 1?  Like to?  Click HERE.

Are you new to the Six Core Competencies?  Use the search box to find posts on any and all of them – concept, character, theme, structure, scene writing and writing voice… or you can find them all in my bestselling writing book, “Story Engineering.”

Need a hug after all this?  Click HERE.

The Three Layers of Story Engineering, Architecture, and Art is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Please click HERE to see an interview/discussion I had with Authornomics.com, who ask some great questions about story architecture, process and why it works.

Then come on back to read another piece from regular Storyfix contributor Art Holcomb.

Produce, Produce, Produce

a guest post by Art Holcomb

“Two pieces of paper hang above my desk.”

The first, you may remember, is a portrait of Scheherazade.

The other is the following quote copied in my own hand from 1975:

“Produce, produce, produce . . . for, I tell you, the night is coming.

Whether it is, as stated here, a quote from the British poet and critic Mathew Arnold, or as paraphrased in the New Testament (John 9:4), or as a line in a Supertramp song, the sentiment is the same.

Your hours are finite.

Your time at the keyboard is stolen from your other life.  If Larry is correct and it will take you a daunting 10,000 hours to hone your craft to the point that it is ready to show your wit and skill to others, you know that you have to make each moment count.  

Each story, each poem, each capsule of yourself that you set out on the page must be the best that it can be.  

You are finite; your words are not.  Your immortality lies in your ability to tell that story and through it to make the connection to another person that you have been so desperate to make all this time.

Publishing is important but it’s not why you write.  It is not the point of your work.  To you, in the moments you write, what are important are the secrets that you learn about yourself and the world in which you live.    Your ability to translate those experiences and dreams into something the reader/viewer can feel – that ability to take the reader/viewer somewhere they have never been – is at the heart of being a writer.

You have so much more to say than you know.  And the night is coming, and sooner than we imagine.  Whether your desire is to have a book with your name on it, a credit on a film or a poem that will be recited by another, it will all depend on your ability to build your stories as well as you can and move on to the next challenge.  

That means you must learn your craft. 

No more hemming and hawing. No more stumbling into your story while freewriting.

Never in the history of Man were the tools needed by a writer to make glorious story more easily and readily available. 

You’ve already taken a giant step. You’ve found this website and the treasures within.

Find the tools.  Own the tools  . . .

And then use them to create something new, something better.

Something amazing.

That’s the way to create a body of work.  

That’s the way to build a career.

Art Holcomb is a screenwriter whose work has appeared on the SHOWTIME Channel and a comic book author of such comics as Marvel’s X-MEN and Acclaim’s ETERNAL WARRIORS. He is a regular guest blogger to STORYFIX.COM.  A number of his recent posts appear in the Larry Brooks’ collection: Warm Hugs for Writers: Comfort and Commiseration of The Writing Life.  He appears and teaches at San Diego Comic-Con and other writing and media conventions.  His most recent screenplay is 4EVER (a techno-thriller set in the Afterlife) and is completing a work book for writers entitled,  The Pass:  A Proven System for Getting from Notion to Finished Manuscript.  He lives in Southern California.

Produce… X 3 is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Usually, when you let it slip that you’re a writer, the response is, “what do you write?”  As if you’d just said the most unexpected thing possible.

Everybody’s a writer, it seems (that comes out later), but hardly anyone admits it.

And when you say “novels” or “screenplays,” one of two things is likely to happen.

Most often you get a polite nod, perhaps a flash of confusion and then, “wow, cool.”  Or  maybe just a nod that says, “okay then, we’re done with that.”  

Or once in a rare while the dreaded follow up: “have you published anything?”

Now there’s a dance and a half for you.  The answer is no more comfortable if you can yes than it is when you say not yet.  Trust me on this.

It’s possible, though, that the rare genuinely curious might ask you to tell them your story.  Ask you what it’s about.

Good luck with that.  You have about a 30 second window before their eyes glaze and you find yourself speaking to a blank albeit polite stare. You lost them at, “Well, it’s about…”

If this happens in casual conversation, your answer could be just about anything, focusing on any one of the four elements (that’s all you’ll have time for… trust me on that, too) of the Six Core Competencies:

It’s about a guy who… (character).

It’s about what would happen if… (concept).

It’s a story about love or… (theme).

It’s the story of growing up with an alcoholic mother who ends up in prison for… (structure, possibly inspired by something that actually happened).

You can make any one of these into a compelling elevator pitch.  In fact, eventually, by the time you have a draft that is worthy of submitting, you absolutely will.

But what if you haven’t finished it yet? 

What if you’re pitching your “story” to an agent at a workshop?  Which story will you tell?

As a writer developing a novel or a screenplay, it doesn’t matter what you say within the safe confines of an elevator.  But it’s absolutely essential that when it counts – when pitching to an agent, or at some point, when you’re actually writing it – you have a solid answer for all four of those elements: character, concept, theme and structure.

Because all four of them are stories.  Essential ones.

Stories that concurrently unfold in combination with the other elements, with edges and transitions known only to you, the author… and on their own.

Because you never know which of the stories a reader might react to first, or strongest.

This has always been true, but what may be new to you is an appreciation for the mindset of visualizing our stories as a melting pot for several conjoined storylines at once, each of them contributing to the other.

Consider your favorite novels and movies, and you’ll discover…

… there is a foreground story.

A background story.

A character-driven story.

A sub-plot story.

A sub-textual story.

An arena story.

An emerging story.

A departing story.

A thematic story.

A surprising story.

A touching story.

A gripping story.

A story of empathy.

A story of emotion and meaning.

The context and intention of the above is not to be considered as descriptions.  As adjectives.  No, I’m saying that these stories – like different people occupying the same room, all exist and unfold as discreet storylines within the pages of your manuscript.

Need an example?  Let’s look at The Davinci Code.

The foreground story is Langdon’s journey as an interpreter of symbols and clues in pursuit of a killer.  His journey, juxtaposed against his own belief systems, becomes a character-driven story, as well.

The background story, which emerges gradually, is the underlying cause of this skullduggery, in the form of an ancient sect of Catholic monks hell-bent on hiding the truth behind their religion.

The sub-plot story involves the nature of the woman called in to help him. Which ultimately links to sub-textual story about what really happened 2000 years ago.

The emerging story is the existence of a centuries-old sect of assassins working at the behest of the Church to hide certain truths, which poses a challenge to the belief system the Catholic Church has been protecting and wielding for over 2000 years, and what may or may not be true.  Which is part of the sub-textual story.

The thematic story is the relevance of this hypothesis to our very real modern lives, which haven’t been privy to the backstory this novel suggests.

The gripping story (dramatic tension) is Langdon’s survival in pursuit of the truth… will they kill him before he finds that truth?  Notice how this differs from the foreground story – the murder mystery – and that it overwhelms it in the final act.

It’s also gripping in its use of Leonardo Davinci and his art as a cryptic time capsule of meaning, using the real thing to whet our appetite for more. 

A story of emotion and meaning… because chances are this novel (and the movie) pissed you off or shocked you into doubt.  Which is why you talked about it, which is part of why it exploded.

A story of empathy because to some extent you care about poor Langdon, because he is metaphorically chasing down the truth of a religion that has always troubled you to some extent.  Or not.  For some, Langdon was them.

All this… in one little story that happened to sell over 80 million hardcopies, just as many paperbacks and fuel two movies and the author’s backlist into immortality.

Do we think Brown pantsed all this stuff?  

Stumbled upon it as he wrote?  Made it up as he went along?  And if he did, do you think he got it all down in a couple of drafts?  That he’s really that good?

Maybe this list allows you to appreciate the genius of this novel a little more, and the opportunity to go there for yourself.  When Nelson Demille was asked for a blurb by the publisher, he turned in four words: “This is pure genius.”

The truth is more likely this: Dan Brown considered all these stories as parts of a whole, then fleshed them out individually and sequentially. Drafting was probably part of the process, but because this didn’t take half a lifetime to create, I can assure you he was writing toward something in each instance, rather than stumbling upon these storylines.

And thus we look in the mirror and ask ourselves… do I do that?  Can I do that?  Should I do that?

The answer to the latter is… absolutely, you should.  If you want to break in, to write a story that leaves a mark, then absolutely you should.

Think about it ahead of time, that is.

And if you pants (make it all up as you go along), do you realize that this process is nothing other than, nothing more than, a search for all these stories?  And that only after you’ve discovered them, vetted them, played with them, can you actually optimize a draft that marries them seamlessly? 

Ever tried to play with an idea within a draft?  That’s why some writers require years and year to finish.  I’m here to tell you, you can play with an idea in your head, in conversation and using beat sheets, to almost a full extent before you write a word. 

Notice how each of the various stories going on – in The Davinci Code, in virtually every other sophisticated novel that works, and in your own stories —  has a beginning, middle and an ending resolution.  How the driving force that moves them through this 3-part grid (or it’s inherent 4-part dramatic unfolding: set-up… response… attack… resolution) is dramatic tension, which can be defined as: something that needs to be done, something opposing it, with stakes and consequences for both.

That’s what a story is.  For each of these levels of storytelling.

In a story that works, there are at least this many stories going on at once… sometimes more.

As authors with professional aspirations, it’s easy to focus on one or two of these stories in context to our Big Idea (whichever of the four elements that it initially emerges from) and let the others take care of themselves.  But as story architects, we always benefit from a view of the nuances of all the stories that are unfolding in our novels and screenplays, because only with this proactive knowledge can we manipulate and optimize them.

We almost always begin with at least some idea in our heads.   

We then attempt, or should attempt, to evolve that idea into a Big Idea.  And right there we face a critical crossroads:

To begin writing, or to continue the search for the rest of the stories (plural intended) that are required to exist arm in arm, dancing to the same music, within the whole of our narrative.  To make those parts a sum in excess of the whole. 

If the writing of drafts is your chosen path toward the discovery of all these concurrent stories (nothing wrong with that, but if you don’t get this, then it’s really really hard to pull off), then you need to know that you’ll have to go back and smooth the edges between them (the various stories), because it’s virtually impossible to optimize this dance until you know the entire arc of all the stories.

And in this market, you do need to optimize them to compete.

And you thought this was going to be easy.

Simply by acknowledging the need to tell all of these stories in context to each other and your Big Idea… you just made it easier, if only a little.

And a little is far better than hoping you’ll get lucky.

If you missed the inaugural Storyfix newsletter (February edition), you can get it HERE. 

If you like what you see, you can subscribe to future editions (it’s free) in the upper left-hand corner of that page… or the upper right-hand corner of this one.  Hope you’ll give it a shot.

That “tip jar” issue (mentioned in the newsletter) has been resolved, it’s bottom right.  This is the last time I’ll mention it here… unless there’s relevant news.

And if you’re new to the approach described in this post (the Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling), please consider my bestselling book on the subject… HERE.

Please help me grow this site in 2012.  If you benefitted from this post, please send it along to your writer friends and collegues.

So What’s Your Story(ies)? is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com