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A good piece of advice that I’m trying to implement now is, “start at the Showdown and work backwards.” There are lots of words for that – “it all comes down to this,” “the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” and so on. Nail that scene, then work back to design the entire story around it, following the accepted story structure and popular tropes. Once the high-level design is finalized, fill in the myriad interesting details. Even when designing the characters themselves, think in terms of what will make the Showdown even more dramatic and tense. No one wants to read a story where the Showdown is a Letdown. “The reason why” this-or-that is in the story at all, or why this-or-that character is just this sort of person, is, so to speak, is to further support the Showdown.
Sorry for all the typos. Typing this on a portable device while getting ready for an appointment. Just glanced back at it and gasped…LOL! But hopefully the point won’t be lost. Take care!
Hi Mark…and welcome to SF!
If I may offer some assistance with the question you asked, the statement you referred to is that the basic structure of a novel and a screenplay are interchangeable. The format, of course, differs, but the simplified explanation is essentially a division of four equal parts within you story. For a detailed explanation, I would highly recommend Larry’s book, “Story Engineering.”
But the shorthand version looks something like this:
First quarter of you story is set up. It introduces you characters and establishes you hero and villain’s wants/desires. That goal is often similar in that the hero is blocked from achieving his primary goal by the villain. There’s often what is called a hook within the first 20 pages—but the sooner the better. Meaning, your hero is shown to be in some typ of trouble. And by the end of the first quarter, between the 20-25% mark of your story, that problem your hero has is going to get worse, usually due to the villain, which puts these two characters on a collision course. This is called the first plot point, and it’s a game changer for the life of the hero.
Second quarter of the book is a reactionary phase for the hero because his life, career, whatever, just got slammed in a way that brings about a panic mode. Whatever the hero tries is usually doomed to failure in this quarter. The villain is reacting to in some fashion because midway through this quarter is what is called a pinch point where the villain moves forward with their own desire to achieve the goal—possibly in a less than scrupulous way. Does the hero get buried further by this? Possibly. And by the time you get to the mid-point, the hero is going to discover the situation is even more dire than they previously believed.
Third quarter is where the hero has to get serious and pull themselves together. It’s the part of the Rocky films when we see him training for the big fight. Your hero may go into research mode, get something on the villain, whatever it takes to get back in the game and win. There’s another pinch point in the center of this quarter that shows the villain taking center stage again and making their strides toward their goal as well. In fact, your villain has been fighting just as hard as the hero in getting their “A” game on because your villain believe they are the real hero of the piece anyway, right? Which brings us to the close of the third quarter, also called plot point 2. This is where the hero might make his discovery of a way to turn the tables on the villain, or find a way to get back in the game, walk into the boxing ring, etc…
Fourth quarter is where everything builds to that final victory for either the hero or the villain. Everything both characters have learned and fought for is going to be on the line and only one can walk away with the prize, the job promotion, the championship belt. And if you’ve done your job and taken both the hero and the villain’s side, this final act should be strong on both sides. Perhaps even the audience won’t be certain of the outcome, but they will naturally be rooting for the hero. Are they all happy ending? No. And one character, or both, may die (real or symbolically) depending on the type of story. Because the end goal is that important to both of them that they would be willing to martyr themselves on the alter of their dreams. It may be career subside for the loser. Or it may really be a physical death.
You’ve seen this in a bazillion Hollywood films. Often done to the point of the plot looking like a cookie cutter design. Therein lies the throughtful writer, or the hack. Because this structure can be very subtle, even in (or especially in) period pieces, historical, and literary fiction. You can’t always see it if you don’t know what your looking for, but it’s there. Sometimes used quite cleverly. Watch the film, “Albert Nobbs,” where Glenn Close plays a woman in the nineteenth century who has to survive doing a man’s job, disguised as a man. Perfect example of this type of structure in a film that doesn’t have explosions and car chases.
Hey, Larry!
Long time lurker first time poster!
You once said a screenplay could function as an outline for a novel. Can you expand on this? How does this work?
“Whodathunkit?” Literally years after @Larry first posted the challenge of ‘what if a murder happened in a bathroom?”, a twenty-page (yeah, the font-size was much too large) “story treatment” just miraculously appeared … (doesn’t my muse know that I’m busy?) … and there are a great-plenty of “holes” to be back-filled and filled-in.
But, nevertheless, “it is very-obviously a NOVEL.” And it just happens to conform to the general structure that @Larry preaches.
By now, I’d sort-of resigned myself to the conclusion (never before admitted-to here …) that my @story @idea was actually going nowhere. When, all of the sudden, my muse has just handed me a project – with all sorts of “nooks and crannies” to explore!
But, mind you, I am going to EXPLORE those “nooks and crannies,” and work the very-many yet-unresolved plot points out, BEFORE I even think about any sort of a “first draft.”
“The Writer’s Journey.™” Totally unexpected, but … “here goes!”
Another analogy that I have retained from long-ago is: “Writing is Topiary.” (I wondered if he should have had said, “Bonsai.”) The final thing consists of what you have not cut away – and yet, none of the cuts are evident, only that which remains. Which means that you see absolutely -nothing- of how it actually got there. So far as you can see (if the arborists did their job right), “it all just happened that way.”
Which is another way of saying that the mere examination of a Bonsai tree will not teach you how to make one.
Sometimes people are surprised by how much prep work I do for my novels too, but it makes the first draft so much smoother. I’m four scenes away from finishing a first draft of a new project, and for me, knowing where the story was going prevented any writer’s block. It also prevented my using the excuse of “I’m not sure what to write” as a means of procrastination. Each day I knew what needed to get done. I had no excuse not to do it.
Dear, Carrie. . . and I do mean “dear.” I am so on the same page with you about how you prevent writer’s block. No excuse writing! Love that. Always happy for a moment of exchange with you. Thank you for commenting.
Stephanie,
That statement you heard from the forgotten writer, now a myth hidden behind the scrim of time, is true—but I can also hear some people gasping at the notion because it sounds so daunting. Because a story continues to evolve over months, or even years, of drafting. The reality of which becomes something that sounds very unappealing to newcomers who can’t fathom the idea of waiting that long before diving in.
Writers are always making those kind of grandiose statements—especially in front of an audience. It makes them sound very sagey in their wisdom. And perhaps they are. But those of us in the know also understand that it might take years to formulate a story, to understand it that well, but we’re also writing ideas in our notebooks, scene cards, spreadsheets, or a rough draft. Few of us can observe the world we create solely within our minds for that long before some type of process commences, by which we sketch out details, crossing out this, deleting that, searching for fresh nuggets of creative material to build upon.
That being said, the majority of successful novelists do indeed live with their stories for several years. Ideas for a story may have been percolating on the back burner of their brain from childhood, or something that sparked an idea while working on one project that spawned a new creation. However, as a young creator, I sought advice from many professionals who gave me such broad sweeping (sometimes flippant) advice that left me feeling exhausted, or scratching my head for years until I figured their meaning out. Very few pointed an arrow to where I could discover the meaning behind their advice, or how I might apply it. And because we all work a bit differently, my questions were often answered with more sweeping statements, like, “Just make sure it’s satisfying to the reader.” Or, “You can do whatever you like as long as it works.” But how does one begin to know?
It was like going for a job interview that requires three years experience and no one is willing to hire you so you can get that experience. I prefer solutions, not the the type of answer, wrapped in a question, meant to make the speaker seem mysteriously brilliant—to which launches a quest for the young Jedi that entails carrying Yoda on their backs through a swamp in search of the secrets of the force.
For me, the process of illustrating with words is exactly the same process I used as an artist:
1) Creative visualization: Brainstorm ideas. Yes, by all means resist diving right in until the idea gets some heat behind it. Make sure it’s something that you won’t lose interest in, or that’s going to flop on the page after a handful of chapters. Because novels are a large undertaking. And once you start drafting, it never ends up quite the way you initially thought it would.
2) Thumbnail Sketch: This is where an artist does a tiny little rough outline for subject placement. For the writer, it’s getting those broader ideas in place about the characters, the major plot points, and whatever details you might need in world building that form a rough story picture that allows you to see the idea has strength and can become something you can see as the framework for your novel. This is where that notebook or spreadsheet comes in quite handy.
3) Rough sketch/rough draft: Get that first draft down. But don’t fret over perfection. Sometimes harder done than said, but this is breaking down and blowing out that thumbnail to the actual size of your creative canvas. Delineating what goes into each chapter, quarter, and so fourth. And the reason you don’t want to be too anal is because now that your is trying to fill a larger space, every aspect of the story is still going to evolve.
4) Subsequent drafts: Means polishing, fine tuning details. And if you haven’t come to know your story and characters intimately by now, this part could end up just a more refined rough sketch because you either didn’t do the work earlier, or used your first draft to pants your way through and now realize you only created a thumbnail with some larger details picked out. In which case, repeat this step until you have a fully formed idea that works from beginning to end.
5) Finishing: How do you know you’re finished? If you’re moving things around and only changing up details but the story is solid enough that large changes aren’t happening in your draft, then it’s time to stop driving yourself crazy and get some feedback, editing, etc….
Wherever you decide to begin, however you work as an individual, you will cover these steps on some level, and in some order, however random your steps may seem. Recognizing the steps and the process, you will be able to experiment with it, try different techniques, and discover what works for you. And learn to trust your instincts. Confidence is built through practice. And I guarantee your practice won’t be all that different than mine. But the way you use your words and shape your ideas over time, that’s where your own wings will develop.
I do not believe story development is a daunting notion, nor should it take years. And as for that ending — you really should know that before you start writing. Each genre has promises that must be delivered to the reader . . .
Always nice to share “process” with you, Robert. I enjoy your passion.
Love your quote at the end! “You must write your story before you write it.” How come we can’t remember who said the cool stuff we hear? Is this may age showing? 😉 Larry is the king of “how to” when it comes to the process that you describe — the prep ( and oh yeah on the invisible) YOU gotta know it, right? Thanks for stopping by to comment. Always appreciate it.
Stephanie, that’s one of the best-written posts I’ve read (anywhere) in a long time. Well done.
One of -my- favorite seminar take-aways (also anonymous, by now) is this: “Any well-crafted story appears to be inevitable.”
A reader wants to engage the story serially – page by page – and to be surprised at every turn. But that necessarily means, not only that there must be a writing process that has (in fact) been meticulously prepared, but that the entire preparation must be invisible.
Another pundit put it this way: “You must write your story before you write it. Therefore, you must do so efficiently.”
Nice, heart-felt post.
I want to place a Caboose on this train. This might not be the ideal place to attach it but forgive me. I feel it’s important for any writer.
Caboose:
I knew my story by heart. But my reader didn’t really begin to feel it—until my editor started having me adjust the position of my pen.
As a writer who designs his stories, I have come to realize that I am unable to experience my own story or scenes—as an audience (reader) and thus I am really unable to determine the actual impact of my own scenes—I can only guess. This is because none of the content (scenes) have any surprise for me and I already know where everything is going. How I feel about a character can’t be accurately conveyed in words. And that’s the rub.
The other people (the audience, the readers) only receive my worded scenes. Thus, whatever it is about my story idea, concept and premise, finally scenes within contextual acts—my words filter my imagination into something less. The map is NOT the territory (the land).
The reader thus creates their own feelings for the characters and story from a very limited scope of my imagination. The story uses Parts 1-3 to build those feelings. Part 4 is where you tie it all together, it being the feelings you have created in the readers mind. Incidentally, a reader’s feelings aren’t just for the character but for the outcome, the story’s world, the theme, concept and the premise’s challenge. The less of these in the book, the flatter the story becomes and it may even only be a novel where the reader tells you “I’m only reading it to see how it turns out in the end, but I’m skimming it, waiting for something GOOD.” A book like this can be described by women as an outwardly appealing man who couldn’t deliver in bed, not for lack of dimensions, but for not taking the time to push her buttons.
Stories are like buttons…but you don’t know if you’re pushing them if you can’t see your reader squirm. Or snore.
Currently I finished a multi-year growing experience of writing my first novel (design revision 5 or 6 of the plot story arc) recently and my editor in chief is going through the Part Four scenes. BTW, I’ve taken many years because I was a panster then a plotter, then came across Story Engineering in 2012. Being very through, anal, and taking breaks lead me to where I am now. Yes I could have written six novels by now, but I kinda have, just changed the versions and not having to write all the scenes out. Thank Larry for saving me that tedious ordeal.
The point I’m getting to is that Part Four’s context is similar to having put the birthday present in a box, cut the wrapping paper to size, folded it and am now trying to tape it all together and put a bough on it—so everything lines up and it’s beautiful.
Unfortunately, only THE READER of my words will determine if my present “feels” beautiful (the boy gets the girl, slays the dragon, and justice is served). At first I was surprised that what I had engineered (designed) the part four scenes to be, just wasn’t “read” (determined, felt) as what I had hoped. For example, in Part 4, my hero didn’t show the emotion my editor wanted to feel—so that scene got an upgrade. More scenes will get upgraded and modified. The previous three parts were acceptable but there was an EPECTATION in Part 4 that my reader had that I wasn’t fully aware of.
Until she made herself “heard.”
The best analogy I can give to this might make some people blush but it’s very real. Part Four’s culmination is the orgasm your partner is looking for. My experience is with females, and you have to adjust your writing tools (tongue in cheek pun intended) to what your partner needs. Yes I’ve designed the scene but ultimately, the scene’s words must get her off—and only she decides that. I can’t say that my design “should” do the job, can I? This is where the design elements of the engineering process are adjusted into art or music. It’s like your story designed scenes have created an instrument, but playing this instrument requires being able to hear the music. The writer really can’t do that. You need a reader, more than one. An editor who is a reader with a stick, okay maybe a whip for those of you with a keen imagination.
To repeat myself, this is where the writer can’t put himself, or herself, out of their body and be the “receiver” or reader. “She” (my reader, receiver of my activity) has to tell me what gets her off AS I do it. This is exactly the case for Tango, sex, and writing scenes. FYI, I’m back in Tango classes again, and my followers (female partner) tell me that they have to FEEL my directions. So like an author, I have my plan that we will turn here, or there, do this or that on the dance floor, but for anyone who has Tangoed, all that goes to crap when you can’t lead her properly—in a fashion that works for her.
She is my audience, my reader and editor.
Art wrote recently about having your reader group handy. They can help here.
However, you need an editor who can give you the feedback you need—as what they are feeling and are not feeling out of your story. Part Four in the story design is where this has become very real for me as the reader has been waiting—patiently—for me (during Parts 1-3) for me to “get them off.” Guess what they think of my story if I fail?
Frustrated. Pissed off they put the time into it. Will they read another, recommend it?
Fortunately for me, my editor in chief is also my wife who has been to a Larry Brooks workshop, read his books, and is very passionate about story engineering et all. And she wants, no DEMANDS—to feel all the above. Especially romance between characters. I get it now, why the “romance” writing genre is half…half the fiction read out there. There is a reason for that! (Hint…frustration with actual life). Perhaps another reason why Tango is so popular with the older crowd.
But for those who don’t have a live-in editor (it’s not all fun and games…) then you have to find a way to get feedback on what you are writing down versus what is read.
Or your reader will be frustrated. But if they’re not, your story will spread like a naughty Cinderella that left more than a glass slipper.
And you have her phone number.
Thank you for commenting. . .