I love a good challenge.
Almost as much as I disdain a misunderstood debate, the kind in which one party can’t get outside of themselves long enough to see that they’re already arguing for the opposition.
Last year I did a post for the Writers Digest website, explaining why (my opinion) “just write” is among the most dangerous soundbytes of writing advice ever uttered. It’s like telling someone about to on trial without a lawyer (an apropos analogy to trying to write a story without knowing how to write a novel) to skip law school and “just talk.” One reader commented in response that, because after years of practice some writers can indeed “just write” and be successful… I thank her for helping make my point.
There is a huge, hard-won backlog of knowledge and principle that makes anything that can otherwise be “made up as you go along” functional, if not downright fatal.
“Just do it” can get you killed, and it can kill your story, as well.
In that context, I’ve yet to encounter a writer who can disprove the existence or need for a largely given structure – the order and context for how a story should flow – for the rendering of long form storytelling.
Even the most famous names in the vast pantheon of pantsers, wailing their outrage at the suggestion that certain things within a well-told story tend to happen in a certain order – Stephen King, Diana Gabaldon, some dude who wrote a book called Story Trumps Structure, and countless thousands of unpublished authors who don’t want to lean in toward doing something the seems to dictate order in what they hoped would become the transcription of a muse, or worse, a character actually speaking directly to them…
… they all end up doing it. Executing structure in their own stories, or proving its necessity via the failure to find an agent or a publisher (or, in the new low-bar world of the self-published, readers themselves).
Stephen King’s and Diana Gabaldon’s stories aren’t successful because they are pantsers. They are successful because, at the end of the day their stories do demonstrate structure, as predictable and aligned as those of the most ardent and vocal advocates of structure (James Scott Bell, for example).
In a good story, the reader will have no idea, none at all, whether the author planned or pantsed, or believes in story structure or not. Because if the story works, structure will be there, and in a form that aligns with the universal principles that explain how and why they work.
A closer look reveals the so-called debate isn’t that at all.
Because those who decry structure as either limiting, evil, low-rent or some sort of imitation of authentic storytelling… they are actually talking about their preference for a certain story development process. One that allows free-form thinking prior to the application of structural principles and optimization, in contrast to others (and there are just as many successful names here, as well) who create from same those principles.
Structure is not how you write a story. Go about it any way that works for you, and call it whatever you’d like.
Rather, structure is what makes the thing work, when it finally does work.
Because when it does finally work – however you got there, via a one-draft manuscript-from-an-outline or 22 pantsed drafts written in the blood of your first born – it will have structure across the arc of the narrative.
Structure is precisely what the panster is looking for along the way.
Don’t take my word for it. See what a so-called “artist” has to say on this topic.
A writer on TheAtlantic.com takes a fuzzy swing at bringing clarity to this discussion, and you may feel as I did that he succeeds only in muddying the water itself with his own hope that structure is after all a cheap date with shallowness that is dashed upon the realization that it turns out, also after all, to be the glorious manifestation of universal truth and physics.
Give it a read.
And then come back here… because he throws down a challenge that I hereby accept.
He claims that across the vast oeuvre of writing how-to, “nobody” has addressed the question, relative to structure… of why?
To which I say… oh contrare.
I am that “nobody.”
I guess this guy hasn’t read any of my three writing books – all of which have been #1 Amazon bestsellers in one or more of the many writing niche categories – or visited us here on Storyfix.com. He even, in his own reluctant resolution that structure is a non-negotiable given – again, it’s not a process, it is the target and the desired outcome of any process that works – with the use of a word that I believe I was the first to apply to this craft, in this context: story physics (the title of my second writing book).
You want why? I’ll tell you why.
Before a story will work – any story in any genre – a reader needs to feel some sense of curiosity and empathy for a protagonist. That’s the primary mission and function of the Part 1 quartile chapters or scenes (in a novel or a screenplay)… this is where the story is setup in both character and dramatic contexts.
Both of those contexts are necessary for a story to work. That, too, explains the presence of a largely universal structural paradigm, because that framework accommodates and optimizes both. It’s a tall order, which is why attempting to fill it without a solid handle on structure – something the nay-sayers seem to be suggesting – is like trying to develop a medicine without any training or notions about biochemistry.
A story that is simply a static immersion into a time and/or a place, a narrative 3-D postcard that dives deeply into geography and architecture as deeply as it does the backstories and physchological depths of the characters who are simply sitting there walking around among it all… that’s a story that doesn’t work.
I’ve met way more people people who couldn’t finish a Jonathan Franzan novel than those who could.
A story doesn’t work until something dramatic is proposed.
A good story isn’t just about something – a time or a place or a culture or an issue or a theme – with the primary purpose of putting the reader inside of it all. That’s journalism, not fiction. That’s MFA stuff, and it doesn’t get published (ask an MFA grad, you’ll see).
Rather… a good story is about something HAPPENING within the context and framework of such a vividly-drawn story landscape.
When what is happening is up for grabs, with stakes and risk and consequences that readers can relate to… then it becomes dramatic.
Structure facilitates and accomplishes this, in a certain order and at a certain pace, whether the writer wants to call it that, or not. Even if they get there by instinct, or not (it’s still structure if/when they do get there, by whatever means). By definition, the very “set-up” context of the first quartile leads to something happening – that’s precisely what has been set-up.
Can it be done on instinct? Sure. It happens. Should it happen only by instinct? That’s the wrong question. Because this is also what happens – or more clearly, what doesn’t happen – in the vast majority of manuscripts that don’t work. Mentors who urge writers to just sit down and wing it, forget about structure and everything else… “be like me, because that’s how I do it” – are engaging in a risky game of masturbatory hubris, masked beneath the smugness of false humility that suggests you can do what they do.
Right. You, too, can do what Stephen King does. Good luck with that.
If you’re tired of beating your head against that wall, story structure is ready with a wake-up call.
There’s a time and a place for the writer’s instinct within any process.
In every good story there comes a moment when everything changes.
It’s called The First Plot Point, among other descriptors (such as “doorway of no return” 0r “the jumping off moment,” etc.) If it happens too early then the setup itself may be compromised. Emotional resonance is a high bar if you fully launch the core dramatic thrust of a story in the first 20 to 30 pages, and if it happens too late then the reader might literally bail on the story… because nothing much worth sticking around for is actually happening. We can only visualize so many falling leaves and the crisp cut of a gentleman’s cuff for so long before we toss the book aside and turn on Jimmy Kimmel instead.
Both choices make is easier to fall asleep.
The First Plot Point, when you truly master it as a narrative tool, is virtually without restriction.
It is the very antithesis of formula. because the manner and degree with which you thrust the story down a darker or steeper dramatic path is an infinitely wide road, yet one that demands a clear change of pace and direction. This is where motivation and stakes collide for the first time, or at least with such a resounding thud, after dozens of pages of strategic setup have brought the reader – heart and mind – to this moment of embarkation.
So what happens then? Structure tells us.
Writers who don’t listen, or can’t speak the language, are left only to guess. And when they guess properly, that is not the antithesis of structure, but rather, the validation of one’s story sensibility, which is itself a manifestation of structure on an instinctual level.
The more a writer understands structure, the more instinctual it becomes. Only when a writer gets to such a point does “story trump structure,” in the same way that an athlete’s gut instinct trumps the lines on the playing field. Which are always there, by the way, in virtually any game you can name.
Story never trumps structure. That’s like saying health trumps medicine.
Story IS structure.
With a fresh journey underway thanks to the First Plot Point, fueled with reader empathy and curiosity and emotional resonance thanks to a newly elevated sense of need and stakes and fear and opportunity (all of it nothing other than character motivation), we now need to accompany our hero and other characters on a journey of response to this new direction and its richer context.
That’s the second quartile, a Part 2 “response” context. Which, in classic three-act structure, is the first of “Act II;” because Act II has two equal halves, the entire arc of the story becomes, by definition, a four-part sequence, though shifting the language toward this level of specificity and accuracy – something I’ve tried to do in my work – is like trying to talk our electorate out of a two-party paradigm, even though both parts have a left, middle and right component, which becomes, in truth, a six-part demography.
An effective story changes in the middle. Every time.
That’s not formula, that’s physics.
If the story doesn’t offer a shift in the middle then chances are it won’t work as well. That’s why we have a principle of structure that defines not only placement of this mid-story shift, but the nature of it — the curtain of awareness raises for either the hero, the reader, or both, by exposing truths heretofore hidden or masked or only partially assumed before.
Why? Because pace will accelerate as a result. A good thing.
With a new, clearly context of awareness in place for your hero after this midpoint reveal, your hero will find new or heightened need and motivation, often in the form of closer proximity or necessity relative to some sort of proactive confrontation or strategy with the story’s antagonist (a role that absolutely needs to be filled in a story, usually by a villainous player but sometimes in the form of conditions – storms, illness, cultural roadblocks, etc. – or psychological incapacitation).
That’s why there is a Part 3 quartile (the second half of Act II) with a context of confrontation. Because the reader needs to move closer, through the decisions and actions of your hero, toward a forthcoming resolution, which may or may not be clearly obvious.
There are no rules here. Only shifting contexts and an evolving flow.
That’s why it’s not formula, but rather, why structure is empowerment and optimization. Without it pace lags or exposition becomes random. Without structure the hero remains stuck and separated from hope. Without it resolution cannot ride a wave of evolving reader emotional engagement, which is how stories work best.
The story changes again in a new shift or exposure in what is called The Second Plot Point.
This is truly a point of no return, more-so that the First Plot Point, because the hero is either swept toward an inevitable confrontation leading to resolution, or chooses it. Either way, because this structure has facilitated an escalating level of reader engagement, we are there for every moment of an ultimate denouement, one in which the stakes fall as they will… all at the author’s behest.
Here’s one final, sobering truth about structure.
It doesn’t assure you of anything. You can do it all byk the book and your story still might not work all that well. Structure is the fulfillment of ideas, not the ideas themselves, which is why it defies cynicism. Structure is like an instrument, or like a blueprint – it is the creator’s fresh take and voice, the sense of specific timing and illumination, executed with passion and an eye for vicarious detail, that makes a story soar.
But like anything that seeks to soar, you must have wings to take you there.
Structure gives us those wings. Without wings, there is no flight. There is no story.
And in nature, wings are the very epitome of structure.
That’s WHY structure exists, and why we need to pay attention.
It is also why some writers can execute a story perfectly with giving it a second thought, or acknowledging it afterwards – because structure is sensibility.
Every argument to the contrary is either a misinformed feint toward process, or a submission to the sweet bliss ignorance.
Without it, you may never know what you’re up against.
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