March 10, 2018
by Larry Brooks
I hear feedback that writers want to learn about the advanced nuances of storytelling. The implication being that they’ve absorbed the basics and are ready to move on.
This is hardly ever true, by the way. You can add nuance to a painting of, say, cow droppings on the side of the road… but at the end of the day it’s still a painting about crap. Understanding the criteria for a conceptually-empowered, layered story premise – the “idea” for your story, which is rarely the first one that pops into your head – is the key to everything if you’re serious about this work.
Okay, cow droppings… that’s a little harsh. But it speaks to my point: a strong premise is a different facet of craft than is strong writing. You need both. Both require nuance. But too often writers sweat the latter without having mastered the nuances of the former.
So how do we render a premise compelling? Answer: understanding the criteria for just that, and the nuances involved. This becomes a nuance in its own right – developing an idea, rather than just plopping down and starting to write about an idea – and is very much part of the advanced level of craft writers are asking for.
Too many stories fail not because they lack nuance, but because they lack core story power. Because the core story idea – the premise – isn’t strong enough. Often, when it isn’t, it’s because it lacks a conceptual layer at its core.
Let me walk you through a couple of real-life examples.
In my workshops I sometimes ask writers to pitch their story concept. This is after a review of the definitions of concept versus premise, which is a career-enlightening nuance once you get it down. Even after hearing that, about half the group gets it wrong, pitching a premise instead of a concept, or pitching what they believe to be a concept when in fact it is… something else.
Sometimes what they pitch, with the belief that they have a concept, is nothing more than a story beat. An idea for a scene.
A single scene is never the concept of a story. Because concept is part of the entire story arc. It is what empowers a premise with compelling energy.
Here’s a nuance for you: the starting gun, the catalytic moment for a story – which usually takes place within a scene – is probably not a functional description of the story framework (i.e., the concept).
Take these pitched “concepts,” for example:
- A woman loses her mother’s ashes on the way to her funeral.
- An unconscious alien is discovered on the bridge of a starship.
- Someone wakes up in a tub of ice with a recently stitched incision in their abdomen.
- A body falls out of a window onto the hood of a waiting taxi.
Again, none of these are actually concepts… in the nuanced sense that writers need to understand their concept as a framework for their story.
All of these are scenes. Moments. Story beats. Game starters and game changers, perhaps, but not the big picture of the story landscape.
When the writer begins a draft with one of these, they may experience their first blocked moment of panic right after penning the scene that exhausts the idea itself.
If you saw the recent (and terrific) film Ladybird, you’ll remember the opening scene, where the mother and daughter are in a car arguing, talking over each other until the daughter, in her frustration, opens the door while the car is still moving and ejects herself onto the side of the road.
Knowing the larger tapestry of that story, you’ll recognize that a pitch that sounds like this – “A girl argues with her mother and bails from a moving car, injuring herself” – isn’t the concept of Ladybird, but rather, a scene that launches the narrative.
Ask yourself these four things:
- Can you pitch your story concept without borrowing from the premise itself?
- How compelling is that concept, even before you add character and plot?
- Is your concept a framework for the story, or more accurately described as scene within it?
- If it is just a scene, can you elevate your story’s concept toward a pitch that more compellingly and accurately frames the premise itself?
Concept isn’t required for a story to work. Stories that lack a conceptual essence are all over the place… especially in unpublished and self-published work.
But if you want to break into the business, make a splash, get published and find a readership, it’ll require more than your writing voice to get there. You don’t need an idea for a story, you need a story idea that is packed with compelling power at the pitch level. Something that, when someone hears it, they are already in. You need a story that resonates and compels through intrigue, emotional resonance and vicariousness… at the story landscape level, not just via the writing itself.
Concept is your ticket to making that happen. So stick with it. Soon it will become part of your process, which is the most empowered nuance of all.
24 Responses
@Robert – The man who checks into the hotel is the lighted match, and he is developing into a very versatile character who (so far) is a major player in each of the pinch scenes and in the showdown. But what’s interesting to me is that several of my nascent characters have a story arc, and no one is turning out to be entirely what you would call “good guys.” But, maybe you can’t mix poverty, greed, vengeance, heroin, and civil rights into the same pot and expect that sort of thing.
One thing’s for sure – this would be utterly impossible to contemplate doing, without story planning.
Mike,
Very intriguing. I think your last line about the guy checking into the hotel is probably more conceptual in nature than your previous concept. It doesn’t give us the stakes, but implies they are there even if we don’t quite know what the guy is about to ignite. It’s like the opening scene in a movie trailer that grabs your attention.
BTW, I find trailers, like book jackets, are great for getting those concept ideas in place. 30 to 60 seconds can do a lot. Of course, movie trailers get to show pictures that can speak volumes. But that’s the challenge for writers. Writing is a visual medium. And finding the right words to convey strong visuals with few words is an art in its own right. It’s also good practice that helps refine our writing practice.
I find it interesting that the key advice writers give to newbies is to read as widely as possible, but few of us really do that. Or even think about what it means beyond reading a lot of books and maybe we’ll branch off into a genre we don’t usually read now and then if we her something good about certain books.. But beyond the fact that all genres are useful, there’s articles, and even audio. Have you ever listen to an audio performance of your favorite books and followed along with the print version just to see how the reader places a different emphasis on the words than you do? And while I prefer fiction to non, trade magazines are great in terms of learning the markets and finding how writers use articles to make their points in shorter forms. And I read a lot of books on craft as well because the various techniques used by others helps me to keep noticing things in my fiction reading when seeing how writers use the various techniques. It all fuels the learning and creative process. And while all reading can be considered a learning process for the writer, we tend to bottleneck that experience more often than not. Which not only narrows the learning curve by slows it down to whatever we fit into that narrow feed of knowledge.
Many writers after years of perfecting their craft have said a lifetime is really not enough to delve into it all. These are guys who kept it fresh and learned that every aspect of writing, from dialogue to description, is a separate well to learn from. So I’ve taken it that reading widely doesn’t simply mean reading just fiction, or choosing a genre (or even two or three). Or even simply studying writing as a means of story telling. If writing is indeed visual, watch movies, take photographs, study a favorite artist and see how they make choices.
I’ve worked with and known hundreds of creative people, and would have to say theirs a bias—sometimes even a snobbery—when it comes to looking at a truly wide variety of stories and art can be quite stifling.
@Robert – Part I of the story – the prologue section, as it were – happens in 1943 when the characters were young men or early middle-age and serving in World War II, although stateside in the logistics and supply operations. Part II takes place in 1963, and I chose this for the civil rights movement. I chose this place in part because I live in its (northwest Georgia) outskirts, and because Chattanooga – which was and is a big city – had a very different take on civil rights. (It was described by some as a”very Northern” Southern city.) Key scenes will be fictionalized adaptations of what really happened here.
The match is thrown when a (seemingly) perfectly-ordinary someone gets off a perfectly-ordinary train, walks across the street to a prominent hotel with his single bag, and checks in for the night . . . He has a small matter to settle with someone. But even he does not imagine what his actions are about to ignite. 🙂
Another thought @Mike…with all the school violence in the media, I think a teacher trying to deal with violence and drugs would not only put that teacher in a volatile situation within the context of your town/story, but would certainly find an audience.
Mike,
I wish some other folks would join these discussions as well.
As far as your story, what you’ve described of your story in past and present posts, I’ve had a couple of ideas flash through my mind as you’ve discussed these things. One was an image of you as a reporter, sifting through old news stories, trying to get to the bottom of what happened in that town in the past. Could there be a reporter in the present trying to discover what happened to someone in the past? You would need a central event that the reporter would be tied to in some personal way. Maybe digging up old bones and developing stakes in the present because certain secrets want to be kept. The past part of the story could be given through the old news stories, interviews, letters. The mystery within a mystery is a tool that’s been used effectively in quite a few stories.
Even if the the story is told only as a period piece, there still needs to be that central character. Someone personally effected by what is happening and maybe decides the only way to get justice is to expose the truth. And as the social, political, and cultural wars converge on that collision course, this character is caught in the middle of all of it as the stakes grow higher.
Could be a reporter. Could be a parent who lost a child, a teacher who had a student become a victim of the heroin influx. Someone who possibly sees all the racial and political propaganda of the times as a way to separate people, use them as a means to an own end—which is always about money. And is an infinitely relatable story in any time because we never stop propagating these things. Socially and culturally, people do become victims to a class division, a box that our social strata is forced into in order to keep certain wheels turning, and keep people in their place.
What you have is a really interesting premise on several levels. Because all of those things usually do not exist in terms of the types of cultural and political time bomb of those people living in close proximity as you’ve mentioned in Chattanooga. Some people may even find it difficult to believe for the time because is sort of unprecedented in small town life—especially in the south. But if you’ve found records showing this town existed, it would be a veritable hotbed of issues. I believe it also stands as a strong symbol of people pressing for change. And this is always an explosive subject when done properly.
@Robert – Hey, I’m the one who jumped in first. 🙂 I hope others will follow.
Your “demi-god” concept sets the scope and the general direction of the entire story that is to follow, without giving a premise. This is his situation, his realization, and the direction that he must go, and why. When we read through the story or look back on it, it should all feel consistent with that concept. (We’d feel ill-used if you told us that he also had a kid who was going to wizard-school.)
I hope to soon find out what @Larry thinks of my attempt at a concept – which might be a “mission statement.” But, as I’m peopling my story with (potential) characters, and fitting my characters with (potential) characteristics and problems, I’m thinking whether each idea fits into that (what I call a …) concept. Is this potential problem something that they can “face,” and is there a risk – “dare?” Can they “look away,” and what’s the dramatic stakes if they do or don’t? What’s going to drive them forward on a “collision course” to the final showdown and force them to be there or to die trying? What’s going to force them to be in conflict with other characters as both of them are driven there? Right now I’m like a window-shopper trying on clothes, seeing what seems to fit – and that “concept” statement is what’s guiding it right now. I’m happily brainstorming with no idea what the final story-design will be.
I -have- walked around the “set,” taking lots of pictures, deciding where in the real-world city the various major scenes will play out. They’re all within walking distance. When I say that a character will travel from one place to another, I walk the actual route. If he takes the streetcar that existed at that time, I know where the tracks went and even found photos and timetables in the public-library archives. So, even though I don’t yet know what the story is, I do know where it is. It’s almost like I’m filming it in my mind … (But, Morgan Freeman hasn’t shown up yet. Pity.)
Hi Mike,
Although I was hoping to get a nod from Larry before we dove into this, I suppose there’s no harm in a discussion about our concepts and Larry can chime in if he wishes to do so. I don’t like to public ally share a lot of my ideas, but I have one little tale that’s from a common enough conceptual seed—so I’ll toss it out there as an example.
First off, to my understanding, a concept is basically a line or two, something that can be summed up in under a minute. 30 seconds or less according to many sources. It’s the very seed at heart of our story, boiled down barebones idea that is intriguing, states something about the main character that shows them in an intriguing way, their basic goal, conflict, and stakes. There’s even a suggestion I kinda personally like in a recent issue of Writer’s Digest, which states that there should be an intriguing, yet ironic contradiction involved. Also, Larry has stated more than once that a good concept could inspire any number of stories if we handed it out to several different writers.
Here’s a basic concept where I tried incorporating all of the above:
When a man is elevated to a Demi-God, he realizes to save mankind from a future devastated by war, he must wage his own war with humanity and defeat them at their own game.
Granted, the notion of a human becoming a god is not the most original concept. Neither is the idea of destroying humanity in order to save it, but it continues to intrigue audiences. It is the basic seed from which many stories can, and continue to be created. It has a hero faced with a unique problem, a conflict, stakes—as well as an ironic contradiction: going to war with humanity in order to save us from our own dismal fate.
P.S.: It helps considerably that Chattanooga is (mere minutes away from) my home town, and that I can sip coffee on the patio of the surviving train station and look across the street at the building where I imagine so much of the action taking place. Almost, “right before my eyes.”
“Okay, I’m in.” Here’s what I came up with …
The concept of my project is to set three social classes of people within the same city – indeed, people who live within walking-distance of a train station – into conflict. One is the disenfranchised (black) people of the street, who are fighting heroin addiction, as well as those among them who fight to distance themselves from it and thereby protect themselves, as well as ministers and social workers who do the opposite. The second are those people – black and white – who seek civil rights for blacks, but who do so from a distance. The third are people who seek to be accepted as respectable members of (white) society but who conceal that they are in fact the sources of the heroin. From each one’s point of view: “Do they face it? Dare they face it? Or do they look away?” As the story unfolds, each one finds themselves, each for their own reasons, on a collision course.
– – –
The setting is actual and historic: “Chattanooga, Tennessee, 1963.” (It’s important to realize that the dynamics of the time – especially with regard to the growing civil rights movement – were not at all the same as in other places e.g. Selma. I want to incorporate these aspects truthfully into the story.) Likewise the physical locations, while fictionalized, are otherwise factual: you can go there, today. The entire setting of this story, start to finish, does not require an automobile. One of the two railroad stations still stands; the other was four blocks away.
@Robert, @Larry, I -love- the idea of using the “reply” feature of this blog in this way. Conceptually, at least. Details TBD …
Sorry I’m late. I finally received my new computer. Reading on a phone is for younger eyes.
This post really resonated with me. For two months I’ve been running away from a story idea to see if it’d follow. Little by little the concept came into focus, then the premise. And now, it won’t leave me alone. I’m excited about it, but I need to write one other book first. Can’t hurt to pick away at the outline, though, right?
Plus, I feel inclined to mention here that definitions of concept are in several posts here on SF. Just type “Concept” into the search engine. It’s also in Larry’s books on structure. So that definition is very available with minimal effort on the part of those who want more info. If writers aren’t willing to do a little bit of lifting, their stories probably won’t get off the ground. Just sayin’ 🙂
You know what might be fun as a potential follow up? Provided people felt comfortable doing it and Larry was willing, that is. Have a post that is basically a call for people to post what they feel is a strong concept—either something they make up for the post or from a work in progress. Then Larry could conclude a couple of days later with a few words on the submissions and a finally a definition of concept. The basic idea here is that interactive quality encourages interaction. Sort of a mini concept workshop as well as encouraging folks to participate in the site.
Of course, participants would have to come at it in terms of not expecting in depth critiques, just a word or two on whether the submissions are working or not and a conclusive definition of what goes into a working concept. What participants would get out of it is a comparison to their efforts and the definitive answer. People learn more when they participate and then see a visual result.
I, too, find myself finishing this post without the feeling that it really showed an example of concept is, after presenting four examples of what it isn’t. A follow-up post would be helpful.
To me, “story concept” is indeed about the story itself, not a scene or series of scenes. To me, the concept broadly suggests where the entire story might go, and especially why. The various developments and surprises that are contained within the story as it unfolds are all found to be consistent with the over-arching concept of the story. As is its final conclusion, which is therefore “satisfying.”
Have you ever found yourself in the middle of a story and felt that “the puppet-master (the Gentle Author …) doesn’t really to seem to know where (s)he is going with this?” Plot developments seem to be tossed in willy-nilly, for the sake of effect? A character shows up and does nothing in particular, and you can’t quite say why (s)he’s there in the first place? The progression of the story loses both its steam and its direction? All of these things, to me, show lack of a clear, consistent concept. It suggests to me that the author embarked upon the journey without a map. And you simply can’t embark upon -any- major creative project in this way. If you do, you have no hope of a satisfying outcome, for author or for audience. You’re literally wasting everyone’s time.
Side note: And this is no coincidence. I just started reading an article in the current issue of Poets & Writers magazine where two writers (Caroline Leavitt and Jonathan Evison) discuss failed novels they ended up disregarding. Leavitt even states it was a time when she didn’t use story structure and her agent had her doing a sort of freestyle writing. And even after several rewrites she couldn’t get a handle on her book. Evison mentions similar problems and even digs out a very long, grasping, elevator pitch that doesn’t work because he couldn’t define his story the way Larry recommends here.
The truth is out there folks. And it comes to us through either trial and error or experienced through failure.
Perhaps I missed something, but I think this article is more about how to pitch your story than the subject implied. Sometimes, it’s conceptually difficult for newcomers as to how to pitch their story. That is itself an art, which can make the difference between sending their tale to the discard bin or promoting it to the next level of analysis in the publishing business.
Ward,
Yes, a concept is all that you said in terms of nailing that pitch. And important as that is, it’s only half of what a firm grip on your concept does in terms of your writing. If you understand that a firm grip on your concept is a framework for the story as a whole, that frame guides your story path as a whole.
Larry isn’t the only writer who has recommended getting this right in the onset, BTW. The more you grasp it, the more you understand it just makes good sense. Look at it this way: If you’re still uncertain about how to define your story in a conceptual way, your drafting becomes a search for that concept, as well as your story throughout on various levels, major and minor. Thus, your story is more apt to keep shifting like a boat without a rudder. You may get lucky, or be persistent enough to hit land eventually. But think of all the stories that never reach completion, or drafts that might get finished and end seeming amorphous, like huge pieces are missing. I know I’ve been there. Maybe you have as well.
Understanding the essential frame from the start, kicking off shore with some navigational tools, can be huge. It can help you see if you’re getting lost and wandering off into those uncharted areas where stories can get lost forever and discouragement reigns. It’s a very useful tool that is worth spending days or even weeks on. Because it creates an understanding between writer and story that influences so much.
@ G Robert – thanks for reading and commenting. You make a fair observation. I’ve written at length about this topic, including concept vs. premise, and the link in the post today will take you to square one of that issue.
I think of this as a nuance because it is both complex and, unless one goes deep into it, seemingly confusing. For example, a concept can, on the surface, be plot-centric, thematic, historical, even a genre. All vampire stories are, for example, inherently conceptual because, well, they’re about vampires. Same with time travel, paranormal and almost all sci-fi and fantasy.
The real value resides at the intersection of concept and premise, in understanding that concept is what fuels and frames a premise.
But to be responsive, here is a concept that would frame the scene labeled #1 above: A family is torn when a previously unknown ex-spouse, who may or may not be the real father of these children, shows up and demands half the estate, as well as an audience with the children. Not quite a premise yet, but it is a conceptual framing device. Hope this helps.
Great advice!
Story compresses the parts of life that make one feel alive–ideally.
The root reason for doing anything, living, involves a concept.
Your car’s concept is transportation. For some, they say it’s freedom. But they’re really presuming you know the car is to get you around.
Unless you’re living in the car on blocks, permanently stuck on the ground. If that’s the “case” then the concept has changed from transportation to “tiny house.”
Tell someone your concept at the root of why you live the way you do, why you own something?
Do you have a dog? I do. What’s the concept? Interesting idea, yes? Is your dog a companion to you or a servant? Does your dog have rights or is it only supposed to do whatever you wish?
Consider the concept of a “house cat.” Is it allowed out of the house to be in the yard? For the cat, this concept is “a natural life.” However, for many humans, they don’t want their cat outside because something “may happen.” This changes the concept of the cat from “companion” to “prisoner.” I’ve asked such “owners” (another concept) about how their cat feels about being stuck in the house for its entire life. The human tells me “the cat likes it.” One, the human is “mind-reading” (another concept) –how magical. Two, the human is in denial that the cat should enjoy its limited life whereas the same human will throw a hissy-fit if they can’t leave their own house.
Concepts = the way we look at things. A story involves a concept’s characters that has “gone wrong.” Like (the concept) “fish-bowl” but it’s leaking water (running out of time). Humans can live their lives in a “fish-bowl” of sorts, especially if they’re being recorded against their will (actors and paparazzi).
Where am I going with this? Simple: what’s intriguing about life and can you describe it in a conceptual fashion? Generally, this means a “situation or scenario” involving a person and another entity (person, people, beings, things, nature) that would be interesting to experience. Plus this scenario would be challenging to be placed into, as in would you succeed or fail? (There are TV game shows based upon such “survival” concepts).
Here’s an idea. Instead of looking for what interests YOU, look for what others are “complaining about.” Why? One, because we don’t read about what you want, we read about what we want. Two, because thinking about how others are looking at the world will make you a better writer. Writing about what you want is taking a big risk that other people may care about your work enough to read it. (Do you actually want an audience?).
This is similar to people who invent things. Necessity is the mother of all invention. Why? Because that inventor, or someone close to her, was frustrated with a scenario in life, and the invention was the cure. Inventions are conceptual, as in solving a concept. Standing in the pouring rain for an hour = frustrated human, unless you have rain gear or just don’t give a crap. Solution = umbrella. Concept = rain deflector.
Back to other people and what they care about (what frustrates them). Do you think there’s a concept or two there? If you are bored with this idea, there is no help for you. But if you have a heart and an imagination, you can become an inventor or story writer, both of which seize upon conceptual ideas that solve other people’s frustrations.
The inventor sells the product.
The writer let’s us feel we solved the problem.
Consider the Romance Writing genre. This is HALF, as in MOST, as in LOTS of people (okay, usually women) who are FRUSTRATED because they don’t FEEL like life is doing it for them. This isn’t just sex, but it’s love, connection, laughter, friendship. The things you can’t buy–really! (purchased sex isn’t the same because they were forced to do it to you…that’s not what you’re looking for).
Here’s an idea: MIX romance with your story as another part of the story arc. The original Jason Bourne had romance in it. The movies stripped it out because that was WAY too much work for the writers apparently. “Empire Strikes Back” is still the best Star Wars movie ever made because it had romance intertwined with it.
Tip with romance: Romeo and Juliet SUCKS. Kind of like sex without the orgasm. The bank robbery without the money. They FAIL at the end. Get it?
Writing is like describing the life we WANT, not the one we have.
This is all well and good and makes terrific sense, Larry. But, as is usually the case with writing articles, the article doesn’t provide us an example of a concept. All it does is tell us what not to do. That, in the end, is only somewhat helpful and falls short of providing a clearer understanding of what to do.
There’s a link if you click upon “the criteria” which shows examples of concepts.
The education system is against teaching “reasoning” and such cognitive abilities which unfortunately, involve the understanding and working with concepts.