Why Stories Work

Aristotle, observing the Greek playwrights of his time, wrote in the Poetics that successful stories have a beginning, middle, and end. This was later interpreted as the Three-Act Structure:

Act 1 Beginning

Act 2 Middle

Act 3 End

The Three-Act Structure gained popularity through time, especially in Italian opera and later in Hollywood movies. In Christopher Vogler's The Writer's Journey, he adapted Joseph Campbell's popular The Hero with a Thousand Faces mythology concept to the Three-Act Structure. Vogler's approach broke the three acts into twelve smaller movements of action and growth:

Ordinary World

Call to Adventure

Refusal of Call

Meeting Mentor

Crossing Threshold

Tests, Allies, Enemies

Approach to Inmost Cave

Supreme Ordeal

Reward

Road Back

Resurrection

Return with Elixir

Other story structures dominated in different cultures and fields. The Five-Act Structure is linked historically with Elizabethan England, but actually predates Shakespeare to the Jews. (See The Song of Solomon in the Bible.) German writer Gustav Freytag in Technique of the Drama (1863) added shape to the theory. The Five-Act Structure contributes complexity to the basic Three-Act Structure by tweaking the middle:

Act 1 Beginning exposition

Act 2 Complications

Act 3 Climax

Act 4 Falling Action

Act 5 End

As television dawned and grew in popularity, story structure morphed into another shape. Syd Field wrote in his book Screenplay about a Four-Act Structure. This form divided the long and often troublesome middle act into two distinct halves:

Act 1 Beginning

Act 2a Rising Action

Act 2b Falling Action

Act 3 End

Some writers, rebelling against the guidelines of multiple-act story structures, insist story is a whole and should be treated as one continuous Act. To prove their point, they indicate failed examples where story structure was treated as a paint-by-the-numbers system, lacking vital creativity.

Nevertheless, history has proven the universal audience appeal of multiple-act story structures. Most of them, regardless of the number of individual acts, overlay and expand on the basic Three-Act Structure. Few other numbers find clearer expression at the core of matter (animal, vegetable, mineral), time(past, present, future), and personhood (thought, word, deed).

Sometimes this phrase is shortened to TSTL. Some, like Jennie Crusie, call it Too Dumb To Live (TDTL). The point is the hero/heroine does something that in the real world would get them or someone else dead... but in the story, it doesn't, because he/she is the main character. If the main character dies, the story would most likely be over. Or at the very least, the ending would probably be a major downer.

It's realistic for heroes and heroines to make mistakes. The ability to make bad choices are a part of human nature. But smart main characters learn from their mistakes and change their behavior accordingly. That's why such bad choices are best utilized in the beginning or middle of the story. Give the characters time and opportunity to learn better, and demonstrate their improved judgment through corresponding action at the end.

A bad choice, particularly the last in a long string of bad choices, at the climax is not likely to win cheers from the reader. Particularly if the bad choice produces a good result. The reader will probably feel art isn't imitating life closely enough to suspend her disbelief and buy into the resolution.

TSTL heroes and heroines are mainly guilty of insufficient motivation. Often, they rush in where angels fear to tread, with a strong emotional motivation--but weak or nonexistent external motivation. For example, the heroine is stalked by a madman. The hero and police tell her to stay inside the house with the windows and doors bolted shut. An hour later, she takes chicken soup to an elderly neighbor who's sick, because the heroine is compassionate and doesn't want the bad guy controlling her life.

To save this heroine the dishonor of a TSTL award, the writer needs to provide her with compelling external motivation. Maybe while the heroine's waiting for the cops to nab the stalker, her elderly neighbor calls up sick and passes out on the phone. The heroine uses her cell phone to alert the paramedics, but knows from a previous experience it will take at least ten minutes for them to arrive. The neighbor's grandchild comes on the phone and starts screaming, "She's dying!" The heroine has medication, which could save the old woman's life, and she's as close as next door. Plus, she has a weapon...

The main thing is the smart heroine who earns the reader's respect doesn't disregard danger. Most of all, she doesn't disregard good common sense. The reader wants to identify with a character who approaches problems courageously and intelligently.

As the third anniversary of the death of her husband and daughter nears, Joanne starts hearing the voice of her daughter in danger. Has the stress of a recent job promotion and the approaching holidays pushed her over the brink? Is she losing her mind?

Her mothering instincts are convinced the voice is true. Only Benjamin, an old friend recently returned to town, understands. She felt abandoned and isolated by friends and relatives when her family died, but Benjamin is different. He cares. Unbeknownst to her, however, he cares more than he should. That's why he left years ago. That's also why he's never leaving again.

Continue reading New Book Analysis: Gail Gaymer Martin's FINDING CHRISTMAS

The bad weather made it impossible to drive. He pulled over to the curb, and waited until it was safe to continue. He passed the time listening to loud radio shows. They were really noisy. And the hosts didn't talk about anything he was interested in. After awhile, he quit listening.

The above passage is an example of telling, not showing. How can you recognize the difference? Telling ignores the basic cause-effect logic of scene progression. The sentences skip the cause, leaping ahead to the point-of-view character's subjective internalization, part of the effect. To convert passages like this from telling to showing, follow this easy guideline:

1. Ask "why?" of each guilty sentence. For instance, why was the bad weather impossible to drive in? Don't be satisfied with an answer like, "Well, it was raining really hard." Keep asking why until generalities disappear, and facts surface.

2. Rewrite the sentence as a simple statement of fact. Stating facts is not the same as telling, because facts don't draw conclusions for the reader. Example: "The pounding rain overwhelmed the windshield wipers." Ah, so that's why!

3. To guard against author intrusion (another form of telling), check that the point-of-view character knows the facts as stated. It helps if the facts involve him in some way.
Rewritten passage--

The pounding rain overwhelmed the windshield wipers. He pulled over to the curb, and checked his watch. If the storm continued with this much force another ten minutes, he'd be late. He flipped on the radio. A heavy metal song screamed out of the speakers. He changed the station to a talk radio program about a shelter for over-the-hill racing pigeons. Minutes dragged by. They felt like hours. Instead of relaxing, he felt the pressure building in his neck and jaw, so he snapped the radio off.

In fiction, seeing is believing. If a character says, "I love animals," than kicks his dog, which will influence the reader's opinion more? Actions definitely speak louder than words.

But before a character acts, he or she thinks. I'm not talking about the function of certain personalities that ruminates for days about a specific action before doing anything. I'm talking about a lifestyle of thought that perpetually constructs a foundation for actions. This is a universal process, equally at work in all personalities.

How a character thinks on a day-to-day basis is how he lives. For instance, two characters work at the same job. Each day they interact with a corrupt supervising manager. One character thinks every day, This job stinks. The customers are stupid. My boss is unfair. I never get a raise. The second character thinks, I'm glad I've got a job. I enjoy brightening a customer's day with a smile. My boss has it harder than I do--he has to live with himself. My paycheck is all the appreciation I need.

Both characters' thought processes build attitudes. Attitudes lay the foundation for organic action and consistent characterization.

Continuing the example above--

Character A's attitude translates into actions like complaining about his job, treating customers disdainfully, whining to his boss, and ripping his paycheck because he opens it angrily.

Character B's attitude translates into actions like greeting customers with a smile, praying for his boss, and opening his paycheck with sufficient care it stays in one piece.

Now, let's say both characters get new jobs and raises, or are transferred out of state to better office environments. So long as both characters' thought habits remain the same, they will live in the same attitudes regardless of the change in circumstances. How the characters think is how they live--regardless of what happens in the plot.

And that's the secret of character growth.

Change the way the character habitually thinks (gradually, please, so it's believable). Then the attitude will change (again, gradually). Finally the action will reflect this foundational change, and because it's been set up in the character's thought life long before, the reader may be surprised but most importantly, she'll believe.

Giving a main character a compelling goal is the first building block to energizing a story. Character goals give the reader something to root for (or against, in the case of a villain). Character goals also give the reader a yardstick with which to measure pacing.

The second building block is activating the character's pursuit of the goal. In other words, the character must make things happen. The reader will get bored with a character who has a strong goal but who sits around waiting for something to happen to bring it to pass. An active main character takes charge of the story by doing something to get his/her goal. She may make mistakes, or even take the wrong action--but the important thing is she's active.

Passive characters may evoke sympathy and engage the reader's believability. After all, who hasn't at one time or another felt paralyzed by uncertainty and doubtful circumstances? But the reader will find her interest drifting after awhile away from passive characters toward more active characters. If the main character is passive and the reader finds an active supporting character, then the latter character will take over the story in the reader's mind.

When a story situation seems to trap a character in a passive role, turning the situation upside-down can unlock unexpected paths of action. This is a great way to breath fresh life into cliched storylines.

For example, in the movie Ransom, the wealthy protagonist's young son is kidnapped and held for ransom. The hero has a compelling goal--get his son back--but the situation places him in an inherently passive position, with the villains in control of the story. All he can do is wait by the phone, and follow directions. But the hero turns the tables on the villains (and the plot limitations) by using the ransom money to hunt them down until he finds his son alive and well. He takes action and makes things happen to reach his goal.

Author Lynda Simons' writing workshop article, "Character Arc."

Script consultant James P. Mercurio's "Three Definitions of Character Arc."

Author Robyn DeHart's online article, "Theme & Premise: Or How to Plot a Character Driven Book in 3 Easy Steps."

The Writers' Workshop online article, "The Ultimate Character Building Exercise."

Kathryn McCullough's online article, "The Character Arc."

Typingchimp software's online article, "What Exactly is a Character Arc?"

Typingchimp software's online article, "Give Every Character a Theme."

Perhaps the advice given most often when selecting which character's point of view (POV) to write a scene in is: write it from the POV of the character with the most to lose.

It's good advice. But there are other sides to the POV coin. So many sides, in fact, that it might better be called a sphere. The issues this decision rests on wrap around each other and blend together like a ball of twine.

For one thing, the character with the most to lose may know a secret the writer isn't ready to reveal to the reader yet. Perhaps, for example, a husband packs for a business trip. The truth is he's on his way to rendezvous with another women. His wife acts almost desperate to convince him to change his mind about going. He wonders if she knows... The reader wonders if she knows... The wife certainly has the most to lose in the scene. But the writer may choose to maximize the suspense a while longer by not revealing what the wife truly knows about the trip, which (to play fair with readers) the writer would have to do if she wrote the scene from the wife's POV.

Another issue involves emotions. If a potential POV character is expressing raw emotion in a scene, it may benefit the story to pick another character's POV to witness it through. Give readers room to imagine what the emotional character is going through. Give them room to evoke and experience their own emotions about the scene.

But the key issue when deciding POV involves readers far more directly. Whose POV does the reader want to be in? In a romance, until recently, readers wanted to almost exclusively be in the heroine's POV from page one until The End. Then about twenty years ago things changed. The hero's POV began taking over scenes, and it's quite common if not outright expected for a romance novel to have both the hero and heroine's POV (but rarely a third character's). In the subgenre of romantic suspense, the POV situation is different still. Readers find extra tension in the inclusion of the bad guy's POV.

Readers in other genres expect and desire particular POVs, too. Readers of thrillers, for example, find the POV of the villain fascinating. Women's fiction and saga readers may desire to participate in the POVs of several family members.

When determining which character's POV to write a scene in, the savvy writer's primary concern isn't the characters or herself. It's the reader's response to the POV choice.

Characters come alive in the reader's mind by reason of their emotional dimensions. They feel joy, anger, hope, despair, etc. To feel real to the reader, these emotions need to represent more than the present moment. Real people's feelings are a complicated whirlpool blending past, present, and future attitudes, behaviors, and experiences. To understand why a character feels a certain way now, the reader needs to understand the context within which the character's emotions exist.

To accomplish this, beginning writers sometimes make the mistake of diving into long, windy passages about a character's background. They try to explain every detail about why the character feels the way she feels in order to convince the reader the present emotional state is believable. The problem with this approach is readers don’t want to spend their attention on information about the past. Their attention is on the present and the future (what's going to happen next?), and they are happiest when the writer allows them to maintain that focus.

To this end, background, while necessary in order to understand a character's emotions in context, serves the story best when treated like table salt at a meal. A little goes a long way. Pick a significant situation, and try to connect the character's present emotion with a specific event in the past. Take a mental snapshot, and flash it in all its sensory glory before the point-of-view character's eyes. The key word there is sensory, not expository.

For example, in Joel Rosenberg's The Ezekiel Option, the hero and heroine are trapped in the middle of a violent military coup. Bullets fly around them, and the hero is hit. It's understandable the heroine feels afraid. But Rosenberg layers the emotional context of the scene by tying the significance of the situation with a particular event in the past.

...She feared for Bennett's life. It wouldn't be long before he slipped into shock. He was losing too much blood.

McCoy gritted her teeth and tried to push away the fear of losing him. But that was impossible. She remembered the last time she had wondered whether she would lose the man she loved. Suddenly she was back at Dr. Mordechai's home in Jerusalem, kneeling over Bennett, desperately trying to stop the bleeding from two gunshot wounds he'd sustained from an Iraqi terrorist tied to Al-Nakbah.

Just like on that day, she could hear the thunder of gunfire crashing all around them. She could smell the gunpowder in the air...

As is key with any use of background information, keep it short and keep it sensory.

Developing story ideas is often a process of connection. This character connects to this situation, which connects to this event, which connects to this plot, which connects to another event, which connects to another character, which connects to this theme... And so on until the puzzle is complete and the original idea has sprouted and grown into a towering tree.

But, there are other times when the pieces simply refuse to fall into place. Still, it's a writer's job to come up with a workable idea. Preferably, many workable ideas.

Lynn Johnston knows something about cultivating a garden of ideas. She's the creator of the "For Better or For Worse" comic strip. Successful comic strip creators often face weekly, sometimes daily, deadlines that must be met weeks or months in advance. She gives a behind-the-scenes peak at how she gets her ideas.

Her process for developing ideas often begins with a private space that's conducive to inspiration. It may be luxurious or simplistic. The objective is to, by repetition, train the mind that this is the place to relax and allow ideas to flow.

The suggestion I particularly like involves coming up with three dissimilar things. Any three things. It doesn't matter. Then imagine a scene or story that connects all three things. The possibilities are truly endless and usually always imaginative.

At the core of a story resides a situation: the basic state of circumstances the protagonist finds himself or herself in. It may involve an exotic setting or unusual job chosen by the writer to hook a reader's interest. A story can rise above the slush pile or stand out on a bookshelf because of a strong foundational situation.

For example, in Joel Rosenberg's The Ezekiel Option, the situation that hooks readers' interest involves the fulfillment of Ezekiel's prophecy concerning the "lands of the north" and Israel. Among the ocean of apocalyptic stories available, this situation stands out. A lot deal with the rise of the Antichrist, but far fewer deal specifically with the precursor event of the destruction of Russia's military.

Airplane disaster movies are a dime a dozen now, but back in the 1950s the story situation was highly unusual. John Wayne's 1954 blockbuster The High and the Mighty hit theater screens with an ensemble story about a group of conflicted passengers trapped on a doomed transatlantic flight. It captured audiences' interest, and set the stage for a slew of clones.

The situation lures readers across the threshold of the book's cover, but they can back out at any time by simply putting the book down. Locking the exit and throwing away the key requires developing complications. Complications alter the terrain of the basic situation and create obstacles, forcing the characters (and readers!) to constantly readjust their perspective.

Some of the most fun and interesting complications may arise from the protagonist's own mistaken attempts to navigate the situation. For instance, in The Ezekiel Option the protagonist loses his fiancée in a violent military coup, and returns home devastated. His grip on his faith slips, and his most trusted intelligence source realizes the hero is not emotionally prepared to receive certain vital information. This complicates the situation, because an important character must wait to give the hero information the hero needs now. When the protagonist gives the American president radical advice about dealing with his enemies, it results in the hero's mental stability coming into question. This complicates the situation, because when he does get more pieces of the puzzle put together, no one takes him seriously anymore.

Coming up with a sparkling situation is only the first step, though a very important one. It's complications that keep readers on the yellow brick road until The End.

This is a question writers encounter often. Where do their ideas for stories come from? It's a question they may ask themselves when facing a deadline and paralyzed by writers block.

I've gotten most of my ideas for stories while watching movies and TV episodes, reading single-paragraph summaries of other stories, and odd news articles on the Internet. Oh, yes, and songs. I love the evocativeness of song lyrics. So much emotion, and ultimately that's what stories must evoke in order to impact readers. "Make them laugh, make them cry, make them wait," Charles Dickens said.

Other writers draw their ideas from a variety of sources. For instance, Brandilyn Collins built her women's fiction novel Color the Sidewalk for Me from a childhood memory. Francine Rivers' stories often come to her as a result of a personal issue or a Bible passage. This article by Chip Scanlan discusses the value of old newspapers--including weather forecasts and classified ads--for gleaning story material.

The principle is the same: ideas come from what someone pays attention to. The certain something they pay attention to sparks an emotion, no matter how slight. And an idea is born. It works with everyone. Paying attention does not mean clamping onto an idea like a vise, until the mind turns numb from the exertion. No, paying attention implies consistency and activity and the energy of motion. Keep the mind focused but flexible at the same time.

The ideas will come.