The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 3: The First Act, by K. M. Weiland
From: http://www.helpingwritersbecomeauthors.com/secrets-of-story-structure-pt-3-first
Once you’ve hooked the reader, your next task is to put your early chapters to work introducing your characters, settings, and stakes. The first 20-25% of the book comprises your setup. At first glance, this can seem like a tremendous chunk of story to devote to introductions, but if you expect readers to stick with you throughout the story, you first have to give them a reason to care. And this important stretch of the story is where you accomplish just that. Mere curiosity can only carry a reader so far. Once you’ve hooked that sense of curiosity, you then have to deepen the pull by creating an emotional connection between your readers and your characters.
These “introductions” are made up of far more than just the actual moment of introducing the characters and settings or explaining the stakes. The introductions themselves probably won’t take more than few scenes. After the introduction is when your task of exploring character and establishing the stakes really begins.
What are character/setting/stakes introductions?
Structuring Your Novel: Essential Keys for Writing an Outstanding StoryThe first quarter of the book (the first act) is the place to compile all the necessary components of your story. Anton Chekhov’s famous advice that “if in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired” is just as important in reverse: If you’re going to have a character fire a gun later in the book, that gun should be introduced in the first act. The story you create in the following acts can only be assembled from the parts you’ve shown the reader in this first act. That’s your first duty in this section.
Your second duty is to allow readers the opportunity to learn about your characters. Who are these people? What is the essence of their personalities? What are their core beliefs (even more particularly, what are the beliefs that will be challenged or strengthened throughout the book)? If you can introduce a character in a “characteristic moment,” you’ll be able to immediately show readers who this person is. From there, the plot builds as you deepen the stakes and set up the conflict that will come to a head in the key and inciting events.
Where do the introductions belong?
The introductions should ideally begin in the opening chapter. Depending on the number of characters or the complexity of your setting, you will probably want to space the introductions throughout several early scenes. The most important thing to keep in mind is the necessity of giving characters enough space in these early chapters so you can focus on developing them. This does not mean the plot needs to be slow or meandering. Every scene must be pertinent to the plot; every scene must be a domino moving the characters forward to the point of no return. But don’t cram so much action into these early scenes that you waste your opportunity to flesh out the characters before the bullets really start flying later on.
Examples from film and literature
Let’s examine how the authors and directors of our four exemplary stories took advantage of their first act.
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (1813): Austen introduces characters, settings, and stakes, all three, in the very first scene. Ten pages in, we’ve been introduced to all the major characters, given to understand the setting, and shown what’s at stake for the Bennett daughters if one of them can’t ensnare the unwitting Mr. Bingley. By the time we reach the first major plot point, we’ve gotten to know the sisters. The beauty and sweetness that will eventually win Jane a husband, the independence and strong opinions with which Lizzy drives the conflict, and the foreboding irresponsibility of the youngest daughter Lydia are all in place and ready for use later in the story. We’ve also been introduced to the Bingleys, Darcy, and Wickham. Before the first act is over, Bingley is in love with Jane, and Lizzy has made up her mind to dislike Darcy—the two factors that will drive the entirety of the remaining story.
It’s a Wonderful Life directed by Frank Capra (1947): The first quarter of this classic movie is entirely, blatantly, and beautifully about character development. Under the guise of explaining George Bailey to novice angel Clarence, the head honcho angels show us all the prominent moments in George Bailey’s young life. We see him as a child, saving his little brother’s life, losing the hearing in one ear, and preventing old Mr. Gower from accidentally poisoning a customer. We get a glimpse of him as a young man, planning his escape from “crummy” Bedford Falls, even as he begins to fall for the lovely Mary Hatch. By the time the inciting event strikes, we know George Bailey inside out. We’ve been introduced to Bedford Falls and its colorful array of denizens. And we’ve learned of the stakes from the mouth of George’s father, who explains the importance of the Bailey Building & Loan in giving the people a haven from evil Old Man Potter.
Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card (1977): Card uses his first act to establish his setting, the orbital Battle School, where brilliant young children are sent to train to stave off an alien invasion. We learn about this strange and brutal place through the eyes of the main character, Ender Wiggin, who is a new arrival, and, in so doing, we learn about Ender as well. We see his determination, his kindness, but also his underlying bedrock of ruthlessness—which will eventually become the element around which the entire plot must turn. Almost all of the important supporting characters are introduced, and readers are immediately shown what is a stake, not only for the human race, but also for Ender, if he does not overcome the handicap of his extreme youth in order to flourish in this place.
Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World: directed by Peter Weir (2004): After the initial onslaught of the furious opening battle, Weir slows his movie down considerably to allow viewers to get to know the main characters—the captain and the surgeon—and the several dozen minor characters, featured from among the crew members. The opening battle already showed us the stakes were high, but the characters’ reactions to it, particularly the captain’s intense desire to refit the ship and reengage the enemy, help us understand why they’re fighting and what will happen if they fail. As the crew works to repair the ship’s battle damage, we’re also given an inside view of the ship itself, which will play such an irreplaceable role throughout the rest of the story.
Takeaway value
So what can we learn from these masterful first acts?
- If the hook has done its job, you can safely slow down the action enough to thoughtfully introduce and deepen your characters.
- The salient personality points, motivations, and beliefs of the characters should all be developed.
- The pertinent points of the setting must be fleshed out, so you don’t have to slow down in the second act to explain things. Readers should already be oriented by the first plot point.
- The very fact that readers are developing a bond with the characters raises the stakes. Drive the point home by making clear what the characters (and thus the readers) stand to lose in the coming conflict.
- Make certain every scene matters. Each scene must be a domino that knocks into the next domino/scene, building inexorably to the first plot point.
The first quarter of the book builds the foundation of your entire story. A weak foundation will topple even the most brilliant of conflicts and climaxes. Do your groundwork, set up all your necessary playing pieces, and grip readers with an undeniable urge to find out what happens to your marvelous characters.
The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 2: The Hook, by K. M. Weiland
From: http://www.helpingwritersbecomeauthors.com/secrets-of-story-structure-pt-2-hook
Readers are like fish. Smart fish. Fish who know authors are out to get them, reel them in, and capture them for the rest of their seagoing lives. But, like any self-respecting fish, readers aren’t caught easily. They aren’t about to surrender themselves to the lure of your story unless you’ve presented them with an irresistible hook.
Our discussion of story structure very naturally begins at the beginning—and the beginning of any good story is its hook. Unless you hook readers into your story from the very first chapter, they won’t swim in deep enough to experience the rest of your rousing adventure, no matter excellent it is.
What is a hook?
The hook comes in many forms, but stripped down to its lowest common denominator, the hook is nothing more or less than a question. If we can pique our readers’ curiosity, we’ve got ‘em. Simple as that. The beginning of every story should present character, setting, and conflict. But, in themselves, none of these represent a hook. We’ve created a hook only when we’ve convinced readers to ask the general question, “What’s going to happen?” because we’ve also convinced them to ask a more specific question, such as “What scary reptilian monster killed the worker?” (Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton) or “How does a city hunt?” (Mortal Engines by Philip Reeve).
Where does the hook belong?
Structuring Your Novel: Essential Keys for Writing an Outstanding StoryBecause your ability to convince the reader to keep reading is dependent on your hook, it must be present as early as possible in your first scene. In fact, if you can get it into your first line, so much the better. However, the hook must be organic. Teasing readers with a killer opening line (“Mimi was dying again”) only to reveal all is not as seems (turns out Mimi is an actress performing her 187th death scene) not only negates the power of your hook, it also betrays readers’ trust. And readers don’t like to be betrayed. Not one little bit.
Examples from film and literature
Now that we’ve got a basic idea of what a hook is and where it belongs, let’s consider a few examples. I’ve selected two movies and two books (two classics and two recent), which we’ll use as examples throughout this series, so you can follow the story arc as presented in popular and successful media. Let’s take a look at how the professionals hook us so successfully we never realize we’ve swallowed the worm.
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (1813): Austen begins by masterfully hooking us with her famous opening line, “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” The subtle irony gives us a sense of conflict from the very first and lets us know that neither the wife in search of the fortune nor the man in search of the wife will find their goals so easily. Austen deepens the pull of her hook in her opening paragraph by further highlighting the juxtaposition of her opening statement with the realities of her plot, and then deepens it still further in the entirety of the opening scene, which introduces readers to the Bennet family in such a way that we not only grow interested in the characters, but also realize both the thrust of the plot and the difficulties of the conflict.
It’s a Wonderful Life directed by Frank Capra (1947): Capra opens with a successful framing device that hooks the reader with a sneak peek of the climax. The movie opens at the height of the main character’s troubles and immediately has us wondering why George Bailey is in such a fix that the whole town is praying for him. Next thing we know, we’re staring at an unlikely trio of angels, manifested as blinking constellations. The presentation not only fascinates us with its unexpectedness, it also succinctly expresses the coming conflict and stakes and engages the reader with a number of specific need-to-know questions.
Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card (1977): The opening line to Card’s acclaimed science-fiction novel is packed with hooking questions: “‘I’ve watched through his eyes, I’ve listened through his ears, and I tell you he’s the one. Or at least as close as we’re going to get.’” Just like that, Card’s got us wondering how the speaker is watching and listening through someone’s else’s mind, who is the one, what is the one supposed to do, and why are they settling for a “one” who is less than perfect? He then successfully builds his killer opening into a scene that introduces his unlikely hero, six-year-old Ender Wiggin, just as his life is about to change forever.
Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World directed by Peter Weir (2004): As a brilliant adaptation of Patrick O’Brian’s beloved Aubrey/Maturin series, this movie is unusual in a number of areas, not least in its non-formulaic tone and plot. Nevertheless, it follows the requirements of structure to a T, beginning with its stark opening, showing the morning ritual aboard the man of war HMS Surprise. Aside from arousing our natural curiosity about the unique setting, the hook doesn’t appear until a minute or so into the film when one of the sailors spots what might be an enemy ship. The film never slows to explain the situation to the reader. It carries them through a few tense moments of uncertainty and indecision, then, almost without warning, plunges them into the midst of a horrific sea battle. Viewers are hooked almost before they see the hook coming.
Takeaway value
So what can we learn from these masterful hooks?
- Hooks should be inherent to the plot.
- Hooks don’t always involve action, but they always set it up.
- Hooks never waste time.
- Hooks almost always pull double or triple duty in introducing character, conflict, and plot—and even setting and theme.
Our hook is our first chance to impress readers, and like it or not, first impressions are usually make or break territory. Plan your hook carefully and wow readers so thoroughly they won’t ever forget the moment your story first grabbed them.
How Parallel Narrative Multiplies Your Story Choices, by Linda Aronson
From: http://www.lindaaronson.com/parallel-narrative.html
Very often things like flashbacks, flash forwards, non-linear narratives, multiple plots and ensemble casts are regarded as optional gimmicks stuck into the conventional three act structure. They’re not. Each of the six types I’ve isolated and their subcategories provides a different take on the same story material. Suddenly, one idea for a film can give you a multitude of story choices. What do I mean?
More than six ways to turn your idea into a film. Let’s imagine that you’ve read a newspaper article about soldiers contracting a respiratory disease from handling a certain kind of weaponry. You want to write a film about it. Conventional wisdom says create one storyline with one protagonist (a soldier who gets the disease) and follow that protagonist through a three act linear journey. There’s no question that you could make a fine film out of that. But there are several other ways to make a story out of the idea, and several different messages that you could transmit – by using one of the parallel narrative forms.
Would you like to create a script about a group of soldiers from the same unit who contract the disease together during one incident, with their relationships disintegrating or improving as they get sicker, dealing with the group dynamic and unfinished emotional business? That would be a shared team ‘adventure’, which is a kind of group story, so you would be using what I call Multiple Protagonist form (the form seen in films like Saving Private Ryan or The Full Monty or Little Miss Sunshine, where a group goes on a quest together and we follow the group’s adventure, the adventure of each soldier, and the emotional interaction of each soldier with the others).
Alternatively, would you prefer your soldiers not to know each other, instead, to be in different units, or even different parts of the world, with the action following each soldier into a separate story that shows a different version of the same theme, with all of the stories running in parallel in the same time frame and making a socio-political comment about war and cannon fodder? If so, you need what I call tandem narrative, the form of films like Nashville or Traffic.
Alternatively, if you want to tell a series of stories (each about a different soldier) consecutively, one after the other, linking the stories by plot or theme (or both) at the end, you’ll need what, in my book Screenwriting Updated I called ‘Sequential Narrative’, but now, to avoid confusion with an approach to conventional three act structure script of the same name, I term Consecutive Stories form, either in its fractured state (as in Pulp Fiction or Atonement), or in linear form (as in The Circle).
Alternatively, if you prefer to show the story in flashback, with a storyline in the present set in a hospital where one or more of the soldiers are patients and the story of what happened in the past being told as flashbacks, you need one of the flashback forms (there are three main forms and three minor ones). Finally, would you rather write about some soldiers who have never met being thrown together randomly when a catastrophic event occurs, then following them after the event? If so, the structure you would choose is what I’ve given the name Fractured Tandem, the form used in 21 Grams and Babel, which is like tandem narrative, but chopped up and reassembled, with all of the stories linked, triggered by that one catastrophic event, and the soldiers suffering the terrible accidental consequences.
As you can see, out of one idea we have a whole range of possible films. Hence, the rule now is no longer ‘use the conventional linear one hero model for your idea or get another idea’. Our rule now is: ‘content dictates form’.
I should stress here that I’m in no way hostile towards conventional three act structure. It’s the workhorse of screenwriting and I recommend and use it all the time. If your content suits it, fine. My point is simply that it’s not the only form. There are, and always have been, others. When trying to work out the best structure for your film, always double-check whether conventional narrative is more suitable. See Should I use conventional narrative instead?
New structures, a new mindset While parallel narrative is very exciting, it isn’t easy. Of course, no screenwriting is easy, but parallel narrative is particularly hard because it requires a change of mindset. It requires you to think in terms of many structures, not one, and it turns many of our notions about screenplay structure upside down. While, as I’ve said, it’s very much based on the conventional structure, doing things like multiplying, fracturing, truncating it or rearranging it, all in predictable ways, it frequently breaks rules we’ve got so used to that we don’t even realise they’re rules. For example, most forms of parallel narrative involve more than one protagonist, and some forms require you to make the same character a protagonist in one storyline and an antagonist in another, switching between the two. This is mind bending for many writers at first – it certainly was for me.
Also confusing for many is that most forms of parallel narrative involve several storylines,. For anyone who’s not been trained to jump between storylines or combine storylines within the same scene without losing pace or confusing the audience it’s a whole new skill (TV writers do it routinely, but it’s one of the hardest things to learn). Similarly, parallel narrative means learning new skills in economy of storytelling because if you are writing five storylines clearly the screen time available for each is very limited.
All that said, probably the most testing aspect of parallel narrative is that it forces us to dump that very comfortable idea that screenplay structure is fixed and unchanging. Films like 21 Grams, Run Lola Run, Inception and Memento have used parallel narrative to reinvent what popular film is and what it can do. They have also transformed our notions of what audiences will enjoy. There’s actually no way now that we can believe film structure is fixed and unchanging. It clearly isn’t. As we might have suspected, it changes to suit its times, just like other art forms. And, just like other artists, it’s not enough for us to keep recycling what was done forty, fifty, sixty years ago. We need to be inventive and original. And that in effect means that we have to be equipped to create not only films using the six parallel narrative forms that I have isolated, but also structural hybrids if we need to, just like the filmmakers who created 21 Grams, Run Lola Run, Inception and Memento, all of which are films that speak of and to their time and would have been incomprehensible to audiences sixty years ago.
If the idea of creating hybrids terrifies you, don’t let it (well, not too much anyway – any writer who is not panicking at this point needs to have their pulse checked, but don’t get too worried). The wonderful thing is that hybrids are doable (albeit with care) because there are clear rules governing the structural mechanics of parallel narrative, and (with care), we can mix and match. For example, a lot of time jump models open on a second act turning point (the protagonist’s closest moment to death emotionally, physically or both, followed by a decision to act), and then jump back to the protagonist’s disturbance. This is a very robust combination, and it appears over and over again in films all over the world. Just knowing about that mechanism means that if you wanted to create a parallel narrative film that had no structural precedents and needed to be a new hybrid, you would know that using that second act turning point followed by a jump back to the disturbance would probably work.
But of course, you can’t just learn one mechanism. Now that our rule is that content dictates structure, you need to learn the mechanics of all of the parallel narrative forms – so you know what suits your story material and where to look to find precedents for various elements of your hybrid. Yes, this is all hard, but it brings enormous rewards. Not only because it gives you a whole palette of new paints to work with as you write screenplays (perhaps even a whole set of new palettes if that’s not pushing the metaphor too far) but because, on a completely different tack, learning how to manipulate multiple storylines equips you for TV writing, which has always used them.
We’re so used to there being only one structure that we can forget parallel narrative uses several structures, according to content…All parallel narrative categories and subcategories achieve their impact by different structural means. However, it’s difficult for most writers to remember that, in parallel narrative, structure changes radically between different models. We are just not used to structure being something that CAN change significantly. We are trained to believe that the three act linear structure is what film structure IS and are so used to having only one structure that works for everything that structure is not really something we think about – except to make sure that we have a good three act linear model rising to a climax. But in the world of parallel narrative structure can vary enormously between forms. Some sorts of film (like The Hours or 21 Grams) work by creating three one act stories with a second act so truncated it barely exists. In others (like Run Lola Run), you may have three different versions of Act 2. In yet other forms, the time jumps will be catastrophic if you don’t jump stories at a very specific place in the action. In short, you cannot tell the story you want to tell unless you’ve got the right structure to tell it. Emphatically, you cannot do things like stick flashbacks in at random, or start repeating the same story over and over without addressing the structure of the whole film.
An analogy with architectural plans might be useful here. Conventional narrative structure is like a plan for one kind of building – let’s say a three bedroom house with a pitched roof. You can create all sorts of wonderful buildings with that design, as long as you wish to create a three bedroom house with a pitched roof. But if you want to create a building with a different purpose – an apartment building or a kindergarten or a town hall or a theater complex – you’ll need a completely different design, and your design for a theater complex or town hall won’t work for an apartment building, and vice versa. Unfortunately, a lot of writers coming to parallel narrative try to do this – using forms that just don’t suit their purpose – with predictably unhappy results.
As I’ve said, parallel narrative requires a different mindset. There is simply not space in a website to explain the structural differences between the different sorts of parallel narrative in the detail that it requires and it would be foolish to try. I have to refer you to The 21st Century Screenplay, using the website as an introduction to these exciting but challenging forms.
For Wordherders interested in exploring the use of parallel narrative techniques, Aronson has additional links that you may find helpful on her webpage.
Write on the River August Membership Meeting
Wordherders’ member, Donelle Knudsen, will be one of six published authors speaking at Write on the River’s August membership meeting. It will take place August 20th in the Wenatchee Public Library’s auditorium from 10:30 a.m-11:30 a.m. with questions/answers/socializing until 1:00 p.m.
Congratulations, Darin Ramsey on “Dear Future Customer”!
Congratulations to Darin Ramsey who sold a story! Mothership Zeta bought his flash story “Dear Future Customer” for the October issue. Check it out!
Book Release: The Defect
Congratulations to new Wordherder and new author, Jeff Bailey, on the June 9th release of his first novel, The Defect. Check it out!
The Defect
Click to buy now.
The Defect is the first novel by new author Jeff Bailey, released by Deer Hawk Publications on June 10, 2016. About the book, from Amazon:
Terrorists have infiltrated the staff of the Desert Canyons nuclear power station. They want to melt it down and spread radioactive waste all over Southern California. Think it can’t happen today? Think again. At two in the morning in 2013, an unknown hooded person infiltrated a nuclear power plant in Tennessee. Shots were fired. It never made national news. None of what you read here ever happened, the cover-up was too complete. This story is based on actual events.
The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 1: Why Should Authors Care? by K.M. Weiland
From: http://www.helpingwritersbecomeauthors.com/secrets-of-story-structure-pt-1-why
What’s the single most overlooked, misunderstood—and yet most important—part of storytelling? If you cheated and looked at the title, you already know the answer is structure. Most uninitiated writers have two different reactions to the idea of story structure. Either they think it’s great, but too mystical and lofty to be understood by common mortals, or they think it’s formulaic hooey that will sap the art right out of their books.
I started out somewhere in the “huh?” camp that didn’t even realize there was such a thing as structure. From there, I progressed to reading complicated outlines that left me shaking my head. If that was structure then my story was practically written for me before I even came up with a decent idea. Thanks, but no thanks.
What I didn’t know—what most writers don’t know—is that even as I subjected the idea of story structure to ignorance and ridicule, I was actually structuring my stories without even realizing it. In the years since, I’ve been introduced to many theories of structure, all of which bear out the inevitable components found in all good stories, whether their authors deliberately structured them or were just lucky enough to wing it on their own good instincts.
Some experts’ approach to structure is mesmerizingly complex. John Truby’s must-read The Anatomy of Story presents twenty-two elements of story structure. Syd Field’s canonical Screenplay (which is just as valuable for novelists as for screenwriters) breaks story down to the simpler three-act structure. All of these approaches incorporate the same tenets of structure, but some of them break them down into smaller chunks. I prefer a happy medium of the two: ten steps that are found in every story and, when arranged correctly, give both author and reader the biggest bang for their buck.
As you’ve probably already figured out, all this just goes to say that today I’d like to introduce a new series. Over the next few months, we’ll be exploring the mysteries, the fallacies, and the opportunities of structure.
But first let’s consider a few of the reasons every author should care about structure—and why none of us should fear it.
Structure is required in all of art.
Structuring Your Novel: Essential Keys for Writing an Outstanding StoryDancing, painting, singing, you name it—all art forms require structure. Writing is no different. To bring a story to its full potential, authors must understand the form’s limitations, as well as how to put its many parts into the proper order to achieve maximum effect.
Structure does not limit creativity.
Authors often fear structure will limit their ability to be creative. If they have to follow a certain road in their story and observe certain pit stops, won’t the story be written for them? But this isn’t the case. Structure presents only a shape—the curve of the story arc that we all recognize as vital to a novel’s success. The only difference is that structure allows us to be concrete and confident in our creation of that arc, ensuring the shape always turns out perfectly.
Structure is not formulaic.
Another fear is that if every story has the same structure, won’t every story ultimately be the same? But this isn’t any more true than is the idea that because every ballet incorporates the same movements, every ballet must be the same. Structure is only the box that holds the gift. What that gift may be is as wildly varied as the wrapping paper it hides behind.
Structure offers a checklist of must-have elements.
Don’t we read how-to books (and blogs like this one) because we’re wanting to discover and remember all the elements that make up a successful story? Structure is nothing more than a list of those elements, all tied up in one tidy package. How handy is that?
Structure solidifies mastery of the craft.
Learning to consciously understand the techniques you’re probably already using on an instinctive level can only broaden your understanding and tighten your mastery of the craft. When I first discovered the intricacies of structure, I was amazed to realize I was already incorporating most of the elements into my stories. Learning about them then allowed me to strengthen my raw instinct into purposeful knowledge.
3 Smart Tips for Structuring Powerful Scenes, by Rachel Starr Thomson
From: http://www.helpingwritersbecomeauthors.com/structuring-powerful-scenes
It’s common wisdom that in structuring powerful scenes, we should open in media res—that is, while something is happening. And it’s generally best to bow out while things are still happening: close the dinner conversation with the last line of dialogue, not after everyone has fallen silent, gotten up from the table, washed the dishes, and gone to bed.
But once we get into a scene, what do we do there? What does a scene need to accomplish? What constitutes a scene, anyway?
Tip #1 for Structuring Powerful Scenes: Think of Scenes as Miniature Novels
EXAMPLE:
Honey felt a tug on the line.
“Reel ’er in slow,” Grandpa said.
It was a slow, lazy afternoon on the river, the kind Honey loved. Grandpa was in a chatty mood, and they whiled away the hours fishing—sort of—while he shared memories from the past.
“Grandma and me used to come do this,” he said. “The other girls thought it was strange that she liked to fish, but I guess she did. Or else she just liked to spend the time with me.”
Honey smiled. She understood her grandmother. There was nothing nicer than spending time with someone you loved on a sunny day on the river, feeling the cool breeze and the splash of the water when you tried to bring a fish in. Not that it ever seemed important to really catch one.
“Well, I guess it’s time we go home and get dinner,” Grandpa finally said.
As an editor, I regularly see passages like this one in rough drafts. But this example is not a scene. It’s a snapshot. Although it opens in media res and ends with a sense of closure, it goes nowhere in between. If you were to cobble together a hundred snapshots like it, you would not have a story at the end.
In fact, a scene is not just a building block for a novel; it’s something of a novel in miniature. Like novels, scenes begin with a status quo, move through an incident that changes that status, and then build to something—a reveal, a confrontation, a climax of some kind. Often they will dip down into a resolution as well, though not always.
Scene structure mirrors that of any drama:
- Status quo (Act 1)
- Inciting incident
- Challenge(s) (Act 2)
- Climax
- Resolution (Act 3—optional. Since scenes are only smaller parts of a bigger story, they can end in cliffhangers, whereas a novel cannot.)
Fixing Scene Structure
If Honey had caught a fish (inciting incident), and then struggled hard to land it (challenge) but finally won out (climax to resolution), we would have a scene.
If Grandpa’s conversation had turned into something deep and meaningful, such that he revealed a secret about Honey’s past, or professed love for his family for the first time in his life, or admitted he had cancer, we would have a scene.
If their fishing trip was interrupted by aliens descending on the river, and then Honey and Grandpa hid in the woods and managed to escape, we would have a scene.
A good scene has forward motion—not only in the sense that something actually happens but also in that it moves the whole story forward. By the end of a single scene, the story world is not the same as it was before.
Tip #2 for Structuring Powerful Scenes: It’s All about Change
Ultimately, stories are all about change, and so are the scenes that make them. Change doesn’t have to be big and dramatic, but it must be there. After beginning with the status quo of fishing on the river, Honey’s life could change in several different ways:
- Grandpa reveals a secret about Honey’s past—her perception of her entire life changes.
- Grandpa professes love for his family for the first time—a relationship alters.
- Grandpa admits he has cancer—the future changes.
- Aliens land and Honey escapes—the universe changes!
Good scene structure begins with a status quo, moves through a few obstacles, and finishes at a climax—where something, in the character’s situation or life as whole—is changed.
Tip #3 for Structuring Powerful Scenes: Move the Story Forward
In the scheme of things, the particular climax of a scene may not be anything major. Maybe it’s just a slight alteration in the way two characters perceive one another. But it moves the story forward. The inciting incidents and climaxes within a particular scene do not have to be high-level events: they might be the tug of a fish on a line, a set of keys found, a minor confession made, a friendship struck up. But they must change something—something that ultimately builds the whole story by one more block.
Scenes that use dramatic structure within themselves and then link together to create the larger dramatic structure of the novel: these are what truly make a story come together.
Perfect Counterparts, by Erik Bork
From: http://blog.artella.com/post/141211270456/on-developing-story-ideas-by-pete-docter
What makes an audience root for two people to be together?
The Save the Cat books have a name for the type of story where the primary external conflict is that two people who are “perfect counterparts” have something big in the way of “living happily ever after.” It’s called “Buddy Love.” And it includes most types of love stories, including the classic “Forbidden Love” (Brokeback Mountain, Twilight, Moulin Rouge) or “Romantic Comedy” (Pretty Woman, Wedding Crashers, There’s Something About Mary…).
In such films, the audience needs to basically fall in love with each of the two people, in the first act. And they need to believe that they should be together, and want this to happen. Sometimes both of the characters also want it. Sometimes only one seems to want it. Sometimes they both might not realize it. But the audience can see it: they belong with each other.
It’s very important to understand how to create this feeling, because so many movies have a relationship at the center — if not in the “A Story,” then in the “B Story” — as in Jerry Maguire, The 40-Year-Old Virgin or Erin Brockovich. In each of these, the main character has some other big A Story challenge beyond the relationship, and the “love” challenge functions more as a B Story, which helps to personalize and focus things, and makes the audience relate to the main character even more. (It’s also a place where their character flaws and arc tend to get explored.)
And the same principals apply there — the audience has to care that this couple makes it.
So how do we achieve this?
We start with an “Incomplete Hero” (according to Save the Cat), then add a “Perfect Counterpart,” and a “Complication.” The complication is the thing that threatens to keep the two people apart. It really IS the movie, in the sense that it should be at the heart of the logline, and is the main, marketable hook of the concept. It is the primary thing the characters are struggling with, in virtually every scene. For example: she’s human and he’s a vampire. Or he’s a billionaire and she’s a street prostitute. Or they’re both gay in a time where you risk your life to be gay. Or she’s engaged to Bradley Cooper and he’s with them under false pretenses that would make her hate him, if she knew.
In the idea generation process, and the structuring of the story, getting this complication right, and making sure it’s big and entertaining enough, is key. But that’s a subject for another post. We’re talking here about making the audience care about the relationship, in the first place. Because if the audience doesn’t want them to be together, and I mean desperately want it, there’s no movie. (Or there’s no B Story, if that’s where the relationship challenge is.)
So we start with an incomplete hero. Actually both of the two people are usually incomplete in some way. And they have a clear chance to “complete” each other, in a way that only they can. Now, in real life, there might be multiple people out there for each of us who could do this. But in a movie, we’re focused on just one, as if they are the only one. And they are the only one, at least in these characters’ current lives.
One way this is made clear is to give one or both characters other relationships, relationship prospects, or exes, who clearly don’t “complete” them. What does it mean to “complete” somebody? I think what it comes down to is this: they “get” each other, they “accept” each other, and they “believe in” each other, in a way that nobody else does. They are also uniquely able to see the best in the other person, and to encourage that best self to come out — to stimulate that happening. This often comes from having somewhat opposite qualities to them, which are complementary, and allow them to bring a different perspective to their lives than other people usually do.
In all these movies, the dynamic between the two star-crossed lovers is superior, healthier, and more of a positive thing than either could get with anyone else. And the audience can’t help but want to see them make it work, because it seems like the only way that either character can be their best self, and have their best life. All will not be right in the world, in the audience’s mind, unless this works out.
Which leads me to my favorite new TV show, about a New York lawyer who decides to move to the home town of a boyfriend from teenage summer camp, because she believes that he represents happiness for her, and she must get him back in order to be happy. The show is called Crazy Ex-Girlfriend and it’s on the CW Network. It’s also a musical. And a comedy. And its co-creator/star recently won the Golden Globe award for her performance.
It turns out that her ex-boyfriend from camp now has a new girlfriend. But we can see that she’s not right for him. She controls him, bosses him around, is quick to anger, and doesn’t really get or respect his passions. But our “crazy” heroine is the opposite of all those things. She really believes in him. She sees the best in him. She complements him.
And she wants him so desperately that she is constantly scheming, with a friend from work, to win him over.
Does the audience root for this to work out? Well, kind of. They certainly root for her. They certainly like both characters. But the show leaves it an open question whether he is really the right guy for her. Because there’s another guy, who is smitten with her, who is smarter, wittier, and can operate on her level. Who really “gets” her. (The first guy is hunky and sweet but a little dim, whereas she is a whip-smart neurotic.) So we kind of root for her to be with this other guy, too, who we also really like. But we’re not entirely sure.
This kind of dynamic works great on serialized television (the show that follow it on Monday nights, Jane the Virgin is similar). On television, we would run out of stories if it was all just about this one couple who need to figure out how to be together. You can’t keep them apart forever, and you can’t base a show solely on that, in my opinion. You need other characters and dynamics to mix things up and create more stories and episodes from. This tends to include competing viable love interests.
But in movies, we usually want to have just one “perfect counterpart” that we root for the hero(ine) to end up with. And that “rooting” thing is so important. It’s what makes the audience care about the movie, or not.
There is one genre, though (Save the Cat’s “Rite of Passage”), where the main character is chasing something or someone that they think will “complete” them, but which the audience knows probably won’t work out. (As in 10, My Best Friend’s Wedding, Her, An Education or Superbad.) We can sense that they’ll either fail to get with the person they want; or they’ll succeed, but still feel empty. And the point of such movies is that the main character will grow and mature in the end, and accept the pain of the life stage they were going through (such as adolescence, mid-life or separation). It was this pain that caused them to go on this crazy quest in the first place.
If Crazy Ex-Girlfriend were a movie, it would probably fit here, and it would be made more clear that the guy she’s chasing is definitely not right for her (though we’d get why she’s still obsessed with him, and sympathize with her about it). And the “right” guy would probably only emerge as the better option at the end, after she’s learned her lesson.
A script is an attempt to play on an audience’s emotions. Manipulate them, if you will. Get them passionately emotionally invested in something. And relationships are one of the key primal human situations that writers can hook an audience with. There’s a great flexibility to what you can do with passionate key relationships in a movie. “Buddy Love” has subgenres about pet relationships (The Black Stallion), professional ones (Saving Mr. Banks), and epic love stories where there is a lot more going on than a love affair, but that affair gives a clear, rootable dramatic spine to something that otherwise would be hard to structure as a story (like Titanic).
Whatever type of relationship it is, if you want a movie audience to care about it, then I think they have to love both of the people, and feel that each is not only the best possible partner for the other, but their only chance to live the kind of life that is obviously their best one. Where they are respected, believed in and loved for who they really are. Where they are partnered with someone who is uniquely suited to inspire them to be the best version of themselves. Like we all would want to be.