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Thursday, August 11, 2011

So Then, What is a Story? Written by Mary Ellen Blackwood for Reader Digest

I received this article via my writing group, RIRW. The article was written for Reader's Digest, by Mary Ellen Blackwood.  I thought you would appreciate it.  Give it a read. 


*So then, what is a story?*

Centuries ago, Aristotle noted in his book Poetics that while a story does
have a beginning, a middle and an ending, the beginning is not simply the
first event in a series of three, but rather the emotionally engaging
originating event. The middle is the natural and causally related
consequence, and the end is the inevitable conclusive event.

In other words, stories have an origination, an escalation of conflict, and
a resolution.

Of course, stories also need a vulnerable character, a setting that’s
integral to the narrative, meaningful choices that determine the outcome of
the story, and reader empathy. But at its most basic level, a story is a
transformation unveiled—either the transformation of a situation or, most
commonly, the transformation of a character.

Simply put, you do not have a story until something goes wrong.

At its heart, a story is about a person dealing with tension, and tension is
created by unfulfilled desire. Without forces of antagonism, without
setbacks, without a crisis event that initiates the action, you have no
story. The secret, then, to writing a story that draws readers in and keeps
them turning pages is not to make more and more things happen to a
character, and especially not to follow some preordained plot formula or
novel-writing template. Instead, the key to writing better stories is to
focus on creating more and more tension as your story unfolds.

Understanding the fundamentals at the heart of all good stories will help
you tell your own stories better—and sell more of them, too. Imagine you’re
baking a cake. You mix together certain ingredients in a specific order and
end up with a product that is uniquely different than any individual
ingredient. In the process of mixing and then baking the cake, these
ingredients are transformed into something delicious.

That’s what you’re trying to do when you bake up a story.

So let’s look at five essential story ingredients, and then review how to
mix them together to make your story so good readers will ask for seconds.

*Ingredient #1: Orientation*
The beginning of a story must grab the reader’s attention, orient her to the
setting, mood and tone of the story, and introduce her to a protagonist she
will care about, even worry about, and emotionally invest time and attention
into. If readers don’t care about your protagonist, they won’t care about
your story, either.

So, what’s the best way to introduce this all-important character? In
essence, you want to set reader expectations and reveal a portrait of the
main character by giving readers a glimpse of her normal life. If your
protagonist is a detective, we want to see him at a crime scene. If you’re
writing romance, we want to see normal life for the young woman who’s
searching for love. Whatever portrait you draw of your character’s life,
keep in mind that it will also serve as a promise to your readers of the
transformation that this character will undergo as the story progresses.

For example, if you introduce us to your main character, Frank, the happily
married man next door, readers instinctively know that Frank’s idyllic life
is about to be turned upside down—most likely by the death of either his
spouse or his marriage. Something will soon rock the boat and he will be
altered forever. Because when we read about harmony at the start of a story,
it’s a promise that discord is about to come. Readers expect this.

Please note that normal life doesn’t mean pain-free life. The story might
begin while your protagonist is depressed, hopeless, grieving or trapped in
a sinking submarine. Such circumstances could be what’s typical for your
character at this moment. When that happens, it’s usually another crisis
(whether internal or external) that will serve to kick-start the story.
Which brings us to the second ingredient.

*Ingredient #2: Crisis*
This crisis that tips your character’s world upside down must, of course, be
one that your protagonist cannot immediately solve. It’s an unavoidable,
irrevocable challenge that sets the movement of the story into motion.

Typically, your protagonist will have the harmony of both his external world
and his internal world upset by the crisis that initiates the story. One of
these two imbalances might have happened before the beginning of the story,
but usually at least one will occur on the page for your readers to
experience with your protagonist, and the interplay of these two dynamics
will drive the story forward.

Depending on the genre, the crisis that alters your character’s world might
be a call to adventure—a quest that leads to a new land, or a prophecy or
revelation that he’s destined for great things. Mythic, fantasy and
science-fiction novels often follow this pattern. In crime fiction, the
crisis might be a new assignment to a seemingly unsolvable case. In romance,
the crisis might be undergoing a divorce or breaking off an engagement.

In each case, though, life is changed and it will never be the same again.

George gets fired. Amber’s son is kidnapped. Larry finds out his cancer is
terminal. Whatever it is, the normal life of the character is forever
altered, and she is forced to deal with the difficulties that this crisis
brings.

There are two primary ways to introduce a crisis into your story. Either
begin the story by letting your character have what he desires most and then
ripping it away, or by denying him what he desires most and then dangling it
in front of him. So, he’ll either lose something vital and spend the story
trying to regain it, or he’ll see something desirable and spend the story
trying to obtain it.


His deepest fear will be abandonment. You’ll either want to introduce the
character by showing him in a satisfying, loving relationship, and then
insert a crisis that destroys it, or you’ll want to show the character’s
initial longing for a mate, and then dangle a promising relationship just
out of his reach so that he can pursue it throughout the story.

Likewise, if your character desires freedom most, then he’ll try to avoid
enslavement. So, you might begin by showing that he’s free, and then enslave
him, or begin by showing that he’s enslaved, and then thrust him into a
freedom-pursuing adventure.

It all has to do with what the main character desires, and what he wishes to
avoid.

*Ingredient #3: Escalation*
There are two types of characters in every story—pebble people and putty
people.

If you take a pebble and throw it against a wall, it’ll bounce off the wall
unchanged. But if you throw a ball of putty against a wall hard enough, it
will change shape.

Always in a story, your main character needs to be a putty person.

When you throw him into the crisis of the story, he is forever changed, and
he will take whatever steps he can to try and solve his struggle—that is, to
get back to his original shape (life before the crisis).

But he will fail.

Because he’ll always be a different shape at the end of the story than he
was at the beginning. If he’s not, readers won’t be satisfied.

Putty people are altered.

Pebble people remain the same. They’re like set pieces. They appear onstage
in the story, but they don’t change in essential ways as the story
progresses. They’re the same at the ending as they were at the beginning.

And they are not very interesting.

So, exactly what kind of wall are we throwing our putty person against?

First, stop thinking of plot in terms of what happens in your story. Rather,
think of it as payoff for the promises you’ve made early in the story. Plot
is the journey toward transformation.

As I mentioned earlier, typically two crisis events interweave to form the
multilayered stories that today’s readers expect: an external struggle that
needs to be overcome, and an internal struggle that needs to be resolved. As
your story progresses, then, the consequences of not solving those two
struggles need to become more and more intimate, personal and devastating.
If you do this, then as the stakes are raised, the two struggles will serve
to drive the story forward and deepen reader engagement and interest.

Usually if a reader says she’s bored or that “nothing’s happening in the
story,” she doesn’t necessarily mean that events aren’t occurring, but
rather that she doesn’t see the protagonist taking natural, logical steps to
try and solve his struggle. During the escalation stage of your story, let
your character take steps to try and resolve the two crises (internal and
external) and get back to the way things were earlier, before his world
was tipped upside down.

*Ingredient #4: Discovery*
At the climax of the story, the protagonist will make a discovery that
changes his life.

Typically, this discovery will be made through wit (as the character
cleverly pieces together clues from earlier in the story) or grit (as the
character shows extraordinary perseverance or tenacity) to overcome the
crisis event (or meet the calling) he’s been given.

The internal discovery and the external resolution help reshape our putty
person’s life and circumstances forever.

The protagonist’s discovery must come from a choice that she makes, not
simply by chance or from a Wise Answer-Giver. While mentors might guide a
character toward self-discovery, the decisions and courage that determine
the outcome of the story must come
from the protagonist.

In one of the paradoxes of storytelling, the reader wants to predict how the
story will end (or how it will get to the end), but he wants to be wrong.
So, the resolution of the story will be most satisfying when it ends in a
way that is both inevitable and unexpected.

*Ingredient #5: Change*
Think of a caterpillar entering a cocoon. Once he does so, one of two things
will happen: He will either transform into a butterfly, or he will die. But
no matter what else happens, he will never climb out of the cocoon as a
caterpillar.

So it is with your protagonist.

As you frame your story and develop your character, ask yourself, “What is
my caterpillar doing?” Your character will either be transformed into
someone more mature, insightful or at peace, or will plunge into death or
despair.

Although genre can dictate the direction of this transformation—horror
stories will often end with some kind of death (physical, psychological,
emotional or spiritual)—most genres are butterfly genres. Most stories end
with the protagonist experiencing new life—whether that’s physical renewal,
psychological understanding, emotional healing or a spiritual awakening.

This change marks the resolution of the crisis and the culmination of the
story.

As a result of facing the struggle and making this new discovery, the
character will move to a new normal. The character’s actions or attitude at
the story’s end show us how she’s changed from the story’s inception. The
putty has become a new shape, and if it’s thrown against the wall again, the
reader will understand that a brand-new story is now unfolding. The old way
of life has been forever changed by the process of moving through the
struggle to the discovery and into a new and different life.

Letting Structure Follow Story

I don’t have any idea how many acts my novels contain.

A great many writing instructors, classes and manuals teach that all stories
should have three acts—and, honestly, that doesn’t make much sense to me.
After all, in theater, you’ll find successful one-act, two-act, three-act
and four-act plays. And most assuredly, they are all stories.

If you’re writing a novel that people won’t read in one sitting (which is
presumably every novel), your readers couldn’t care less about how many acts
there are—in fact, they probably won’t even be able to keep track of them.
What readers really care about is the forward movement of the story as it
escalates to its inevitable and unexpected conclusion.

While it’s true that structuring techniques can be helpful tools,
unfortunately, formulaic approaches frequently send stories spiraling off in
the wrong direction or, just as bad, handcuff the narrative flow. Often the
people who advocate funneling your story into a predetermined three-act
structure will note that stories have the potential to sag or stall out
during the long second act. And whenever I hear that, I think, Then why not
shorten it? Or chop it up and include more acts? Why let the story suffer
just so you can follow a formula?

I have a feeling that if you asked the people who teach three-act structure
if they’d rather have a story that closely follows their format, or one that
intimately connects with readers, they would go with the latter. Why?
Because I’m guessing that deep down, even they know that in the end, story
trumps structure.

Once I was speaking with another writing instructor and he told me that the
three acts form the skeleton of a story. I wasn’t sure how to respond to
that until I was at an aquarium with my daughter later that week and I saw
an octopus. I realized that it got along pretty well without a skeleton. A
storyteller’s goal is to give life to a story, not to stick in bones that
aren’t necessary for that species of tale.

So, stop thinking of a story as something that happens in three acts, or two
acts, or four or seven, or as something that is driven by predetermined
elements of plot. Rather, think of your story as an organic whole that
reveals a transformation in the life of your character. The number of acts
or events should be determined by the movement of the story, not the other
way around.

Because story trumps structure.

If you render a portrait of the protagonist’s life in such a way that we can
picture his world and also care about what happens to him, we’ll be drawn
into the story. If you present us with an emotionally stirring crisis or
calling, we’ll get hooked. If you show the stakes rising as the character
struggles to solve this crisis, you’ll draw us in more deeply. And if you
end the story in a surprising yet logical way that reveals a transformation
of the main character’s life, we’ll be satisfied and anxious to read your
next story.

The ingredients come together, and the cake tastes good.

Always be ready to avoid formulas, discard acts and break the “rules” for
the sake of the story—which is another way of saying: Always be ready to do
it for the sake of your readers.


--


*writing as Mary Ellen Blackwood*
*"And She lived happily ever after" stories*
**
"WHAT IF the *hokey pokey* is what it's all about???"

3 comments:

  1. "Simply put, you do not have a story until something goes wrong." Seriously, that right there is amazing and is absolutely true. It's something that repeatidly has to happen through out the whole story too and it's something I definitely have to keep in mind when writing. Nice :)

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  2. p.s. thanks for posting the article! Long, but a good read!

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  3. It is long, but I think it is worth it. It is all things that we need to remind ourselves, and sometimes we forget. Or get to wrapped up in other side stories.

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