It doesn’t even come second. 

But eventually it must come.  Or the campaign you call your story will never fly.  Or if it does get off the ground – at least in your view – it’ll sink faster than a Dick Cheney Presidential run.

So what does come first?

Structure is the skeleton upon which you hang the meat of your story.  Which means, you need to create the muscle and skin and organs of your story, not to mention its personality and emotional landscape – the meat of it all – first and foremost.  Or at least have a strong notion of what those things will be.

Without all that, structure is just a bag of useless bones. 

And with all that, but without solid structure holding it in place, what you have then is a mess.

Didn’t know there even are such structural principles for storytelling?  Thought you could just make up whatever structure you want in the service of your story?

Here’s the truth: you can’t find a published book or movie without structure.  And not just any structure, or something the author concocted. 

You can’t just make it up as you go.  You need to apply the known principles of dramatic fiction or your story will collapse like a building without beams.

A successful writer uses principles of structure to help formulate the elements of a story.

For example, proper structure depends upon an inciting incident that transitions the story from set-up mode into hero-response mode. 

Which means, simply by understanding this concept the writer knows that the inciting incident – also known as the First Plot Point – is at the top of the list of the things that must be created before the story will work.   That it is the most important moment in the whole story.

And then, once formulated, the writer who understands structure knows precisely where to put it within the sequence of the story.

Structure, then, serves two purposes.  It is a tool that guides us toward the creation of the elements of our story, allowing no omissions or short-shrift.  Then, once the story’s elements are known, structure becomes the roadmap for laying out those elements in proper sequence.

So what does the writer need to know before structure becomes relevant as a roadmap?   

Well, genre, for starters.  Then, at some point, you need to decide on first or third person narrative.  You need a killer concept upon which to build.  You need a compelling hero to carry the dramatic ball – the key word being compelling, which means you need to have thought this through beforehand.  You need to give that hero something to do, to accomplish, to save, to fix, to discover or to redeem.  You need to give them a few internal demons that will make the journey difficult.  And mostly, you need external obstacles that oppose those goals.

All before you worry about structure.

Structure won’t give you those things.  But it just might lead to them by virtue of knowing you have a blank space to fill in.

And then, it provides a purpose for them and a place to put them once conceptualized.  It tells the writer that until that happens, milestone by milestone, part by part, the story isn’t yet complete.

If you don’t understand story structure, you may not ever realize that your story is half-baked or too thin.  Which means, when the rejection slip arrives, you won’t have a clue why.

Let’s circle back and put structure in proper perspective. 

Story structure is one of six core competencies you need to bring to the storytelling party.  The others are: concept, character, theme, scene construction, and writing voice.

Three of those – four when you include structure – are elements of your story: concept, character and theme.  At the end of the day, when your story stands alone as solid and saleable, all of them will be in place.

The other two – scene construction and writing voice – are issues of execution.

The four elements are the game plan.  The two executional skills represent the ability to bring that plan to fruition.  A great plan in the hands of an unskilled writer won’t fly.   Neither will a shabby plan in the hands of a great writer.

A skeleton – story structure – can’t walk around, chat up neighbors, have coffee, solve crimes, fall in love.  A skeleton has no purpose, no life of its own.  Only until you put some flesh on those storytelling bones will you have created something that deserves an audience.

And like a human skeleton, you shouldn’t mess with Mother Nature. 

Structure is a tool, nothing more.  An essential one. 

New definition of insanity for writers: trying to bring a skeleton to life before you know what the monster you are creating – the flesh of the story – will be like once incarnated.

The power of structure works equally well for story planners and pantsers alike.  Because successful pantsers write their drafts either in search of or in context to it, rather than making it up as they go along.  The only thing they make up as they along, at least the successful ones — is the flesh that will hang on those structural bones.

Once these elements – concept, character and theme — fall into sequential place, one of two things usually happens to the pantser: they go back to the drafting board and start over, writing the next draft in context to the elements that are now in play… or they try to retrofit them into a manuscript that had no idea (no context, no foreshadowing, and no structure) these particular creative body parts would ever make an appearance. 

The latter, of course, is a disaster. 

For story planners, we are stuck with another type of madness…

… the limbo of knowing too little about our stories to actually write it well.  So we resort to notebooks full of random thoughts, index cards, sticky notes on office walls, flowcharts and long walks with a patient friend to discover the best concept, character and theme that we might eventually come to wrap our head around it all.

And then, once we do know, we drag our skeleton – story structure – out of the closet to dress it up with the shiny new suit of dramatic flesh we see in our mind’s eye.  It may not work perfectly, but at least there will be something there that can be saved. 

Because all the essential parts are there, and roughly in the right place.

Here’s the magic of that process, for pantsers and plotters alike: that skeleton is roughly the same every time: two legs, a backbone, shoulders, two dangling arms, a neck and a skull.  And yet, despite that simplicity, human beings wander the earth with unfathomable individuality, both in a physical and an emotional (personality) sense.

God doesn’t worry about the structure, that’s a given.  It is what it is.  Yet God creates with great latitude the form and function of the individuals that are draped over that skeleton.

So it is with writers as we play God with our stories. 

Story structure is there for you, waiting in the closet of your imagination.  If you can’t grasp that skeleton in a generic sense, then chances are you won’t create a story that will work.

Once you know what your story is about, why it will fascinate, what it will explore, who it will introduce us to, and why the reader will invest themselves and come to care about it all, structure becomes the necessary and solid means by which you will bring it to successful life.

So many stories to tell, so little time.  And yet, only one basic skeletal model upon which to hang it all.

For an in-depth understanding of narrative structure, check out Story Structure – Demystified, a new ebook that takes the mystery out of knowing what to write, where to put it, and why it won’t be remotely formulaic.

To order, click HERE.  To learn more, click HERE.

Why Structure ISN’T the First Thing You Should Think About When Planning Your Story is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

I gotta admit, this pisses me off.  And if you buy into the first half of that headline, it should piss you off, too.

Because somebody’s gonna read last Fridays’ Wall Street Journal article entitled, “How to Write A Great Novel,” and they’ll to go back to their stories and emulate the supposed strategies of the greats.  Things like growing a beard, writing on trains, experimenting with font styles and playing with cool pens, and going old school by writing their manuscripts by hand.

Like any of that is gonna make you great.   

All because the 11 noted authors in this article did all that stuff, and more.

Rather than actually tell us how to write a great novel – which would have been a neat trick, at best – this article tells us just how human, mixed up and challenged – even clueless –  the most successful among us can be.  And perhaps how damn hard it is to do what the title implies is forthcoming.

That said, I think you should read it.  Because, if you can get past the cheap glow of literary celebrity, it should make you feel a whole lot better about how you go about writing a novel.

They’re Just Like Us… Insecure and Completely Alone with Their Stories

I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I haven’t heard of over half of the authors who made the cut for this article.  Names like Junot Diaz (Pulitzer Prize winner), Orhan Pamuk (Nobel Prize Winner), Edwidge Danticat, Amitav Ghosh, who join more familiar names like Anne Rice, Laura Lippman and Margaret Atwood in, supposedly, telling us how to write a great novel.

Let me inject a spoiler here: it doesn’t happen.  Not even close. 

While there is indeed a bit about the writing process, the article is completely void of creative storytelling wisdom or technical literary insight.  Then again, process is the thing people seem to argue about most – I still have pantsers putting out hits on me – so in that vein, in much the same way we are fascinated by the latest foibles of greats such as Britney Spears and Jon and Kate Goslin, you may be entertained.

One author I have heard of wasn’t among these interviewees, yet was nonetheless quoted with what I think was the best morsel of advice of all: John Irving says the first thing he writes is the last sentence of the book.

Love that.  Huge insight and wisdom there.  Because you can’t and won’t write a great novel unless and until you know how your story is going to end.  And no matter how you write it, the entire process is all about that discovery. 

And that pretty much sums up the actual “how to” value in the entire piece. 

From there it gets, well, positively gossipy. 

We learn that one writer likes to dress up like his characters and videotape himself running lines.  He admits that the first draft of his book (out this fall) was “a mess,” so – and this is pure genius, at least until he realized it didn’t work – he found a random number generator online and used it to randomly rearrange his many chapters.  Of course, this resulted in an even more randomly chaotic mess, leaving him with the rather ordinary task of trying to put it all into some semblance of a structure.

Feel better now?  I thought you might.

Another rewrites his opening line 50 to 100 times – more pure genius – while another narrates the story into a recorder and mails it all off to a typist, never setting finger to keyboard the entire time.  Several write their stories in longhand before setting themselves in front of a keyboard, which, in my view, is about as inspired and effective as commuting to work in Manhattan via tricycle.

One guy wouldn’t reveal his top secret writing process at all, perhaps fearing he’d look as completely mundane and uninspiring as the rest of these authors.

The Ways and Means of Finding Story Structure

What was most fascinating – and dare I say, validating – is that all but one of these authors spend significant time nailing down the content and sequence of their stories before they even begin assembling an actual working draft. 

Some write a few chapters along the way but have the discipline and presence of mind to set them aside until those chapters have a place in the dance line.  They use note cards, bulletin boards, notebooks and other common means of exploring storytelling alternatives, and only when that sequence is solid and in line with accepted principles of story structure – let’s assume, from their results, that they understand this concept — do they go about the business of actually writing the story in an official manner. 

The one who didn’t?  Who tried to pants her way to a draft that works?  She confesses that with her first novel she had to throw away the first 150 pages, which –and here’s the disturbing don’t-try-this-at-home part —  took her two years to write.  Then she confesses that she did the same thing with her second, third and fourth novels, until she finally figured out enough about story structure, in an intuitive sense, to realize that trying to make up her own principles of storytelling just wasn’t working.

That must be working just fine – Kate Christensen won the PEN/Faulkner Award last year.

What Works, What Doesn’t

Because I don’t want this article to be guilty of the very thing I’m railing against in reference to the WSJ piece, allow me to inject a little content here.

As I’ve said here many times, the only way pantsing a story will ever work is if and when the writer gets story architecture, inside and out.  Then, and only then, will it finally begin to pour out of their head in the right order. Because now they know what they’re doing.  They’re not making up random rules about their craft as they go along, either to suit their needs or in the absence of an awareness that such principles even exist (the sad state of many authors, pantsers and plotters alike… but more-so on the pantsing side).  And even then, multiple drafts define the process, because you can’t write a submitable draft until you know how the story is going to end.

Alexandra Alter should have put that into her article.  At least, if she wanted to come somewhere near the neighborhood of her title.

Fun With Ways and Means

It’s fun to see what means these authors go to in quest of inspiration and sanity.  Many of them, to my great pleasure, are the very same tips and ideas I’ve set forth in my ebook, 101 Slightly Unpredictable Tips for Novelists and Screenwriters.   And the structure they seek and ultimately master is precisely that I discuss in my other, newer ebook, Story Structure – Demystified.

Guess those tips aren’t as unpredictable as I thought, while being every bit as effective as I knew they were.  I’m just sayin’.

So by all means, check this WSJ piece out.  You can get it right here.

And please, feel better.  We’re all in this together, great and small, published and nonpublished, pantser or plotter, green-behind-the-gills rookie and grouchy writing instructor types alike.

(NOTE: two posts today… read the next one for a movie you should see to learn about Story Structure.)

“How to Write a Great Novel” – Why the Wall Street Journal Got it Wrong is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Two elements of my approach to teaching story have always been on the controversial side.  Wouldn’t have it any other way – if you want vanilla, take a community college writing class. 

If you want to publish, stick around here.

First, I advocate that novelists study movies, and screenwriters study literature.  And second, with regard to the former, I don’t hesitate to recommend a mediocre or even a bad film if it illustrates and clarifies some principle of storytelling.   Because often they do, and it may be that the very lack of subtlety in doing so is what turned the critics off. 

Then again, it might just suck, even though everything is in the right place.  This is art, and sometimes even art, done by the book, doesn’t hit a home run.  Go that store in the mall with all those beautiful oil paintings for 75 bucks… they’re all better than you and I can do — which means there’s something to learn from them – and they’re all technically sound, too.

The Maltese Falcon and Gone With the Wind and the literary work of Dostoyevsky teach us little about storytelling in today’s professional marketplace for commercial novels and screenplays, which is the point.

That’s why I’m recommending you see the current mind-warping film, “The Box,” based on a short story by Richard Matheson (of “I Am Legend” fame, and many other iconic stories), starring Cameron Diaz and James Marsden.

Here’s why.

Concept

I often talk about finding a concept that is highly original, wildly compelling and creates a robust dramatic stage upon which a story can unfold.  This story does that in spades. 

This is a huge “what if?” proposition: what if someone brought you a box with a button on it, and told you that if you pushed the button you’ll receive one million dollars, free and clear… but… someone, somewhere will die at the moment you do it?  What would you do?

The question merits, even demands, an answer.  Which is why it works. 

Theme

Theme is one of the six core competencies of storytelling – perhaps the toughest to wrap your head around – and this story is nothing if not wall to wall theme.  And it does it perfectly, without preaching, and within the context of dramatic narrative.  It asks the viewer to decide what they would do, and the answer is laden with consequences and agenda.

If you can’t catch the essence of a set of themes here, maybe you should take up oil painting.

Character

These characters – both good guys and bad guys and a few in between – are perfectly introduced in the Part 1 set-up, with meaningful backstories and agendas set into play that not only come into jeopardy after the first plot point, but also drive their response to that plot point, as well as our emotional investment in what happens next.  The stakes are huge, and they begin getting that way in Part 1.

And, the heroes here (there are two) clearly evolve through the four stages of orphan, wanderer, warrior and then, very literally martyr.  If that metaphor has confused you in the past, you can see it play out before your eyes here.

Structure

Structurally speaking, the movie is a model for the four-part sequence and its essential milestones.  All of them come straight at you, and they are all in the right place in the story sequence.

As in the Michael Mann-directed movie Collateral, a major plot twist comes after about 20 minutes, which is easily mistaken as the First Plot Point.  But it’s not… look for a scene about six or seven minutes later that explains what all this means to the characters going forward (in terms of defining the ensuing journey and its inherent stakes), and with the antagonistic force in full view, which is the very essence of a First Plot Point.

Watch and Learn

Nothing teaches the principles of storytelling, especially structure, better than experiencing a story well told.  “The Box” fits the bill, big time.

And who knows, you might even have a good time, or at least an intense vicarious experience.  Because like the old Robert Redford/Demi Moore flick Indecent Proposal (another iconic theme movie), you’ll find yourself thinking about – and perhaps arguing about – what you would have done, and for a long time after the credits role.

Learn more about story structure in my ebook, Story Structure – Demystified.  Available now, and on this site.

Why You Need to see “The Box” is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

April Henry is the author of eight mysteries for adults and teens, including the New York Times bestseller Face of Betrayal, co-written with Lis Wiehl.  Next year will see the release of her second in the series, Hand of Fate, as well as Girl, Stolen, a stand-alone teen thriller that will be the lead title from Henry Holt, the YA division of Macmillan.

April lives in Portland, Oregon and, in addition to workshop appearances, contributes articles to Writers Digest and other periodicals. 

Things You Should Do After You Sign the Contract – But Before Your Book Is Published

Contributed exclusively to Storyfix.com by April Henry

If you are being published by one of the bigger houses, you will probably get a publicist assigned to three months before the book comes out. This person will be 22 and sharing a two-bedroom apartment in Yonkers with five people because she makes close to minimum wage.  Your job will be to supplement what she does. Following are what I wish I had known when I was a first-time author.

• Register your domain name NOW. Five days before I tried, some other April Henry took .com, .net and .org. Even if you don’t have a web site for a while, you will have it registered for when you do put one up. (Mine is AprilHenryMysteries.com.)

• Don’t rely on your publisher to get you “blurbs” – nice quotes from published authors about the book. Find out the deadline for the catalog that goes to booksellers, and the later deadline for the jacket is. With my first thriller, I didn’t personally know any thriller authors to ask for blurbs. I e-mailed several at their Web sites. I kept my request light and funny. Six of the seven I contacted said I could at least send a manuscript, and three came through.

• Ask if you can proof the copy about your book in the bookseller’s catalog and the copy on the dust jacket. These are often written by someone fairly low on the totem pole, and it’s not unusual to find errors, spoilers, and odd turns of phrase.

• Ask if you can have extra galleys for your local bookstores. Then hand deliver them.

• Start keeping track of the book reviewers for papers in your area. Share their names and addresses with your publicist.

• Take your time to fill out the author’s questionnaire. With luck, they’ll really use it.  Point out if there are special interest groups who would have an interest in your book.  Does your book have a topical hook that will allow you to be an “expert” on something?

• Gather names and addresses of groups or publications that might be interested in your book, such as alumni or professional publications. I got a notice in my college alumni magazine. Submitted articles about myself – all ran – to three professional groups I’m a member of. Made sure I got written up by the writers’ group I belong to – they love success stories. Since my first series involved license plates, I pitched the idea of covering it to a national publication that goes out to all the state DMVs- and they bit.

• Your hometown paper may be interesting in doing a story on local girl makes good.

• It’s unusual for a first-time author to get a book tour. But you may be able to use your publisher’s travel agent – and their very substantial discounts – if you do strictly book-related travel.  Thanks to the HarperCollins travel department, I flew from Portland, Oregon, to Washington, DC, for the Malice Domestic conference for about one-half the price of the lowest listed fare.

• And after your book is out, send thank you letters. Bookstores tell me it’s rare that they get after a signing. For exceptional service, find out the name of the person’s boss and send the thank you to them. Not only is it right and polite to thank people – but it may well result in better service down the line.

Readings

• Start going to readings now. What makes each one succeed – or fail? What makes the audience laugh or ask questions? What makes people look at their watches?

• Choose a passage to read that can stand on its on, and can be read in 5 to 10 minutes. Oftn it’s the first chapter. Don’t do what one author did. When the bookstore told him he should allow about 45 minutes for his talk, he said, “Great! I have one passage that takes 45 minutes to read.” He ignored all hints that this was too long a stretch for even the most devoted audience.

• People who attend aren’t there solely to hear you read. They want to hear about how you came to write the book, and your experiences as a published author.

• A week before the event, call the bookstore to make sure it has your books on-hand. This is especially important if it is a chain or one that does a lot of signings.

• Bring treats to the bookstore – for the staff. Have a little note, “Compliments of So and So” so that they will think of you fondly in the break room.

• Even if your reading is sparsely attended, remember, you are there primarily to make friends with the booksellers. They will be there, recommending books to customers, long after your signing is over.

• To double your audience, think about teaming up with another author who writes in a similar vein.

To learn more about April Henry, visit her blog at http://aprilhenry.livejournal.com, or visit www.aprilhenrymysteries.com.

Introducing New York Times Bestselling Author April Henry is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Trouble was, her keyboard was attached to an old manual typewriter.  The kind you see displayed in the window of an antique store.

Joe finally persuaded her to learn the most rudimentary functionality of a computer, using MS Word.  She agreed, and before long she was using Google to research her ideas, Outlook to kibitz with her friends on email, and, much to Joe’s surprise, soon had a Facebook page and was a frequent tweeter.

One day she asked Joe for some help getting on line.  And that’s when he discovered the password she’d been using for all her new online pursuits.

It was this: “MickeyMinniePlutoHueyLouieDeweyDonaldGoofy.”

When he could speak again, Joe asked his mother why she’d chosen what was just possibly the world’s longest password. 

Her response: “Well, they said it needed to be at least eight characters long, and I couldn’t remember all the names from the Brady Bunch.”

Have a great writing day.

A Joke For Writers is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

I was up late last night working on a post for you about why planning the second half of your novel seems more difficult than planning the first half, which several readers have recently reported.  Couldn’t make the second half of that post work, which is ironic, and what leads me to this morning’s content.

Story planning is often a matter of blind faith.  If you create an ending for your story, and if it’s in context to that solid first half, then start writing it.  Even if it makes you squirm a little.  Don’t start until you have an ending in sight, the best you can come up with.

Here’s what experience has shown me on that count.  When you get to the Mid-Point of the manuscript, one of two things will happen, both good.  You may discover that what you thought was soft is actually solid (always good when that happens, especially at my age).  Or, you may come up with a better ending.  The best news, though, is that it’s almost always a value-add based on what you’ve already done, versus what pantsers face, which is the need to go back and rewrite the first half, which never stood a chance.

Trust the process.  There’s magic in it.  It’s your subconscious engaging with the story at the planning stage, then coupling with your creative intellect at the implementation stage.  You’ll be shocked at how well this works.  Have faith.

On NaNoWriMo Sanity

The very best piece of advice for NaNoWriMo participants: write with an ending in mind.  If you don’t, your manuscript will simply be a pile of paper with no future.  Pure mush.  This is too hard without the possibility of a future.  We’re on Day Four, chances are you’ve discovered that by now. 

Do this right.  Better to create 10K words that are viable than 50K words of sludge.  And it will be sludge, especially in the context of the NaNoWriMo process, unless you know where the story is going.  From the get-go.  You need an ending, and you need it now.  You also need a first plot point.  You need a Mid-Point context shift. 

You need to write scenes that are in context to those destination milestones.  It’s the key to everything.

If you don’t have ‘em, stop now and put your planning hat on.

On Hamburgers and Stupidity

When I was a teenager who didn’t drink, we had this really stupid game.  A quantitative challenge, like NaNoWriMo.  The idea was to see who among us could eat the most gut bombs (the small, cheap hamburgers sold by fast food restaurants).  I ate ten.  I won.  Then I threw up. 

It had no point.  NaNoWriMo is like that if you don’t write with a purpose, with context.  The higher purpose, other than to just spit out 50,000 words, is to learn this process or create the basis for something with a future.  Don’t waste your time pursuing a hollow goal.  Make this month count.  Or all you’ll be doing is regurgitating words.

On Brilliant Guest Bloggers

Hope you liked the guest post by Jennie Shortridge a few days ago.  This Friday I’m posting a great piece of New Times bestselling YA author April Henry.  I have a post in the can from National Book Award finalist Deb Caletti, and have lined up NY Times bestselling authors Phil Margolin, Lisa Jackson and Chelsea Cain to appear soon.  Working on some others of that caliber.  This is good stuff, I can’t wait to hear what they have to offer us.

Deb Caletti, by the way, just read my new ebook, Story Structure – Demystified.  Here’s what she said: “True, ‘Story Structure – Demystified’ is full of fresh, solid guidance, craft essentials and real-life advice from a seasoned pro.  But Larry Brooks is so hugely entertaining, I would have read it cover to cover if I were a car mechanic.”

Yeah, that’s me, hugely entertaining.  Nice.  You can read more about the book HERE.  You can read more reviews HERE, HERE and HERE.  Or you can just buy it HERE.  Please do, it may be the final piece in your emergence as a publishable author.  That’s the intention.  And readers say it’s true.

On a 100 Minute Story Structure Case Study    

There’s a movie out called “The Stepfather” that you should see.  Not because it’s great — it’s not, in fact it’s totally predictable.  So why should you see it?  Because it’s a clinic on story structure.  The plot points are clean and visible, the character exposition follows the book (mine).  When you know what to look for – which you will, by the way, if you read the ebook or my structure series here – you’ll see it everywhere you look.  This one is a great example.

On Me versus Robert McKee

Someone recently challenged me to defend my ebook against Robert McKee’s “Story.”  My answer was that McKee’s focus is narrowly targeting screenwriting, forcing novelists to make a big leap.  My book does the opposite, it’s optimized for novelists.  We have a looser, more literary take on structure, even though it’s the same basic model with different labels.  Neither McKee or Syd Field or me invented this stuff.  Any more than Newton invented gravity.  It just is.

You can’t get too much structure mentoring.  Just like pro athletes can’t get too much conditioning and grounding on the fundamentals of their craft.  That’s why there’s spring training and pre-season camp… every year.

On Metaphors and Meaning

Not sure which is my favorite metaphor to illustrate the benefits of story planning over blind pantsing.  Besides spring training, there’s the pilot metaphor that talks about cruising around without a flight plan — you still need to know how the airplane operates or you’ll crash and burn.  Then there’s the builder who arrives on the lot without a blueprint — the final product looks like a treehouse, cobbled together with no symmetry or flow, not something you’d want to live in.  Or the surgeon who eagerly cuts the patient open in search of something to extract, not sure what it is.  That’s why there’s medical school, you can’t just rip into the flesh of a patient – a story – and expect it to survive unless you know what you’re doing, or more specifically, what needs to be done.  Exploratory surgery in novels is for your creative writing class.  If you want to publish, you need a plan.

My position on pantsing, though, has softened somewhat. 

There are pantsers who write great books.  They come in one of two flavors: those who have the story structure paradigm firmly in their head, allowing what they write organically to fall onto the page in accordance with that symmetry, or those who come by it naturally.  Not many there.  I guess there’s a third, too — those who write draft after draft after draft in search of their story.  Which, if you’re honest, is just another form of story planning.

Sometimes, doing it that belabored way, they actually find one.

At the end of the day we all plan our stories, one way or another.  At least if they are to work. 

Have a great writing day.

Quick Tips, Coming Attractions, NaNoWriMo Sanity and Other Musings From the Literary Cheap Seats is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

“Story Structure — Demystified” is live.

I’m excited to announce the publication of my new ebook.  The preliminary reader response has been nothing short of astounding, and humbling.  Even for me.   Here’s just one of them:

“I’ve purchased and read at least ten books since last spring on writing and I’ve found nothing yet that explains story structure like this e-book. If you’re a newbie, like me, and you want to learn more about how to put your story together, I recommend this e-book. It’s energized my creativity and it is giving me more confidence in what I’m writing. I think it will greatly decrease the number of re-writes I’ll need to do as well. I like that!”  (attribution available upon request)

If you ordered a pre-release beta copy and would like the updated (sans typos) published version, send me the Paypal address you used and I’ll forward you the new version.  With my thanks. 

If you were tempted but didn’t bite, or if you’re new here and — in either case — would like to read a few objective, third party reviews, click HERE and HERE and HERE. 

What follows below is the first chapter of the book. 

It stands alone as a perspective on story structure and why you need it, and is valuable as a reinforcing reminder that this is absolutely essential stuff.  At least if you want to publish  your work or sell your screenplay.  Hopefully both.

If you want to read more about the book itself, click HERE for a look at the sales page (you can order from there, as well).

If you know you want this stuff and would like to order now, click HERE.  It sells for $14.95, and if you don’ think it’s worth every nickle, even in comparison to the best books on writing you’ve ever read, I’ll happily send all those nickels back to you.

Chapter 1: Why You Need to Break the Writing Process Down… into Structure

I think all teachings about writing are good.  Wonderful, in fact.  Taken as a whole, the body of knowledge kicking around out there is astounding, and because there are so many views on so many of the variables that comprise the creative writing process, in the end the writer gets to decide what works for them and what doesn’t.

I’ve discovered there’s a wide breadth of preferences on that particular issue.  Especially on the issue of story structure.

Unlike screenwriting, there are no strict rules when it comes to writing novels.  Especially if you don’t like the sound of the word rules.   But there are expectations and proven techniques that are accepted as fundamental principles, and if you want to publish your novel you will honor them.

Or at least you’ll learn to honor them when enough rejection slips collect in that desk drawer you rarely open because, like opening your 401K statement, it makes you nauseous.

Breaking Down the Fiction Writing Process

Next time you go to a writing workshop, notice how the topics on the agenda break down into bite-size segments, each of which gets the once-over from someone you’ve never heard of – famous writers hardly ever give writing workshops – who is nonetheless worthy of dishing it.  Titles like: How to add tension to your stories.  How to impress an agent.  Writing better titles.  Fun with sentence structure.  Tips for better dialogue.  Writing juicy sex scenes.  How to be more creative.

Lots of little buckets of information, all valid.  What’s lacking at most conferences, though, as well as on the bookshelves, is an understanding of what happens when you pour the contents of those buckets into the same vessel – your manuscript.

Because how those elements relate and interact, how they balance and empower each other, is the key to writing a great story.  And unless you look at the issue of melding them, in addition to understanding them as stand alone skills, you’re on your own to put them together.

Putting them together is the primary objective of this book.

Wrapping Your Head Around the Big Picture

I often open my workshops by asking the writers in attendance to define story using only one word.  There are usually five to ten nominations, all just fine and dandy, and usually someone nails the one I am going for, the one that defines the essence of a story, because without it the story doesn’t exist.

The word is conflict.  No conflict, no story.

But inherent to the notion of conflict is the architecture of how it is handled within the narrative.  And that’s where structure comes into play.  No structure, no story, either.  Because story is what turns conflict into dramatic tension, without which, again, you have no story.  It’s the full circle truth.

This is just a slice of the Big Picture approach you need to embrace before you can write a successful story.  You can be the best writer of sentences on the planet, but if you don’t understand story and the structure that makes it work, you’ll have to settle for love letters and poetry.  You can have killer ideas and craft characters that Meryl Streep would pay you to take on in the movie version, but there will be no movie version until you give that character a story to tell, one with structure.

In fact, once you do understand structure and the inherent potential of story architecture (which is the draping of structure with concept, character and theme, told through effective scenes; see page 110), your sentences don’t have to be poetic at all. 

They don’t even have to be much more than merely coherent. 

Because in today’s publishing world, story is everything. 

Narrative voice is just, well, nice when it happens.  But it’s not what they’re looking for.   Not remotely.  They’re looking for great stories, well told, with solid structure at their heart.

Rarely is this Big Picture approach to writing stories addressed.  I haven’t seen a writing workshop yet that offers an initial exploration of what “story” even is.  (You’d be shocked and dismayed at how many experienced writers aren’t able to articulate or implement an understanding of “story.”)   It sounds too entry-level, too basic.  Not something you can teach in an afternoon within the confines of a hotel conference center.

They assume everybody with an admission ticket has that one nailed.  And everybody doesn’t.  In fact, as someone who reads and coaches unpublished manuscripts for a living, I can tell you that the most common shortcoming of unpublished writing is, in fact, a lack of a solid grasp of storytelling.

Which means — if that’s you — as you listen to the breakout session at the next writing conference on How to Write a Better Sex Scene, you’ll do so without the essential context of the Big Picture.  You’ll get something out of it, sure, but too often you’re not sure what to do with it.  If you take that workshop but still don’t know how to write a story, at best you’ll end up with a broken novel or screenplay that has a great sex scene in it.

It’s like trying to build a car from scratch and taking a seminar on how to repair your brakes, when you’re not sure how the brake system interfaces with the brake pedal, or even why the brakes are necessary at all. 

Do you need to master the separate parts in order to master the Big Picture of storytelling? 

Absolutely yes.  Do you need to understand how the parts relate to each other?  Of course you do.  Do you need to wrap your head around how to make the collective gathering of those parts into something beautiful, a whole in excess the sum of the parts?  Well, that’s the idea, isn’t it. 

But that workshop isn’t out there. 

Neither is the book.  Not really, at least for novelists.  I’ve talked to students that after three decades of reading how-to books and going to workshops, their vision of that “collective whole” is still eluding them.  I read those hopeful manuscripts and realize that certain basic engine parts are missing, or if they’re present they’re in the wrong place for the wrong reasons. 

Which translates to: the writer doesn’t understand story structure.

The overwhelmingly common trait among unpublished manuscripts is the lack of big picture context that disempowers a relationship between the essential narrative parts.  This results in bland ideas with great characters.  Characters rendered one dimensionally.  Clever stories with no tangible theme, or stories with too many themes watered down to vagueness.  Stories told without dramatic tension and pace.  Out of whack scenes.  Riddled with wrong notes.  The complete and utter absence of stakes.  Pedestrian writing. 

Any one of these can kill your story.

That’s precisely why most novels and screenplays don’t get sold, despite perhaps being technically sound.  Because it’s art, and art cannot be quantified or reduced to a template.

Story structure is not a template.  It’s a set of principles that translate into sequential guidelines and criteria-driven content.

 Want more?  Click HERE to learn more about “Story Structure — Dymystified”… or HERE to buy it now.

Announcing the Launch of “Story Structure – Demystified” is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

(NOTE: see the post that follows this one for a pre-release special offer on Larry’s new ebook, Story Structure – Demystified.)

And now, a special treat…

This is the first of a series of posts from published authors I’ve invited to contribute to Storyfix, on the subject of “what I wish I knew about getting published before it happened to me.” Coming soon are authors such as Phil Margolin, Lisa Jackson, Chelsea Cain, April Henry, Deb Caletti and others.

Jennie Shortridge …

… is the author of four delightful novels, including WHEN SHE FLEW, just published to glowing reviews.  She also teaches writing workshops and is pretty much the center of attention in whatever crowd surrounds her.  She was recently profiled by critic Jeff Baker in the Sunday Oregonian on the release of her new novel. 

Three Things I Wish I Knew About Getting Published Before it Happened To Me

By Jennie Shortridge

1. You aren’t just writing for yourself. When my first book came out I was surprised to find I actually had readers who didn’t know me. They invested time, money, and emotion in reading what I was writing. I realized I had a responsibility to those readers, to write the best damn book I could, to get the details right, to nail the emotional truth, to give them their money’s worth. I love writing for readers, now. It keeps me honest, it keeps me learning, and it keeps me humble and grateful.

2. Writing the book is just one part of the job. And it becomes a smaller and smaller part. If you want your book to succeed, you are its best advocate in the marketplace, and you must do all you can to get it in front of all those who will help you achieve your goals: your publisher’s sales force, booksellers, librarians, book groups, and most importantly, readers. Not just any readers, but your readers. Know who they are. Go to them, whether at tradeshows, book fairs, readings, or online. Make a positive impression and create relationships. Over and over again.

3. Getting a book published doesn’t change your life. Not the way you think it will, anyway. One might imagine that getting a book published would mean you’d finally made it, that the rest of your life would be a fairy tale of New York cocktail parties and people recognizing you in airports. So far—for me—not so much.

In reality, getting a book published means you must now worry that it will sell well enough that the publisher will publish book two, then three. It means you must now write book two and three in a much shorter time frame than you ever thought possible.

People who know you may be impressed, you may receive the external validation you crave, but you won’t feel satisfied. You will want to write an even better book, that sells better, gets better reviews, stays on the shelves longer than six weeks, has great numbers on Amazon, ad infinitum.

Achieving that first goal of publication simply leads to desiring a new set of things, and you will still be yourself, sitting where you’ve always sat to write, wondering if you’ll ever get another book published. Knowing why you want to write in the first place, however, helps then you can recognize when you achieve the small but important milestones: a fan letter, four copies of your book on the local indie’s shelf, a father who carries a review in his wallet so he can show everyone he knows.

_____________________________________________________________

Jennie Shortridge’s fourth novel, When She Flew, was inspired by the true story of a war vet raising his young daughter in the Oregon woods. She lives and writes from the side of a steep hill in Seattle, where she is co-founder of the Seattle7Writers.org. Learn more about her books at http://jennieshortridge.com.

Noted Author Series: Jennie Shortridge is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Because about 50,000 writers will be pounding away on a new novel, sweating blood to finish within 30 days as part of National Novel Writing Month.

If you’re one of them, good luck with that. 

I feel I should weigh in on this, since the mission of Storyfix is to empower authors to write successful novels and screenplays.  But I’ve been hesitant about it, because in some ways the whole proposition rubs me the wrong way.

You see, I take this novel writing thing very seriously. 

And that’s the problem… only a fraction of those 50,000 writers do, too.

I say this with love and empathy, by the way.  Not every person who wants to try their hand at a novel is a serious writer.  Nothing wrong with that, a lot of people play golf, too, and never aspire to a tour card.  And it’s likely a fine way to test the literary water, get your feet wet, see what it’s like to play God on the page. 

But if that’s you, then you don’t yet qualify as being serious about it… at least not yet.

It’s like going on a diet – whatever gets you in the game is good.  If there was a National Gut Losing Month out there, I might choose in, too.

But – and this helps make my point – it wouldn’t work.  Not for me, not for anyone truly serious about losing weight and keeping it off.  Because, if you know anything about shedding fat, diets don’t work.  Only a lifestyle-change can produce the results you seek. 

Only getting and staying serious works.  And part of being serious is knowing something about what you’re doing before you begin your program.

Same with writing a novel, in an analogous sort of way. 

There are only two possible camps here. 

In one there are those who just want to have a little fun with NaNoWriMo, experience the process, and hopefully end up with a pile of paper they can use to legitimize their claim that, yes, they’ve written a novel.  Their feet will be wet, and that will be that.

But if, at the end of the 30-days, you plan on stuffing your manuscript into an envelope and sending it to someone in New York – and many of you do – you need a reality check.

The other camp, much smaller, is composed of those who are serious about writing a novel and getting it published, and are using this “official” month as a catalyst to get it going. 

I have no quarrel with the former.   Have a gas.  And to the latter I also say, good luck with this.

Because you can’t really write a publishable novel in 30 days. 

Even the late Michael Crichton, one of the most prolific and successful of our modern novelists, took six to eight weeks of long, isolated days to get it done, and he was a freaking genius.

Credible advice for the serious writers signing up for this experience. 

First, writing a publishable novel is a function of knowledge.  Not the kind you get from having read a box full of novels in the last year, but the insight that comes from studying the craft and getting inside the discipline of it, which is largely invisible to readers. 

It is the rare prodigy that can read a novel and intuitively understand the inherent structure and criteria required to produce something that a professional reader – an agent or editor – will stick with past page 10.  Something that sometimes takes proven professionals years to finally master.

If you’re that prodigy – I’ll say it for the third time here – good luck with that.

If you’re not, then you need to bring a bag of tools to the table.  And you have one week to ramp it up.  It’ll take you more than 30-days, but if you follow this advice at least those 30-day won’t be wasted time.

Many sites are writing about this. 

Both Jennifer at Procrastinating Writers and Suzannah at Writeitsideways are offering a ton of good information, and they’re both credible.  Not so with a few other writing sites.  One so-called guru, who has done NaNoWriMo all of once (and has never published a novel, by the way), is offering to “share (his) secrets on how to be successful during NaNoWriMo.”

This is like Harrison Ford, who flies a small airplane on weekends, offering to “share his secrets of aviation success” to a crowd of graduates trying to enroll at the Air Force Academy to fly F-18s.

This will help.

One approach to ramp up is to cram on all the archived posts here on Storyfix.  There are over 91 articles available here, and about 85 of them are directly relevant, especially my 10-part series on story structure and my 7-part series on characterization.

This can work, too.

Another way to succeed in this endeavor is to go into Day 1 of the process with your story almost completely planned out.   Beware anyone telling you that you can over-plan your story – trust me, if you want to write a draft in 30 days that stands a chance at being anything other than complete chaos, you cannot over-plan.

Even professionals who use their drafts to explore and discover their story – a viable approach, by the way – can’t do so in 30 days, and they need to bring a steep learning curve even to stand a chance.  It just ain’t gonna happen here.

This will work, too.

Another way to succeed is to break the NaNoWriMo month down into two parts:

-         a 10-day planning phase in which you do the aforementioned story planning;

-         and then a 20-day intense drafting phase in which you write 2,500 words per day.  A very doable output, by the way, at least for a serious writer, and especially if you have confidence that the day’s pages are precisely what the story needs at the moment at hand.

Now let me tell you what won’t work.  

If you begin the month with no real idea how your story is going to be built, or worse, how it’s going to end, and if your plan is to feel your way into it by writing 1,667 words per day and seeing what happens next, your manuscript will be a complete mess.

Yeah, I know, sounds harsh.  And it’ll piss a few people off.  But the absolute sure-thing truth is that such an approach will yield a story that will require a massive rewrite.  Because, unless you’re Stephen King (who isn’t entering) or Michael Crichton (who isn’t entering because he’s dead), there’s not a remote chance in hell that your story will have the requisite balance, foreshadowing, structure and nuance it takes to even qualify as a first draft. 

Cynics might respond by saying that any draft will require a rewrite.  And they’re correct, which is why the whole NaNoWriMo proposition makes we queasy.  If they called it National First Draft Writing Month it would go down better. 

As is, the implication is that you can spend the month in a manner that will take you further down the writing road.  And you can, but only if you bring an understanding of story architecture and criteria to the party. 

You won’t learn it by writing, and more than you can learn surgery by just trying it, or by watching Grey’s Anatomy.  You must learn story architecture before you can write something good enough to submit.

Beware of Poseurs

Be careful who you listen to on this front.  Listen to Jennifer, listen to Suzannah, listen to me.  Don’t listen to self-proclaimed gurus who are taking time out from their busy blogging celebrity to irresponsibly grace you with self-anointed wisdom in an arena they know nothing about.

Or, just have fun with it.  Who knows, you might discover a talent you didn’t know what there, or at least, understand why something that looks so easy from the reader-side of the proposition, isn’t.

About NaNoWriMo – Three Ways to Thrive, One Sure Way to Suck is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

They’re also a little needy and insecure.  Sometimes unpredictable, even fickle.  Often high maintenance.  Occasionally jealous.  Prone to random acts of cluelessness.  And they’re expensive, especially when you consider that time is money.

It’s so easy to fall in love with them.  We get lost in what we’re creating.  We can even lose ourselves in the process.

Love It or Leave It 

Truth is, if we’re not in love with our stories we should coldly kiss them goodbye.  Because other than a little casual gratification – the witty exchange, the fantasy moment, a vicarious unburdening – it just isn’t going anywhere.

If it isn’t working for you, as sure as gravity it won’t work for your readers, either. 

But the real risk in writing for publication is this: the reverse is not remotely as true.  It may be magic for you and still fall flat on its ass when you send it out into the cold cruel world. 

Because fiction, like the people who read it, is fickle.  You never know what will work.  Twelve publishers, professionals all, rejected Harry Potter.

The best you can do is shoot for the moon and keep on writing.

Here are three little tests to help you make that happen… better.

These humble exercises are viable and valuable because of one thing I said above: we can get lost in our stories.  Which translates to – we forget we’re writing for others (at least if you’re shooting for publication) and not just yourself.

And if you are writing for yourself first and foremost, you can check that publishing dream at the door.  It just doesn’t work that way.  There are standards and expectations out there, and you better wrap you head around them now.

Which means you need to ask yourself some tough questions.

Exercise 1:

Imagine that someone has just read your novel or screenplay, and that they freaking loved it.  As in, it was absolutely the best thing they’ve ever read.

Now imagine that same someone telling someone else exactly that – I know, it’s easy, it’s literary masturbation, but go ahead – in great and glorious detail.  They are explaining why your story was the best thing they’ve ever read.

Now… complete that monologue.  What are they saying?  Why is your story the best thing they’ve ever read?

Sobering, isn’t it.  You need to be writing a story that aspires to this level.   You need to be that in love with it. 

And mostly, you need to have an answer to that question.

Exercise 2:

Imagine that an agent or editor has just cracked open your manuscript.   It’s the end of their day, they’re tired, they’re grumpy (you’ve got good odds on that one, no matter what time of day it is), they’re cynical.  They’ve seen it all, rejected it twice. 

Maybe they’re even one of the geniuses who rejected Harry Potter and they’re still pissed off.

And now it’s your turn.

The question: what might they encounter in your manuscript that will cause them to put it down?  Maybe even throw it against their office wall.  What is it about your story that is too familiar, too trite, too flat, too slow, too boring, too been-there-done-that, too out there, too amateurish?

The answer just might be none of the above.  The answer might simply be that there is just no compelling reason for them to accept the damn thing.

Sobering again, isn’t it.

Exercise 3:

This time don’t imagine at all.  Open your manuscript to any given page.  Do this several times with complete randomness.  Do this many times, in fact. 

At any given moment in your story, what are the stakes?  What is at stake in that particular scene, and what is at stake in the larger context of the story itself?

At any given moment, what is the reader rooting for?  Anticipating?  Feeling?

At any given moment, what is the relationship between the hero and the quest you’ve given to her or him? 

At any given moment, what is the pace of the story you are telling?

You need a compelling answer to each of these questions for every page you encounter.  Not that every page should be a pivotal moment, but rather, you are checking to ensure that every page is in powerful context to the pivotal moments that came before it and will come after it.

The bar is high. 

Are you reaching for it?  Or are you so in love with your story that you’ve forgotten that someone else needs to be compelled to fall in love with it, too.  That someone else’s tastes and criteria and hopes aren’t the same as yours.

Remember, the reader won’t know or understand your story anywhere near as deeply or personally as you.  Your job is to narrow that gap. 

Your job is to make your story theirs, as well as yours.

Do this, and do it with courage, high art and the discipline of solid story architecture, and you will publish it.  At least, with a little luck and significant effort in the marketing phase.

That and the actual writing are the only things over which you have any control at all. 

These questions, these collective value-adds stemming from these three exercises, are precisely what agents and editors are looking for.

And not coincidentally, so are readers.

Always has been, always will be.  In a publishing world where everything is changing rapidly, these literary truths trump everything else.

3 Storytelling Exercises That Can Get You Published is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com