Posts Tagged ‘save the cat’

Quite recently, a writer friend who comes to me for advice told me that he is glad I have standards. I laughed, but denied that the standards were necessarily mine. They’re not, in fact, but the culmination of millennia of oral tradition and tales of heroes. Good stories hit on touchpoints, on lows and highs as they run their characters through the wringers of conflict, and games of emotional tug-of-war.

Stories that are stories have a basic skeleton, or hangar upon which they hang. I can liken this to fashion design. At the minimum, stories consist of words strung into sentences, piled into paragraphs. Think of the words/paragraphs as the fabric. If you are making a dress, for example, you have to follow a certain format—essentially a long garment that covers some fraction of the torso with some type of bodice or halter, of varying lengths of beyond-the-ankles to just covering the crotch.1 That statement itself implies that even though there is a basic structure, the format can encompass many shapes subject only to the designer’s imagination.2 Fashion designers learn the basics of dress construction and then learn how to play with the rules and create bizarre monstrosities only appealing to Lady Gaga… but it’s still a dress. irisvanherpencapriole-0780-682x1024[1].jpg

The writer is no different. He must know the rules and know them well before he can break them.

What is the framework, or hangar, for a story? Well, they have to have beginnings, middles and ends. All good stories have them. But just having these does not a story make. I can tell you about my day, which begins with me waking up, brushing my teeth, continues to the middle where I have lunch (sometimes by myself and sometimes I go out with my co-workers), or the end where I brush my teeth and go to bed. Is that a story? Not really. Nothing exciting happens, nothing that would make anyone feel that their time wasn’t wasted by me relating nothing more than a series of events.

So what else does it need? I hinted at it already—something exciting. Let’s say that instead of waking up and continuing my routine as normal, I had to stop at the bank and on that very day, the bank was robbed while I was in it. That’s exciting, sure (not that I ever want that to happen while I am at the bank, although I couldn’t tell you the last time I was actually in one). But okay, there was a bank robbery and I was there.

The story needs something else. It needs something unexpected to happen. That element, if nothing else, can become the whole reason the story exists, the single point on which the whole story hangs. Let’s keep the above scenario and set it up. Say I am someone of strict routine, who is never late and never varies from that safe, comfortable routine. Only this morning I realized I forgot to deposit the paycheck in the bank and I wrote a check for the mortgage and mailed it yesterday, so if I don’t get funds in the account it will mess everything up. So I am irritated, because I’ve got to stop at the bank (which further messes up my routine and ticks me off even more), and then the customer in front of me is taking a while and leaning in to talk to a distraught-looking teller, and I just have to get moving, and when I vent my frustration uncharacteristically, the customer in front of me turns around just enough to show me his gun, and instead of running or screaming like a frightened little social justice snowflake at the sight of a firearm, I pick up the teller’s ten pound marble nameplate, whack the guy on the head and step over his unconscious body so I can deposit my check with the flabbergasted teller and get on my way.

Where does a story like that get started? It could start with the routine, to establish that I am a creature of habit who is likely to fly off the handle and do odd things when I experience disruptions, reiterating that the routine is tantamount to my happiness, and therefore the desire is to remain in it.3 It could start with my discovery of that item that changes the direction of my day. It has a middle where the tension builds as I come across the bank robber, which also lends itself to a hint at what the twist will be like—something going on with the money in the bank. It ends when I’ve dealt with him and taken steps to repair the normalcy I crave.

Plenty of writers and those who teach creative writing will tell me I am wrong, or I haven’t covered all of the criteria. That’s okay, we all have different ways of seeing the same thing. I will recommend several of these learned individuals who have published good frameworks for stories. They are:

  • Joseph Campbell’s works. Must-reads, all of them, for any writer.campbell-joseph-the-hero-with-a-thousand-faces[1].jpg
  • Victoria Lynn Schmidt’s 45 Master Characters. Not so much for the characters, but the priceless section in the second half of the book on the Masculine (based heavily on Campbell) and Feminine Journeys.thN6LAS0EA.jpg
  • Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat! Yes, it’s a book on screenwriting, but a quick, fun and informative read.save-the-cat[1].jpg

The last two especially have been priceless tools for me. I don’t necessarily write to their format, but when I’ve hit a slump or something feels like it’s missing in my story, I will hold up the scenes to their framework and I usually see that they are skewed to one end or the other (or both!) and ask myself if the “stages” they spell out lend any ideas to new scenes that would help tie the bookends together. I’ve never come away not having a new scene or two that move the story more coherently. Next time you write or read a story (or watch a movie) that seems to drag, or be too talky, or seems incoherent, it could be because it’s missing something from the framework that helps to make it a true story and not just a series of loosely-related or random events.

(By the way, years ago I ran my tied-for-first favorite movie of all time,4 The Road Warrior, through Schmidt’s/Campbell’s Masculine Journey and the story rocks it, dead on. Can’t get any better than that.)

1Originally I wanted to say that reached to the thighs but modern fashions have shortened the dress to some fairly revealing lengths… or not to length, as the case would be.

2I have to wonder from where some of their imaginations spring…

3For the record, I am not OCD. At least not most of the time. My closet is about the only place where I have standards. No wire hangers. Nothing but black hangers, all the same shape and size. Call me ‘hangerist’ if you like.

4What’s the other? Fury Road, of course. George Miller is a master director, and a lot can be learned about storytelling from him.

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It’s FINISHED.  The Opal Necklace is finished.

That’s right, my NaNoWriMo torture time is finally over.  What I ended up with was one great big, steaming pile of verbal crap.  (See, Hemingway, you were right!)

Not literally, of course.  Not the ‘steaming part’, anyway.

However, this one is going to go simmer on the back burner in hopes that I can take the excrement and somehow magically convert it into a savory pot of tasty sauce. Or at least an edible one.

By ignoring the manuscript for, say, a month or two, I can come back to it with a fresh eye. I have my technical specialists who look over some of the aspects (thanks Dave and Greg!) but as for the entire thing, I need to step away from it and pretend I am reading it for the first time.

I’ve also been reading Syd Field’s books, in particular the one on Screenwriter Problem Solving.

Anyone who tells you that novels/plays/screenplays are different… well, they’re correct. They ARE different, but only in nuance. They should all convey the story by showing, not telling (c’mon, I know you’ve heard that one a thousand times before), and even the stage play benefits by minimizing the exposition and the talking heads* doing nothing but droning on alone or at one another. I think it was Blake Snyder of Save the Cat! fame who said if you have to have some exposition, at least bury it in the characters doing something exciting (paraphrasing here).

HOWEVER, saying that a novelist cannot benefit from research into how a screenplay is constructed would be the biggest crime of all. After all, screenplays are three-act structures and the same pacing of good films is really the target that I am aiming for. (I don’t particularly like to read rambling, whatever happens, happens kind of fiction, and I don’t like to write it either.)  Everything in the first two acts of the story builds up to the climax, contributing to the resolution and finale. I like to write out all of my scenes on index cards and “marry them” up with the points on Syd Field’s Paradigm. It’s a fantastic way to see where I might be spending too much time in the setup, for example, or rushing my ending in just a couple of pages. Last thing I need is my reader to go looking for missing pages at the end of the book because the conclusion felt so unsatisfyingly short. While I am not suggesting that all books should end up like ready-to-film, there are plenty of lessons to be learned from the tension and conflict suggestions I’ve already found in Syd Field’s books.

 

*Someone I once knew happened to rape the whole graphic novel medium by having his characters do little more than talk to each other for the length of the comic, while lounging around.  Mediocre art aside, one particular excruciating page had 16 FACES of back and forth conversation depicting indiscernable facial expression changes, and just their heads. It is called a ‘graphic novel’ for a reason, for heaven’s sake!

Thank goodness that one is not indicative of all graphic novels.  There are quite a few which had no words at all, but the story couldn’t be more brilliantly clearer because the action in the artwork conveyed the entire thrust.  Talk about your “show, don’t tell”!