wired for story

QUICK, QUICK, SLOOOOOWWWW—HOW TO MEASURE THE PACE

have anticipation then conflict The goal is to set the pace so each burst of intense conflict in the main storyline—each sudden sprint, each unexpected twist—is fueled by the information and insight that's been building since the previous twist. Each time the conflict peaks, you want to back off a bit to give the reader time to take it in, process it, and speculate on its implications, which is often where subplots come in. subplots the readers expectation Subplots invite the reader to leave the recent conflict behind for a moment and venture down a side road that, he believes, will lead back to the story in the near future. all subplots must eventually merge into—and affect—the main storyline, either literally or metaphorically, or else the reader is going to be mighty disappointed.

the story should have this format.

if then

Why Digressions Are Deadly

"A successful book is not made of what is in it, but what is left out."17 dont just stop the story with digressions, leave it out It pays to remain hypervigilant, because digressions come in all shapes and sizes. They can be misplaced flashbacks, they can be subplots that have nothing to do with the story itself, and they can be itty bitty. A digression is any piece of information that we don't need and therefore don't know what to do with. everything in the story is in a need to know basis Thus there is a question you must ruthlessly ask about every last scrap in your story: "And so?" Because if you don't ask it, the reader will.

Can all three of these things be there on the first page? You bet.

"Joel Campbell, eleven years old at the time, began his descent into murder with a bus ride." Imagine that: all three questions were answered in a single sentence. 1. Whose story is it? Joel Campbell's. 2. What's happening here? He's on a bus, which has somehow triggered what will result in murder. (Talk about "all is not as it seems"!) 3. What is at stake? Joel's life, someone else's life, and who knows what else.

WHAT'S HAPPENING HERE?

"Whenever possible, tell the whole story of the novel in the first sentence."12 Glib? Yeah, okay. But a worthy goal to shoot for.

Do's and Don'ts for Writing Character Bios

1. : story is about something that is changing. 2. Don't be uncomfortable about digging deep into your characters' psyches. 3. The good news about writing character bios is you can do it in a linear, straightforward—plodding, even—progression. 4. Do write short bios for every major character, even though most of what you write in these bios will not make it into the narrative. This is often the most important part of the process, because it unearths the motivation that lies beneath what your characters do, giving it meaning.

Your protagonist's reaction can come across in one of three ways:

1. Externally: Fred is late; Sue paces nervously, stubbing her toe. It hurts. She hops on one foot, swearing like a sailor, hoping she didn't chip the ruby red polish Fred loves so much. 2. Via our intuition: We know Sue's in love with Fred, so when we discover that the reason he's late is because he's with her BFF, Joan, we instantly feel Sue's upcoming pain, although at the moment she has no idea Fred even knows Joan. 3. Via the protagonist's internal thought: When Sue introduces Fred to Joan, she instantly senses something is going on between them. Watching them pretend to be strangers, Sue begins to plot the intricate details of their grisly demise. In other words, the reader must be aware of the protagonist's personal spin on everything that happens.

why would a writer be vague?

1. The writer knows the story so well, she doesn't recognize when a concept that's very clear to her will come across as utterly opaque to the reader. the writer doesnt know her story very well 1. or to well

the narrative must follow an emotional cause-and-effect trajectory from the outset.

Albert Einstein reportedly quipped, "Nothing happens until something moves." , a pattern of telltale signs, in real life there will be a million irrelevant things happening at the same time, whereas in a story there will be nothing that does not in some way affect the cause-and-effect trajectory.

Is something at stake on the first page?

And, as important, is your reader aware of what it is?

CHAPTER 10: CHECKPOINT

Are there any inadvertent setups lurking in your story? Are you sure nothing whispers, implies, or suggests "setup" without actually meaning it? Remember: a great tool for ferreting out unintended setups is our old friend, the "And so?" test. Is there a clear series of events—a pattern—that begins with the setup and culminates in the payoff? Are you absolutely sure none of your payoffs is piggybacking onto its setup? Equally important, are you sure there is an actual pattern of "dots" or "tells" leading from each setup to its payoff? Do the "dots" build? If you connect the dots between the setup and the payoff, do they add up? Does a pattern emerge? Will your reader see the escalating progression and be able to draw conclusions from it and so, anticipate what might happen next? Is the payoff of each of your setups logistically possible? Be sure to think each setup all the way through to its logical conclusion, even those (especially those) you know your protagonist won't take more than a step or two toward before circumstances (courtesy of you) force him to abandon it.

It's Always Darkest Before the Sunshine

Back in 1999, Michael Arndt felt he'd paid his dues, having spent ten years in the movie business as a script reader and assistant. So, having accumulated a small nest egg in the process, he quit his job and hunkered down to write a screenplay. He wrote six stories and ditched each one. The seventh—which he wrote in three days—he had a good feeling about.14 So he kept at it. For over a hundred drafts. His motto was No point in doing something if you're not going to do it right. And he was determined to get it right. Which is probably why, six years after he began writing it, he won the Oscar for best original screenplay for Little Miss Sunshine. Why? Because his allegiance wasn't to himself, or to his first draft, or even to his ninety-ninth. It was to the story itself. And to us. A world full of strangers who he knew would never, ever give him the benefit of the doubt. So his story didn't ask us to. All it required of us was that we sit back, relax, and give it our undivided attention. With that kind of care and determination, imagine how far your story can go. You don't need to be a genius, although you may well be one. What you do need is perseverance. The one thing that makes a person a writer is writing. Butt in chair. Every day. No excuses. Ever. As Jack London famously said, "Don't loaf and invite inspiration; light out after it with a club."16 Hemingway concurred: "Work every day. No matter what has happened the day or night before, get up and bite on the nail."17 end

no pain no gain

Because as much as you love your protagonist, your goal is to craft a plot that forces her to confront head-on just about everything she's spent her entire life avoiding. You have to make sure the harder she tries, the harder it gets. Her good deeds will rarely go unpunished. you're setting her up for an even bigger fall. You want her to relax and let her guard down a little, the better to wallop her when she least expects it. You never want to give her the benefit of the doubt, regardless of how much you feel she's earned it. Because if you do, the one thing she won't earn is her status as a hero.

body language

Because had they been wired, they would have been nervous and it would have shown, if only in their body language. There would have been something in Sally's behavior that intimated she was up to more than an afternoon's delight. Sure, the kindest among us might think, Well, I guess since Sally was actually working for the feds, she's a pro, so there's no way she'd have done anything that would tip Fred off. Trouble is, that still won't make the scene in which she was hiding her true feelings any more compelling or believable, given what we know about the infallibility of body language and our propensity for making inadvertent mistakes.

dont use genralties that much

Because we'd have to stop and think about it in order to "manually" do what a story would have done: make it specific enough to have an emotional impact. make your reader feel something, by using personilzated stories. make your story specific Jane knew Wally had a reputation for doing horrid things, so when he commented on her appearance in front of everyone, she refrained from smacking him. but them the next sentence are genralities. we dont know wally has sdone who were watching them what was wally comment? was jane going to give butt or cheeck smack Because they don't tell us specifically what is happening now, we can't anticipate, specifically, what might happen next. The point is, characters need to react to everything that happens for a specific reason we can grasp in the moment.

starter feedback Priming the Pump

Before you begin asking for gut-wrenching critiques (anything short of "It's the best thing I ever read! Where can I buy a copy or, better yet, a case?"), there's an incredibly helpful type of feedback you can request at just about any stage without having to weather anyone's actual opinion. What's more, the info it yields tends to be clear, concise, and specific, and even your old Uncle Rolly can give it. Ideally, it's best to recruit friends and family who don't even know what your story is about. All you have to do is ask them to read what you have and at the end of each scene to jot down the answers to these questions: • What do you think is going to happen next? • Who do you think the important characters are? • What do you think the characters want? • What, if anything, leaps out as a setup? • What information did you think was really important? • What information were you dying to know? • What did you find confusing? (This is as close to a real critique as we'll get.) Their answers will be extremely helpful in figuring out how much of the story hasn't quite made it from your head onto the page. Not to mention turning up plot holes, logic gaps, redundancies, digressions, and long flat stretches that stop the story cold. But be sure to tell them this is all the feedback you want right now. If you give Uncle Rolly carte blanche, you might have to hear his theory on how much better it would be if it was set on the planet Zelon instead of in Cleveland, if the hero was an intergalactic warrior instead of a kindergarten teacher, and if lots of big things blew up instead of that one measly fight when Wally threw a handful of sand at Jane during recess.

Other People's Opinions

But at some point—on draft three or six or twenty-seven—you will need to let other people read your story for real. Remember the Heath brothers' "Curse of Knowledge"? You can't tell your story's effect on a fresh reader, because you know way too much. That's why you have to subject your story to the most merciless thing on earth: a reader's eyes. It could be those of a trusted writer friend, a writer's group, a paid professional, or even better, all three. This can feel a bit like asking the entire neighborhood to take pot shots at your children while they're playing in the yard all by themselves. And guess what? They will. Readers are more than willing to take a whack at our darlings, because to them, they aren't darlings at all. They're merely the things that get in the way of the story. As humorist Franklin P. Jones famously said, "Honest criticism is hard to take, particularly from a relative, a friend, an acquaintance, or a stranger."

whos story is it

But here's something writers often don't know: in a story, what the reader feels is driven by what the protagonist feels. Story is visceral. We climb inside the protagonist's skin and become sensate, feeling what he feels. In short, without a protagonist, everything is neutral, and as we'll see in chapter 3, in a story (as in life) there's no such thing as neutral. Which means we need to meet the protagonist as soon as possible—hopefully, in the first paragraph.

when do stories begin

But make no mistake, it's her struggle with this "internal issue" that drives the story forward. In fact, the plot itself is cleverly constructed to systematically back her into a corner where she has no choice but to face it or fold up her tent and go home. create your character and plot before

CHAPTER 11: CHECKPOINT

Do all your subplots affect the protagonist, either externally or internally, as he struggles with the story question? Readers don't want subplots just because they're interesting or lyrical or provide a nice break from the intensity of the main action. Although they may be all these things, first and foremost, the reader expects they'll be there for a story reason. So ask yourself: Even if it's tangential, how does this subplot affect the protagonist's pursuit of his goal? What specific information does it give your reader that she needs to know in order to really grasp what's happening to the protagonist? When you leap into a subplot or flashback, can the reader sense why it was necessary at that very moment? Make sure the logic is on the page, not just in your head. When you leave the main storyline, you want the reader to follow you willingly, not kicking and screaming. When returning to the main storyline, will your reader see things with new eyes from that moment on? You want her to come back to the main storyline feeling as though she has new insight that gives her the inside track on what's going on. When the protagonist does something out of character, has it been foreshadowed? Make sure you've given the reader solid tells along the way, so her reaction will be "Aha!" rather than "Give me a break!" Have you given your reader enough information to understand what's happening, so that nothing a character does or says leaves her wondering whether she missed something? You never want your reader to have to pause, trying to figure out what she's missed, and then—god forbid—leaf back through the book to try to figure it out.

CHAPTER 8: CHECKPOINT

Does your story follow a cause-and-effect trajectory beginning on page one, so that each scene is triggered by the one that preceded it? It's like setting up a line of dominoes—you tap that first one, and they all fall in perfect order as each scene puts the "decision" made in the prior scene to the test. Does everything in your story's cause-and-effect trajectory revolve around the protagonist's quest (the story question)? If it doesn't, get rid of it. It's that easy. Are your story's external events (the plot) spurred by the protagonist's evolving internal cause-and-effect trajectory? We don't care about a hurricane, a stock market crash, or aliens taking over planet Earth unless it somehow directly affects your protagonist's quest. When your protagonist makes a decision, is it always clear how she arrived at it, especially when she's changing her mind about something? Don't forget, just because you know what your protagonist is thinking doesn't mean your readers will. Does each scene follow the action, reaction, decision pattern? It's like the one, two, three of a waltz. Get that rhythm stuck in your head—action, reaction, decision—and then use it to build momentum. Can you answer the "And so?" to everything in the story? Ask this question relentlessly, like a four-year-old, and the minute you can't answer, know that you're likely in the company of a darling, a digression, or something else likely to cause your story to go into free fall.

Is something happening, beginning on the first page?

Don't just set the stage for later conflict. Jump right in with something that will affect the protagonist and so make the reader hungry to find out what the consequence will be. After all, unless something is already happening, how can we want to know what happens next?

WAIT—I MUST HAVE MISSED SOMETHING

Don't underestimate the damage even a short-lived logic glitch can inflict. the reader will be emailing you soon. The reader, every time. Here's why: as far as the reader is concerned, the second Rhonda sees Todd smooching someone else and doesn't react, the story comes to a screeching halt. Suddenly it doesn't make sense, catapulting the reader out of the story and into her conscious mind. The result? She pauses, right then and there, and thinks about it. She wonders whether she's missed something along the way. Was Todd the one who had occasional bouts of amnesia, maybe? And although that pause may last only a nanosecond, it stops the story's momentum cold. That's why, even if the answer is in the very next sentence, it won't do a thing to remedy the problem. How could it? Because it's already happened. dont let it.

flashbacks and others things

Foreshadowing, flashbacks, and subplots must instantly give readers insight into what's happening in the main storyline, even if the meaning shifts as the story unfolds.

Does your protagonist react to everything that happens and in a way that your reader will instantly understand?

Have you left editorializing to the op-ed department? The more you have a message you want to convey, the more you have to trust your story to do it. The joy of reading is getting to make up your own mind about what a story's ultimate message is. The joy of writing is being stealthy enough to stack the deck so your reader will choose yours. Do you use body language to tell us things we don't already know? Think of body language as a "tell," something that cues your reader into the fact that all is not as it seems.

The Writer's Brain Advantage

His research reveals that one of the key factors revolves around something called "intentionality." This boils down to our ability to infer what someone else is thinking.

REALITY: Novels That Are Hard to Read Aren't Read

Hitting the jackpot means finding the narrative thread that gives meaning to everything that happens in your glorious experiment. The Two Levels of Cause and Effect the interal struggle and external event 1. Plot-wise cause and effect plays out on the surface level, as one event logistically triggers the next: Joe pops Clyde's shiny red balloon; Joe gets kicked out of clown school. 2. Story-wise cause and effect plays out on a deeper level—that of meaning. It explains why Joe pops Clyde's balloon, even though he knows it will probably get him expelled. the reason is more importance than the fact that he poped it.

the writer Brain on story.

I noticed a strange thing not too long ago. When I misspell a word, the more I try to figure out how to spell it, the more mangled it gets. If, instead, I simply retype it without thinking—fast, like pulling off a Band-Aid—nine times out of ten it's spelled correctly. For a while I went around telling people that my brain doesn't know how to spell but my fingers do. Turns out it's my brain, after all, which knows more than I think it does—provided I don't think about it. As neuropsychiatrist Richard Restak says, "In many cases we decrease accuracy and efficiency by thinking too hard."1 He points to an example many of us remember with chagrin: taking multiple-choice tests back in school and constantly second-guessing our answers. According to studies, if we'd just stuck with our original gut instinct and moved on to the next question like the instructions suggested, we would have gotten that A we knew we deserved, instead of—well, never mind. The one lesson we can still take away from that frustrating experience is that often the harder we try, the worse we do.2 following your gut works only if you've prepared for the test and know the material.3

what happens in forist person

In a first-person account, on the other hand, nothing is ever neutral, even for a moment. first-person narrators are often unreliable, and part of the reader's pleasure is figuring out what's really true. the first person account can only assume.

you have to be mean to your protagonist

In literary fiction the plot must be far more layered, intricate, and finely woven in order to illuminate subtler and more nuanced themes. And so, in the end, because everything that could go wrong, did—and then some—Sully has the experience that a perfect story bestows upon its protagonist: he returns to the place where he began and sees it with new eyes. The world didn't change. He did. Had writer-director Sturges shown Sully mercy, the film could have ended when Sully realized that, try as he might, there's just no way he'd ever have a clue what it feels like to be disenfranchised. And hey, he did try pretty hard, didn't he? So it would have been a job well done, right? Nope. Because until Sully finds himself in prison with no way out, everything has been on his terms. And a test on your own terms is no test at all. Sturges knew this, so rather than swooping in at the eleventh hour and saving Sully from the chain gang, he stepped back and let life have a whack at him. In so doing, he actually did Sully a huge favor. As the saying goes, "No man is more unhappy than the one who is never in adversity; the greatest affliction of life is never to be afflicted." Only by making sure Sully was extremely afflicted did Sturges give him the opportunity to become a better man. the importantance of huring one you love. embarass your hero It also tends to be the thing that best spurs growth. So it's a pity that embarrassment, mortification, and shame are the last thing writers want to put their protagonist through dont cuddle your protagonist

Foreshadowing: A Genuine Get-Out-of-Jail-Free Card

It happens all the time. You've carefully plotted out your protagonist Stephanie's gauntlet of challenge, and she's doing quite well indeed, until suddenly she discovers that in order to uncover the real truth about Uncle Cedric, she has to hide in that teeny tiny broom closet under the stairs for who knows how long, which is fine, until you remember that you gave her claustrophobia back in chapter 2 to explain why she couldn't take her niece Becky on the ill-fated submarine ride at Disneyland. Now what? If you ignore the fact that she has claustrophobia and let her spend the evening crouched in that stuffy closet anyway, your readers instantly spot it, and this being the digital age, waste no time in shooting you a snide email telling you so. But if you go back and let her take Becky on the damn ride, it will change everything that's happened since. So what do you do? This is where a little foreshadowing comes in very handy.

Can we glimpse enough of the "big picture" to have that all-important yardstick?

It's the "big picture" that gives readers perspective and conveys the point of each scene, enabling them to add things up. If we don't know where the story is going, how can we tell if it's moving at all?

the consequences of a Cause Without an Effect

Let's say the writer needs to get his protagonist, Barbara, out of an unexpected tight spot. So he devises a scenario that saves her in the moment and then promptly forgets all about it without stopping to consider that introducing a fact or character to solve a problem in one scene generates ongoing expectations in the reader's mind that never go away. if a character does something to get out of a sitution, it must make sense so the reader wont get confused , and start asking questions Each thing you add to your story is like a drop of paint falling into a bowl of clear water. It spreads and colors everything. "If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there."15

MYTH: Write What You Know

MYTH: Write What You Know REALITY: Write What You Know Emotionally When writers unconsciously assume the readers' knowledge of—not to mention interest in—what the writers themselves are passionate about, their stories tend to be wildly uneven. On the one hand, the writer is so familiar with his subject that he glosses over things the reader is utterly clueless about. On the other, it's way too easy for the writer to get caught up in the minutiae of how things "really work" and lose sight of the story itself. also dont use big words

things to know on third person

Once you master the art of slipping your characters' thoughts onto the page, the reader will be able to automatically differentiate a character's inner thoughts from the narrator's voice. Readers intuitively expect the protagonist to have an opinion, whereas you, as narrator, don't even exist as far as they're concerned—that is, as long as you keep your opinions to yourself. narrator his neutral voice

third person

One of the beauties of writing in the first person is that you never have to worry whether the reader will know whose thoughts you're trying to convey. Every thought belongs to the narrator. But writing in the third person is another story, especially because there are several variations. First, here's a quick rundown of the three most frequently used: 1. Third-person objective: The story is told from an objective external standpoint, so the writer never takes us into the characters' minds at all, never tells us how they feel or what they think. Instead, as with film (long rambling voiceovers not withstanding), that information is implied solely based on how the characters behave. If you're writing in third-person objective, you'll show us the protagonist's internal reactions through external cues: body language, clothes, where she goes, what she does, who she associates with, and of course, what she says. 2. Third-person limited (aka third person close): This is very much like writing in first person, in that you can tell us only what one person—almost always the protagonist—is thinking, feeling, and seeing. Thus the protagonist must be in every scene, and aware of everything that happens; the only real difference is that you're using "he" or "she" rather than "I." And as with first person, you can't tell us definitively what anyone but the protagonist thinks or feels unless that person pipes up and actually says it out loud. 3. Third-person omniscient: Here, the story is told by an all-seeing, all-knowing, objective and (traditionally) trustworthy narrator (you), who has the power to go into every character's mind and tell us what they are thinking and feeling, have done, and will ever do. The trick, of course, is to keep track of all of it. And to stay behind the curtain at all times. Even a fleeting glimpse of the puppet master completely ruins the illusion that there are no strings attached.

MYTH: "Show, Don't Tell" Is Literal—Don't Tell Me John Is Sad, Show Him Crying

REALITY: "Show, Don't Tell" Is Figurative—Don't Tell Me John Is Sad, Show Me Why He's Sad ( the cause) when we already the why?

MYTH: Adding External Problems Inherently Adds Drama to a Story

REALITY: Adding External Problems Adds Drama Only If They're Something the Protagonist Must Confront to Overcome Her Issue but since it was never developed, it read as what it was: a plot convenience.

hey

REALITY: Character Bios Should Concentrate Solely on Information Relevant to Your Story plot you story before writing them plot you story before writing them

MYTH: Beautiful Writing Trumps All

REALITY: Storytelling Trumps Beautiful Writing, Every Time A story must have the ability to engender a sense of urgency from the first sentence.

myth what

REALITY: Unless They Convey Necessary Information, Sensory Details Clog a Story's Arteries details and specifics need a story reason to be there. even if the charcter likes it , i should put in insight on that character.

MYTH: Withholding Information for the Big Reveal Is What Keeps Readers Hooked

REALITY: Withholding Information Very Often Robs the Story of What Really Hooks Readers\ this give readers something to follow, instead of being a coincidence 1. There must have been a pattern of specific "hints" or "tells" along the way 2. These "hints" and "tells" need to stand out (and make sense) in their own right before the reveal.

the brain is always looking for raw data to meaningful patterns

Readers are always on the lookout for patterns; to your reader, everything is either a setup, a payoff, or the road in between.

Like a Circle in a Spiral, Like a Wheel within a Wheel

Reality Check This brings us to a very helpful set of questions to ask yourself as you begin writing or rewriting each scene: • What is actually going on in the story's "real world"—that is, objectively? • What does each character believe is going on? • Where are there contradictions? (Joe, believing that his brother Mark is their dad's favorite, is forever trying to win his dad's approval; Mark knows that their dad is really an evil alien, so he has been protecting Joe from him ever since he was born.) • Given what each character believes is true (as opposed to what might actually be true), how would they act in the scene? • Does what each character does in the scene make sense, given what he or she believes is true? In fact, it's a good idea to make a chart for your entire story, called: WHO KNOWS WHAT, WHEN? Beneath your overarching timeline, make a corresponding timeline for each major character, charting what they believe is true throughout the story. This will not only reveal exactly where and when characters are at cross purposes, but also help you make sure your characters' reactions are in accordance with what they believe is true in the moment. Finally, there is one more person whose shifting beliefs you want to chart: the reader. Ask yourself, scene by scene: what does the reader believe is happening? This question is so important that you might even want to close the laptop, get out of your PJs, and head into the real world to test the waters. After all, you now know exactly what readers are hardwired to hunt for, so you can use them to do reconnaissance for you.

what is a story

S what is a story? A story is how what happens affects someone who is trying to achieve what turns out to be a difficult goal, and how he or she changes as a result. Breaking it down in the soothingly familiar parlance of the writing world, this translates to "What happens" is the plot. "Someone" is the protagonist. The "goal" is what's known as the story question. And "how he or she changes" is what the story itself is actually about.

what is the rewriting thing about

STORY SECRET: There's no writing; there's only rewriting.

why do we read

Simply put, we are looking for a reason to care. So for a story to grab us, not only must something be happening, but also there must be a consequence we can anticipate. What Does That Mean? As readers we eagerly probe each piece of information for significance, constantly wondering, "What is this meant to tell me?" And bingo! You feel that delicious sense of urgency (hello dopamine!) that all good stories instantly ignite.

The "Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is" Test

Since story, both internally and externally, revolves around whether the protagonist achieves his goal, each turn of the cause-and-effect wheel, large and small, must bring him closer to the answer. Every time the protagonist makes a decision, saying to herself, Yep, this is the right choice, and here's why ... the story then sits back with a great big grin and says, Oh yeah? Prove it.

HOW TO MAKE THE READER BELIEVE YOUR PROTAGONIST CAN, IN FACT, FLY

So if you're going to shatter, bend, or reinterpret any of the laws of the universe—established laws we take for granted—you need to give us fair warning Thus when characters are going to do something decidedly out of the ordinary, we need to already know one of two things: 1. They have the ability to do it, because we've seen them in action. But if we've watched Donna walk through a wall or two before, preferably when nothing big hung in the balance, then we're right there with her, breathing a sigh of relief as Wendy turns the lock, knowing that Donna has outsmarted her again. 2. If we haven't actually seen Donna walk through walls, we must have been given enough "tells" along the way that once she does, it's not only believable, but also satisfying. (Of course, the caveat is that back when those things happened, they must have made sense in and of themselves, rather than standing out like a sore thumb with a neon tattoo reading: "Don't worry, this will be explained later.") Even so, it can still be very tempting to goad a character into doing things they'd never do in a million years because the plot needs them to. Resist this temptation. Listen to your characters, who will implore you to give them a believable reason for everything they do, every reaction they have, every word they say, and every memory that suddenly pops into their head and changes how they see everything. This is exactly what, when done right, foreshadowing, flashbacks, and subplots do for your reader. Readers go willingly on these seeming side trips because they know from their own lives that the remembrance of things past often offers up nuggets of wisdom they can't afford to ignore.

what can go wrong must go wrong and then some

The catch is, your protagonist really truly does have to suffer—otherwise not only will she have nothing to teach us, but we won't have much reason to care about what happens to her, either. Like everything in life, this is much easier said than done. suffer even more than in a commercial potboiler; how to make sure your protagonist's trouble builds;

how does everyone have a goal?

The driving question is: what would it cost, emotionally, to achieve that goal? Let me give you a quick down-and-dirty example. In the movie Die Hard, what's John McClane's goal? To stop pseudo-terrorists from murdering everyone at the company Christmas party at Nakatomi Plaza? To kill Hans Gruber? To live to see the dawn? Sure, he wants to do all those things. But his goal, which the movie makes clear in the very first scene, is to win back his estranged wife, Holly. And so everything that happens forces him to confront the reasons she left him and to overcome them, while at the same time running barefoot through broken glass, dodging machine gun fire, and leaping into fifty-story elevator shafts.

HIRE A PRO

The other option when it comes to getting feedback is a trend that is gaining momentum. A colleague at a literary agency in New York recently told me, "More than ever it is important for writers to hone their craft and submit only their most polished professional draft. Do not count on anyone—agent or even [in-house] editor—to 'fix' it. Everyone is so tight for time that material has to be rewritten several times, and edited, before anyone in the business sees it to consider. Using freelance editors and consultants to help get a manuscript in shape is increasingly common." The good news is, there are many extremely capable freelance literary consultants out there who can provide objective, professional feedback that can help you not only rewrite your story but also improve your writing skills in the process. The bad news is, you'll find a gazillion to choose from—some great, some not—just by typing "literary consultant" into Google. My advice is to make sure the person you hire has a background in publishing—either as an agent or as an editor. If you're a screenwriter, look for someone with genuine development experience. If you're considering hiring a story analyst, find out what production company or studio they read for, and how long. Experience matters. Because while any intern can (and does) decide whether or not a script or novel works, when it doesn't, very few can tell you exactly why—and fewer still, what to do about it. better than tehm for now One way to toughen your hide before you venture into this territory is to start reading reviews—book reviews, movie reviews, reviews of all sorts. Why? For perspective. Think of it as a training course. Imagine you are the author of the book that's being taken to task. Because, let me tell you, reviewers are merciless—as they should be. Often gleefully so. For instance, in his review of the movie version of The Da Vinci Code, A. O. Scott of the New York Times manages to take a pretty good swing at both author Dan Brown and screenwriter Akiva Goldsman. First calling Brown's bestseller a "primer on how not to write an English sentence," he goes on to chide Goldsman for penning "some pretty ripe dialogue all on his own."11 toughin up That's not to say you won't feel gut punched at first. There's no real way around it. Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra had this warning for his fellow writers: "No fathers or mothers think their own children ugly; and this self-deceit is yet stronger with respect to the offspring of the mind."13

What Is This Story About?

The unspoken question that's now bouncing around in your brain is this: What is this book about? 1. Whose story is it? 2. What's happening here? 3. What's at stake? Let's examine these three elements and how they work in tandem to answer the question.

Do we know whose story it is?

There must be someone through whose eyes we are viewing the world we've been plunked into—aka the protagonist. Think of your protagonist as the reader's surrogate in the world that you, the writer, are creating.

flashbacks

This can be tricky, since timing is everything. Give us an otherwise crucial piece of information too soon, and you neutralize it; it becomes a digression in spite of itself. Give it too late, and it's a groaner. That's why every subplot, every flashback, must in some way affect the story question—that is, the protagonist's quest and the inner struggle it incites for her—in a way the reader can see in the moment. Because just as your protagonist always views the present through the filter of the past, so will readers view every subplot, flashback, and bit of foreshadowing in light of the story you're telling. subplots how the plot thickens a subplot helps your story

flashbacks and Backstory: One and the Same?

This is a question that often comes up, and the answer is yes, they are. Same material, different uses. Backstory is just that—everything that happened before the story began—and as such it is the raw material from which all flashbacks are drawn. So what's the difference between a flashback and weaving in backstory? It's simple. A flashback, being an actual scene complete with dialogue and action, stops the main storyline; weaving in backstory doesn't. Backstory is, in fact, part of the present. A flashback does the same thing but presses the story's pause button to do it, demanding the reader's full and complete attention. Which means it better have a clear reason for doing so at that very moment,

Is there a sense that "all is not as it seems"?

This is especially important if the protagonist isn't introduced in the first few pages, in which case it pays to ask: Is there a growing sense of focused foreboding that'll keep the reader hooked until the protagonist appears in the not-too-distant future?

what is the real story

This means that everything in a story gets its emotional weight and meaning based on how it affects the protagonist. If it doesn't affect her—even if we're talking birth, death, or the fall of the Roman Empire—it is completely neutral.

RULE ONE: THERE MUST ACTUALLY BE A ROAD RULE TWO: THE READER MUST BE ABLE TO SEE THE ROAD UNFOLD RULE THREE: THE INTENDED PAYOFF MUST NOT BE PATENTLY IMPOSSIBLE

This means the setup is not allowed to piggyback on the payoff. Piggybacking occurs when we learn about a problem at the moment it's been solved. Because the writer knew that something was going to happen to prevent the protagonist from taking more than a step or two down that particular path, so she didn't bother to think it all the way through. Why should she? Because the reader will. And if there's one thing we know about readers, it's that they love to anticipate what will happen next. But it doesn't stop there; once they spot a pattern, they test its validity against their own knowledge. In short, you must make sure that what your characters intend to do is plausible, even if you already know that something unforeseen will thwart them before they can actually do it.

Maximizing the Catapult

To guarantee that the stakes ratchet ever upward, you want to make sure you've infused each cause with enough firepower to trigger an effect that packs an unexpected, yet perfectly logical, wallop. For instance, in the movie The Graduate, the last thing Benjamin Braddock wants to do is date Mrs. Robinson's daughter, Elaine. So when his parents force the issue, he comes up with a plan: he'll take Elaine out and be such a cad she'll never want to see him again. Problem solved. Confidently armed with this decision, he takes action. His plan works perfectly, except for one rather large, unexpected wallop: he falls for Elaine, whom he has now completely alienated. In short, by solving one problem he's created an even bigger one. Which catapults him into a new decision: find a way to win Elaine's love (without dwelling too much on what he'll say, should she ever ask about how he lost his virginity). In the same way, your goal is to be sure each individual scene effectively uses its specific "action, reaction, decision" to evoke maximum tension and to up the odds. At the beginning of the scene, it helps to ask yourself, What does my protagonist want to have happen during this scene? That established, ask yourself, "What is at stake here?" What will it cost her to get what she wants? Armed with this info, you're ready to write the scene. When you finish it, before diving into the next scene, ask yourself these questions: • Has the protagonist changed? He should start out feeling one way and end up feeling another—often the exact opposite of how he originally felt. • Having weighed his options, given what was at stake, and then made a decision, does he now see things differently than he did when the scene opened? • Do we know why he made the decision he did? Do we understand how he arrived at that particular conclusion, even—make that especially—if his reasoning is flawed? Can we see how this changed his assessment of what's going on and how he's adjusted his game plan accordingly? its the protagionst interal reaction something happens, but we have no idea how it affects the protagonist or what he makes of it, thus it has no emotional impact—and so no firepower.

SUBPLOTS: LAYERING THE STORY

We know everything in a story must affect the protagonist in his or her quest, as in: Neil's goal is to get into Yale, so when he fails his senior history class, his heart sinks. The effect is clear, concise, and direct. And that's good. But it could be better. Since nothing spurs readers' mounting interest more than anticipation, giving us the same information—that Neil will fail history—via a subplot not only adds suspense (as we wonder how Neil will react when he finds out), but an intriguing layer of story as well. For instance, suppose Neil deserves an A in history, but while he's toiling away on his term paper, we hop into a subplot in which his history teacher, Mr. Cupkak, a humorless hardliner, decides to fail the entire class because he's just discovered that an anonymous student posted a video on YouTube photoshopping his face onto a very naked mole rat. We wouldn't see the effect this has on Neil in that particular scene, but because we know what Neil wants—to go to Yale—we'd instantly grasp the effect it will have on him when he finds out. And so when we return to the main storyline—where Neil is just finishing up his term paper, feeling great because he's sure it's the best thing he's ever written, confident it'll get him the highest grade in the class and maybe even land him the coveted valedictorian slot—we, on the other hand, are filled with a creeping dread, knowing he couldn't be more wrong; we are bristling at the unfairness of it—and rooting for him to find a way to take the teacher down. We've become his advocate. We're in his corner; we feel protective of him. And, truth be told, we feel just a little bit jazzed that we're in a superior position—after all, we know something he doesn't. We're engaged to the max, complete with a vested interest in what happens next. subplots are the thing to try to advance the main story line. But not all subplots directly affect the protagonist. Sometimes their purpose is to give the protagonist necessary insight, the same way a story gives the reader insight: by letting him benefit from the experience of some other poor dog. mirroring suplots Rather, they revolve around secondary characters in a situation similar to the one the protagonist finds himself in, and what happens in them doesn't necessarily have a direct external affect on the protagonist. Instead, the affect is internal, in that it changes the way the protagonist sees the situation—because mirroring subplots reveal alternate ways in which the story question could be resolved. Thus they either serve as a cautionary tale or a validation or provide a fresh perspective. For instance: Let's say the story question is, will Danielle and Perry revive their failing marriage? In a mirroring subplot, their unhappily married neighbors, Ethan and Fiona, might simply throw in the towel and break up. This spurs our protagonists to reconsider their options, and because Ethan and Fiona seem much happier now that they're finally free, Danielle and Perry begin secretly exploring life on their own. Ah, but as mirroring subplots unfold, they tend to arc in the opposite direction from the main storyline. They often whisper: This is what you're wishing for; are you sure it's what you really want? Thus in the end Fiona and Ethan bitterly regret their breakup, triggering Perry and Danielle's realization that maybe sticking with the devil you know isn't such a bad thing after all. all subplots must give use the information we need to know. 1. Supply information that affects what's happening in the main storyline. 2. Make the protagonist's quest that much harder. 3. Tell us something that deepens our understanding of the protagonist. Forget Mr. Cupkak for a minute; what about a subplot in which Neil's grandfather teaches him to clip schnauzers, revealing Neil's innate love of dog grooming—a major not yet offered at Yale? That might make the reader think: Gee, I wonder if Neil really wants to go to Yale after all? And so, in the end, the fact that he's going to fail history could turn out to be a good thing.

WHAT'S AT STAKE?

What hangs in the balance? Where's the conflict? Conflict is story's lifeblood—another seeming no-brainer. But there's a bit of helpful fine print that often goes unread. We're not talking about just any conflict, but conflict that is specific to the protagonist's quest. From the first sentence, readers morph into bloodhounds, relentlessly trying to sniff out what is at stake here and how will it impact the protagonist.

the beauty in showing your hand

What if you lay your cards on the table face up? What difference does it make in terms of suspense? Let's try a little test. what if your character is kidnapped and in the basement while the other charcter is upstairs that would be suspense right? you can reveal the truth after you make it have complete sense both in the moment it happens and in hindsight after the "real truth" is revealed. It's the space you leave for the reader, allowing her to leap into the fray and imagine the possibilities. Have you made sure that the basis of future conflict is sprouting, beginning on page one? Can we glimpse avenues that will lead to conflict? Can we anticipate the problems that the protagonist might not yet be aware of? Have you established the "versus" so that the reader is aware of the specific rock and hard place the protagonist is wedged between? Can we anticipate how he will have to change in order to get what he wants? Does the conflict force the protagonist to take action, whether it's to rationalize it away or actually change? Imagine what you would want to avoid if you were your protagonist—and then make her face it. Have you made sure that the story gains something by withholding specific facts for a big reveal later? Don't be afraid of giving too much away; you can always pare back later. Showing your hand is often a very good thing indeed. Once the reveal is known, will everything that happened up to that point still make sense in light of this new information? Remember, the story must make complete sense without the reveal, but in light of the reveal, the story must make even more sense.

EMBRACING FEEDBACK

What's more, and trickier still, you want to be sure that the person giving you feedback is capable of it. This doesn't just mean they have the ability to zero in on what pulled them out of the story, but that when they see it go off the rails, they'll tell you. of men after they had crossed the bridge and were sitting on a bench, recovering. Around 65 percent of the men on the bridge called her, compared with 30 percent of those on the bench, whose hearts were no longer pounding when she approached them.10 That is to say, a majority of them had mistaken an adrenaline rush of fear for the giddiness of attraction. In the same way, friends and family tend to misattribute the adrenaline surge they feel when they read your book to their appreciation of your prowess as a writer rather than the thrill of knowing you actually wrote it. This isn't to say you may not actually have written a crackerjack book, but chances are, they won't be able to tell the difference. In other words, love is blind. And when it's not, it tends to be supportive. When you read a friend's writing, your first allegiance is to your friend. So even when your gut tells you that it's probably not time for her to quit her day job, you take into consideration how hard she worked, how much the book means to her, and the fact that you don't want to hurt her feelings. Or start a fight. The same is true with acquaintances. No one wants to be the bearer of bad news; it inherently stirs up strong emotions—in this case, most likely the kind of conflict-induced tension that the manuscript in question probably isn't generating. But as we know, whereas in books, conflict is what draws us in, in real life, it's something most people will go out of their way to avoid. Which is why when you read a friend's manuscript and find it completely devoid of tension, the last thing you want to do is actually create some by mentioning it.

The "And So?" Test

When you ask "And so?" you're testing for story relevance. What does this piece of information tell us that we need to know? What's the point? How does it further the story? What consequence does it lead to? If you can answer these questions, great. But often the answer is "Um, it doesn't." "Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out."18

How to Catapult the Reader into Your Protagonist's Skin

When your protagonist's reaction is up close and personal, it catapults us into his skin, where we become "sensate," feeling what he feels, and there we remain throughout the entire story.

Is there conflict in what's happening?

Will the conflict have a direct impact on the protagonist's quest, even though your reader might not yet know what that quest is?

HOW CAN YOU IMPROVE IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT'S WRONG?

Writers need impartial feedback, and one of the logical places to get it is in a writers' group. The members of an effective writing group need to be astute and able to not only point out what isn't working but also tell you why. The rub, of course, is that they also have to be right. The places where something isn't working are not hard to spot. What's hard is explaining exactly why it isn't working. This often leads to misguided advice, which results in the writer either making the problem worse or simply substituting one thing that isn't working for another. So when you join a writers' group—especially if you don't know anyone in it yet—your best bet is to sit back and listen. You First of all, because you can actually hear it. Being singled out in a group, especially for the first time, can be overwhelming. Remember what we said about the mortification of discovering you've made a mistake in public? That's what a critique can feel like. Everyone is looking at you, and your face goes red, there's a loud buzzing in your ears, and suddenly the room gets very hot. People are talking, but you can't make out the words. It's hard enough to hear, let alone be objective. Keep in mind, too, that a writers' group, by definition, will hear your work in pieces. Thus it can be difficult for them to tell whether the story is building, if the setups are paying off, or if that beautifully written passage about Jamie's first kiss that had them

In order to construct these internal obstacles, ask yourself: Why is the protagonist scared?

Yep, it always comes back to this: what do these events mean to the protagonist? What is her true goal? Knowing this will allow you to make her goal specific to her, rather than leaving it as a surface (read: generic) goal that we all have. don't give your character generic problems to solve it has to solve him or her internal problems.

show dont tell

Your job is not to judge your characters, no matter how despicable or wonderful they may be. Your job is to lay out what happens, as clearly and dispassionately as possible, show how it affects the protagonist, and then get the hell out of the way.

what should your protag have

a clear goal

The Boring Parts

all the boring parts are lefted out.

the story is in the specifics

anything conceptual must be made understandable

It's Like Math—But in a Good Way

cause and effect But first, let's recap what we already know about the laws of cause and effect as they apply to story. To wit, every scene must • In some way be caused by the "decision" made in the scene that preceded it • Move the story forward via the characters' reaction to what is happening • Make the scene that follows it inevitable • Provide insight into the characters that enables us to grasp the motive behind their actions This means you can gauge whether a particular scene is part of the great chain of cause and effect by asking yourself these questions: • Does this scene impart a crucial piece of information, without which some future scene won't make sense? • Does it have a clear cause the reader can see (even if the "real reason" it happened will be revealed later)? • Does it provide insight into why the characters acted as they did? • Does it raise the reader's expectation of specific, imminent action? Now, for the math test: when evaluating the relevance of each scene in your story, ask yourself, If I cut it out, would anything that happens afterward change? To paraphrase the late Johnny Cochrane, "If the answer's no, it's got to go."

what do readers like

cause and effect, insight the reader must be aware of the story reason for each detai

what should the story always have

change

thigns to dont do

dont tell readers what to feel. dont do it

how do you hook the person

from the very first sentace, the reader should want to know what happens next

ASKING OURSELVES, "WHY?"

give bot characters a deadline Notice that both our main characters have a clock that just started ticking. That means we've found our beginning. Each one is standing on the shore of "before," staring into the distance, trying to make out the shape of "after." The story will chart the path in between.

how to kee pthe readers reading

keep them guessing

location

location "Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip. don't write setting unless it relates to the story

Cause and Effect Doesn't Mean Predictable

master the relationship a clear cause-and-effect pattern is what allows us to focus on the story's continual wild card: There's an appearance of free will. Just because someone might do something, it doesn't mean she will. In short, what looks like free will going in turns out to be fate, when looking back. the character makes mistakes and rushes into things strategically revealed new information The goal is to establish her motivation beforehand so that the instant she pulls the trigger, readers will be both surprised and sheepish. Of course! we say to ourselves. I should have seen it coming.

what can go wrong

must go wrong and then some( not sure how this would fit into my youtube videos but i will try.)

the road to setup to payoff Look Out—I Think It Might Be a Setup!

need to know basis for setups Case Study: Die Hard and Girls in Trouble setups are often subtle Setups, when done well, read like fate. the setup make the reader anticipate what is happening next, What they often do is illuminate a possibility. three ruels of setup

flashback

never use a flashback porly,becuase it can ruin a whole story. The trouble with flashbacks and subplots is they yank us out of the story we're reading and shove us into something we're not quite sure of. It reminds me of Laurie's speech to Steve at the end of American Graffiti. He's about to leave for college, and she doesn't want him to go. "You know," she says, "it doesn't make sense to leave home to look for a home, to give up a life to find a new life, to say goodbye to friends you love just to find new friends."10 Indeed. dont just cut a flashback.

need to know connections

readers assume that everything the writer tells them is there on a strictly need-to-know basis.

waht are specfics

specifics are good but Less Is Often More enough is as good as a feast. think of each detail as a egg ,as the writer keeps tossing them at us ,one after another,then all of them will collapse to the ground. Do all the "sensory details"—that is, what something tastes, feels, or looks like—have an actual story reason to be there, beyond "just because"? You want to be sure each sensory detail is strategically placed to give us insight into your characters, your story, and perhaps even your theme. And remember, scenery without subtext is a travelogue.

courting conflict the art of change

suspense before conflict begins to rise In short, it's the story's job to poke at the protagonist, in one way or another, until she changes. One way to tell if what the protagonist wants in the beginning is her genuine goal is to ask yourself: will she have to face her biggest fear, and so resolve her inner issue, to achieve said goal? If the answer is no, then guess what—it's a false goal. The point is, the antagonist must put the protagonist through her paces. suspense is maybe pit two oppsing sides in conflict for suspense

what does good stories do

the first job of any good story is to completely anesthetize the part of our brain that questions how it is creating such a compelling illusion of reality. After all, a good story doesn't feel like an illusion. What it feels like is life.

First, the High of Crossing the Finish Line

the morning after you finish a book why does it feel so bland? it happens to everyone It's important (not to mention reassuring) to keep in mind that writing is a process. It is rarely possible to address all of a story's trouble spots in a single draft, so don't be hard on yourself. It's not you; it's the nature of the beast. If there is one thing every successful writer's process includes, it's rewriting. Talent aside, in my experience, what separates writers who break through from those who don't is perseverance mixed with the wholehearted desire of a zealot to zero in on what isn't working and fix it. Don't believe me? What about John Irving, who said, "Half my life is an act of revision."6 Or Dorothy Parker, who said, "I can't write five words but that I change seven."7 Or Caroline Leavitt, author of Girls in Trouble, who rewrote her ninth novel several times before showing it to her agent, then rewrote it four more times based on the agent's notes. The book sold immediately. And then she wrote another four drafts, this time for her editor.Or literary young adult author John H. Ritter, who estimates he rewrites each novel fifteen times before publication. Or UCLA screen-writing chairman Richard Walter,who reports that former student and exceedingly successful screenwriter David Koepp will happily rewrite for the studios until about the seventeenth draft, at which point he gets a little cranky. To sum up the point these writers are making, let's turn to Ernest Hemingway, who, with characteristic blunt eloquence, so famously said, "All first drafts are shit." Which doesn't let you off the hook. It's not a license for unbridled self-expression, or not to try hard from word one because it doesn't really "count." It does, big time—because from here on out, it's the raw material you'll be working with, straying from, reshaping, paring, parsing, and then lovingly polishing. First drafts count, even if they're usually pretty bad. But remember, there's a huge difference between "trying hard" (which you want to do) and "trying to make it perfect from the first word on" (which is impossible and just might shut you down). The goal isn't beautiful writing; it's to come as close as you can to identifying the underlying story you're trying to tell. So whether it's your first draft or your fifteenth, relax. Instead of thinking each draft has to be "it," just try to make your story a little bit better than it was in the previous draft. After all, stories are layered, and everything that happens affects everything else—and on every level, no less. That means when you remedy one problem, you'll most likely have shifted something somewhere else that will then need to be addressed, and so on. The point is, it's impossible to address every trouble spot in a single draft, so why make yourself crazy trying? However, writers have a hardwired advantage when it comes to keeping track of who does what to whom and why. It may not be a super power, but it comes in pretty handy, especially as you begin your rewrite. Let me explain....

metaphor

the reason a character does something 2. The specific thing a metaphor is meant to illuminate. we have no idea what that metaphor mean 1. the specific memory invoked we have no ideas what memory

how to make your watcher invested

they have to be feeling you emotionally

Conveying Thoughts in the First Person

third person? It's a difference in distance. In a third-person narrative, there are times when the reader evaluates the meaning of things relayed by the omniscient narrator (that's you, by the way), based on what he or she knows about the protagonist.

cue the Subplot, Key the Flashback

timing is the sercert to everything subplots and flashbacks

what happens to the reader

we become the protagonist.

when will the story kick the protag

when the pro tag world view is out of aligment.

headhoping

why should you never head hop. it becomes jarring so it breaks the flow what is body language? use body language to tell the audience

how to keep people watching your videos

zero in on the point , no useless information

Flashbacks and Subplots: Harnessing Cause and Effect to Timing

• The only reason to go into a flashback is that, without the information it provides, what happens next won't make sense. Thus there is a specific need—or cause—that triggers the flashback. • This cause needs to be clear, so we know, from the second the flashback begins, why we're going into it. We must have a pretty good sense of why we need this information now. And as the flashback unfolds, we always need to sense how it relates to the story that's been put on hold. • When the flashback ends, the information it provided must immediately—and necessarily—affect how we see the story from that point on. The flashback needs to have given us information without which what's about to happen wouldn't have quite made sense. This isn't to say it can't also have given us information whose significance we won't learn until later—but it can't be only that.