by The Anatomy of Story- 22 Steps to Becoming a Master Storyteller (mobi)
WRITING YOUR STORY
So let's get practical: What writing process will give you the best chance of creating a great story?
Most writers don't use the best process for creating a story. They use the easiest one. We could describe it in four words: external, mechanical, piecemeal, generic. Of course, there are lots of variations on this process, but they all work something like this.
The writer comes up with a generic premise, or story idea, that is a vague copy of one that already exists. Or it's a combination of two stories that he has creatively (he thinks) stuck together. Knowing the importance of a strong main character, our writer focuses almost all of his attention on the hero. He "fleshes out" this character mechanically, by tacking on as many traits as possible, and figures he'll make the hero change in the last scene. He thinks of the opponent and minor characters as separate from and less important than the hero. So they are almost always weak, poorly defined characters.
When it comes to theme, our writer avoids it entirely so that no one can accuse him of "sending a message." Or he expresses it strictly in the dialogue. He sets the story in whatever world seems normal for that character, most likely a major city, since that's where most people in his audience live. He doesn't bother using symbols because that would be obvious and pretentious.
He comes up with a plot and a scene sequence based on one question: What happens next? Often he sends his hero on a physical journey. He organizes his plot using the three-act structure, an external imprint that divides the story into three pieces but doesn't link the events under the surface. As a result, the plot is episodic, with each event or scene standing alone. He complains that he has "second-act problems" and can't understand why the story doesn't build to a climactic punch that moves the audience deeply. Finally, he writes dialogue that simply pushes the plot along, with all conflict focused on what is happening. If he is ambitious, he has his hero state the theme directly in dialogue near the end of the story.
If most writers use an approach that is external, mechanical, piecemeal, and generic, the writing process we will work through might be described as internal, organic, interconnected, and original. I must warn you right up front: this process isn't easy. But I believe that this approach, or some variant of it, is the only one that really works. And it can be learned. Here's the writing process we're going to use in this book: We will work through the techniques of great storytelling in the same order that you construct your story. Most important, you will construct your story from the inside out. That means two things: (1) making the story personal and unique to you and (2) finding and developing what is original within your story idea. With each chapter, your story will grow and become more detailed, with each part connected to every other part.
■ Premise We begin with the premise, which is your entire story condensed to a single sentence. That premise will suggest the essence of the story, and we will use that to figure out how to develop it so as to get the most out of the idea.
■ Seven Key Story Structure Steps The seven key story structure steps are the major stages of your story's development and of the dramatic
code hidden under its surface. Think of the seven structure steps as your story's DNA. Determining the seven key steps will give your story a solid, stable foundation.
■ Character Next, we will create the characters, not by pulling them out of thin air but by drawing them out of your original story idea. We will connect and compare each character to every other character so that each one is strong and well defined. Then we'll figure out the function each must perform in helping your hero develop.
■ Theme (Moral Argument) The theme is your moral vision, your view of how people should act in the world. But instead of making the characters a mouthpiece for a message, we will express the theme that is inherent in the story idea. And we'll express the theme through the story structure so that it both surprises and moves the audience.
■ Story World Next, we'll create the world of the story as an outgrowth of your hero. The story world will help you define your hero and show the audience a physical expression of his growth.
■ Symbol Web Symbols are packets of highly compressed meaning. We'll figure out a web of symbols that highlight and communicate different aspects of the characters, the story world, and the plot.
■ Plot From the characters we will discover the right story form; the plot will grow from your unique characters. Using the twenty-two story structure steps (the seven key steps plus fifteen more), we will design a plot in which all the events are connected under the surface and build to a surprising but logically necessary ending.
■ Scene Weave In the last step before writing scenes, we'll come up with a list of every scene in the story, with all the plotlines and themes woven into a tapestry.
■ Scene Construction and Symphonic Dialogue Finally we'll write the story, constructing each scene so that it furthers the development of your hero. We'll write dialogue that doesn't just push the plot but has a symphonic quality, blending many "instruments" and levels at one time.
As you watch your story grow before your eyes, I can promise you one
thing: you will enjoy the creation. So let's begin.
MICHAEL CRICHTON doesn't have the deep human characters of a Chekhov or the brilliant plots of a Dickens. He just happens to be the best premise writer in Hollywood. Take Jurassic Park, for example. Crichton's story might have come from this designing principle: "What if you took the two greatest heavyweights of evolution—dinosaurs and humans—and forced them to fight to the death in the same ring?" Now that's a story I want to see.
There are many ways to start the writing process. Some writers prefer to begin by breaking the story into its seven primary steps, which we will explore in the next chapter. But most begin with the shortest expression of the story as a whole, the premise line.
WHAT IS THE PREMISE?
The premise is your story stated in one sentence. It is the simplest combination of character and plot and typically consists of some event that starts the action, some sense of the main character, and some sense of the outcome of the story.
Some examples:
■ The Godfather: The youngest son of a Mafia family takes revenge on the men who shot his father and becomes the new Godfather.
■ Moonstruck: While her fiance visits his mother in Italy, a woman falls in love with the man's brother.
■ Casablanca: A tough American expatriate rediscovers an old flame only to give her up so that he can fight the Nazis.
■ A Streetcar Named Desire: An aging beauty tries to get a man to marry her while under constant attack from her sister's brutish husband.
■ Star Wars: When a princess falls into mortal danger, a young man uses his skills as a fighter to save her and defeat the evil forces of a galactic empire.
There are all kinds of practical reasons why a good premise is so crucial to your success. First, Hollywood is in the business of selling movies worldwide, with a big chunk of the revenue coming the opening weekend. So producers look for a premise that is "high concept"—meaning that the film can be reduced to a catchy one-line description that audiences will understand instantly and come rushing to the theater to see.
Second, your premise is your inspiration. It's the "lightbulb" moment when you say, "Now that would make a terrific story," and that excitement gives you the perseverance to go through months, even years, of hard writing.
This leads to another important point: for better or worse, the premise is also your prison. As soon as you decide to pursue one idea, there are potentially thousands of ideas that you won't be writing about. So you'd better be happy with the special world you've chosen.
KEY POINT: What you choose to write about is far more important than any decision you make about how to write it.
One last reason you must have a good premise is that it's the one decision on which every other decision you make during the writing process is based. Character, plot, theme, symbol—it all
comes out of this story idea. If you fail at the premise, nothing else will help. If a building's foundation is flawed, no amount of work on the floors above will make the building stable. You may be terrific at character, a master at plot, or a ge-
nius at dialogue. But if your premise is weak, there is nothing you can do to save the story.
KEY POINT: Nine out of ten writers fail at the premise.
The big reason so many writers fail here is that they don't know how to develop the idea, how to dig out the gold that's buried within it. They don't realize that the great value of a premise is that it allows you to explore the full story, and the many forms it might take, before you actually write it.
Premise is a classic example of where a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Most screenwriters know the importance Hollywood places on having a high-concept premise. What they don't know is that this marketing pitch is never going to tell them what the organic story demands.
They also don't know the inherent structural weakness found in any high-concept premise: it gives you only two or three scenes. These are the scenes just before and after the twist that makes your premise unique. The average feature film has forty to seventy scenes. A novel may have double or triple that number. Only by knowing the full craft of storytelling can you overcome the limitations of the high concept and tell the whole story successfully.
The first technique for finding the gold in an idea is time. Take a lot of it at the beginning of the writing process. I'm not talking about hours or even days. I'm talking about weeks. Don't make the amateurish mistake of getting a hot premise and immediately running off to write scenes. You'll get twenty to thirty pages into the story and run into a dead end you can't escape.
The premise stage of the writing process is where you explore your story's grand strategy—seeing the big picture and figuring out the story's general shape and development. You start out with almost nothing to go on. That's why the premise stage is the most tentative of the entire writing process. You are putting out feelers in the dark, exploring possibilities to see what works and what doesn't, what forms an organic whole and what falls apart.
That means you have to remain flexible, open to all possibilities. For the same reason, this is where using an organic creative method as your guide is most important.
DEVELOPING YOUR PREMISE
In the weeks you take to explore your premise, use these steps to come up with a premise line you can turn into a great story.
Step 1: Write Something That May Change Your Life
This is a very high standard, but it may be the most valuable piece of advice you'll ever get as a writer. I've never seen a writer go wrong following it. Why? Because if a story is that important to you, it may be that important to a lot of people in the audience. And when you're done writing the story, no matter what else happens, you've changed your life.
You might say, "I'd love to write a story that changes my life, but how do I know it will change my life before I've written it?" Simple: do some self-exploration, something most writers, incredibly enough, never do. Most writers are content to think of a premise that's a loose copy of someone else's movie, book, or play. It seems to have commercial appeal, but it's not personal to the writer in any way. This story will never rise above the generic, and so it is bound to fail.
To explore yourself, to have a chance to write something that may change your life, you have to get some data on who you are. And you have to get it outside of you, in front of you, so you can study it from a distance.
Two exercises can help you do this. First, write down your wish list, a list of everything you would like to see up on the screen, in a book, or at the theater. It's what you are passionately interested in, and it's what entertains you. You might jot down characters you have imagined, cool plot twists, or great lines of dialogue that have popped into your head. You might list themes that you care about or certain genres that always attract you.
Write them all down on as many sheets of paper as you need. This is your own personal wish list, so don't reject anything. Banish thoughts like "That would cost too much money." And don't organize while you write. Let one idea trigger another.
The second exercise is to write a premise list. This is a list of every
premise you've ever thought of. That might be live, twenty, fifty, or more. Again, take as many sheets of paper as you need. The key requirement of the exercise is that you express each premise in one sentence. This forces you to be very clear about each idea. And it allows you to see all your premises together in one place.
Once you have completed both your wish list and your premise list, lay them out before you and study them. Look for core elements that repeat themselves on both lists. Certain characters and character types may recur, a quality of voice may seep through the lines of dialogue, one or two kinds of stories (genres) may repeat, or there may be a theme or subject matter or time period that you keep going back to.
As you study, key patterns will start to emerge about what you love. This, in the rawest form possible, is your vision. It's who you are, as a writer and as a human being, on paper in front of you. Go back to it often.
Notice that these two exercises are designed to open you up and to integrate what is already deep within you. They won't guarantee that you write a story that changes your life. Nothing can do that. But once you've done this essential bit of self-exploration, any premise you come up with is likely to be more personal and original.
Step 2: Look for What's Possible
One of the biggest reasons writers fail at the premise stage is that they don't know how to spot their story's true potential. This takes experience as well as technique. What you're looking for here is where the idea might go, how it might blossom. Don't jump on a single possibility right away, even if it looks really good.
KEY POINT: Explore your options. The intent here is to brainstorm the
many different paths the idea can take and then to choose the best one.
One technique for exploring possibilities is to see if anything is promised by the idea. Some ideas generate certain expectations, things that must happen to satisfy the audience if this idea were to play out in a full story. These "promises" can lead you to the best option for developing the idea.
A more valuable technique for seeing what's possible in the idea is to ask yourself, "What if. . . ?" The "what if" question leads to two places: your story idea and your own mind. It helps you define what is allowed in the story world and what is not. It also helps you explore your mind as it plays in this make-believe landscape. The more often you ask "What if. . . ?" the more fully you can inhabit this landscape, flesh out its details, and make it compelling for an audience.
The point here is to let your mind go free. Don't censor or judge yourself. Don't ever tell yourself that any idea you come up with is stupid. "Stupid" ideas often lead to creative breakthroughs.
To understand this process better, let's look at some stories that have already been written and play around with what the authors might have been thinking as they explored the deeper possibilities of their premise ideas.
Witness
(by Earl W. Wallace & William Kelley, story by William Kelley, 1985) A boy who witnesses a crime is a classic setup for a thriller. It promises nail-biting jeopardy, intense action, and violence. But what if you push the story much further, to explore violence in America? What if you show the two extremes of the use of force—violence and pacifism—by having the boy travel from the peaceful Amish world to the violent city? What if you then force a good man of violence, the cop hero, to enter the Amish world and fall in love? And then what if you bring violence into the heart of pacifism?
Tootsie
(by Larry Gelbart and Murray Schisgal, story by Don McGuire and
Larry Gelbart, 1982) The promise that immediately comes to the audience's mind for this idea is the fun of seeing a man dressed as a woman. And you know they will want to see this character in as many difficult situat
ions as possible. But what if you go beyond these useful but obvious expectations? What if you play up the hero's strategizing to show how men play the game of love from the inside? What if you make the hero a chauvinist who is forced to take on the one disguise—that of a woman—that he least wants but most needs to take on in order to grow? What if you heighten the pace and the plot by pushing the story toward farce, showing a lot of men and women chasing after each other at the same time?
Chinatown
(by Robert Towne, 1974) A man who investigates a murder in 1930s Los Angeles promises all the revelations, twists, and surprises of a good whodunit. But what if the crime just keeps getting bigger? What if the detective starts investigating the smallest "crime" possible, adultery, and ends up finding out that the entire city has been built on murder? Then you could make the revelations bigger and bigger until you reveal to the audience the deepest, darkest secrets of American life.
The Godfather
(novel by Mario Puzo, screenplay by Mario Puzo and Francis Ford Coppola,
1972)
A story about a Mafia family promises ruthless killers and violent crime. But what if you make the head of the family much bigger, make him a kind of king in America? What if he is the head of the dark side of America, just as powerful in the underworld as the president is in official America? Because this man is a king, you could create grand tragedy, a Shakespearean fall and rise where one king dies and another takes his place. What if you turn a simple crime story into a dark American epic?
Murder on the Orient Express
(novel by Agatha Christie, screenplay by Paul Dehn, 1974) A man killed in a train compartment right next door to where a brilliant detective is sleeping promises to be an ingenious detective story. But what if you want to take the idea of justice beyond the typical capture of the murderer? What if you want to show the ultimate poetic justice? What if the murdered man deserves to die, and a natural jury of twelve men and women serves as both his judge and his executioner?