Yesterday’s post spawned an interesting discussion in the comments about story questions. To be quite honest, I was familiar with the concept, but I’d never given it that much thought. I linked to a great article on story questions by my friend Annette Lyon, but our discussion also brought out a few more interesting points that I wanted to share.

The story question is the basic concept of the story. It’s asked (or hinted at) at the beginning of the story, and answered by the end. It’s the controlling, overarching action of the story.

In a romance, it’s “Will the boy win the girl?” In a mystery, it’s “Will they catch the murderer?” (And the answer is supposed to be yes on both of those!)

I like to think in romantic suspense, both of those are the story questions, but when it comes down to it, there can only be one—one question whose answer brings the book to a satisfying conclusion. If the hero wins the girl before he catches the bad guys, then catching the bad guys is the story question—the story would be incomplete without it. (And vice versa.) There is only one story question (the book only ends once ). However, there must be a number of intermediate goals and questions.

Make sure your story is asking and answering the same overarching question. Don’t start off asking “Can Jezebel win Horatio’s heart?” and end with “Yes, Horatio can win the Nobel Prize!” (*cough*cough*Winchester Mystery Story*cough*)

So how can you make sure you’re setting up the right story question? Let’s use Jezebel and Horatio. If we want Horatio’s quest for the Nobel Prize to be the story question—if winning the prize ends the story—then make sure it ends the book. Answer (and, most likely, ask) Jezebel’s question within the bounds of the story created by Horatio’s question. Show them getting together (or not) before they award the prize.

Another way to do this is to make one question dependent on another. If Jezebel’s quest for love is the overarching question, Horatio’s quest for the Nobel Prize should depend on her question. Maybe Jezebel did her dissertation on an obscure enzyme that’s just the breakthrough Horatio needed, but he would never know that until he looks up from his test tubes.

A third way is to answer an intermediate question without satisfaction, making another answer (the story question) necessary. Maybe Horatio does with the Nobel Prize (because he passed off Jezebel’s work as his own, let’s say, and she is furious and leaves him and gets a lawyer). But even after he’s won, his life is empty. He misses her annotated love notes, her pocket protector, her obscure jokes. He tracks her down in her Antarctic research station, proclaims his love (and promises to publish the truth about her research).

Thanks to everybody who joined in the discussion yesterday—I certainly learned something. I realized that part of the problem I’ve had with a few pieces I’ve been plotting was that I was answering the wrong story question. I’ll have to find a different question to ask, or find a way to answer the question I’m already asking in the conclusion.

What do you think? Are you asking and answering the same question? How else can you make sure the right question is the story question?

Photo credits: question—Svilen Mushkatov; frustrated—John De Boer

Almost a corollary to the three act story structure is the five act story structure. Its most notable proponent is Gustav Freytag (in Freytag’s Technique of the Drama).

The basic difference between three and five act structures is that the second act in the three act structure is divided into three acts in the five act structure. (Uh . . . what?) It’s like this: the confrontation phase of the story is divided into the rising action, turning point and falling action.

Basically, the middle turning point is where things turn around for the hero. It’s not the ultimate confrontation, but after this point, the hero is able to start applying some of the things he’s learned—to start succeeding. I guess that’s why they call it the “falling” action. Because . . . things are falling into place? (*cough*cough*dumb name*cough*)

I’m going to blame this on my middle school English teacher—but I think this structure is a little misleading. First of all, the “falling action” sounds an awful lot like the denouement—the events after the climax. In fact, that’s exactly how I learned the term. (I honestly can’t think of any reason to call the third quarter or so of the book the “falling action.” That sounds boring.)

Here’s how I was taught a five-act structure (please, don’t hate on me because of my mad Paint skills. You know you wish you had 8-bit graphics skillz.):

The line graph here is somewhat representative. In the exposition, the hero isn’t making a lot of progress toward his ultimate goal—the final confrontation with the antagonist.

Then comes the rising action—he’s started on the path toward the confrontation. The rising action leads to the climax.

After that final confrontation, we have a very short falling action—it’s not as long as the rising action, it’s just tying up the loose ends. And then there’s the resolution: the character’s final situation. Notice that this is much higher than the exposition, because the character has changed.

This might be a little misleading, too. Really, the rising action is anything but a straight line—we have all those intermediate story questions to answer. The hero has to learn and acquire new skills (like 8-bit graphic skillz, yo), and growing and learning and changing are usually painful and fraught with setbacks. So the rising action might really look like this:

The three act structure would divide the acts at the end of the exposition and either at the climax or just before the resolution (depending on who you ask ).

What do you think? How would you apportion or draw the five acts in the five act structure? What is with the name “falling action,” and what would be a better name?

Can you identify the three- and five-act structures in Pixar’s The Incredibles? They’re all there!

The three act structure has strengths and weaknesses as a method of plotting. Do you know what they are?

The Snowflake Method is the second plotting method we’re going to look at. Well, creator Randy Ingermanson might not call is a “plotting method”—he’d probably prefer to describe it as a “design method.”

Good stories, he says, come from good design. (It can certainly make them easier to write!) So Randy came up with a way to design and even write a story from a high-level, hook-type idea to a full novel in ten steps. This way, you can identify a “broken” story before you begin—and build yourself a better one.

Before you freak out because you’ve found the new-improved-easy way to plot a story, let me insert here that they’re not easy steps—step 10, for example, is to write the novel. Oy.

We’re going to take a quick look at the method so we’re all on common ground—but do note that the full Snowflake Method article adds much more detail to these steps.

Let’s start at the beginning—the idea. Sum up your idea in one sentence, preferably of less than fifteen words. No, seriously.

Don’t worry about fitting the whole story in there. Just hit the set up (or the hero or the villain) and one or two major points. Randy suggests using the one-line blurbs from the NYT Bestseller list as an example. And we will, too:

The murder of a curator at the Louvre leads to a trail of clues found in the work of Leonardo and to the discovery of a centuries-old secret society.

In step two, we take this sentence and expand it into a paragraph, with, as Randy says, “three disasters plus an ending.” One sentence per act, if you will (I guess that’d be a five-act structure).

Uh . . . okay, it’s been a couple years since I read The Da Vinci Code, but I think it might go like this:

A curator at the Louvre is murdered and his [hot] granddaughter and a [dowdy*] religious symbologist are called to investigate. They find a trail of clues pointing toward a secret society and the Holy Grail, but the police are pursuing them. Following the clues, they flee the country with the aid of the symbologist’s friend and mentor. The friend and mentor betrays them and tries to force them to reveal the location of the Holy Grail. He is arrested and they discover that the hot granddaughter is a lineal descendant of Jesus Christ—the Holy Grail.

*No offense to Hanks, but seriously, I had a short, balding professor in mind as I read. Yeah, that’s not what Brown described. So sue me.

In step three, we leave off with our plot summary and come to focus on our characters. They’re important too, you know. The major characters each get a summary page here on their motivations, goals and characteristics. (Forgive me if we don’t do that here.)

In step four, we come back to our plot summary and expand each sentence from that paragraph into a paragraph of its own, making the summary roughly a page, too.

Now we’re going back to the characters—step five is to write the plot summary from the POV of each big character—and yes, the plot summary should differ among them—most especially between the hero(es) and the villain(s), but also, in, say, a romance, the hero and the heroine will have a very different perspective on events.

Really, these summaries are as much about the characters themselves—their reactions, perceptions, motivations, interpretations, etc.—as they are about the events of the novel. Major characters’ plot summaries should take a page; minors get half a page.

Guess where we’re going now? Yep, hopping back to the plot summary—now we’re going to make that one-page synopsis into a four-page synopsis. Again, it’s basically making the sentences from the last go-round into paragraphs and the paragraphs into pages.

Step seven takes us back to the characters (you knew that, didn’t you?). Now we’re making their pages into character charts (which you know I’m pretty meh about). Says Randy, the most important aspect to these charts will be to answer the question “How will this character change by the end of the novel?”

For step eight we head back to our plot synopsis and make a list of scenes for the novel. The whole novel. (Now that is outlining!) In this step, we focus on just the basic facts—events, POV, locations. Step nine is along the same vein (fooled you there, didn’t I?!)—a narrative summary of each scene, with all the good dialogue and descriptions and tidbits that our doubtlessly floating around in your head now. (This step is optional, Randy says.)

As I mentioned before, step 10 is “write the novel.”

As you move through the steps, of course, you’re free (and even encouraged) to revise previous steps’ work. As always, we have to be flexible to new developments—ready to add a dining room if we find the perfect chandelier .

So, you’re wondering, what’s with the name? The name comes from a simple fractal. You start with a triangle, then replace each straight line with a line with a peak: _/\_ . Star of David. Do it again. More complex, semi-snowflakey thing. Repeat. Even more complex snowflake.

What do you think? Could you take a story from an idea to a novel (or outline) like this? What strengths or weaknesses do you see?

Photo credits: snowflake—Julie Falk; tapping pencil—Tom St. George; fractal wrongness—the mad LOLscientist