All posts by Jordan

Technique

The act structure in action

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This entry is part 6 of 24 in the series The plot thickens (Mwahahaha)

I have a three-year-old, and as three-year-olds are wont to do, he likes to watch the same movie over and over and over for about two weeks straight. So when I wanted to show the three- and five-act structures in action, I knew I had to use his latest obsession: The Incredibles.

incrediblesI’m comparing the different structures’ divisions of the “text” here, so the synopsis will be largely the same, but the placement of the acts will vary among the three act, Freytag’s five act and my five act structures.

Three act structure

(Paragraphing is mostly for readability.)

Act I—Setup—the characters’ world (still with conflict): Super heroes were celebrated icons. Bob (Mr. Incredible) and Helen (ElastiGirl), super heroes, get married. Super heroes fall out of favor and are hidden by the government.

Fastforward 15 years, and Bob and Helen are trying to look like a typical suburban family. Bob is dissatisfied with his life. The kids aren’t happy with hiding (or having) their super powers. Bob loses his job.

First turning point: Mr. Incredible is offered a secret super hero assignment and decides to take it. He also decides not to tell his wife that he has been fired or offered this high-paying assignment.

Act II—Confrontation—lots of rising conflicts: Mr. Incredible completes the assignment on a remote island. When he returns for a second assignment, he finds out there’s a villain, learns of the villain’s secret plans and is captured. His wife and kids come to save them. They learn to use their powers together, but are captured. They watch as the villain’s dastardly plan plays out in their home town, then the villain leaves to play his role there as well.

Second turning point/climax: Working together, the family escapes and pursues the villain and his evil robot. They defeat the robot.

Act III—Resolution: They return home and save the baby from the villain. They’re now a family of super heroes, and are happy and united against the forces of evil.

Freytag’s Five Act Structure

Act I—Setup: Super heroes were celebrated icons. Bob (Mr. Incredible) and Helen (ElastiGirl), super heroes, get married. Super heroes fall out of favor and are hidden by the government.

Fastforward 15 years, and Bob and Helen are trying to look like a typical suburban family. Bob is dissatisfied with his life. The kids aren’t happy with hiding their super powers. Bob loses his job.

Act II—Rising Action: Mr. Incredible is offered a secret super hero assignment and decides to take it. He also decides not to tell his wife that he has been fired or offered this high-paying assignment. (This is really the divider between act I and II still.)

Mr. Incredible completes the assignment on a remote island. When he returns for a second assignment, he finds out there’s a villain and learns of the villain’s secret plans.

Act III—Turning Point/Midpoint: Suspecting her husband is doing something not-so-good, Helen activates the homing beacon in his super suit. She knows where he is now—but the homing beacon alerts the villain of Mr. Incredible’s presence and he’s captured again.

Act IV—Falling Action: (booooring name). Helen and the kids come to his rescue. They learn to work together as a team, but are ultimately captured. The villain attacks their hometown with his evil robot.

Act V—Resolution: They escape and defeat the evil robot. They return home and rescue the baby from the villain. They are happy and united as a family against the forces of evil.

My Five Act Structure

incredibles2Act I—Setup: Super heroes were celebrated icons. Bob (Mr. Incredible) and Helen (ElastiGirl), super heroes, get married. Super heroes fall out of favor and are hidden by the government.

Fastforward 15 years, and Bob and Helen are trying to look like a typical suburban family. Bob is dissatisfied with his life. The kids aren’t happy with hiding their super powers. Bob loses his job.

Act II—Rising Action: Mr. Incredible is offered a secret super hero assignment and decides to take it. He also decides not to tell his wife that he has been fired or offered this high-paying assignment. (This is really the divider between act I and II still.)

Mr. Incredible completes the assignment on a remote island. When he returns for a second assignment, he finds out there’s a villain and learns of the villain’s secret plans.

Suspecting her husband is doing something not-so-good, Helen activates the homing beacon in his super suit. She knows where he is now—but the homing beacon alerts the villain of Mr. Incredible’s presence and he’s captured again.

Helen and the kids come to his rescue. They learn to work together as a team, but are ultimately captured.

Act III—Climax: The villain attacks their hometown with his evil robot. They escape and defeat the evil robot. They return home and rescue the baby from the villain.

Act IV—Falling action: A few months later, they attend a track meet for their son with superhuman speed (who was acting out in the setup b/c he had no other outlet), whom they finally let compete in sports. Their shy daughter is now confident enough to ask her long-time crush on a date—and he’s the one who gets flustered.

Act V—Resolution: As they leave a track meet, a new villain appears. They don their masks and grin, ready to take on the new challenge.

Quiz time: read Acts IV and V under My Five Act Structure. What’s the story question? Did they ask and answer the same question?

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Technique

The five act story structure

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This entry is part 6 of 24 in the series The plot thickens (Mwahahaha)

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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.):
plot chart labeled
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:
plot chart alt

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 🙂 ).

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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?

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Technique

The story question

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This entry is part 5 of 24 in the series The plot thickens (Mwahahaha)

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.

frustrateA 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

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Technique

A story in three acts

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This entry is part 4 of 24 in the series The plot thickens (Mwahahaha)

The most basic story structure is the story in three acts. The three act structure has been used since . . . well, forever, but in recent history, the biggest proponent of this structure is Syd Field in his book Screenplay (although it’s been applied to all kinds of stories, not just movies).

So what are the structures in the three-act story?

story three acts

Act I is the “setup,” where we lay our scene (and our characters). This is where we establish the story world, our characters and their relationships.

That isn’t to say there’s no conflict here, nor that there’s nothing happening. If there isn’t some kind of conflict here, readers are going to get bored.

Act I is about 25% of the story, and ends in the first turning point. This is the point at which the story world gets turned on its head, and we get the story question (Will our hero(ine) win?).

Act II is the “confrontation” or the “rising action.” The name hints at what happens in here—the hero(ine) works on confronting the antagonist in ever-escalating conflicts. Things don’t go their way, of course, or the story would be over pretty quickly.

In the second act, which lasts for about half of the book, the hero(ine) learns and acquires new skills through these confrontations, arming themselves for the big confrontation at the end of this act/the beginning of Act III: the climax or second turning point.

Act III is the “resolution.” In the climax, we answer the story question from the first turning point. The hero(ine) uses the knowledge and skills s/he’s gained in Act II, which have made him/her strong enough to defeat the antagonist.

Sometimes this also includes the hero(ine) coping with his/her newfound strength.

What do you think? Can you see the three-act structure in your work or others’? Have you used this structure to plan or strengthen your work?

Some help from Wikipedia

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Marketing

Free guide for aspiring author websites

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This entry is part 5 of 5 in the series Aspiring author websites

Is it just me, or did Saturday totally sneak up on you?

Sorry about the delay, folks. As promised, I’ve compiled the articles and advice from our aspiring author website series and website reviews into a free PDF guide.

free website guideThe free Guide to Aspiring Author Websites was a bit of a challenge. Rather than including the full reviews, which are most useful to the person who received them, I’ve assembled all the advice that Kathleen and I gave into a little more general format, to apply to anyone who reads it.

The series was more popular than we’d anticipated, so we’ll be doing it again sometime soon. That’s right, we’ll be reviewing more websites. Don’t forget to subscribe to the blog to so you don’t miss the call for volunteers! Thanks to all of our brave and gracious volunteers, and thanks to everyone who commented and enjoyed our series.

Next week, we’re going to start looking at plotting methods.

Cover photo by Ben Lancaster

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Technique

Becoming a story architect

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This entry is part 3 of 24 in the series The plot thickens (Mwahahaha)

I think most of us have to try a few Winchester Mystery Stories before we’re ready to become story architects.

floor plan sketchI really like the analogy of architecture here because I like floor plans a floor plan isn’t a complete house. It’s a sketch of what you plan to build. It’s an easy way to look at a scaled-down model of where you think you want the major rooms to go, where the appliances will be, where the doors are, etc. It isn’t your house.

The floor plan can change even after you start building your story. Sometimes we “remodel” as we “build”—we decide this doorway should be a window and the front entrance should go here. We change the door to a double door; we upgrade the A/C or the wiring; we knock out a wall and add a new bathroom. We scrap the entire second floor.

Having a floor plan doesn’t mean we have to build that house—or even that we’d all build the same house with the same floor plan. But having a floor plan means we don’t end up six months into the project with 123 bedrooms, 16 dining rooms and no kitchen or bathrooms.

On the other hand, the floor plan is just a basic sketch, which can be improved upon, revised, and changed during the process of writing. In fact, you probably wouldn’t recognize the house just from the floor plan.

For me (and others), the floor plan is such a basic sketch that once we’ve gotten that built, we still have a long way to go before we have a finished product. Once we have the events down in the first draft, we still have revising and finishing to do—furnishing, painting, decorating, accessorizing (moving all our crap in 😉 ).

There’s a long way from the bare drywall to the furnished home we hope to end up with. And even after we slap on the paint and get our boxes through the door, it’ll still take a lot of work—and maybe some more paint, some help from friends and professionals, a lot of reading catalogs and home magazines. . . .

But finally, after all that, we have a home we can be proud of—and one that we didn’t have to completely rebuild six times. (Okay, I’ve probably beaten that analogy to death.)

What do you think? Do you like to consider yourself a “story architect? How much detail (or freedom) do you need in your “floor plan” to make a house work?

Next week, we’ll start looking at methods of plotting—and don’t forget, I’m looking for volunteers to talk about how they plot! And tomorrow—free goodies!

Photo credit: floor plan—Richard Crowley; dry wall—Pattie; room and photo—Christopher Barson

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Technique

Making it up as she went along–the Winchester Mystery Story

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Larry Brooks, “the story fixer,” had a recent post that really got me thinking about this—Story Structure vs. Story Architecture: “Dude… what’s the diff?”

All stories, says Brooks, have structure. And, to employ my own analogy, so do all buildings. But not all buildings are created equal:

Winchester Mystery House Scary Exterior Tower

Winchester Mystery House Stairs to the ceiling

winchester mystery house

You might recognize this place, or the legend behind it. The owner believed that her house must be under construction always, or she would die. But they couldn’t use a master building plan.

Considering that, the Winchester Mystery House is pretty well-built. Yeah, it has stairs that lead to nowhere and doors that open out from the second floor (no stairs on that one—maybe move those first stairs over there?). It’s fun—it’s a blast to explore, and I bet Sarah Winchester had an awesome time throwing in every element she could think of.

It has a decent foundation—instead of leveling it, the 1906 San Francisco earthquake only knocked off the top three stories. After the quake it stood four stories. The remaining structure is a rambling, 160-room, 4.5-acre mansion. It required more than 20,000 gallons of paint—and it constantly needed painting.

I think we’ve all gotten to the end of a story, looked back and seen our own Winchester Mystery Structure. The Winchester Mystery House has structure. In some sense, it has architecture—but not really. There is no plan, and the closest thing they had to a designer (architect) was a crazy woman.

And “rambling” is right. Dead ends, doors and promises that go nowhere, accidental MacGuffins. . . . After round 28,657 of revisions, I got tired of writing stories that looked like they were designed by a crazy woman.

What do you think? Have you ever written a “Winchester Mystery Story”?

Photo credits: exterior shot and stairs to nowhere courtesy of the Winchester Mystery House; rooves—the_photographer; windows to windows—Emily Hoyer

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Technique

An “organic” story

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This entry is part 2 of 24 in the series The plot thickens (Mwahahaha)

Yesterday, I shared my experience with my “conversion” to plotting. And it turns out I wasn’t alone. As Katie pointed out, it seems like most of us had the same problem:

starting out as a pantster, realizing that writing-by-the-seat-of-our-pants exposes our weak areas, and realizing that plotting is necessary to some degree.

flying fingersI think that the mystique of the organic story, one that is so perfect and beautiful that it just wrote itself, is one of the big things that convinced a lot of us (or all of us) to become pantsers (and maybe even writers). There’s this romantic notion that “real” writers, “great” writers sit down and pound out a fabulous story, with minimal rewriting and never, no never, no never any planning in advance.

And then we try it—and somehow it doesn’t seem to work. We learn more about plotting, and give that a try—and lo and behold, we have story arcs. We have a non-sagging middle. We have a character changing and growing through the climax and resolution.

Granted, these don’t always automatically fall in line with plotting and planning—but often when we start a story with these things in mind, we are more mindful of them not only in the planning but in the writing, and look for opportunities to help our characters grow and change, to continually challenge them. (Or, as I like to put it, to put the screws to them.)

So, our mission (should you choose to accept it!) for this series is to look at the whys (for the unconvinced) and the hows of plotting. I’d also love to get some guest posts on how individuals put plotting to work for them—so if you’d like to volunteer to give a brief overview of your plotting process, let me know! (And stay tuned for a new free guide on Friday!)

What do you think? How can learning about plotting help you? Do you think you’ll ever go back to pantsing?

Flying fingers by The Hamster Factor

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