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Technique

Archetypal characters in the Hero’s Journey

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This entry is part 13 of 24 in the series The plot thickens (Mwahahaha)

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As I mentioned yesterday, the Hero’s Journey started with Joseph Campbell looking at heroes across mythology. He found that not only do heroes have a lot in common, but so do other roles in their stories. Again, Christopher Vogler adapted this for writers in The Writer’s Journey, so we’ll be using his terminology.

The Hero is our protagonist. The audience identifies with him (or her). He grows in the course of the story, and is involved in most of the action. He has a character flaw, of course (if he were perfect, could he grow? And would he be interesting?) This flaw is often the flipside of his biggest strength—his optimism means he has false hope, love of family means he won’t sacrifice his dad’s to save the world, etc. But he must be willing to sacrifice when we get to that climactic point of the story.

The first archetypal character he usually meets is the Herald, the character who issues the call to adventure. His challenge announces a coming change, that all is not well in the Ordinary World. He also gives the Hero motivation to go on the adventure.

The Herald doesn’t have to actually be a person—in Lord of the Rings, it’s the ring; in Harry Potter, it’s the letters; in Star Wars: A New Hope, it’s Luke’s aunt & uncle dying. (You could try to argue it’s meeting R2-D2, but remember that R2 bore a message for someone else).

He usually has a Mentor who teaches him. Often, the Mentor gives him a useful gift as well as motivates the hero into accepting the call. (Technically, the mentor doesn’t have to be a person either—and I don’t just mean disembodied voices and Force ghosts, either. It can be anything that teaches the Hero and prepares him for the coming tests.)

Along the way, the Hero encounters Threshold Guardians who block his path. These obstacles are tests for the Hero—have his skills developed enough? The guardians may be working for the good side or the bad side, or no one at all (but it’s hard to make someone who makes trouble for his own sake believable for very long, you know?)

The Trickster is often a sidekick. He often balances the drama with comic relief and brings things into perspective.

The Shape-Shifter can be his or her own character—or it can be combined with another character type. As the name states, he’s not what he appears to be. Revealing his “real” self can create big change in the story—but they may or may not be evil. They may switch sides, but they may become good. In fact, in a romance, the romantic leads are often Shape-Shifters because they must change to enter into a relationship. (Heck, even the Hero might be a Shape-Shifter, since he has to learn and grow throughout the course of the story.)

The Hero may encounter a rival—someone who’s competing for an intermediary goal, or the girl, etc. But it’s the Shadow that is the true villain. He tests the Hero’s true abilities and worthiness, and forces the Hero to rise to the challenge. He’s often a shape-shifter, appearing beautiful, elegant or good.

Added by Iapetus999 (Andrew) in the comments:
The Ally (AKA the Sidekick, the Best Friend, the Brother-in-Arms, the Faithful Companion, the Loyal Troops, the Partner in Crime (or do-gooding), the Guardian Angel, the Band of Brothers, the Knight in Shining Armor, the Merry Men, the Faithful Steed…) The Ally is a person the Hero trusts. He’s someone the Hero can turn to when the chips are down, to provide him with wisdom, to provide him with humor or a shoulder to lean on, to lend him an ear, to prepare him for battle, to do all the little and big things a Hero can’t do for himself. He may be too tired from the fight, too engaged with the enemy, or just on a pig-headed mission, so the Ally needs to watch his back. We can’t all be Heroes, but we can all be Allies.

And nothing is complete without a few examples, right?

  Harry Potter Star Wars IV-VI
Hero Harry Luke
Shadow Voldemort Darth Vader
Mentor Hagrid, Dumbledore       Obi-Wan
Herald Letters the deaths of Beru and Owen
Shape shifters Literally: McGonagall Leia, Vader/Anakin, Obi-Wan
Trickster Fred & George Han, C3PO, R2-D2
Threshold Guardians      Neville, Fluffy Stormtroopers
Ally Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley Han Solo, Princess Leia, and the Droids

What do you think? How do you see these archetypal characters, either in others’ works or your own?

Image credits: superhero—Stefanie L.; shadow—Michal Zacharzewski

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Technique

A quick overview of the Hero’s Journey

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This entry is part 12 of 24 in the series The plot thickens (Mwahahaha)

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Over the last two weeks, we’ve looked at two plotting methods. One helped us parse our story into parts, the other helped us grow it from an idea. But a weakness of both is that neither really tells us what kind of events we need in a story—especially in the sagging middle.

The Hero’s Journey is based on the universal archetype work of Carl Jung, as applied by Joseph Campbell. Campbell studied myths, legends and tales from around the world, and observed that most of the stories followed a similar pattern. However, it was Christopher Vogler that applied the Hero’s Journey to writing (and film) technique and story structure in The Writer’s Journey.

I first learned about the hero’s journey in high school. We had this really cool interactive website—man, I wish I still had the URL . . . what? Why are you looking at me that way? Yes, we had interactive websites when I was in high school. This was like ten years ago. You’re just jealous.

Ahem. Anyway. Since then, I’ve come across the hero’s journey . . . oh, a million times. The bulk of this post actually comes from my notes from the most recent encounter, a presentation by Annette Lyon to the local League of Utah Writers chapter in April June (I’m good with calendars). While there are a full seventeen stages of Campbell’s journey, Vogler reduces the steps to the twelve here.

The Hero’s Journey

The story begins in The Ordinary World. Here, of course, we meet the hero and his problems. This is how we can introduce the story question—the protagonist’s underlying quest (Can heroine find her place in the world? Can hero mend his bitter, broken heart? Can Jimmy save his grandpa’s farm?). The story question and the ordinary world may foreshadow the story world—three words: Wizard of Oz.

Then comes the Call to Adventure. A herald arrives, announcing the change. (I just watched Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone again this weekend, and the call is super obvious there, yes?) The hero must act—it’s not an open-ended kind of catchall cast call. In some cases, a “we need someone who has X, Y and Z characteristics” might work, but we often see more of a “We need YOU” call.

Normally, the hero isn’t interested. Obviously, this is going to be hard work, and maybe I don’t want to find my place in the world/mend my heart/save the farm that badly. This is the Refusal of the Call.

Fear doesn’t have to be the only reason for refusal—he may also have noble reasons, or perhaps other characters are preventing him from leaving (on purpose or inadvertently). Again, this is HP1—his aunt and uncle refuse to let him even open the letter, and whisk him off to some rocky outcropping.

Sometimes it takes a mentor to get the hero on the right path. So next we have the Meeting with the Mentor. (This can also take place after the hero has committed to the adventure, or kind of concurrently . . . anyway.) This gets the hero (and the story) moving again. The mentor often provides hero with training and/or an object that will help in the quest.

Now we’re ready for Crossing the First Threshold. This is where the hero leaves the Ordinary World and enters the New, Special Story World. (Again, this is dramatized well in The Wizard of Oz—literally in Technicolor—but lots of movies actually have big cues for this transition—change in tempo, location, lighting, music, etc.). This is where our hero faces his first test, the first challenge to his commitment. Life will never be the same once the hero passes the threshold.

The bulk of the story comes in the Tests, Allies and Enemies phase. Here, the hero adjusts to the New World, often with tests of skill. He meets lots of people and has to determine whether they’re allies or enemies. In these sections, we see groups coming together and people gathering. The hero picks up his sidekicks and possibly a rival. In HP1, this is everything from the Hogwarts Express to the sorting, and then all the inner skirmishes the kids face.

Then things start to get serious with the Approach to the Inmost Cave (can’t you just hear a booming, echoing voice?). This is the first of two big, final tests—it’s preparatory to the final test, though sometimes the character thinks it’s the final test. However, this will only prepare him for a later Ordeal.

In the Inmost Cave, we often run into illusions and characters who determine the hero’s worthiness. The hero must use what he’s learned so far to get through, and sometimes he enters a new Special World. In the original Star Wars trilogy, this is most obvious when Luke actually goes into a cave to confront an illusion of Darth Vader. In Harry Potter, Harry, Ron and Hermione have to use what they’ve learned to get past Fluffy, the deadly vines, the swarm of keys and the living chess set.

These ordeals strip the hero of his friends, leaving him alone for the final Ordeal. But since that’s kind of heavy, there’s often a break here—some comic relief, a campfire scene (or this can be after the Ordeal). This can also be a scene where they think they’ve won—and then they find out there’s just one more “little” problem.

The Ordeal. This may be the climax. It’s a “final exam” for the hero to show off his newly-gained knowledge. Here he battles the real villain (not to be confused with the rival, who is so trivial now), and faces his greatest fears. The hero has to be willing to sacrifice something huge and/or die here.

But it all pays off, because next he gets to seize the sword—he gets The Reward. The hero captures or finds the Elixir—an actual treasure, some treasure of knowledge—or accomplishes the point of the quest. Now we can celebrate (another good place for a campfire scene).

Here, the hero has an epiphany—he understands something new about himself. He’s grown, and that itself might be the Elixir.

In an action-oriented story, or a story that Will. Never. End. (Make! It! Stop!), we come next to The Road Back. The hero heads back to the Ordinary World with the Elixir. The Villain comes back (I’ve heard this referred to as always having to slay the dragon twice).

Now, we have the Resurrection, which is often the climax. This is the biggest ordeal of all, something that pushes him to the limit. Remember that after the Ordeal, the hero realized he was changed. Here, we get to see that change in action. What part of himself did he sacrifice or lose? If this is the climax, then this is where the hero finally triumphs over evil once and for all, he vanquishes the Villain and the Villain is changed forever.

And we get back on the road back to home for our triumphal Return with the Elixir. Here we have the denouement. Characters receive their rewards or punishments. We wrap up all the loose threads—but a surprise or two in here is always fun!

After this, though, the hero may leave because with the Elixir, he no longer belongs in the Ordinary World. Frodo is the classic example of this.

Naturally, as Campbell also examined characters, we’ll take a look at archetypal characters in the hero’s journey tomorrow.

Want to go more in-depth in the Hero’s Journey? Check out Andrew Rosenberg’s (Iapetus999) current blog series!

What do you think? Can you see the Hero’s Journey in popular books and movies today? How about your own work?

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Technique

Pros and cons of the Snowflake Method

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This entry is part 10 of 24 in the series The plot thickens (Mwahahaha)

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The Snowflake Method of story design is just one way to create a plot—but it’s not the best way, nor is it even a good way for all of us. (And we’ll continue to look at more methods to plot stories over the next two weeks.) We’ve already seen how Carol adapted the Snowflake Method to suit her needs as a writer, using its strengths for her and discarding its potential weaknesses. So what are the potential strengths and weaknesses of the Snowflake Method, so we can do this for ourselves?

Pros

After spending so much time refining them and writing about them, you get to know your characters and your plot well. Really well. Before you even write one word of your story, you have pages and pages of information on the characters, their backgrounds, how they see the story unfolding. You know the events, the sequence, the logic there.

Another strength is that you can start with almost nothing and “grow” a plot “naturally.” If you start with just the most basic idea—say, National Treasure for the Amish or something ;)—you can develop your characters and your plot.

Also, the method’s steps alternate between working on characters and on the plot, ensuring that you develop both—but that you don’t have to spend so long working straight on each one that you get bored.

Simply put, if you like to know as much as you can about a book before you start writing, this can be a great way to discover your characters and their storylines.

Cons

On the other hand, using this method can lead to analysis paralysis—you can spend so long trying to perfect your outline and your character profiles that you never actually get around to writing anything.

Or, somewhat conversely, if you go through the first nine steps of this method, for some writers that level of detail in planning can sap the fun out of writing. For all the writers I know, the joy of the journey of writing is in discovery, and if you’ve made all your discoveries before you start writing, sometimes there’s nothing left to motivate you to write on.

And I can say this from experience. Yes, while I am a fully converted pantser, I forgot to mention that my first attempts at plotting almost put me off the practice forever. I used the Snowflake Method to plot two books in between my second and third completed manuscripts. I managed to slog through fourteen pages of notes, outlines and character profiles (through step six) before I let myself get to actually writing.

And it wasn’t any fun. It was an intense struggle to get out a mediocre first chapter. (I’m okay with mediocre first chapters in first drafts, of course, but for the amount of effort made it at least mediocre—well, if I didn’t enjoy writing it, why would I believe anyone would enjoy reading it?) Although I loved and still do love the idea, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write that book now.

(Luckily, I’ve tried a few other methods with more success, which we’ll get to next week.)

Lastly, like the act structure, the Snowflake Method doesn’t give a whole lot of direction for the actual events. I sometimes turn to plotting hoping that I’ll find a plotting method that will tell me exactly what I should have my characters do next. Yeah, not so much.

But beyond “three disasters and an ending,” there’s very little direction in the Snowflake Method on how to get from A to B. There’s just not much in the way of actual structure for a story. Next week, we’ll start looking at methods with a little more guidance on what kind of events and disasters we should have to help craft compelling, non-rambling stories that move along with purpose toward our goal.

What do you think? What other strengths and weaknesses do you see in the Snowflake Method? Have you tried it?

Photo credits: growing plants—Daniel Greene; writer’s block—Jonno Witts

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Technique

A ten-step snowflake versus a five-step star: Organizing a manuscript my way

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This entry is part 9 of 24 in the series The plot thickens (Mwahahaha)

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by Carol J. Garvin

If you were to ask, my family would tell you I have a thing for snowflakes. Childhood efforts to catch and melt them on my tongue evolved into a slightly out-of-control adult passion to amass the ultimate collection including jewelry, embroidered fabrics, candles and other home accessories. Every December we dangle giant snowflakes in our windows instead of wreaths and display a tree decorated entirely with a variety of snowflakes set aglow by tiny white twinkle lights.

It isn’t surprising, therefore, that the idea of a “snowflake” method of writing would appeal to me. Of course, if you’ve read any of my whining about outlines and plotting you might guess that I’d grasp at anything likely to improve my odds of producing a more organized manuscript.

I’ve never liked being tied to an outline so when Randy Ingermanson’s recommended Ten Steps of Design appeared to offer a less rigid approach I gave it a try.

KochFlakeThe first step in the Snowflake approach required getting the essence of my story condensed into one sentence—always a challenge but something I was going to have to do sooner or later to answer the always-dreaded, “What’s your novel about?” question. The second step was to expand that one sentence into a short paragraph—once again a useful exercise that could later form the basis of a synopsis. I shirked somewhat on the third step that called for a full-page summary sheet for each of my characters and instead created summary paragraphs.

At this point my good intentions balked. The remaining steps had me spending too much time repeatedly going over the same ground in an effort to record information that I hadn’t yet created. I wasn’t developing a snowflake design so much as creating a daisy pattern, each step causing me to return to the centre fulcrum and trace ever-increasing loops.

All this building on the basics was meant to leave me with the story virtually complete and thus simplify the writing process. The theory is sound but for me it had the effect of capping the fountain of creativity and dragging me to a standstill.

I didn’t cease writing permanently, of course. I examined what had been working and analyzed why it no longer was. Just as Jordan suggested in her post on story architecture. I learned that what I need is to have a basic plan in place but with reassurance that I’m not locked into following its every detail. I need more flexibility than the true Snowflake Method allows. As a result, I adapted the steps for an abbreviated approach that helps create my initial building blocks and then keeps track of scenes and chapter content as I write.

If I have to backtrack occasionally to accommodate a new character or scene, that’s okay but usually I write straight through to the conclusion of a bare bones first draft. As I review and revise I add a succession of new layers of description and detail to flesh out the story, setting and characters.

Since I skip half the steps, what I’m doing doesn’t represent the true Snowflake Method but only a vague version of it. It has just five points (kind of like a star rather than a snowflake):

  1. Create a one-sentence summary of the story.
  2. Expand the one sentence into a paragraph that outlines the story basics.
  3. Expand the paragraph into a page or two that introduces the main characters, the conflict, complications, and resolution. Include how the MC will change throughout the story (i.e., intended character arc).
  4. Create a spreadsheet into which highlights of each chapter’s action will be inserted as the first draft is written.
  5. Revise draft, adding details and description to enrich the writing.

I could be criticized for taking shortcuts and not giving the Snowflake Method a fair try but I’ve already admitted I need flexibility. My commitment to begin with that method didn’t extend to any kind of promise that I would stay with it. I truly believe each novelist must approach story building via whatever method works, however unique it might be. There is no one right way that will suit everyone. The only way to guarantee the successful completion of a novel is to keep writing and the smart novelist utilizes whatever tools it takes to reach that goal.

About the author
Carol J. Garvin, blogging at Careann’s Musings, is a freelance writer with articles in various Canadian magazines and publications. She lives in southwestern British Columbia and is a member of the Federation of BC Writers and the Langley Writers’ Guild. She has written a family memoir that is not meant for publication, and began writing novels ten years ago. She is on her third but so far none are ready to send out into the world quite yet . . . but soon. Besides writing, her other passions are her church and family, gardening, reading, music, painting and purebred dogs.

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Technique

A quick look at the Snowflake Method

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This entry is part 8 of 24 in the series The plot thickens (Mwahahaha)

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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.)

tapping pencilIn 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

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Technique

Pros and cons of the three act structure

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This entry is part 7 of 24 in the series The plot thickens (Mwahahaha)

Yesterday, we talked about the basics of the three-act structure by Syd Field. Today, we’ll weigh some of the pros and cons of using this method to plot our stories.

Pros

First of all, we have to acknowledge that this structure is very simple. In some ways, that’s one of its strengths. Because there’s not a whole lot set in stone, the three-act structure is highly flexible.

It’s also almost universally applicable. Even if you haven’t used the three act structure in plotting your story, odds are good you can apply it now. In fact, all of the plotting methods that we’ll examine later can be sketched out on the three act structure outline, too.

Finally, it’s very popular: it’s easy to find examples of the three-act structure in virtually every story we know and love. It’s familiar to readers, easy to understand and apply, and almost what we expect when reading a story.

Cons

However, this kind of outline of the three act structure is a little generic. It doesn’t offer a whole lot of guidance in the way of how to keep building in the story. It doesn’t give us a way to avoid the dreaded “sagging middle.”

Some critics of the three-act structure, such as former Writers’ Guild Director James Bonnet, say that the three-act structure is an artificial superimposition.

On the other hand, Bonnet argues that studying structure doesn’t automatically make you a wizard at writing well-structured stories. But come on—not studying structure is even less likely to help you avoid Winchester Mystery Stories.

Bonnet’s alternative (emphasis added):

Aristotle’s classical structure, which is the dominant feature of this structure, can stand alone. All of the structures you might find in the act are already built into the problem solving action that encounters resistance, namely: conflict, complications, crises (turning points) climax and resolution. It is, in fact, the structure of any problem solving action (real or fiction) that encounters resistance.

Does that sound a little familiar 😉 ?

What do you think? What weaknesses and strengths do you see in using the three-act structure to plot your story? Would you use it?

Picture by Luke

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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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