This is the work of a MadMan. All the characters, thoughts, ideas, and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious, used fictitiously, are deranged ramblings, or fall under U.S. parody law.

THIS BOOK IS PUBLISHED BY

Drake U

and imprint of

Imagined Interprises, Inc.

© by Maxwell Alexander Drake

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

Proof Editors - Buzz Clore, Stephan McLeroy,

Greg Laurich, Dylan Birtolo, and Lorraine Stalians

Cover Title Art by

C.E.Rocco

Published in the United States by

Imagined Interprises, Inc.

www.ImaginedInterprises.com

6955 N. Durango Dr. Suite. 1115-391

Las Vegas, NV 89149

ISBN: 978-1-936525-72-0 (Kindle Edition)

First Edition: July 2016

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Available upon Request

This book is dedicated to all the dreamers out there who desire nothing more than to have their names on a published book. Stop puking words on a page, and start treating writing with the respect it deserves!

Drake

Table of Contents

ACT I

The Mindset of a Writer

Read Me

Disclaimer

Chapter One - The Industry

Introduction

Expectations

Learn the Craft

Breaking Into the Publishing Industry

Notes About this Book

Putting it all Together

Chapter Two - Diagnosis of a Good Story

Why do YOU Want to Write?

Story Creation is All About the Reader

Plot = Events ≠ Story

A Character is a Shell for the Reader

Understanding the Reader

Putting it all Together

Chapter Three - The Basics of Story Structure

Story Structure - The Multi-Faceted Jewel

The Character Driven Story

The Event Driven Story

The Objective Driven Story

Inside the Mind of an Academic

Spaghetti

The Basic Plot Arc

A Basic Scene Arc

Putting it all Together

Chapter Four - Loose Ends

Two Types of Writers

Can Structure Limit Creativity?

Putting it all Together

ACT II

The Invisible Layer

Chapter Five - The Code Behind A Story

Genre & Setting

Themes and Subjects Are Not the Same

Theme

Theme - Their Function

Theme - The Invisible Element

Theme - A Fact within the Story

Theme - The Author’s Belief

Theme - The Reader’s Belief

Theme - The Universal Element

Theme - Limited by Nature

Theme - Wrap-up

Major & Minor Themes

The Emotional Impact of Themes

A Theme isn’t a Question, it’s Two Opposing Answers

The Protag & Antag do not always Answer the Theme

Happy Ending, or Tragedy

Conflict - It’s More than just a Word

Motif

Symbolism

Symbolism Supporting the Theme

Putting it all Together

ACT III

The Physical Layer

The Invisible Layer - A Lesson Recap

Chapter Six - Theories of the Physical Layer

The Cycle of a Protagonist

Beginning State of the Story

Setting Benchmarks

Loss - The Currency used to Purchase a Reader’s Love

Motivation - The Driving Force of the Protagonist

Transformation - The Delivery Guy of the Theme

Side Note: The Anchor

The Two Most Important Questions You’ll Ever Ask

Reversals

Putting it All Together

Chapter Seven - Acts

The 2/3/5 Act Play Structures

Chapter Eight - Structure in Action

The Hero’s Journey

The Setup - ACT I of the 3-Act Structure

Creating the EveryMan

The Call to Adventure

Refusal of the Call

The Outside Aid

Moving to the State of Imperfection

Transforming the Protagonist - ACT II of the 3-Act Structure

For Love and Honor

Two Halves Make a Whole

Facing the Conflict

Temptation

The Whiff of Death

The Ultimate Boon

The Climax - ACT III of a 3-Act Structure

Refusal of the Return

All Hope is Lost

Rescue from Without

Master of Two Worlds

The New Hero

Putting it All Together

And Now, It’s Your Turn

“Writing is a demanding profession, and a selfish one. And because it is selfish and demanding, because it is compulsive and exacting, I didn’t embrace it, I succumbed to it.”

– Rod Serling 1924 – 1975

(The Twilight Zone)

Read Me

No, Seriously, Read Me

Through the pages of this tome we’re going to discuss story creation in detail, and by the end, you’ll hopefully have enough tools at your disposal to create Dynamic Stories. However, this isn’t just a book about plotting – it’s so much more.

This is a book on the mindset of being a creative writer – of creating stories. It’s about the theories story creators should know and understand so they can create stories people want to read.

If you’re looking for a step-by-step guide on how to create stories, as in: Step One – do this. Step Two – do that, you’ve picked up the wrong book, my friend.

Worse, if that’s the type of book you’re looking for, then in my opinion, you’re an idiot. Please feel free to take offense to that.

I really hate all the books on the market today that make the claim that if you simply follow some magic formulaic system you’ll be the next New York Times Bestselling Author. That’s bullshit.

While I’ll agree there are many elements to story creation that are exactly the same from one story to another, creating a story is so much more than some static formula. It’s learning and understanding all the different theories concerning story creation – everything from English, Grammar, Structure, and Story Theory, to discovering new and exciting ways to communicate with the human soul – and then juggling all these abstract concepts simultaneously while attempting to organize a jumble of words into sentences and paragraphs that will hopefully resemble something akin to a novel.

It’s this amalgam of chaos that has caused me much grief in trying to figure out how to write this book. I mean, where do I start discussing Dynamic Story Creation when a writer needs to know all of it before any of it makes sense?

To that end, I’ve attempted to layer the information presented in this book in such a manner as to build upon all that came before. There’ll be times where you may feel I’m rambling. I assure you, I’m not. Well, I probably am. I do like to ramble. But I digress.

I see three distinct parts of story creation.

What you need to know before you begin creating stories. This is what I call the Mindset of a Writer, and ACT I of this book is dedicated to passing on my thoughts and theories concerning this topic.

The underlying code that’s in a story, but the reader doesn’t actually read. This is what I call the Invisible Layer, and ACT II will be dedicated to passing along my thoughts and theories of this mystical and illusive topic.

Finally, the “stuff” reader reads. (Characters, Setting, Events, Conflicts, etc.) This is what I call the Physical Layer, and ACT III will be dedicated to tackling this topic.

I enjoy telling anecdotal stories to make my points about the theories and the mindset you’ll need to increase your odds of creating stories people will want to read. I’m a storyteller, after all. You’ll find many of these interludes in the following pages, and I hope you’ll humor me with these transgressions, as it’s how I teach.

I recommend you don’t skip or gloss over any of the sections. Don’t become impatient and skip ahead to something you think is more important, assume what I’m discussing is beneath you, or worse, feel I have no point to my ramblings at all. Each section contains concepts, theories, and nuggets of wisdom that will grow you as a writer. All of these concepts will be needed in later sections to make future concepts and theories understandable.

By staying the course, this book will continue to build upon itself in the hopes of you becoming a Dynamic Story Creator.

It’s my deepest hope that’s the reason you picked up this book in the first place.

Good luck, my friend. And Godspeed,

Drake

ACT I

The Mindset of a Writer

“I have come to believe that a great teacher is a great artist and that there are as few as there are any other great artists. Teaching might even be the greatest of the arts since the medium is the human mind and spirit.”

– John Steinbeck 1902 – 1968

(Of Mice and Men)

Disclaimer

“The opinions expressed in this book are not those of the author.”

– Arthur C. Clarke 1917 – 2008

(2001: A Space Odyssey)

If you’ve ever taken one of my live creative writing classes, you know I start them with a disclaimer. If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to continue that trend here.

My first and most important disclaimer is that the book you’re about to read is nothing more than my opinions. I’m not, in any way, shape, or form, trying to dictate how you should write. That would be an exercise in futility.

I’m of the firm belief that what separates writers from each other is our voices. Voices that are unique to each of us due to the fact that an author’s voice is created by a lifetime of experiences. Everything an author writes comes from their own personal well of experience. Every man, woman, child, monster, villain, animal, hero, etc., you create for your story comes from you. Who you are is different from who I am. Even twins raised in the same household have differences by the time they become adults. The fact that you and I are probably strangers, only exacerbates the chasm between how our respective origins have uniquely shaped our minds, imaginations, and moral values.

It’s the reason why the same base stories can be so different.

As I’m a person who loves telling stories, I can’t think of a better way to begin this book than with a story.

A decade or so ago there were three “asteroid destroying the Earth” movies that came out nearly on top of each other. They were all the exact same story – there was a huge chunk of rock heading toward Earth at an incredible speed. When this rock hits, all life on our fragile planet will end. As the “villain” is an inanimate “thing,” the basis of all three stories was Character Driven. Each was about how a group of fictitious characters who find themselves in this fictitious situation handle things. To break it down further, these are stories that attempt to teach a “what it means to be human” moral lesson (major theme) through a tragic or life-threatening event.

[As a side note, let me say this. You’ll hear the word theme often through ACT I. However, I won’t be defining this term until ACT II. The reason is, there are a ton of things you need to know before we get to the topic of themes. Please be patient. Good things come to those who wait.]

While each of these “asteroid destroying the Earth” stories were identical at their cores, the three movies could not have been more different. Why? Because each of the writers had different life experiences, and so they took the stories in different directions. More interesting to me, one of those movies was amazing, the second was meh, and the third was not very enjoyable at all.

Again, I want to stress that all three were the exact same story at their core. In other words, they all had the same base major theme.

Why this discrepancy? To paraphrase the great Yoda - Created equal writers are not.

Which leads me to my first, “To be Brutal:” statement:

Sure, all of us can learn grammar, practice the craft, and improve our skills. Unfortunately, as with all aspects of human life, there’ll be those who are simply better than others. It’s a hard pill to swallow, and I guarantee, not the last one I’ll be shoving down your throat.

It does, however, bring me back full circle to my opening disclaimer – these are my opinions. It’s perfectly acceptable for you to disagree with something I state.

Which is the perfect segue to my next disclaimer – there’s ALWAYS an alternate way of looking at things.

My hope is that, as you read through this book, you take one of three different paths with each statement I make.

First, you read what I’ve written and think to yourself, “Wow! This guy is brilliant. Why has no one ever said it that way before?” This isn’t just a true statement – obviously I’m dazzling – but the above is fantastic for a different reason as well. It means you’ve had yourself an epiphany, learned something you can use, and have grown as a writer. Bonus: It means someone out there finally appreciates my genius. Please, call my mom and let her know. She’ll be thrilled to have finally been proven wrong about me.

Second, you read what I’ve written and think to yourself, “Wow! This guy is a moron. How could anyone assume things work that way?” Unfortunately for me, this statement is also very true – I ain’t the sharpest light bulb in the shed. However, it’s still a fantastic one. It means you’ve had yourself a different type of epiphany, learned something you don’t want to use, and have grown as a writer. Bonus: You may now get together with my mom and compare notes about my inadequacies.

Third, and my favorite, is for you to take what you read within the following pages and think to yourself, “Wow! This guy’s ideas are kind of cool. You know what would be better? If I took his ideas and changed them a bit, molding them to fit my writing style.” This is the most fantasticest method of all. Mostly because I am kind of a cool guy. No less important, it means you’re using your mature brain to make your own deductions instead of blindly following me. You’ve had yourself the best type of epiphany. Based on something I said, you came to your own conclusions, learning something that’s uniquely yours, and have grown as a writer. Bonus: You can now leave my mother out of our discussion, thank you very much. I’m not even sure why you keep bringing her up. It’s weird, and I’d like for you to stop now.

Which leads me directly to my third disclaimer point – What does this do for my story?

When learning the craft of writing, be selfish! Don’t follow anyone else. I’ve already stated that what separates us as writers is our unique voice. If you try to write like someone else, you’ll do so at your own peril.

Case in point: Let’s say you and Stephen King are wonderful friends. (Exciting, right?) Well, let’s say that one day Stephen King invites you to sit down with him over coffee and tell him your story idea. Stephen King says he’ll give you his thoughts and opinions on how he’d make your story the next New York Times Best Seller! Stephen King graciously listens to your idea, instructing you step-by-step how Stephen King would write your story. With notes in hand and a thrilling rush in your heart, you race home and write your story exactly the way Stephen King told you to write it.

The problem is, once you finally pen the words The End, your story will probably suck.

Why? Duh! You’re not Stephen King. You have not lived Stephen King’s life. You have not experienced the things Stephen King has experienced. What works for Stephen King, works really well for Stephen King. However, it doesn’t guarantee any of Stephen King’s voice will translate into your author’s voice.

All writers are on their own. Sure, you should get comments from as many people as you can. Seek out feedback for your writing. Get critiqued and edited until your eyes bleed. However, it’s your name on the product. It’s you, not anyone else, who’s going to make the decisions on what the work contains. You’re going to make those decisions based on your own, unique, life experiences.

In the end, what you’re striving for is to be the one writing the really good “meteorite destroying the Earth” movie, and not the poor schlub who wrote the bad one. Everything within the project falls squarely upon your shoulders, and your shoulders alone. Make sure you believe in what you’re doing.

Finally – Don’t get offended, this is all just a figment of your imagination.

Seriously, I make things up for a living. Let that sink in for a moment before you continue reading. I’d recommend you never take me too seriously.

Besides, creative writing is about drama. And good drama is about conflict. And conflict is about opposing sides. With this in mind, chances are I’m going to say something in this book that will offend you. And that’s fine. Debate is good for the soul.

If you do find yourself on the opposite side of something I say, remember I’m not saying you’re stupid. I’m simply showing you we’re on different sides of a topic. Neither of us are necessarily correct, nor are either of us necessarily wrong.

Feel free to disagree with anything I believe. It won’t change how I create stories.

Chapter One

The Industry

“Books aren’t written - they’re rewritten. Including your own. It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the seventh rewrite hasn’t quite done it.”

– Michael Crichton 1942 – 2008

(Jurassic Park)

Introduction

“Because never in my entire childhood did I feel like a child. I felt like a person all along―the same person that I am today.”

– Orson Scott Card 1951 –

(Ender’s Game)

Well hello there. Come on in. Sit down. Let’s chat.

My name is Maxwell Alexander Drake, or Drake as I prefer to be called. I’m a full-time writer.

What does it mean to be a full-time writer? That’s a simple question to answer. It means I pay my bills with money earned from making stuff up. How does one become a full-time writer? Well, that’s not so simple a question to answer.

Let me start with some background.

While I wrote my first novel nearly thirty years ago when I was twelve, I’ve been professionally writing for about ten years. I’ve written for both large companies and small—I’ve done everything from being the Lead Fiction Writer for a massive video game from Sony titled EverQuest Next, all the way down to self-publishing some of my own work. I’ve worked as a novelist, graphic novelist, been a playwright for movies, TV, and stage, as well as being a tie-in writer for both the video and table-top gaming markets.

I’ve also been teaching creative writing for over seven years at fan conventions, book festivals, writers’ conferences, as well as locally for the Clark County Library District.

Many who have taken my creative writing seminars have dubbed me “the dream killer.” While I appreciate this nomenclature, it’s a bit unjust. In my mind, I’ve simply taken a very pragmatic approach to the career of writing. By extension, I teach writing in the same manner. While many of the comments I make while teaching may be things some people don’t want to hear, they’re things all new writers need to hear.

To that end, let’s discuss expectations.

Expectations

“Have a working spouse, because you won’t earn a living from writing – not at first, if ever. My wife worked for years to support us.”

– Piers Anthony 1934 –

(A Spell for Chameleon)

Many creative writing books I’ve read over the years have a similar feel to them. They come off saying something like, “Hey, buddy. You have the dream of becoming a professional writer? Well, good for you! You can do it. Anyone can do it. Becoming a professional writer is as easy as falling off a log. Let me show you how to do it without any effort on your part whatsoever.” Which is probably why so many people purchase these types of books. People are always looking for that “shortcut.”

Unfortunately, from my experiences, that’s all a bunch of bovine scatology. Writing isn’t easy. Worse, making a living as a writer is even more difficult – some might say damn near impossible.

If you set yourself up with the right expectations, however, you increase your ability to take this soulless, uncaring industry in stride, allowing you to continue long after many of those around you have buckled under the pain and stress this industry loves to dish out.

See? Not a dream killer… just pragmatic.

All seriousness aside, this industry is very tough. First, it’s challenging to learn how to do what needs to be done. Second, it’s difficult to “break in” to the industry. Last, and probably worst of all, in today’s self-publishing world of nearly a million new books hitting the market each year, it’s a Herculean task to get a reader to purchase something you’ve written.

I’ll dive into the topic of marketing and selling stories in a later volume of Drake’s Brutal Writing Advice. Concerning the topic of Dynamic Story Creation, let’s take a quick moment to discuss the other two points individually. Setting your expectations will go a long way to helping you as a writer.

Learn the Craft

“If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”

– Stephen King 1947 –

(The Stand)

When I hear a writer say, “I can speak English, so obviously I can write a book.” I die inside… just a bit. Why? Because this couldn’t be further from the truth.

For me, speaking English and writing English are as similar as speaking French and writing Japanese. They don’t even come from the same linguistic root. Why do I believe this is true? Because the words spoken in verbal communication are only about 60% of the information that’s being given by the speaker.

Case in point: Have you ever sent an email to someone, an email you “thought” was harmless and contained the perfect amount of information you wanted to convey, only to have that email taken wrong by the person who read it? Sure, we all have. Why did this happen? Because you wrote that email using the exact words you would’ve used verbally. Unfortunately, you’re missing some 40% of the information from verbal communication by limiting things to just written words. Along with the words you speak, you add inflection, facial expressions, hand and body gestures, etc. A crap-ton of “non-verbal” communication that the recipient would’ve received had you been spewing those same words out of your pie-hole.

Worse, because we’ve been talking since we were toddlers, most of us aren’t even aware of these non-verbal communications. It’s the reason why a person has to learn to be an actor. Acting isn’t simply memorizing lines and avoiding eye contact with the camera. A good actor must learn to utilize their body language so they capitalize on all that non-verbal stuff.

Since you’re oblivious to these things, you fail to “write” all this non-verbal communication down, and that’s where the disconnect happens. In your head, the email was harmless and exactly what you wanted to say. To the reader, you simply came off as one big gigantic ass.

A creative writer can’t write the way they speak. If you do, you’ll most likely fail as a creative writer.

Where does that leave us, then? Simple – LEARN. THE. CRAFT.

Thirty years ago, long before digital press made self-publishing a reality, if you wanted to get published, you had to do so through a large, traditional publisher. Thirty years ago the cost to publish a book was astronomical – a dollar figure the average Joe just couldn’t afford. One of the things those big publishers wanted to see before they even looked at a writer’s manuscript was a college degree in English or Creative Writing. Publishers were the “Gatekeepers,” pre-screening anyone who wanted to become a published author.

Today’s publishing world has drastically changed. Some for the better… as to the rest… not so much. The biggest problem I see hurting the industry today is the lack of a “Gatekeeper.” Someone who poses the question, “Are you qualified to sell that book you’ve written?”

Before you get all pissy, let me clarify something. I don’t have a degree in anything from anywhere. My path after high school led me in a different direction. I’m not saying that to be a professional writer, you must have a piece of paper that proves you went into debt before you officially moved out of your parents’ house.

I am saying, however, that to be a professional writer you need the same information and education you would’ve received from that expensive, four-year-long, sex-filled drinking party.

It kills me when a writer asks me to read and critique some unpublished or self-published work of theirs and then looks at me like I’m speaking Martian when I say things like, “Well, you use a lot of passive voice, you need to be more active.” or, “You need to watch your Author Intrusions.” or, “You have a lot of sentence structure issues, not the least of which is you’re mixing the tenses of your participles.” The list goes on, but hopefully you get my point. Grammar is a complex beast, one that takes years to learn and master.

You picked up this book, I assume, because you have aspirations of getting paid to tell people stories. Great! You can do it. But it ain’t easy. No matter how good you “think” you are, you have way more chances of failing than succeeding.

Look, I know it’s boring. I hate English. I’ve always hated English. However, think about it this way: (Yes, it’s time for another story.)

Let’s say you’re getting surgery next week. Some stranger is going to take a sharp knife, cut you open, and muck around with your insides. Naturally, you’re nervous. You give this person a call and ask if you can come to his office and meet with him. He agrees.

As soon as you pull into the parking lot, you start to feel better. It’s a beautiful building. You go into his high-tech suite, where you’re greeted by his attractive secretary, who ushers you into his plush office.

The doctor is a handsome man, who shakes your hand with a firm grip. He gives you his business card and what do you know? It says “Surgeon” right there below his name in big bold letters. This guy must be legit, right? I mean, business cards can’t lie. I’m sure there’s a law to that effect, or something.

By the time you sit down, you’re feeling pretty good about this man hacking into you. You thank him for seeing you on such short notice to which he replies, “Oh, the pleasure is all mine. Do you know how much money I’m going to make on you next week?”

You’re taken aback by his statement, and rightfully so. This was not what you were expecting to hear. Still, you can justify what he said. He’s a surgeon, after all. I mean, not just anyone can get a business card, right? Surely, he went to eight years of medical school, did at least four years as a medical intern. Besides, look at all those thick medical books sitting on the shelf behind the man! Obviously, he’s paid his dues, and he deserves to make good money off you.

With this realization, you begin to relax once more, and you tell him you understand. He’s worked hard through school and study, and he deserves the money.

To which the surgeon shakes his head and says, “Oh, no. I never went to college. Way too expensive. And you can forget about me interning at any hospitals. The idiots who run those places were all too stupid to see my genius, and wouldn’t let me in.”

A queasiness erupts in your tummy. In a desperate attempt to weather this storm, you point to all the books behind the man.

“Oh, these?” the surgeon asks. “Yes, I’ve purchased a lot of medical books. I’ve read at least a chapter or two from several of them,” he adds proudly.

In a voice laced with fear you ask, “But… you’ve read some of them from cover to cover, right?”

“Oh, heavens no!” The surgeon scoffs. “Have you ever read a medical book? Dreadfully boring, those.”

You’re really worried now. You were planning to pay this man to carve you up like a turkey! How can he feel he’s qualified to do such a task and earn your money when he has absolutely no education or experience? You ask him as much, to which he replies, “I’ve watched tons of doctor shows. If an actor can do it, how hard can it be? Besides, let’s not lose sight of the big picture here. Whether you live or die, I’m going to make a ton of money off you.”

My tale may seem farcical, but this is how I personally feel about a writer who thinks they can charge readers money for a story without having any education in grammar or story creation.

I’d call a person who tries to be a surgeon without any medical education a serial killer. On the same note, I feel a writer who tries to sell a story without any Creative Writing education is just as guilty of murder. Slaying the English language, and worst of all, destroying the trust of readers.

That’s the type of storyteller I strive to be. Even to this day, I’m always reading a book on either the craft of writing, grammar, story structure, or the business of publishing and marketing books. While “author” is on my business card, I can confidently say to my readers, “You can relax. I’ve paid my dues. I’ve studied my ass off, and I’ve been practicing creating stories for decades. You’re going to enjoy your time in my stories, and come out the other side better for the experience.”

This book is a great addition to your education, but don’t stop here. Through the pages of this book, I’m going to push you. Challenge you. Perhaps even offend you. My hope is to say things that’ll make you think; things you might not have heard before. Write them down. Google them later. Don’t take my word on anything – I’ve already admitted I make things up for a living. Take the topics I present here and do your own independent research on them. We live in the information age where the repository of all human knowledge lays just a few keystrokes away. Revel in it!

Going further, don’t discount taking things to the next level. Night classes or even online classes are available to everyone. Even today, that piece of paper letting the world know you’re good at taking tests is a valuable addition to anyone’s portfolio. I can’t tell you how many jobs I’ve been denied as a writer due to my lack of said document.

To be the professional you want to be, you need to become the professional everyone expects. Take up that torch. If you do, your odds of earning that coveted “full-time writer” title becomes exponentially easier to obtain.

In closing, let me circle back around to Mr. King’s quote. You must read. A lot. Learning the craft, grammar, structure, etc., is all vital. However, you also need to see examples of this in action. And there’s only one way to do that – reading fiction books.

I’m dismayed when a new writer says something like, “I don’t want to read because I’m afraid it’ll influence my writing.” This is baloney. False. Erroneous. You must read, and read nonstop. Not as a fan, but as a writer. You must read other’s works with the intent of dissecting them, ripping them apart, seeing how all their pieces fit together. Understanding what worked, and what didn’t. A person who graduates with a degree from medical school doesn’t then become a surgeon. They’re still required to spend years as an intern first. Taking what they learned in school, and working under the supervision of a professional to hone their skills.

Unfortunately, there’s no internship for writers. (Unless you’re very, very lucky.)

This is OK. That’s what reading is for. It’s a way for you to apprentice under the very masters who were your inspiration to begin with. It’s why I can say with all honesty, “I studied under the greats – Alston, Hemingway, King, Jordan, Shakespeare, Brooks, Tolkien, Sanderson, Aristotle, Eddings, Le Guin, Stackpole, Morecock, Serling, Howard, Twain, Dick, Rosenberg, Lewis, and the list goes on.” These were my teachers, my mentors, my friends. While I’ve met only a few of these authors personally, these people started taking an interest in me at the tender, young age of eight, and have been feeding my education through pages drafted from their very souls ever since. I owe them everything, all that I am as a writer.

Think on this if you still feel writers should not read.

Breaking into the Publishing Industry

“I think it’s a shame that something as creative and vital to the nature of the human species as story-telling is largely controlled by the soulless cretins known as publishers.”

– Piers Anthony 1934 –

(On a Pale Horse)

Honestly, I could write an entire book on the subject of how to break into any one of the industries in which I’ve worked. However, that’s not the topic of this particular volume.

Instead, let’s stick to the topic of expectations as it relates to Dynamic Story Creation, shall we?

That old adage, “It takes an average of ten-thousand hours to master a skill.” couldn’t be more accurate than when applied to the publishing industry.

Bestselling author David Eddings said it best. “My advice to the young writer is likely to be unpalatable in an age of instant successes and meteoric falls. I tell the neophyte: Write a million words – the absolute best you can write, then throw it all away and bravely turn your back on what you have written. At that point, you’re ready to begin.”

A variation of this statement has been quoted by Terry Brooks, Robert Heinlein, and Ray Bradbury, just to name a few. This goes to prove my point. Even the biggest names in the industry understand that writing is more than a talent – it’s a skill. As with all skills, this takes time to master. Combine this “ten-thousand hours to master a craft” with another adage of, “It takes an average of ten years to become an overnight success.” and you’ll find the numbers add up pretty well.

Let’s return to your old pal, Stephen King. He was interested in writing from an early age, but let’s use his college years as his, “busting hump to learn the craft.” In 1970, after four years of college, he graduated from the University of Maine with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English. It wasn’t until late 1973 that Carrie was published.

“Wait!” you cry. “Four years of college plus four-ish years to publication is only eight years!”

Yes. Eight years… He beat the maxim by a whopping 20%. And he’s Stephen King, one of the most prolific authors of our generation. Are you Stephan King? Going further, what did Stephen King get as an advance on Carrie? $2,500. To be fair, that equates to $13,913.23 here in 2016. I don’t know about you, but I can’t survive on $14K a year, nor would I consider anyone who’s making only $14K a year as a writer a success.

While Stephen King did beat the odds, do you see how all this lines up? This industry isn’t a get rich quick scheme. Unfortunately, it’s not even a slow and steady wins the race scheme. It’s more of a soul-crushing, if you’re very, very lucky, and can stomach all the crap that will be thrown at you, you might be able to scrape out a living scheme.

Returning to the topic of expectations, and because I really like beating rented mules, let me tell you another anecdotal tale. (What? It’s rented!!! Once we get done beating it, we can return it and it’ll be someone else’s problem. Besides, I opted for the $17.99 extra insurance… that covers everything, including abuse!)

Let’s say you’re the best third-grade football player to ever put on a peewee jersey. Against other eight-year-olds, you’re unmatched. You’re faster, stronger, and more agile. You can even give some ten-year-olds a run for their money.

Do you think, with you being the best third-grade football player in the entire world, you could compete in the NFL? Of course not. Why? Because you’re eight! An eight-year-old child, no matter how amazing, would get killed by any one of the massive brutes who call themselves professional football players.

If I’ve not offended you as of yet, here’s me giving it one-hell-of-a-good try.

Normally when I state something to this effect, I get the response of, (Please say this in your head like a spoiled eight-year-old child. It adds to the dramatic quality of the line.) “Oh really. Well, (insert title of book here) was (insert name of author here’s) first novel and it sold a bazillion copies.”

My response? “Good for them.”

There have been a few authors who have been successful with their first book, sure. Keep in mind that someone wins the lottery every year. That doesn’t change the fact that the odds of winning the lottery are 1 in 292,201,338. It also doesn’t mean that you or I will ever win the lottery.

If you are still holding onto that farce about an author’s first book, let me pop that illusion for you right here and now. While yes, that may have been so-and-so’s first published book, you have no idea how many books that author wrote before they published their first book. Most professionals wrote half-a-dozen to a dozen full novels, editing the living tar out of them, then throwing them all away because they realized those books were garbage, before they gained enough skill to write a book that was publishable. (Hmm… seems I just quoted some NYT bestselling authors who said the exact same thing.) Normally, what you see as someone’s first published book is nowhere near their first actual book.

If you still believe your first book is amazing and can win the lottery, think of it like this: Starting today, you’re no longer going to pay any bills. Not rent, electricity, water, cable, or phone. No more purchasing food for your family, gas for your car, nor spending one single dime of your weekly paycheck on anything other than lottery tickets. I mean, think about it. If you spent 100% of your income on the lottery, surely you’ll win in just a few months. Once you win, you can use your millions to catch up on those pesky late bills, right?

Do you feel this is a good life strategy? As I can’t see you, I’m going to assume you have half a brain and said “no” to this question. Because I’m pretty sure if you adopted this life-hack, you’d end up living in a cardboard box – unloved and unwanted.

On the same note, why would you ever consider treating your professional career this way. Seriously, if you write a book assuming it’s going to be a huge success and make you tons of money, you’re an idiot. Again, feel free to take offense to that.

Because chances are, no matter how well written your book is, it won’t make money. This has nothing to do with you. Statistically, the chances of a first novel making millions are about the same as you winning the lottery several times in a row. Since the odds are against you, if you live life expecting publishing to be as easy as falling off a log, when that log falls on you, it’ll crush your soul.

I’ll close with this:

I know that’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, but it’s true. If you want to increase your odds of success, stop living life expecting anything is guaranteed. Write because you want to. Enjoy the journey. If success happens, and money starts coming your way, let it be a welcome surprise. If you try to force it, you may find life as a writer unbearable.

Notes about this Book

“I’ll take crazy over stupid any day.”

– Joss Whedon 1964 –

(Firefly)

Finally, indulge me with one last side note for this chapter – how this book is written.

As you read, you may notice that I’m not using any of my own creative writing suggestions. In this, you’d be correct. In fact, if you’re an academic with an English degree or an editor of any worth, my writing thus far should’ve already cost you your sanity. (My lord and master Cthulhu shall be pleased with me.)

I stated above that you can’t write the way you speak. I believe this is true for fiction storytelling. You see, creative writing is a very unique and special form of information dissemination. It’s the art of immersing the reader into the story, the world, and the events you’ve created by using only written words.

This book, however, isn’t fiction. It’s a how-to guide. Or more appropriately, it’s a collection of deranged ramblings on my thoughts and opinions concerning Dynamic Story Creation. My goal while penning this, outside of driving stuffy, tie-wearing, overly-educated curmudgeons mad, is to present my views in a very informal manner. Call it my attempt to make the drudgery of learning grammar more bearable.

I don’t want you to feel like you’re reading a book. Instead, I hope to make this more as if you and I have sat down for a cup of hot coffee (or whatever your beverage of choice is) to discuss my views and opinions on the topic of Dynamic Story Creation.

To that end, I’ve chosen to write this book in a very conversational tone. Yes, I’ll be mindful of the pitfalls we’ve already discussed with this type of written communication. Though, you may have noticed I have no reservations about offending you, my dear reader. Does this make me a gigantic ass? Probably. At least we’ve come to this accord here at the beginning. Hopefully, me being a gigantic ass will remain understood as we progress.

Conflict breeds creativity, as the saying goes.

My point here is to remind you that while I’m writing this book in a conversational tone, you should avoid writing fiction in this manner.

Concerning the quotes you’ll see splattered throughout this book, it may be of interest to you as to why I love quotes so much. First, they inspire me. The inclusion of these will hopefully do the same for you. Additionally, I’m often asked who were my influences growing up. Answer: everyone I’m quoting. As a bonus, I’ve added the product they produced that most influenced me.

While many of the inspirational quotes come from authors (I read a lot), you’ll note I’m primarily using movies as story examples, as opposed to novels. There are four big reasons for this.

One, I watch a lot of movies.

Two, regardless of it being a movie or a novel, a story is a story is a story. Movies work just as well as examples for story creation and theory as anything else.

Three, there’s more chance that the majority of those reading this book will have seen most, if not all, of the movies I’m using as examples. Trying to guess what novels people have read can be hit or miss, so they become trickier to use as examples while remaining all-inclusive.

Four, movies are more compact versions of stories than novels, therefore they’re easier for me to dissect.

I’ve already admitted my penchant for laziness, so just let me have this one.

Putting it all Together

In this chapter, I’ve thrown several concepts at you, and in doing so hopefully crushed a few of your dreams while offending you at least once. Ignoring the crushing and offending, let’s take a moment to look at this as a whole, and see how these theories create the base from which we will create our dynamic stories.

Dynamic Story Creation begins with your expectations as a writer. The most important is the expectation that this is going to take you a long time to master. Just because you can speak English, doesn’t mean you can write it creatively. You must spend some serious time and effort learning grammar and the theories behind story creation. This isn’t going to be easy. Especially the realization that your first book, or even your first few books, are simply not good enough to be considered publishing worthy. If you can start with the mindset that you’re not going to win the lottery, you’ll have the expectations you need to stay the course, year after year, regardless of what setbacks may come your way.

Just as a surgeon must study anatomy before they can operate on a patient, a writer needs to understand how stories are created, and why readers read stories, if they’re going to have any chance of becoming a successful storyteller.

These aren’t just the first things you need to buy into, they’re quite possibly the most important concepts a writer must embrace and believe.

Yes, you can speak English. However, verbal communication has less to do with writing creative fiction than you think. One last analogy for you:

Chapter Two

Diagnosis of a Good Story

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

– Ernest Hemingway 1899 – 1961

(The Old Man and the Sea)

Why do YOU

Want to Write?

“I mean, maybe I am crazy. I mean, maybe. But if this is all there is, then I don’t want to be sane.”

– A quote from Neverwhere

by Neil Gaiman 1960 –

(American Gods)

This may seem like a strange topic, and one that has nothing to do with Dynamic Story Creation, but follow me down this rabbit hole for just a moment, and hopefully, all shall become clear.

Before you can understand story creation, you need to understand why readers read stories. Before you can do that, you really need to put your finger on why you want to write stories in the first place. Since I don’t know you, I’m going to take a more general approach here. Still, I bet you’ll find yourself somewhere in the following pages.

Writers are artists. We create works of art in the form of stories which we hope others will enjoy. One constant that has transcended time is that most artists make terrible business people. I mean, think about the great authors from our own history. How many of these brilliant people died penniless? More than a few.

The biggest reason for this is that we writers tend to be too close to our own creation. We pour our souls onto the page through the words we choose, and when we read it back to ourselves, we’re reading a piece of us. This makes us feel euphoric, even godlike. We’re the creator of worlds, and we look down upon our creation and proclaim it’s good and whole and just.

However, when someone else reads our work and criticizes it, it feels like they’re spitting upon our very soul.

This is the reason why writers make such bad business people. It’s also why so many new writers struggle with story creation.

Writers tend to be more wrapped up in our own heads, as opposed to the world around us. Depression runs rampant through the writing community. Most of us are introverted, shy, socially awkward. We’re notoriously undependable, late, flaky… and the list of derogatory descriptors my mother uses when describing me goes on. Yet, all these mental issues are the reasons we’re so good doing what we do. In one way or another, life torments writers, and we strike back at that torment through the creation of our stories.

I’ve heard several times, “No one is born a doctor, or a lawyer, etc. People become what they become through the choices they make in life.” This may be true for most occupational callings. For storytellers, however, I believe this is a misnomer.

Writers are not normal. We’ve not been normal since the day of our births. While most of the population of the human race sees the world head on, writers tend to see the world at a slightly skewed angle. It’s why those pesky, “What if?” questions plague our thoughts on such a frequent basis. We feel disconnected from the world around us. We use stories to not only help us understand the world we were born into, but to help others understand us. Writers write because we must. Whether you’re good at the craft or not is irrelevant. If you’re a writer, there’s this weird, indescribable, and undeniable pull from deep inside your core that demands you put those stories rattling around inside your head down on paper. To share them with others, though all of us are terrified of what those others will say about us and our creations.

If we didn’t have this strange amalgam of traits, we wouldn’t be writers. Perhaps we’d be doctors… or lawyers… If we were, at least my mother would be satisfied about us getting decently paid for our time and effort.

Still, I’m going to assume that since you’re reading this book, you want to be more than just a writer. You want to take this irresistible urge you have and turn it into something more tangible. Something my mother might actually call a career.

To do that, you must stop thinking like an artist, and start thinking like a business person. I know my next statement isn’t going to be popular, but you should’ve guessed by the title that this was not going to be all sugar and honey.

Hello, hard pill. Meet throat. Now swallow. Accepting this is the only way you’ll be able to mentally distance yourself from your own work enough to be able to see said work as a product for consumption.

How does this relate to Dynamic Story Creation? Simple. To create stories effectively, you need to understand what your end game is.

On the flip side, if your end game is to write stories other people will pay money to read, then you need to understand the only thing that matters is the reader. Not you. Not your enjoyment. It’s all about the enjoyment of the person who’s paying to read the story.

Story Creation is all about the Reader

“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies,” said Jojen. “The man who never reads lives only one.”

– A quote from A Dance with Dragons

by George R.R. Martin 1948 –

(Game of Thrones)

I grew up in restaurants, as that was my family’s trade. One thing that always amazed me was meeting a chef who was famous for, let’s say an amazing shrimp pasta dish, only to find out that that chef either hated shrimp, or worse, was allergic to the little buggers. It always made me go, “Wow! You’re famous for a dish you don’t like or can’t enjoy yourself.”

How can this be? Simple. A chef understands that whether they enjoy a dish or not is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is that the customer enjoys eating the dish. A chef isn’t cooking the meal for themselves, they’re cooking it for their customer. They’re not emotionally attached to the shrimp.

Unfortunately, writers tend to be very emotionally attached to their work.

Well, guess what? Readers are your customers. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that you need to become emotionally detached from your stories, not caring about them in any way. I’m certainly attached to mine. I love my stories. We’re writers, and our stories are not just our creations, or our children, our stories are literally a tangible piece of our soul.

To become a writer who writes stories that others will pay for, you do need to buy into the fact that you’re creating stories for the reader, and not for youself.

The first step to pleasing the reader is understanding why readers read books. How else can you understand how to create stories for them?

Let’s begin with why you read stories. Your reasons are going to differ from mine, but the best place to start understanding readers is to understand yourself.

Think about the authors you read. Why do you read them? Would you continue to read an author if you found their story weak, uninteresting, or if you couldn’t relate to their characters? What if there grammar not good? (What if their grammar was poor?) Or worse for me what if they had no concept of run on sentences and why punctuation is an important part of sentence construction so the information trying to be conveyed is easier for a reader to grasp and they really just went on too long anyway?

Hopefully, you wouldn’t continue reading someone like this. Life’s too short to read poorly written books.

As a species, we’ve been consuming written stories for at least five-thousand years. This means several things to writers, but concerning the topic of story creation, it means that readers have pre-programmed expectations of how a story unfolds. (More on this later.)

This is a good thing. It’s the reason a great story can stick around for so long.

Shakespeare always comes to mind when thinking of great stories from the past, but the Bard was penning his tales just a mere four-hundred years ago. We can go back much further than that. Beowulf was first told some thirteen-hundred years ago. The Iliad? It’s been kicking around for about two-thousand, eight-hundred years!

How have these stories survived so long? Because either through accidental luck or skillful knowledge, these stories give the reader what they expect. By giving the reader what they expect, these stories have been consumed over and over again for a long, long time.

Let’s make sure you and I are on the same page. I’m talking about fiction stories. Non-fiction has its own reasons for existence. Religious texts, (whether you find them fictitious or a fact of faith) also have their own reasons for sticking around. Let’s ask this question in a more specific way.

What do readers want from fiction?

This varies from reader to reader, of course, but I can make four generalizations here.

Many who read fiction do so simply for the thrill of living out an impossible experience. It’s the reason I was so attracted to fantasy at such a young age. I know I’ll never be able to ride on the back of a real dragon… but I can experience the thrill of riding one through the pages of a story.

Others read fiction to experience what life was like in another historical time, or even what life would be like living in an alternate history. I loved reading Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle – a world in which Germany and Japan won WWII and now control what used to be called the United States of America.

Some just want to live out “if only” or “what if” scenarios, and the siren’s call of these stories have doomed the sleeping hours of many a reader. I mean, who doesn’t want to fly like Superman, or wantonly kill villains while getting all the girls like James Bond?

To take a darker turn, distraction. I know many people who use books as a way of either escaping their own reality, or reminding themselves their lives could be worse.

The fact is, readers read stories to gain something, and this has nothing to do with the writer, nor the conflict, nor the characters. While it can take on many forms, which we’ll discuss in detail soon, it’s always emotionally driven.

This emotional satisfaction could be that gooey feeling after reading some “hot steamy love” in a good romance, or the sorrow that comes from reading “heart-wrenching pain” through some dark tragedy. It could be learning a moral lesson or even feeling better about one’s own situation in life, as is the way of fables and faerie tales. It could also be as simple as the euphoria a reader experiences when good triumphs over evil. Don’t underestimate this last one.

Look at Star Wars - A New Hope. No one would argue with me if I were to say this isn’t the best written movie of all time. OK, there are some die-hard fans out there who might argue with me. Still, rabid fan-boys aside, this movie has plenty of cliché moments and characters, some would even call it a trite magical western set in space. Yet none of that stops the crowd from going nuts when the Death Star blows up at the end. (Spoilers!)

Another example I love to use is the movie Finding Nemo. Mostly because almost everyone has seen this movie. Also because you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who didn’t like this movie.

Why is Finding Nemo so loved by so many? Not to be rude, but come on. It’s a story about fish. Are fish amazing? Does having a fish as the hero guarantee the story will be awesome? Should the setting of my next epic fantasy saga be under the ocean? I think not.

Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s a father/son story which makes it so wonderfully compelling? Is this the first and only story about the relationship between fathers and sons? Hardly.

Does it have something in one of the scenes that made it so wonderful? What about the scene right before the daddy fish had his run in with the sharks? Is that scene, the one before the shark scene, the magic that makes this movie so great? Do you even remember the scene before the shark scene? I don’t.

Yet I loved Finding Nemo, and I’m going to assume you did as well. Why did we love it? The reason is simple. When viewers get done watching this movie, they feel something. They’re moved emotionally. Not by any of the elements that were shown on screen (the Physical Layer), but by what they unknowingly consumed through the Invisible Layer (the theme).

Finding Nemo has two story arcs – Marlin’s story where he tries to save Nemo, and Nemo’s story where he tries to save himself. Each of these arcs target a different aged “reader” with completely different themes. For the adults through Marlin’s story, the theme is about dealing with the fears of parenthood. Younger audience members get Nemo’s story and a theme about dealing with the fears of growing up. While the root theme of each story arc addresses fear – what causes it, how it affects us, and how we can combat it (the Invisible Layer) – each is presented through different events that target their respective audience’s age (the Physical Layer). For Marlin, the fear is manifested in adult ways – responsibility, family, legacy, etc. For Nemo, that fear is manifested in other ways – peer acceptance, becoming independent, being alone for the first time, etc.

We’ll get to themes in ACT II, but my point here’s simple. Finding Nemo is loved, not for the characters, nor the conflicts, nor the resolution (the Physical Layer). Finding Nemo is loved because of how the audience feels after the story is over (the Invisible Layer).

The above statement is in sharp contrast to what many writers believe a story is. Most believe the story is the plot – all those Physical Layer things your readers read. This is incorrect, as we shall soon discover when the plot of this book thickens…

Plot = Events ≠ Story

“Plot is no more than footprints left in the snow after your characters have run by on their way to incredible destinations.”

– Ray Bradbury 1920 – 2012

(Fahrenheit 451)

Many new writers I’ve met over the years feel plotting is a system of organizing the string of events that create their story. That, my friends, is simply not what a story is.

“Wait!” you exclaim. “How can the events that make up my plot not be my story?”

My answer, “Because it’s not. And that’s the second time you’ve interrupted me. Let’s not make this a habit.”

Rude interruption aside, let me grace you with an original story by the famed Maxwell Alexander Drake. One filled with events, conflicts, and questions for the reader to ponder.

The Walk

by

Maxwell Alexander Drake

Chapter One

The day had turned out to be a gorgeous one. A bright blue sky smiled down upon a warm spring day. Birds flitted about, and the city the man called home was abuzz with life.

The man was out for an afternoon stroll, one he had forgone over the past few weeks due to the abysmal weather conditions that had plagued the land of late. But not today. Today, was different. New. Invigorating. Even the air smelled cleaner, as the bright sun warmed his aging body.

The city block he walked was much like one found in any major metropolis. Tall buildings lined both sides of a wide boulevard packed with busses, taxies, and cars of every color in the rainbow. Shops of all types filled the ground floors of the buildings, with apartments above climbing into the heavens.

To the man’s surprise, it seemed the good weather had baited even the most recluse of tenants out to enjoy the day.

Shopkeeps mingled with passersby. Joggers slipped effortlessly between folks walking their dogs. Even the trees, which normally looked so pathetic trapped in their small square holes cut into the sidewalk, seemed to bristle with contentment.

Yes, he thought, this is the type of day that will herald in great days to come.

As the man walked down the street, left foot falling before his right then right foot falling before his left, he smiled at his neighbors, who smiled back.

Life was good, and before he realized it, he had reached the first intersection. He looked left and he looked right, inspecting the intervening road. He could turn either way, both looked inviting. He gazed across the street and down the sidewalk. There was nothing preventing him from crossing and continuing the way he was traveling.

End of Chapter One

Let’s take a little interlude from our story, shall we? All in all, not a bad start, right? The story paints a good picture for your mind to conjure up. You should be able to see the city, the street, the people, the cars. While not a lot is going on, the story pricks our mind to contemplate some overarching questions. Who’s this man? What’s this city? Now that he’s at the end of the block, what choice will the man make? Will he turn left, right, or continue straight?

However, I bet the biggest question that’s racing through most reader’s minds at this point would be: What’s about to happen to shatter all this harmony? (Dark, I know, and we’ll discuss why this is when we get to ACT II.) At this point, while the story isn’t amazing, this last question is enough for most readers to continue giving this story a little more time. Curiosity, as they say, killed the cat. I’m going to assume you want to see what happens next as well, and continue reading.

Chapter Two

The light at the intersection turned green and a small lit picture of a person walking appeared across from the man. Without further hesitation, the man stepped off the curb and into the crosswalk.

On the other side, he found himself in a very similar environment. Tall buildings, cars and busses, people, and even those normally pathetic-looking trees trapped in their concrete prisons were much the same as those on the previous block.

The day had not suddenly changed with his crossing. Nor had he expected it would. It was still a beautiful, warm, sunny spring day. He was still surrounded by happy folk, all sharing the joys of the first nice day of the year.

So the man did not slow his pace as he walked, left foot falling before his right then right foot falling before his left. He continued smiling at those he passed, and they, in return, smiled back.

A shadow stole the sunlight when the massive frame of an obese woman blocked the man’s path. He frowned, a slight groan escaping his lips. “Good afternoon, Marge,” he said without a hint of kindness.

“Don’t you ‘good afternoon’ me, you scoundrel.” The venom in the woman’s words caught the attention of several of those passing by. “We’ve still not come to an agreement.”

The man’s shoulders slumped. “I know. But I’m not ready to speak of it just now.” He waved toward the bright blue sky. “It’s just too beautiful a day to deal with you and your issue.”

Without waiting on the large woman’s reply, the man walked briskly around her and continued on his way.

Despite the woman’s appearance, the warming rays of the sun soon washed the unpleasant interruption from the man’s mind.

Yes, he thought. The perfect day. And on a day like today, nothing can go wrong.

Once again, before he realized it had happened, he reached the next intersection. He looked left and he looked right, inspecting this new intervening road. He could turn either way, both looked inviting. He gazed across the street and down the sidewalk. There was nothing preventing him from crossing and continuing the way he was traveling.

End of Chapter Two

Indulge me in another interlude, if you would, please. The story is still going on, there are still events happening. We’ve even built some tension with the introduction of the large woman. This is still a story, right?

What do you suppose readers are thinking at this point? They still have all the questions from before, plus some new ones. Is that enough to keep them reading? For many, the answer is no. It falls back to that old adage of, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” Still, when I give this example in front of a live audience, you’d be surprised at how many people state they want to hear the next chapter.

I won’t bore you with chapter three in the pages of this book. Suffice it to say, the same thing happens as occurred in the first two chapters – some stuff. However, nothing that gives the reader what they’re expecting – an emotional tie to the story. Also know, everyone who was willing to give this story a third chance declared they wouldn’t give it a fourth after reading a third chapter of… well… nothing.

While this story may seem trite, it’s the perfect analogy for any series of events created by a writer who misses the point.

Stories are not a series of events, but about how the events affect the characters in the story, and by extension, the reader.

Nothing affected the man as he walked down the street, so by extension, nothing affected the reader as they read.

In The Walk, I forced you to experience walking down a city street. Something almost everyone has done at one time or another. I never gave you any reason to care about the man, nor did I ever hint of any life-altering conflict. The story leaves you unfulfilled because it doesn’t give you anything emotional to attach to.

That’s exactly what a reader wants, and why they’re reading your book in the first place – emotional gratification. The omission of this element is why no one wants to continue reading my wonderful tale of a man walking down a street. While there are events happening, and questions being posed, there’s no emotional benefit for the reader.

For a story to be successful, writers need to concentrate on the WHY and the AFFECT of their story’s theme, not the HOW or the WHAT of the events of the story.

In The Walk, I never focus on the reader nor what they’re gaining by reading the story. Instead, I simply focused on describing the events that were happening. While The Walk describes a mundane situation, the effect would’ve been the same had I been describing a field of battling dragons. If the writer doesn’t focus on the theme, they’re not focusing on the reader. If they’re not focusing on the reader, said reader won’t continue reading the story, no matter what’s being described. It’s that simple.

How do you focus on the reader? You understand that the POV character in your story is not “your” character.

It’s the reader.

A Character is a Shell for the Reader

“Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them – in order that the reader may see what they are made of.”

– Kurt Vonnegut 1922 – 2007

(Harrison Bergeron)

A Point of View (POV) character isn’t a fictitious entity that moves through your story, battling obstacles, and finally overcoming the conflict. The POV character is a shell you create for the reader to wear, so that it’s the reader who moves through your story, battling obstacles, and finally overcoming the conflict.

Your POV character is an extension of the reader. Or more precisely, your POV character is the reader.

This will either feel odd to you or it’ll be something you see as obvious. Either way, I really need you to embrace this theory. Everything I’ll be talking about for the remainder of this book hinges upon this one concept.

When we get to the Invisible Layer in ACT II, this will become clear. For now, let’s ponder the differences between my story The Walk, and Finding Nemo. In mine, there’s no emotional connection to the story, the character, nor the events. Ever. As there’s no greater question I’m forcing the reader to ponder (the theme or what I refer to as the Invisible Layer), there’s no story. However, in Finding Nemo, almost from the opening credits we’re emotionally invested in either Marlin’s or Nemo’s respective plights through very visceral, and very human questions that are forced upon the audience. At the end, we’re emotionally moved by not only what we went through (the events, or the Physical Layer), but how we feel once the story has ended. Since Finding Nemo has very well defined themes it forces the reader to contemplate, readers feel it’s a great story.

Once you’ve mastered the art of writing your POV characters as if they’re the reader, you’ll have mastered the art of writing for the reader.

As we move further, I’ll give you tools you’ll use to accomplish this feat. For now, a word of caution: Many feel the number one job of a writer is to be creative, to think outside the box. I’ve found that when it comes to fulfilling a reader’s emotional expectations, the curious cat is the one killing creativity.

Understanding the Reader’s Built-in, Subconscious Expectations

“Human history becomes more and more a race between education and catastrophe.”

– H.G. Wells 1866 – 1946

(The Time Machine)

I’ve already stated that we as a species have been consuming written stories for over five-thousand years. Believe it or not, what this means is that readers are pre-programmed in what they expect from a story. Like it or not, you must give readers what they expect or they won’t enjoy your story.

Don’t believe me? Let’s go back to my wonderfully written The Walk.

If you recall, after chapter one you were willing to give the story a little longer to prove its merit. Why? My hypothesis based on what I know of story consumption is this: The story paints a picture. Life is good. When a story starts this way, readers expect something bad to happen.

I’m willing to bet that’s exactly what you were expecting, and why you were willing to give the story at least one more chapter. You were curious as to what horrible thing was going to happen to the man to break his tranquility. You were expecting something to pull the man from the mundane I was describing and shove him, willingly or not, into a more exciting direction that would be the playground for the remainder of the story.

You see, The Walk starts in what’s known as the State of Perfection. [As with themes, it’s not yet time to delve into the specifics of the State of Perfection.] The important thing to grasp here is that I started the story in this State of Perfection which caused you, through no prompting on my part whatsoever, to expect something bad to happen to the man. When it didn’t happen, you started losing interest in the story. Is this because you’re a horrible person whose sole enjoyment comes from the suffering of others? Perhaps. I don’t know you. But now you scare me… just a bit…

Seriously, though. It’s because you, like me and everyone else on this planet, have built-in, subconscious expectations of what a story is going to deliver. Readers don’t think about what these are, or even notice them when they’re included. All they know is that when a writer includes these elements, elements that are invisible to the reader, the reader enjoys the story. Alternately, when these elements are missing readers do notice. Again, readers don’t think about it, nor understand why. All they know is when these invisible elements are missing, they don’t enjoy the story.

Beowulf is a great example to help me make my point. First told some thirteen-hundred years ago, it doesn’t get more tried and true than that! Obviously, by the sheer fact that this story has survived all this time, no one can deny the validity that it’s a great story.

About a decade ago, two Beowulf movies came out a year apart. One was an animated version starring Angelina Jolie titled Beowulf. The other was a live action version starring Gerard Butler titled Beowulf and Grendel. I’m not going to go into the virtues of the base story. However, I’ll state that one made $196,393,745 worldwide while the other brought in a very pathetic $92,076. If you know anything about the movie business, you can probably guess that $92K didn’t even cover Gerard Butler’s salary, much less anything else. (Bonus: if you were paying attention just now, you should’ve figured out which movie flopped.)

Why did one movie fail when the other succeeded?

They’re both based on the same story, right? Both are movie versions of a classic tale that has survived hundreds of generations. Why would one succeed and the another fail?

Sure, budget, release schedule, etc. all played a part in how much money each made. However, let’s look past that. The fact is, one earned good reviews from fans and critics while the other received very poor reviews.

But why? If they’re both based off the same wonderful tale, both having the same characters in them, both following the same basic set of events, both were professionally done and looked great. The acting in both was fantastic. Why then did one fail to please audiences?

Simple. The live action version starring Gerard Butler missed giving the audience what it expects from a story. It didn’t fulfill those built-in, subconscious expectations the readers have.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not talking about the events of the story (the Physical Layer). Again, events do not a story make.

Both had nearly identical events in them. In both, Beowulf is told there’s a monster plaguing a village. He travels across the ocean and takes up the task of dispatching said monster. He does his homework and discovers things about the monster. The monster and Beowulf clash, and both movies end with the monster dead and Beowulf returning home a hero. (For full disclosure, the animated version then continued on into Beowulf’s life. But that’s unimportant for this example.)

With each being so similar, you should really be wondering how one was a failure.

Because Beowulf, or any successful story, isn’t “good” because of the events that happen during the story (the Physical Layer). Stories are “good,” as defined by the reader, only if the reader is emotionally satisfied when they finish reading the story. A reader’s emotional satisfaction comes from the theme (the Invisible Layer).

Each time I teach this subject and go down this path with the two Beowulf movies, I find there are usually a few people who saw Beowulf and Grendel. In the six years I’ve been using this as an example, only once have I found a person who actually liked this movie. More interesting, and one that relates directly to the point I’m attempting to make here, when I ask those who saw this movie but didn’t enjoy it, why they didn’t enjoy it, I always get the same answer.

Across the board, people say, “I don’t know. I just didn’t.”

This may sound condescending, and I don’t mean it that way, but readers, just like the viewers of this movie, normally have no idea why they like or don’t like a story. This isn’t because they’re stupid. It’s because the elements that make a good story are invisible to the reader. And they should be invisible! People read to be entertained, not to think about why they are, or aren’t, entertained.

This is the reason so many new, untrained and unskilled writers produce terrible stories.

By studying story structure and theory, you’ll learn why stories succeed or fail. As someone who wants to make a living telling stories, don’t you think it’s important to know stuff like this?

If you’re curious about my opinion as to why audiences didn’t like Beowulf and Grendel, here they are. In that version of this tried and true tale, even though the events of the story are almost exactly like the original (the Physical Layer), the writers decided to go a different direction in answering the conflict between Beowulf and Grendel (the Invisible Layer).

You see, while there are several themes in the classic story of Beowulf, the one that reigns supreme is the theme of Good vs. Evil. I don’t want to get too deep into themes here, as we shall be spending gobs of time on it in ACT II, but a theme isn’t a topic, it’s a question. Meaning, we need to take our theme of Good vs. Evil and turn it into a question for the reader to ponder. A simplistic version of the theme for Beowulf could be, “Can good defeat evil?”

In the classic tale, and the Angelina Jolie version, this question is posed and answered by the fact that Beowulf shows up and kills the monster. The story says, “Yes, good can defeat evil.” The answering of this question, as simple and as ancient as it is, means the audience leaves emotionally satisfied. The reader became Beowulf (Good), and they killed the monster (Evil).

In Beowulf and Grendel, the writers totally missed the mark with their execution of the Invisible Layer.

First, they made the Grendel character more sympathetic. They delved into the monster’s past, and the audience learned about where Grendel came from, and the plights he was forced to live through before Beowulf arrived intent on taking that life from him. Basically, they humanized Grendel.

This, in-and-of-itself, didn’t ruin their version of this tale. Personally, I found the diversion wonderful. It really opened up the story for me, allowing me to see the opposing point of view. Really cool.

However, this did throw off the balance of the story. In an attempt to play off this diversion, the writers decided that Beowulf should not be the one to kill Grendel. Perhaps this was because they felt that if Beowulf killed the now sympathetic monster it would turn the audience off. Who knows. I was not part of this venture, so anything I say here is merely speculation.

Still, for whatever reason, they decided to have Grendel get caught in a snare. To escape, Grendel chops his own hand off, then runs away. Once he gets away and is alone, he bleeds to death.

I’d normally say “Spoilers!” here, but why bother? I’m banking you aren’t going to go out of your way to see this movie based on the reviews and my breakdown here.

Basically, you have the hero, Beowulf, the “shell” that’s the “reader,” show up, discover he must kill a monster that’s plaguing a village, and do… well… nothing. He shows up, Grendel kills himself, and Beowulf says, “Well, that’s done. Here’s my business card – it says “monster slayer” right there below my name and everyone knows business cards can’t lie. If you end up with any more monster problems, you just give me a call, ya hear?”

In other words, you (Beowulf) showed up to overcome a conflict (Grendel), but you (Beowulf) did nothing. So, you (the person paying for the story) found yourself emotionally unfulfilled once the story ended.

Going deeper to look at the Invisible Layer, the theme posed the question, “Can good defeat evil?” At the end, the story’s answer was, “Um…? I don’t know. Evil killed itself, so… perhaps?”

Perhaps!?! It means the underlying question posed to the audience was left unanswered. Bad! Bad, writer! Go to your room and think about what you’ve done.

Same story. Same characters. Same events. Same Physical Layer. One very minor, yet hugely impactful, difference to the Invisible Layer (the theme).

Again, stories are not a string of events. If this were true, then two nearly identical stories would both be successful. Stories are what the reader feels once they finish the story.

I’ll constantly return to “it’s all about the reader” and themes to beat them like rented mules. Still, as we move forward, you need to always keep these top of mind. Nothing we’re about to discuss will help you make a successful story if you forget that it’s all about the reader, and that means it’s all about answering the underlying theme (the Invisible Layer).

Putting it all Together

In this chapter, I’ve continued to add more concepts for you to ponder. Let’s take a moment to look at these first two chapters as a whole, and see how this continues to build upon the base from which we’ll create our dynamic stories.

Let’s not beat around the bush, here. I’ll be the first to admit, I’m a lazy man. Well, perhaps the second to admit this. My mother has been saying it for years. Still, my point stands. I don’t do anything without the benefit outweighing the effort I put forth. I totally get that learning all this English/story theory/grammar crap is a huge effort.

To wrap this up in a nice, neat one-hell-of-a-long-run-on-sentence bow that’s intended to make blood spurt from the eyes of my editor: The creation of a successful story depends on how well you understand and implement the concepts that you’re not writing for yourself, but for the reader, realizing that a story is more than just a collection of events – it’s the underlying theme, believing that your POV character is in reality an extension of the reader, and buying into the fact that a successful story can only be achieved through the emotional fulfillment of said reader by successfully answering the questions posed by the Invisible Layer which holds the themes.

All of these are fundamentally tied to each another.

Chapter Three

The Basics of Story Structure

“Of course, the writer can impose control; It’s just a really shitty idea. Writing controlled fiction is called “plotting.” Buckling your seatbelt and letting the story take over, however... that is called “storytelling.” Storytelling is as natural as breathing; plotting is the literary version of artificial respiration.”

– Stephen King 1947 –

(The Dark Tower series)

I love this quote from Stephen King. It speaks to me as a storyteller. However, it’s incomplete and misleading in my opinion. (Ha! How arrogant am I to call out the Great One himself?)

While I agree that this is how a writer should write, storytelling isn’t as natural as breathing. When you popped into this world, the only lesson you needed to learn about how to breathe was for some fool with “doctor” on his business card to slap you on the ass.

If the first two chapters of this book have not convinced you that story creation is difficult, and that it takes years to master, then I’ve failed in my quest. I award myself no points for my effort, and may God have mercy on my soul.

It may be presumptuous of me to edit Mr. King’s work, but the above quote should read instead:

“Of course, the writer can impose control; It’s just a really shitty idea. Writing controlled fiction is called “plotting.” Buckling your seatbelt and letting the story take over, however... that’s called “storytelling.” Writers should spend time and effort learning the craft of writing until storytelling becomes as natural to them as breathing; plotting is the literary version of artificial respiration.”

– Maxwell Alexander Drake 1969 –

(My entire life)

Story Structure

The Multi-Faceted Jewel

“I don’t believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of being alive.”

– Joseph Campbell 1904 – 1987

(The Hero with a Thousand Faces)

Now that you have a better mindset to write stories readers will want to read, and are starting to see that readers have built-in, subconscious expectations that you must fulfill, and hopefully are grasping the fact that it will take you time and effort to learn all this stuff, it’s time to start digging into some basics of how stories are created. (Another run-on burr placed under my editor’s saddle. Go me!)

While we’re getting into structure, I still feel what we’re about to cover has more to do with helping you adopt the proper mindset to writing, as opposed to actual writing. Please don’t feel any of the following are tools you’ll use in story creation. Look at them instead as more theory you need to understand.

If you’ve ever done a Google search for plot types or story arcs, you’ve probably discovered there are more different definitions than can be counted. The biggest reason there are so many is that people who study stories do everything they can to pigeonhole stories into well-defined “labels.” (I’m referring to those stuffy academics again.) This is their job. To teach something, you must define it first.

In my opinion, this doesn’t translate to actual story creation.

Why? Because a good story, one that readers will enjoy, is more complex than what these defined plot types or story arcs allow for. Lucky for us, writers don’t need to be bound by what academics think. We just need to understand the theories behind plot types and story arcs, so we can use their pigeonholed structures to help us become more creative, and ensure we’re writing stories that fulfill those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have.

There are literally tons of defined plot types and story arcs, way too many to go over here in this book. I highly recommend you spend a substantial amount of your time studying all you can find about these defined structures. Google plot structure, plot arcs, and plot theory. Purchase additional books about these subjects, or check them out from your local library. Spend the money to attend writers’ conferences, and schedule time to go to live seminars put on by professionals such as myself.

I’ll reiterate one more time: A plot isn’t your story. As in, a plot isn’t a theme. The plot is the series of events you’ll use to first ask the questions of your themes, and then answer those questions so the built-in, subconscious expectations readers have are fulfilled.

Before we can really dissect the Invisible Layer, you need at least a rudimentary understanding of the Physical Layer. To that end, let’s look at three of the most common story structures – Character Driven, Event Driven, and Objective Driven stories.

The Character

Driven Story

“You take people, you put them on a journey, you give them peril, you find out who they really are.”

– Joss Whedon 1964 –

(Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog)

In a Character Driven story, the emphasis is more internal. Characterization, inner conflicts, and relationships are the things that take center stage. Through these, the events of the story will follow suit.

A great example of a character driven story is Miss Congeniality. In this movie, Sandra Bullock plays Gracie Hart, an FBI agent who’s sent undercover to foil a terrorist plot to blow up the Miss United States beauty pageant.

Don’t be fooled by the movie trailer blurb. The fact that the pageant might possibly get blown up by terrorists has nothing to do with the story (the theme). It’s merely the catalyst that gets our POV character into the story and drives the events of the story. Again, events ≠ story. No one who watched this movie ever wondered if the bomb would actually blow up or not. That was never a concern. Everyone knew that Gracie Hart would solve the crime, and stop the bomb. No brainless beauties would be harmed in the making of this movie. Every single person who went to see this movie knew this before the movie even started.

If the entire movie was so obvious, why would anyone watch it? More importantly, why was the movie a success? I mean, it cost $45 million to make, but brought in nearly $213 million worldwide. If every single person who saw this movie knew the end before it happened, why would they go see it in the first place?

Because, more so than most other story types, the events that take place in a Character Driven story tend to be irrelevant. Continuing to beat that mule – It’s. All. About. The. Reader!

Even though Miss Congeniality is a series of events about an FBI agent who foils a terrorist attack, Miss Congeniality isn’t a story about an FBI agent who foils a terrorist attack. That would be a completely different story. (As in, it would have a completely different theme that would pose a completely different question to the audience.) Miss Congeniality is a story about a rough-and-tumble woman named Gracie Hart who’s a woman in a man’s world, and loving it. Theme one, a minor theme, is a gender role reversal theme or a feminine empowerment theme. This minor theme asks the question, “Can a woman do a man’s job?” When we meet Gracie as a little girl on the playground, she’s literally beating the crap out of a bully. Then we move to her as an FBI agent, and while things don’t go exactly her way, she ends up beating up some bad Russians. So this minor theme is handled fairly quickly. “Yes,” the story answers at the beginning of the movie. “Not only can a woman do a man’s job, she can excel at it.” Gracie is tough, mean, and can best any man. Oh, but she hates all things girlie. Hair, makeup, dresses – they all make her sick. This leads us directly into theme two, the major theme, and the real thrust of the story, when she’s pulled from her State of Perfection it becomes a fish out of water theme. The major theme asks the question, “Can a woman who has proven she can do a man’s job also be the epitome of what society deems womanly?”

The story here, (the theme or the emotional return – the Invisible Layer) is living life as a badass masculine woman who’s forced to go undercover in a situation that’s her worst nightmare – getting all dolled up and competing in a beauty pageant. It’s through this dichotomy that the major theme of the story is consumed by the audience, and where the emotional satisfaction comes from that stays with the audience once the story has run its course. Oh, and since it’s a Rom-Com, there’s smoochy-smoochy at the end (Spoilers!), which is another minor theme that adds to the emotional fulfillment of the audience.

To return to one of my earlier points. Through the events of Miss Congeniality, the moviegoer (the reader) is pulled in by WHY Gracie does what she does, and how it AFFECTS her and those around her, not by WHAT she does to discover the terrorist plot nor HOW she disarms the bomb. Again, the events don’t matter to the moviegoer (the reader). What matters is what the moviegoer (the reader) takes with them once the story ends.

You should note I said NOTHING about the events (the Physical Layer) of Miss Congeniality contributing to the success of this movie. Because, as I’ve already stated, your characters, the events of the story, the conflict, and the overcome, have LITTLE to do with whether or not the reader enjoys your story. The MAIN thing that matters is the theme, because it’s the ONLY thing readers will take away with them once the story is over.

Another great example of a Character Driven story is Star Wars – A New Hope. I know this is one of those really obscure movies that most people have never heard of, but follow me for a moment.

When we meet the main character, Luke Skywalker, he’s at odds with himself, and the world around him. He’s a gangly teenage boy, uncertain about his place in the universe. Through the events of the story, he gains confidence, and the ability to trust in himself and a magical force called “the Force.” (Original, I know.) If he hadn’t grown internally, he wouldn’t have trusted in his own abilities enough to turn off the computer at the end of the movie. Had he not turned off the computer, he would’ve missed the shot that blew up the Death Star, just like all the other rebel pilots who tried before him. (Spoilers!)

It was his internal growth that allowed him to overcome the conflict of the story, and it’s through the events that show this internal growth that one of the many themes of the story is consumed by the audience, adding to their emotional satisfaction.

Let’s apply my theory that the POV character is the reader to this movie, and look a bit deeper at this story’s themes (its Invisible Layer).

Luke (the reader) was thrust into a crazy adventure where Luke (the reader) felt he didn’t have the abilities he needed to win. Through the trials of his journey, Luke (the reader) discovered that he did have what he needed. In the end, Luke (the reader) believed in himself and was able to blow up the Death Star and save the universe from the evil Empire. Because of this, the reader felt good over what they had accomplished, and left emotionally satisfied having taken the journey.

Uncovering the Invisible Layer, the major theme asked by this story is, “Is it better to rely on tangible things you can see, or trust (internal) in the belief that there’s more to life, something greater than the physical world around us?”

This is a theme of hope, or the belief in something divine.

I apologize for this getting heavy, but there really is no other way to explain myself here, so I’m going to morph into an academic for a few paragraphs.

The fact is, belief that there’s something beyond what our five senses can perceive inspires optimism, creativity, and hope within the human spirit – all incredibly powerful emotions. With the story asking this question of the reader, is it any wonder why this movie evoked such powerful reactions from audiences?

Through events (the Physical Layer), Luke (the reader) was introduced to the belief that “there’s something greater out there” manifested as an allegory (an extended metaphor) in the story by way of “the Force.” At the end of the story, when Luke is in the trench intent on destroying the Death Star, he’s surrounded by the tangible – the trench, the fighters, his targeting computer, etc. However, the voice of his dead mentor is also there, begging him to ignore the tangible world, and trust that there’s more to life. This is the exact second when the question posed by the major theme gets answered (the Invisible Layer).

Luke listens to Obi Wan’s ghost, turns off the computer, relies on the belief that there’s something greater, scores a hit because of his willingness to believe, destroys the Death Star, wins the day, and returns home a hero.

In other words, the story answered the major theme’s question with, “No, it’s not always better to rely on tangible things you can see. There’s more to life, and trusting that there’s something greater than the physical world around us can help us win the day.” Another way to say this is, “Belief in something greater than yourself is a good thing to have.”

It’s through the Invisible Layer (the major theme and its answer) the audience finds emotional satisfaction. Which is why moviegoers (the readers) proclaimed Star Wars – A New Hope to be a great movie. To the tune of the movie costing $11 million to make and earning over $775 million back in 1977.

The Event

Driven Story

“Things just happen, one after another. They don’t care who knows.”

– Terry Pratchett 1948 – 2015

(Good Omens)

In an Event Driven story, the events take center stage and the characters in the story become less important.

Plot twists, external conflicts, and action are the driving forces behind these types of stories. Basically, something happens then continues to escalate, forcing a character or a group of characters to react, trying to stay ahead of the storm.

In an Event Driven story you’ll still find sympathetic characters, as well as characters who will be unsympathetic. Nevertheless, survival is the name of the game when it comes to an Event Driven story.

I could be cheeky and make the blanket statement of, “Every single Michael Bay movie ever made are examples of Event Driven stories.” But I won’t, as that would be petty of me. (What? I said I won’t say that!)

Instead, let’s use Steven Spielberg’s adaptation of Jurassic Park as our example of an Event Driven story. In this wonderfully exciting movie, a bunch of genetically resurrected dinosaurs break out of their holding cells and decide there’s nothing better than eating every single human they can find.

Jumping right into the Invisible end, the major theme of Jurassic Park is about the dangers of technology. As in, “Are there any dangers we need to consider before we use science to do amazing things, like, I don’t know… resurrect dinosaurs?”

The personalities of the humans trying to avoid becoming dino snacks should be irrelevant. I mean, the story simply needs a cast of characters to pit against the monsters so the above question is answered, right?

Yes, and no.

It all depends on what type of story you’re telling, as well as what your end game is for the audience.

The story of Jurassic Park could answer with either, “Yes, there are dangers to scientific advancements, you’ll get your face eaten off!” or, “No, science is awesome! Plus, we get dinosaurs. Win!”

If you saw Jurassic Park, you know how this question was answered.

It’s important for this example to bring in a Michael Bay film for contrast, so let’s also take a look at Transformers. No one would argue with me if I said Michael Bay’s endgame was wowing the audience with an explosion-fueled adventure ride. If this is the endgame, then the characters shouldn’t matter at all, right? I mean, seriously, did anyone care whether or not Sam Witwicky (Shia LaBeauf’s character) survived? I sure didn’t. That’s not a dig on Mr. Bay. Honestly, it’s not! I mean, he’s producing movies audiences will pay to see, me being one of them. I truly love a good Michael Bay flick. That being said, I’ve never walked into a Michal Bay film expecting it to have the depth of The Shawshank Redemption either. Like me, most movie goers know what to expect before they walk into a Michael Bay production. (Think back to Miss Congeniality if you need a reminder of why giving the audience what they expect is a good thing.)

Diving into that proverbial deep yet Invisible end, the major theme of Transformers was, “can doing the right thing triumph over living for yourself.” As in, “Can good win by being honorable, or will evil win because it’s so selfish?”

Let’s go a step further with our two examples as they relate to these base story structures we’re discussing. What if we combine some really well done (and some not well done) Character Driven story elements into our Event Driven story?

I’ve already mentioned I cared little for the characters of Transformers, so you should be able to guess I feel the characters in that movie added little to the audience’s pleasure. The movie was what it was advertised as – an action-packed robot slug fest. Which was enough to earn my money. Making me a hero, putting me into an action-packed ride, and making me feel good at the end because I kicked the bad guys ass (your classic Good vs. Evil theme) is A-OK in my book!

Taking a closer look at Jurassic Park, however, we can see the writers decided to go a slightly different direction with their characters. They used several tricks found in Character Driven stories to create a more emotionally satisfying experience for the audience that went beyond just a cast of characters attempting to survive.

Let’s look at a few.

To me, they “cheated” in a very cliché manner by throwing in the two kids. I mean, come on. Even had the two rugrats been portrayed as annoying spoiled brats, very few people want to see kids eaten by dinosaurs. (My mother’s hopes for my childhood excluded.) Since they were both well behaved and adorable children, this practically guaranteed the audience would want them to survive. It worked. Despite my feelings over this plot device being weak and trite, the kids had a huge emotional impact on the viewer.

On a more positive note, the writers spent some brain cells building up the relationship between the audience and several other characters. I mean, everyone I know who saw this movie was rooting for Dr. Alan Grant’s (Sam Neill’s) character to survive. In addition to the good Doctor, we were all happy to find both Jeff Goldblum’s and Laura Dern’s characters alive and well at the end of this ordeal.

Another trick used to help the audience reach emotional satisfaction, was to generate a feel-good (or at least respectful) connection between the Robert Muldoon character and the audience. You pretty much knew the “strong man” game warden was going to buy the farm as soon as he was introduced, but you still held out hope it might not happen. Everyone roots for the underdog, after all. He did, however, give us that wonderfully famous line, “Clever Girl.” before he checked out. (Yes, you must say this with a British accent to make it work.) The loss of a liked or loved character brings its own level of satisfaction to a reader.

Bizarre when you think about it, I know. However, it’s still truth. While the audience misses these characters once they’re ripped mercilessly from the story, (cough, Ned Stark, cough) they subconsciously understand that these characters have been sacrificed up for the greater good.

Going the other route, did anyone have any issues with either the cowardly investigator dying while sitting on the toilet, or the nerdy programmer who stole the dino embryos and caused all the troubles in the first place being eaten by those weird little lizards? Of course not. While this may be definitive proof that our species is irredeemable, we do get some serious emotional gratification from watching those who deserve it get their just deserts.

While these are all Physical Layer elements, they’re great points that only serve to make my argument for me. Why were these characters portrayed this way? Because each evokes specific emotional responses from the audience – concern for those we care for, sadness over those we love and lose, and satisfaction with the death of the evil bastards. Emotional responses the writers wanted the audience to experience. In the end, these extra things gave the audience the emotional satisfaction that equated to Jurassic Park’s massive success – to the tune of just over a billion in worldwide sales.

Compare this to the embarrassingly miniscule $700 million that Transformers pulled in with its trite explosion-fueled rollercoaster ride, and it almost makes you feel sorry for poor ole Mr. Bay.

(Not really.)

Both Jurassic Park and Transformers were wonderful movies and huge box office successes. They were simply created with different endgames in mind. Both were successful because they gave their respective audiences what they desired. They each posed questions to the audience, and answered them in emotionally satisfying ways. I just feel one went deeper, asking a better major theme question, and spending more time creating stronger Physical Layer elements, which equated to a higher revenue due to a greater audience appreciation.

I’m sure including dinosaurs didn’t hurt, either. Though, giant fighting robots are normally a sure bet as well.

Another good example of an Event Driven story is Star Wars – A New Hope. Yup. Still using this obscure movie you probably never heard of, but follow me for a moment.

At the beginning of this movie we meet a whiny brat of a teen who just wants to get his chores done so he can go torment small creatures in the wilderness with his friends. Then BAM! His parental units are killed, and BAM! The government is going to kill him as well if he fails to escape. Then BAM! He’s captured anyway. But with the help of a scruffy nerf herder slash smuggler and an aging wizard who we find out is a truly terrible swordsman (I mean, seriously. Who puts their sword away during a sword fight?), our hero escapes. Only to BAM!, almost get killed anyway. Then BAM! BAM! BAM! More things happen out of his control, and the poor kid ends up flying a space ship for the first time during an air raid against a moon-sized laser pistol.

*Takes deep breath*

If that isn’t the definition of an Event Driven story, I don’t know what is.

The Objective

Driven Story

“I never ask a man what his business is, for it never interests me. What I ask him about are his thoughts and dreams.”

– H.P. Lovecraft 1890 – 1937

(The Call of Cthulhu)

In an Objective Driven story, there’s something that must happen for whatever reason. This could be something as simple as solving a crime, stopping a bomb from exploding, or as all-encompassing as saving the world from destruction.

Again, the characters in this type of story can become less important. Doing what’s necessary to accomplish the goal is the driving force of these stories. Gaining, winning, solving, defeating, saving, etc. – these are the motivators. The characters in the story are simply there to do what needs to be done. (Though, please feel free to apply the lessons learned in the previous section about adding in other elements to enhance an Objective Driven story.)

I like to use Sherlock Holmes as an example of an Objective Driven story, but really any cop drama works well.

In a Sherlock Holmes’ story, Sherlock is driven through the events of the story by the fact that there’s a mystery to solve. Sherlock isn’t changed by the journey. He was perfect at the start, and he will still be perfect at the end. Sure, he might glean some morsel of wisdom along the way, but he remains basically unchanged by the journey.

All cop dramas tend to play out pretty much this same way. The characters in an episode of C.S.I. are not changed from one episode to the next. Sure, the writers like to have character arcs that span an entire season. However, very little changes in a single episode.

In fact, of all the story types we’ve discussed thus far, Objective Driven stories most easily fall into the formulaic category. I.E., most cop drams follow a very specific story pattern.

One – show the crime. (That chick walking into that spooky building is so going to die!)

Two – start the investigation. (Yup! There’s that chick’s dead body!)

Three – make a personal connection to the crime. (Aww! This other person is suffering because of this murder!)

Four – have someone look guilty even though we’re only ten minutes into an hour-long show, so there’s no way it’s this guy unless the next fifty minutes is the audience watching the cops fill out paperwork. (Look! A red herring!)

Five – discover the ruse. (If the glove don’t fit, you must acquit!)

Six – chase a bunch of seemingly unrelated leads. (We still have fifty minutes to fill, people!)

Seven – the hero somehow puts all the unrelated leads together, has an epiphany, and reveals who the real culprit is – someone who was with the original suspect is always a good bet. (It’s elementary, my dear Watson.)

Eight – have the villain confess so justice can be served. (Because guilty people always tell the truth when they’re caught… and besides, the 11 O’clock news starts soon, so we need to wrap this up.)

How could these types of stories be so successful? Think about it. What type of story is the most common on TV? Cop dramas. Have you never wondered why that is? I just showed you how formulaic they can be. Why should watching these methodic stories please people like my mother so much?

Easy, it’s all about the reader. (Mule! Beat it! It’s rented!) That Invisible Layer.

In addition to my mother, there’s a huge audience out there who get a deep emotional satisfaction from watching justice being served. They really like the fact that at the end of almost every single cop drama episode the bad guy goes to jail. (And now I finally get why my mom took such pleasure in whipping me with the belt for all those years!)

Personal epiphany notwithstanding, are these stories trite? Absolutely. However, they’re comfortable and satisfying at the same time. It’s not about the events (the Physical Layer) so much as it’s about the built-in, subconscious expectations the viewers have being fulfilled (the Invisible Layer). Oh, sure. Occasionally there’s an episode where they introduce a villain who “gets away.” But we all know that villain will get caught at some point next season, so it’s OK. Like a deranged single-mom wielding a thick leather strap, justice will be served, and the reader will get their desired satisfaction from it. More so when they finally bag the one that got away.

By this point you might be wondering if I’m implying that you should never be creative; only creating stories that follow what has already been done. No. That’s far from what I’m implying.

At their base (their Invisible Layer), Castle (a silly writer tagging along with real cops Rom-Com-Drama), Monk (an OCD private investigator Com-Drama), The Bridge (an overly serious and gory Drama), Life on Mars (a trippy “is this real life” Drama), Forever (an immortal sci-fi twist Rom-Drama), Andy Griffith (a lighthearted and wholesome Com-Drama), Miami Vice (an action-fueled, hairy-chested Drama), Police Squad! (a silliest of silly Comedy), Brooklyn Nine-Nine (an almost-too-silly-but-somehow-just-right Rom-Com), Lucifer (Satan becomes a cop Rom-Drama), and The Wire (hailed as the gold-standard of serious cop Dramas), are all identical stories. This is just a short list of the hundreds of cop-type TV shows that have graced the small screen since its invention.

Yet, I DARE you to convince anyone of the truth of this statement. All of these shows FEEL different to the audience. Why? Because, while the theme of each of these is the same (their Invisible Layer), the characters, conflicts, and events (the Physical Layer) are unique. What you must learn as a writer is how to take your “theme A”, and dress it up so it looks different from the other “theme A”s.

While I’m hammering on themes here (the Invisible Layer), to drive home how important they are, once we get to ACT III, you’ll see that events (the Physical Layer) are just as important to a story’s success. However, most new writers already know about events.

Speaking of crappy stories that no one enjoyed (if anyone watched it at all), let’s look at another good example of an Objective Driven story, Star Wars – A New Hope. I know, I know, you’ve never heard of this one. But follow me for a moment.

The thrust of this story is; there’s a giant moon-sized ball that even though it has no visible engines, can travel through space. While it has the biggest satellite dish in the history of ever that must be able to pick up every single alien cop drama show in the entire universe, that same dish doubles as a giant, planet destroying death ray! There’s this evil empire in control of said planet-destroying death ray. If someone doesn’t do something, said evil empire is going to use said death ray to kill anyone who has ever said anything.

The “Death Star” must be destroyed or life as we know it ends. Meaning, our heroes go on a wild, rollercoaster ride of an adventure to get everything they need to accomplish this goal and see justice served.

The very definition of an Objective Driven story.

Inside the Mind

of an Academic

and how it Relates to the Reader

“The reason I talk to myself is because I’m the only one whose answers I accept.”

– George Carlin 1937 – 2008

(FM & AM)

(Truth be told, this album had an amazing impact on me because I listened to it when I was 10… over and over again. This isn’t an album a 10-year-old should ever listen to, and perhaps explains a lot about my mental state.)

I want to take a step back to look at how academics think, and why it’s both absolutely crucial for a creative writer to learn and understand their teachings, and why once they learn these teaching, a creative writer should never feel bound by them.

If you were paying attention, you may have noticed something odd. (I hope you were paying attention or really, why are you wasting your time pretending to read a book? I bet it has something to do with you trying to impress someone you think is cute. Trust me, hiding behind a book to make yourself appear cooler just doesn’t work. At least, it never helped me in high school. But I digress.)

The odd thing you should’ve noticed is that I used Star Wars – A New Hope as an example for all three story types.

Here’s the catch. I read a book on “plotting” once that was written by a very well-schooled individual who made the claim that every single story ever created could be placed comfortably and squarely into one of those three story types.

If this was true, how can Star Wars comfortably and squarely fit into all three? Taking it further, Jurassic Park fits well into both the Character Driven and Event Driven story models.

Was this stuffy, overly-schooled fellow wrong?

No.

Let me counter with this: There are only three types of vehicles in the world – those that go on land, those that go on water, and those that go in the air. Q from James Bond may disagree with me on this fact, and point out both the flying car and submarine car he invented. “Sure,” the academic would say. “But those cars spend more time on land than anything else, so I’m going to place them in the “vehicle that goes on land” box. Besides, you just made those up as a plot device to get Bond where he needed to go in style.”

The reality is, academics are correct when they break down stories and fit them into nice, neat boxes. Because it’s both subjective and objective. We just saw how one story can fit into many story types. However, I could just as easily state that since Star Wars – A New Hope is more driven by internal character development, it’s a Character Driven story. That’s exactly what I did by classifying Jurassic Park as an Event Driven story.

This also brings to mind the very famous “Seven Basic Plots” bull malarkey. This theory claims that every single story ever written in the history of ever is simply a derivative of just seven plot types. There are dozens of books published out there that make similar claims, and they’re all correct and they’re all incorrect at the same time.

There are no all-encompassing plot types, nor are there any that’re wholly binding.

That being said, it’s vital to your storytelling health to listen to these academics, learn and understand how they dissect story structure, and figure out why they pigeonhole stories into the neat little boxes they favor. Their insights on story creation, and how they defined structure, fulfill those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have (the Invisible Layer). This is crucial to your story’s success. However, you should never feel limited by any of it.

It’s an academic’s job to force stories to fit into well-defined boxes. It makes teaching this crap so much easier. However, a great story is going to live “outside” of these predefined boxes.

Like my obese cat shoving his over-fed body into even the smallest of empty boxes, a great story will spill from the confines of a defined “plot type” and dare you to say it looks silly for the effort.

That’s the biggest reason for Star Wars – A New Hope’s success. It was something people had yet to see from the event side (the Physical Layer), AND it fulfilled all their built-in, subconscious expectations (the Invisible Layer). I feel this is also the reason why Jurassic Park was a better movie than Transformers. Because it gave more to the reader.

You must learn this stuff before you can use it.

The things we’ve discussed, and the things we’re about to churn through, are all concepts you need to know so you can create stories that leave the reader feeling emotionally satisfied after they read the words “The End.” Nothing more.

Just so you understand how unlimited the limiting factors of stories are, let’s discuss spaghetti.

Spaghetti

The Only Recipe a

Writer Needs to Know

“All the diversity, all the charm, and all the beauty of life are made up of light and shade.”

– Leo Tolstoy 1828 – 1910

(War and Peace)

“Spaghetti?” you ask, feeling like that came out of nowhere. “What the hell does spaghetti have to do with Dynamic Story Creation?”

“Everything.” I answer. “At least, as an analogy to the writer’s mindset. And your interruptions are getting on my last nerve, so watch yourself.”

The reality is, there are only a limited number of themes available to us storytellers. Worse for you, if you believe what you write is unique from all other stories, is the fact that much of story creation is exactly the same. The reason for this will become clear later, but for now, it’s time for another story.

I love to cook. It’s one of my favorite hobbies. One thing I enjoy about cooking is how defined it is. There are only so many meats on planet Earth. The average Joe can’t just crossbreed two unlike creatures and magically create a new type of meat. There are only so many vegetables, fruits, spices, etc. This means, that once you learn how to use these finite raw ingredients, you can do amazing things with them.

Case in point: How many different types of red tomato spaghetti sauce have you eaten in your life? I’m not talking about anything fancy here… just tomato sauce, meat, perhaps some veggies. You know, standard spaghetti sauce eaten in nearly every home in America.

Personally, I’ve had dozens. While none have ever come close to being as yummy as my grandmother’s recipe, there’ve been some I liked, and some I didn’t. While they were all created from exactly the same ingredients, none tasted the same to my palate.

This is the perfect analogy in understanding story structure and themes, and how you’ll use them.

You only have so many themes at your disposal. Yes, themes are limited. All cop shows, at their core, are about Justice being served. However, these themes (the Invisible Layer) can be prepared in nearly unlimited ways when combined with events (the Physical Layer).

Another good analogy would be to look at a guitar. There are only six strings on a guitar. Isn’t it amazing how many millions of seemingly different songs have been created from just those six strings?

This also applies to story structures. Story structures are not blueprints, to be followed to the letter. They’re guidelines, created to help you stay on course and make sure you hit all the beats you must hit to ensure the reader not only enjoys the journey (the events), but also has all those built-in, subconscious expectations fulfilled. Because, as we’ve seen, if a reader doesn’t get all those things, they’ll be telling their friends, “I don’t know why, but I didn’t like this story.”

And that’s the worst thing that can happen to a writer.

The Basic Plot Arc

“Screenplays are structure, and that’s all they are. The quality of writing—which is crucial in almost every other form of literature—is not what makes a screenplay work.”

– William Goldman 1931 –

(The Princess Bride)

Let’s take this up a notch and move to the most basic of structures that sits behind a story – the Basic Plot Arc.

Why are there such things as plot arcs in the first place? Because, as with life, things must happen in a certain order. You can’t get into a car accident until you go out, get in your car, start it up, and drive down the road. (Sure, some of you are like, “Wait… what if…?” Look, I get that a space toilet could fall on you while you’re sitting in your parked car. It’s just an analogy, go with it.)

Said another way, think about a Sherlock Holmes story that starts with Sherlock walking in and proclaiming, “I don’t feel like teaching your dumb ass today, Watson. Professor Plumb is the murderer. He killed Mrs. White in the library with the lead pipe. Can we go home now? My PS4 is calling me.”

Please understand what I’m referring to here. I’m not talking about the chronology of the events. As in, I don’t care about a story starting at the end as I just did with my Sherlock example. I’m talking about those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have, and how a story must meet those invisible reader expectations in a very specific order. When it comes to chronology of events, you can start a story at the end, the beginning, in the middle, or any number of strange ways.

Forrest Gump is a prime example of a story that starts at the end.

Arguably Tom Hanks’ best performance of his life, the story opens with a feather drifting down from the sky to land on a lonesome Forrest Gump sitting on a bench waiting for a bus. He torments any poor soul who joins him on the bench with a series of flashback stories through which we, the audience, learn about Forrest’s life. Each anecdotal story focuses on his true love, Jenny. By the time the flashbacks catch up chronologically to Forrest sitting on the bench, we (the reader) have become emotionally invested in the plight of the character, understanding the dynamics of all parties involved. Forrest finally boards the bus and travels to his true love. Jenny reveals they have a son together, which makes Forrest happy. She also informs him she’s dying, which makes Forrest sad. Jenny dies, leaving a heartbroken Gump to raise their son alone. The feather returns to the screen and slowly rises back into the heavens. (Oh, BTW, Spoilers!)

Pulp Fiction also starts at the end. The story opens and ends in that ill-fated diner that’s about to be robbed by Pumpkin and Honey Bunny, and where Vincent and Jules have that wonderful discussion over the virtues of eating bacon. Unlike Forrest Gump, however, the events that happen in between the start of the story and the end are a jumbled mess – not following any chronological order at all. Yet that doesn’t hurt the story. In fact, it’s one of the things that makes this movie so special.

You can even spill the beans right up front. Here’s the opening scene to Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet:

Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows
Do with their death bury their parents’ strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,
And the continuance of their parents’ rage,
Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

Basically, to put the above in plain English, the first fourteen lines of the play state: In Verona there lived two households, both of equal wealth. These families have been in a long and bloody rivalry, which has caused many deaths. From these families were born two kids who fell in love with each other, then committed suicide. After their deaths, the two families made reconciliations. While this didn’t relieve the pain brought on by the kids’ suicides, the two families stopped fighting and I’m telling you right up front, this story will end about as well as can be expected after the suicidal deaths of our two main characters.

I mean, that’s the entire story! Right there! In the first few seconds of the play! Talk about the original spoiler alert!

Even with this much blatant “here’s exactly what will happen in this story” it didn’t hinder Romeo and Juliet from becoming one of the most recognizable stories of all time.

Returning to my Sherlock example. No, I’m not talking about the order of the events. As I’ve shown, you can mix events up in any number of ways. I’ve also hopefully proven to you that events don’t make a story. What my Sherlock example does isn’t just start at the end, as well as spill the beans over what happened, it makes it impossible for the reader to have any connection to the story. There’s nowhere for the reader to go emotionally.

It’s the order in which the reader will be taking their emotional ride that’s set by story structure, not the chronological order of the events of your story.

While you may feel my last statement is meant to crush creativity, you’re absolutely wrong. Like spaghetti, every story, even though they all follow the same base path, is a unique dance. One that will take you years to master. However, once you do become intimately familiar with this process, you’ll create stories that readers won’t just appreciate, they’ll think your story is unlike any they have ever read before.

Luckily for all parties involved, this is a process you can start learning right now. Let’s take a look at a Basic Plot Arc.

This may make you quake in your boots, but all stories follow the exact same path. Why? Because there’s no other way to give information to the reader.

First, you must set things up. It’s simply the first thing that must be done. How else is the reader going to know what the hell is going on?

Let’s create a quick (and very terrible) story using my car crash example. At the beginning of this story, we must let the reader know what a car is, and that the protagonist has access to one. More importantly, we must show the reader why a car is important to the protagonist.

Second, we must raise the tension. The story must build, or audiences will lose interest.

Continuing with our car example, we must have the protagonist start driving the car. Things must happen or the reader will stop consuming our story. To push this further, things don’t just need to happen, the story must start defining a targeted goal that the reader will believe is something that they’ll benefit emotionally from.

In other words, we must begin using the events of our story (the Physical Layer) to layout our conflict (theme – or Invisible Layer). This doesn’t need to be the actual conflict (theme) of the story. However, it must be something the reader feels might be the actual conflict, and something that will hold their attention long enough for us to get to the actual conflict (theme).

Think about Miss Congeniality. The story opens with one minor theme that it answers in the opening scene. “Yes,” the story says. “A woman can do a man’s job.” This answer is enough to purchase the audience’s attention until we get to our major theme.

Finding Nemo does much the same thing. This movie opens in a State of Perfection – Marlin is happy with a wife and a bazillion kids. Then a barracuda comes along and eats the wife and all but one child. While this event is sad, the underlying invisible question that this minor theme asks the reader is, “What kind of parent would be created by such a tragic event?” The answer it gives in the very next scene is, “An overprotective one.” The funny thing is, most people I know are disgusted by overprotective parents. Yet, by living the event of losing your spouse and most of your children (remember, the reader is the POV character – the person experiencing whatever the POV character is experiencing), no one who saw this movie blames Marlin one bit for his transgressions as an overprotective parent. Better, this tragic event purchases our attention to find out how Marlin copes going further. Win!

Third, we must settle upon a major theme that will be answered by the physical conflict.

Let’s expand upon my Events ≠ Story theory. Let’s rewrite it to say: A story without a defined major theme that will be answered through a tangible physical conflict, isn’t a story.

This really just sets the stage for more to come once we officially dig into themes in ACT II. For now, let’s agree that no one wants to waste their time reading a series of events (The Walk). In other words, returning to our car example, we must have the protagonist get on the freeway, start picking up speed, and let the reader know that something is about to get real. Again, if we don’t, the reader is gone.

Fourth, we must overcome the defined physical conflict and in doing so, answer the question posed by the major theme. How would you feel reading a story that set up a conflict, only to reach the end without anything being resolved? Would you like that story? Would you recommend it to your friends?

Back to our car example, we must have the protagonist crash that damn car of his. A story can’t promise something and then not deliver. If it does, the reader will hate you for life.

Fifth, a story’s overcome of the physical conflict must answer the question of your major theme in a manner that gives the reader something they take away from the story.

This is why themes exist, and exactly why the Gerard Butler version of Beowulf was a flop. The writers introduced a defined physical conflict – Beowulf (the reader), is called to slay a vile monster that’s terrorizing a village. Yet in the end, the physical overcome failed to answer the major theme’s invisible question because the monster killed himself.

Readers have invested time, money, and emotions into the plight of your characters. They deserve to be paid for all that effort. Returning to our car story again, we not only need to show the reader the result of the car crash – did the protagonist die, survive, etc. – but more importantly, we need to show the reader how the protagonist’s life was changed by the crash. This will allow the reader to take the lessons our protagonist learned and apply them to their own life. While the events that led up to the crash may be interesting, what hooks the reader is how they can relate what the protagonist learned to their own personal life. (Theme + Answered = Happy Reader.)

To continue to beat that poor, hapless mule; readers don’t care about the how or the what, they care about the why and the effect. For it’s the why and the effect the writer uses to answer their theme which the reader will then apply to their own life.

Circling back around. Why do all stories need to follow the same base path? Because a story must be structured in a way that meets all the built-in, subconscious expectations readers have in a specific order so the reader to cares about the story.

The Basic Plot Arc is simply a byproduct of what this creates. It’s the proverbial chicken or the egg. Which came first, the basic plot arc which creates all stories, or all stories which created the basic plot arc in the first place?

Let’s put it all together and look at the Basic Plot Arc one more time.

A Basic Scene Arc

“Every scene should be able to answer three questions: Who wants what from whom? What happens if they don’t get it? Why now?”

– David Mamet 1947 –

(Hannibal & The Untouchables)

Drilling down further, let’s go into what a Basic Scene arc should look like. Because, a scene is essentially one event.

In our horrible car story example, one scene would be us showing the reader the protagonist has access to a car. Another scene would be the protagonist getting into the car and driving. Another scene would be the highway scene, and letting the reader know that cars can be dangerous. This would be followed by the accident scene, and we’d conclude with a scene of what happened after the accident.

(As a side note, and before some story Nazi goes medieval on my ass over this last paragraph, I get that none of these events would really count as full scenes. Scenes need meat, which we’ll get into in ACT III. For now, let’s just stick with my previous statement: it’s just an analogy, go with it.)

Setting aside the fact that these events really are too small to be considered full scenes, in our little fictitious story we have five scenes. However, this doesn’t mean we can simply write the events that happen within these five scenes and call it a story. That would simply produce a finished product that’s a series of events. (Events ≠ Story I.E. The Walk.) Still, let’s look at a Basic Scene Arc.

Hopefully you’re sharp enough to notice that a Basic Scene Arc looks pretty much exactly like a Basic Plot Arc. And hopefully, the beginning of an epiphany is creeping in your mind.

In every step of our story (I.E., the events that form the Physical Layer), we’re going to set things up, raise the tension to a defined conflict, resolve the conflict, and then have an aftermath. Normally, for a scene, this aftermath will include a “hook” that will create a desire within the reader to read the next scene.

However, each scene must be written with the same mantra as the entire book. Come on, say it with me. “It’s. All. About. The. Reader.”

If you follow this rule, you’ll ensure that each scene has an emotional impact upon the reader. Each scene will build upon the last, and leave the reader feeling satisfied.

I don’t want you to misunderstand what I’m saying about “leaving a reader feeling satisfied.” Let’s go back to my Finding Nemo example. I doubt very many people were happy after the opening scene showed mommy and nearly all her children becoming lunch.

However, the family’s death scene still left us satisfied, just not in the “I’m happy” kind of way. Emotional satisfaction doesn’t mean the reader is left feeling happy at the end of every scene. On the contrary. Some scenes are going to leave them sad. Others will leave them angry, excited, terrified, shocked, giddy, etc. What I mean is that every scene must leave the reader with the desire to continue to the next scene while also feeding the major theme. Looking at just the Physical Layer, any scene can end with either something good happening for the hero, or something bad.

I’d say this is the main thing that separates a Scene Arc from a Plot Arc – how they can end. With a Plot Arc, you’ll normally end things with the POV character overcoming the conflict in some way that’s pleasing to the reader. Returning to our car example, while the reader does expect our protagonist to crash his car, the reader will be bummed out if the protagonist actually dies. It’s the proverbial “Happy Ending” that most readers want.

Certainly, you can have a story end on a sour note. I mean, the movie Seven didn’t have a feel-good ending. (“What’s in the box!”) Yet Seven was a fantastic movie.

However, giving the reader an “unhappy” ending increases the odds of leaving the reader feeling unfulfilled. Stories that end with the heroes losing are incredibly difficult to pull off. These are called Tragedies. I recommend you attempt these only after you’ve mastered the craft of story creation.

Seriously, think about Shakespeare, a man known for such amazing Tragedies as Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet. Yet he had “published” a half-dozen stories before he tackled his first Tragedy. (I say “published” because I understand these were actually plays performed live. Still, my analogy holds.) It was not until he had four years of professional storytelling under his belt that he tackled his first tragedy, Titus Andronicus.

When the hero loses at the end of the story, it means there’s no chance for redemption. The story is over, after all. For a scene, however, all bets are off. Scenes can end with the hero winning or losing. Because, not only is that life, it helps build the story’s connection to the reader. We’re all tragic creatures, after all. Readers demand that our heroes fail… at least some…

Still, for our discussion here, when a POV character loses during a scene, it’s simply a setback. The story is going to continue, so the reader understands that this isn’t the end.

Think about the biblical story of Samson and Delilah. Samson is magically strong – a gift from God. He falls in love with Delilah, but that bitch is really working for the enemy. When he “fails” in a scene and tells her the secret of his strength, this doesn’t end the story. Sure, he loses his strength, is captured and put into bondage, and even has his eyes gouged out! Still, the story continues… it was simply a setback for him. A blindingly painful setback, to be sure. (Pun intended.)

What you should really be concentrating on is the fact that had Samson not failed, he wouldn’t have been put into a situation where he could kill all the leaders of the enemy. In reality, while he did “fail” in one scene, that failure was the reason he was able to “succeed” in the end. This is the way most fails the hero experiences tend to go – had they not failed (here), they wouldn’t have succeeded in the end.

Without going into further detail, I’ll say this: Everything in your story must have value to the major theme, or it must be cut.

(Yes, I verbed “Tom Bombadil” as that scene is the epitome of a worthless scene.)

Let’s take this a step further and put it all together.

As you can see, the plot of a story is created by a series of scenes (the events of the Physical Layer). Each scene individually does what the plot as a whole accomplishes – either letting the reader know what the major theme’s question is, or answer the major theme’s question. It’s through this series of interlocking, and ever increasing processes that we writers ensure we create a story that will resonate with readers, leaving them emotionally fulfilled by the end. To take this and apply it to the Invisible Layer, the major theme of a story asks a defined question, and then the physical events of the story answer that question through a overcome of the defined conflict.

Putting it all Together

In this chapter, I dug deeper into the code behind stories, and gave you some examples of basic story structures. While these are not things you’ll physically use to create your stories, they’re things that will help mold your mindset on how stories are created, and prep you for digging into that mystical Invisible Layer once we get to ACT II.

While academics are quite possibly mad, the service they provide us storytellers is invaluable. For it shows us the invisible elements behind why stories are successful.

We’ve begun to expand upon why events are not a story, and to understand that it’s the answering of the question posed by the major theme where the true value is found for the reader.

We’ve also started to realize that these invisible elements are not unlimited, but this doesn’t frighten us, for we know how to make spaghetti. We know that while these elements may be finite, there’s an unlimited way they can be mixed.

Chapter Four

Loose Ends

“It ain’t whatcha write, it’s the way atcha write it.”

– Jack Kerouac 1922 – 1969

(On the Road)

Two Types of Writers

Pantsers and Plotters

“If you do enough planning before you start to write, there’s no way you can have writer’s block. I do a complete chapter by chapter outline.”

– R.L. Stine 1943 –

(Goosebumps)

“Outlines are the last resource of bad fiction writers who wish to God they were writing masters’ theses.”

– Stephen King 1947 –

(On Writing)

One of the final things you need to understand before we get into the thick of things is what “type” of story creator you are. The reality is, there are only two types of writers in this world – Pantsers and Plotters.

Pantsers are writers who basically sit down and write by the seat of their pants. They get an idea, or some character moves into their head, or they write a small outline or summary, and then they write.

There are some advantages to being a Pantser. Unfortunately, there are some serious disadvantages as well. The advantage is, Pantsers tend to write stories faster than Plotters. It takes them very little time to prepare themselves before they dive into the writing process. Seriously though, the disadvantages Pantsers are afflicted with can utterly overshadow any and all advantages.

Worse, a writer without the proper skill level who tries to Pants a story tend to write themselves into a hole from which there’s no escape.

When I discuss this topic during a live class I’ll ask, “By show of hands, how many people here have gotten what they thought was an amazing idea for a story, sat down excited as hell, and gleefully began grinding it out, only to find yourself unable to connect the ideas in the story, ending up with a great idea for a story, but a story that was never finished?”

Every time I ask this, about half the audience will raise their hands. I thank them for their honesty, and call the rest of those in attendance bold-faced liars who should be ashamed of themselves.

Because we’ve all been there.

Why? As with all aspects of writing, story creation isn’t just a talent – it’s a skill. As we’ve already discussed, skills take time to develop. Years, in fact.

If you’d have raised your hand to my inquiry, then guess what? You don’t have the skills you need to be a Pantser. So stop trying. It’s probably your biggest reason for failing to pen the words, “The End.”

Weak writers who try and Pants a story tend to create flat, 2-D characters, weak story hooks, and worst of all, plot holes. Pantsing makes it harder to lace in subplots, which leads to weaker endings, or worse, no ending at all. However, the biggest sin committed by Pantsers with their lack of ability is it means they rarely spend any time thinking about that Invisible Layer, the theme. As I’ve hopefully already convinced you, the theme is the story. If you have not developed a well-defined theme, you have not developed a story.

If you were honest and raised your hand, know that you need to start as a Plotter. Perhaps when you gain enough skill, you can slide to being more of a Pantser. For now, my friend, welcome to the dark side.

Plotters, as I’ve alluded to, spend more time front-loading the creation process before they actually sit down to write the story. Yes, this is more time-consuming, but it can lead to more vibrant, multi-dimensional characters, layers of subplots, and a stronger ending. Best of all, it gives you ample time to ponder that Invisible Layer, your themes, and ensure the events of your story answer the questions posed by those themes.

I don’t want you to think being a Plotter is all benefit and no detriments. There are three huge pitfalls Plotters must remain vigilante against. These might also be the reasons Stephen King is so vehemently against Plotters.

One, if you plan everything out, and then don’t allow for any changes once you step into the creation process, your story may end up feeling forced or stiff.

If you’ve not guessed by now, I’m a heavy plotter. However, while I do spend gobs of time pre-planning every single aspect of my story before I begin writing, once I start writing, all bets are off. I allow the Muse to take control and do whatever she wants. If she feels my story needs to head in a direction I haven’t planned for, I let it happen. I can then go back and re-plot if needed. However, I always let my Muse do her job. It’s why my stories feel so organic.

Second, and perhaps the biggest obstacle many Plotters struggle to overcome, is never leaving the plotting stage so they can begin the writing stage.

Look, I get it. If you never start writing the actual book, that book can never be called a failure. This has doomed many a wannabe writer. But you must move into the writing stage to end up with a completed book.

On the bright side, by learning the tools of Dynamic Story Creation, you’ll have what you need to know when your plotting time is over, and when it’s time to start writing.

Third – and I really feel this is just a copout but I’m including it for completeness – many people who are against Plotting feel that if they spend time plotting out their book, they’ll lose interest and not want to write the book because they already know how it ends. (Read this next bit by putting as much overly-exaggerated sarcasm as you can into my voice.) “Oh, my heavens no! Tell me it isn’t so! Tell me writing a novel won’t feel like work! It must be all sunshine and roses or I just don’t think I could go on!”

The fact remains, either you have the skill to be a Pantser or you don’t. Obviously, Stephen King has the skill. If you don’t have the skill, you’ll never create a story that’s worth a crap if you continue to be a Pantser.

However, being a Plotter doesn’t give you this skill either. It simply slows you down, giving you time to remember what you need to include to fulfill all those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have.

There’s a twist to this topic. Unlike what most writers in this industry want you to believe, no one is all Pantser or all Plotter. The reality is, this isn’t two teams, two sides, pitted against each other. This is instead, a sliding scale. Your task at this point is to discover not which “side” you’re on, but where you fall within the scale.

For me, it depends on what I’m writing. If I’m writing something short, a novella or a short story, I tend to be much more of a Pantser. This has simply come with effort, practice, and understanding the craft. I know what a story must accomplish, both through its events (the Physical Layer) and needing to fulfil those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have (the Invisible Layer). If the end of the journey is a mere four- or ten-thousand words down the line, a small outline or synopsis is usually all I need to ensure I get to the end in a way that will be emotionally satisfying for the reader.

However, for my longer projects, I tend to be a heavy Plotter. I mean, the prologue of the book I’m currently writing has elements in it the reader won’t hear of again until the fourth book of the saga. You can’t “Pants” that kind of foreshadowing. Pulling off things that complex takes planning. At least for me.

In the end, you simply need to be honest with yourself, and figure out what type of writer you are. Your stories will thank you for it.

Can Structure

Limit Creativity?

“A blank piece of paper is God’s way of telling us how hard it is to be God.”

– Sidney Sheldon 1917 – 2007

(I Dream of Jeannie)

If I’ve not alleviated your fears about learning story structure hurting your creativity as of yet, let’s end this first ACT by tackling the number one objection new writers have against learning about plotting, its theory, and all the defined structures that exist as “templates” for story creation.

It amazes me how many new writers I meet who are opposed to the idea of learning the craft of writing. (Cough… Serial Killer… Cough.) It’s obvious to me that you’re not one of these people. You are, after all, reading this book. If you were one of “those” people, my jabs at your artistic pride would’ve long ago sent you racing to Amazon to give this book a one-star rating so you could rant about how stupid I am. However, I still feel the need to prove to you why learning the craft is a good idea.

The biggest reason I’m given for not learning the craft is that a lot of new writers believe that learning story structure will limit their creativity.

While I wholeheartedly disagree with this statement, let’s do an experiment to see if we can find any validity behind the opinions of these poor, misguided miscreants.

First, I want you to come up with twelve unique story element ideas. Seriously. Right now. Come up with twelve individual ideas that will be a part of a story. Go ahead, I’ll wait. You only have two minutes, and I’m timing you.

Come on! It’s a blank page. The sky’s the limit. Nothing is hindering your creativity. Give me twelve unique story element ideas right now. The clock is ticking. Don’t make me wait.

1) ____________________________________________

2) ____________________________________________

3) ____________________________________________

4) ____________________________________________

5) ____________________________________________

6) ____________________________________________

7) ____________________________________________

8) ____________________________________________

9) ____________________________________________

10)____________________________________________

11)____________________________________________

12)____________________________________________

If you’re like most, you can come up with a few ideas pretty easily. Unfortunately, the more you try to force your brain to think of more and more different ideas on the same topic, the more difficult it becomes. Did you get all twelve that quickly? Since we’re not together and your answer has no actual effect on the words I’m writing, I’ll go with “no.” Let’s take a different approach.

In ACT III we’ll be tackling the topic of the Hero’s Journey. The Hero’s Journey is a plot structure coined by a man named Joseph Campbell. Campbell was a college professor who spent his life studying story structure. If you don’t know who he was, I highly recommend you pick up a copy of his Hero with 1,000 faces. This is an incredibly dry and boring book to read, but it’s chock-a-block full of amazing information if you can stay awake long enough to finish reading it.

I love the Hero’s Journey. Mostly because it fits so well into what I do for a living. Also because it’s one structure that’s hotly debated in the realm of writers. If you haven’t noticed, I do so enjoy being the stirrer of the shit-pot. On one side, many believe it’s quite possibly the best story structure ever created. On the other, people say it pigeonholes a writer into creating stories in a very cliché manner – limiting their creativity. You can probably guess which side I’m on.

For our little experiment here, all you really need to know is there are four major parts to the Hero’s Journey – the Setup, Defining the Conflict, Gaining what’s needed to Overcome the Conflict, and Overcoming said Conflict.

Going back to this little experiment of ours, I want you to come up with three character ideas – as in, what traits will your character have? Three ideas for conflicts that will happen to this character – as in, what’s the villain doing? Three ideas for things that this character will need to gain to overcome those conflicts – as in, what does your hero need to defeat your villain. Finally, three lessons the character will learn from this journey once they overcome the conflict.

Character

1)____________________________________________

2)____________________________________________

3)____________________________________________

Conflict

1)____________________________________________

2)____________________________________________

3)____________________________________________

Things to Gain

1)____________________________________________

2)____________________________________________

3)____________________________________________

Lessons Learned

1)____________________________________________

2)____________________________________________

3)____________________________________________

If you’re like me, you should find it much easier to come up with these twelve ideas, as opposed to the twelve with no direction at all. Staring at a blank page is terrifying.

Now that we’ve finished our little experiment let’s ask the question again. Do you feel it was easier to be creative while staring at a blank sheet of paper, when the sky was the limit and nothing was impeding your creativity? Or did you find things fell into place a bit faster when you were given some structure first?

To really put the nail in the myth of whether learning structure will hinder your creativity, do you feel that the structure I gave you limited your ideas in any way?

Of course not!

By learning story structure and theory, your imagination becomes stimulated. You’ll begin to see entirely new levels of storytelling, and discover that your stories become rich and dynamic creations of art readers will want to read time and again.

However, learning Dynamic Story Creation goes so much deeper than simply helping the writer become more creative. It also helps sell your stories to readers. Because the more you understand Dynamic Story Creation, the better your stories will be received by readers. Not only readers who will continue to pay you money, but readers who will tell all their friends what a wonderful writer you are, spreading the virtues of reading your stories to the four corners of this land.

Oh, and to answer the one unanswered question from the very beginning of the Introduction – Pleasing the reader and earning their return business, my friend, is how you become a full-time writer. I told you I always get to my point… eventually…

Gotta love circular writing.

Putting it all Together

While this chapter may not feel it added much to our discussion, understanding yourself as a writer is vital to your success.

By understanding how you’re going to be comfortable approaching the mechanics of story creation, you increase your odds of actually reaching the end of a project. The cold hard truth is; if you never reach the end, you’ll never know if you can succeed in this crazy industry or not.

ACT II

The Invisible Layer

“The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.”

– A quote from The Way of Kings

by Brandon Sanderson 1975 –

(Mistborn)

All righty then. You’ve finally arrived. The Invisible Layer. Feelin’ good? Feelin’ ready? I hope so, because Kansas is going bye-bye.

You should now have a good understanding of the mindset you need to produce stories readers will want to read, as well as a very basic idea of what the Physical Layer is going to take care of during the story. Let’s now remove the flesh, and take an in depth look at that Invisible Layer I’ve been hinting at since page one – the soul of a story… its message.

I’ll warn you, this is where things start to get heavy, more technically and intellectually inclined. But fear not, fair traveler. I’ll continue to amuse you with my antics, even as we head into the boring waters of the stuffy academic. (Or annoy you, if you find my antics infuriating. Either way, it’s a win for me. Ha!)

In ACT II of our journey, we’ll be dissecting ways to fulfill all those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have. This is a layer of the story that’s consumed by the reader, but one in which the writer doesn’t actually write. You’ll use no words to create this Invisible Layer, and yet it’ll exist within the pages of your story as surely as gravity holds us to this planet.

How? This will become more clear in ACT III, but a little illumination on this mystical topic would be good for you at this point.

I stated in the Read Me section that I see story creation as having three layers – a writer’s mindset of what their job will entail, the Invisible Layer, and the Physical Layer. Obviously, your mindset isn’t going to be in your story. Your mindset is important so you are ready to learn. I really just told you this was a part of story creation so you’d read ACT I. You see, I’m on a crusade to change the approach new writers take when writing stories. Arrogant, I know. Still, I want to show all those new writers who pour into this market on a daily basis that story creation is a skill that takes years to master, and not some divine right bestowed upon them because they can speak English or have read a novel or three. It’s a selfish war – one which I hope will produce writers who can create better stories than some of the garbage this industry has been shitting out over the past few decades. Please, don’t hate me for my deception. You needed the information presented in ACT I so you’d be receptive to the information contained in the remainder of this book. Since I need more good books to read, this is a win-win for both of us.

And that’s the closest thing to an apology I’ll give concerning my ruse.

In reality, a story has only two layers – the Invisible Layer and the Physical Layer.

In this ACT, we’ll be looking at the Invisible Layer. The things you give to the reader through the events of your story (the Physical Layer), but things that aren’t the events of your story. In ACT III we’ll look at the Physical Layer – the actual things your reader will read (characters, dialogue, events, conflicts, etc.) through which they’ll unknowingly consume the Invisible Layer.

This is a huge distinction to grasp, and while I’ve said many times “the theme is all that matters,” the truth is, both the theme and the physical elements of a story are equally important.

To that end, let’s begin looking at story code.

Chapter Five

The Code Behind

Dynamic Story Creation

“The writer who develops a beautiful style, but has nothing to say, represents a kind of arrested esthetic development; he is like a pianist who acquires a brilliant technique by playing finger-exercises, but never gives a concert.”

– Ayn Rand 1905 – 1982

(Atlas Shrugged)

Genre & Setting

“Fantasy is my favorite genre for reading and writing. We have more options than anyone else, and the best props and special effects. That means if you want to write a fantasy story with Norse gods, sentient robots, and telepathic dinosaurs, you can do just that. Want to throw in a vampire and a lesbian unicorn while you’re at it? Go ahead.”

– Patrick Rothfuss 1973 –

(The Name of the Wind)

I won’t spend a ton of time on these topics, but you do need to understand why they’re important. The reality is, you must know both your genre and your setting for two major reasons.

One, the setting and genre become the writer’s toolbox. These create the pool from which a writer generates the events and scenes of your Physical Layer. I.E., if you’re writing fantasy, you can use magic as a plot device. If you’re not writing fantasy, you can’t use magic as a plot device. If you’re setting your story in space with alien races that have spaceships, you can use those things. If you’re not setting your story in space with alien races that have spaceships, you can’t use those things.

I know this sounds simplistic. I’m simply driving home the fact that your genre and setting dictate much of what you can use in your story. Spending a few brain cells thinking about these before you start feverishly writing will go a long way with helping you create your story.

Two, this is an industry about selling books. Books that must fit onto shelves. Shelves that must have a sign above them telling customers what type of books are below. If you want to have any hope whatsoever of selling a project to this industry, you must know exactly where your book will fit.

Better, if you really want to create a book you can sell to the big publishers, you need to pick one, and stick with it. I can’t tell you how many books I know that were turned down by publishers simply because they couldn’t figure out which shelf it would sit on. This may sound crazy, but that’s this industry.

Themes and Subjects Are Not the Same

“Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.”

– E.L. Doctorow 1931 – 2015

(Billy Bathgate)

Continuing with the basics, in the literary realm, there are two terms which often get confused – themes and subjects.

Where the theme is the human idea the author wants the reader to contemplate (the Invisible Layer), the subject is the foundation of the story (the Physical Layer).

Take a story that’s going to be set on the battlefields of World War II. This was a bloody and terrible chapter in human history. However, while the subject of this story will be war, that doesn’t mean its theme has to be about war.

A story set during WWII could very easily have a theme about the terrors of war, or even the glories of war – the subject would most certainly enhance either of these themes. However, it could just as easily be a love story, a revenge story, a story with compassion as its theme, or any number of different themes.

I normally spend very little time on my subject. Typically, the idea I have for a story, or the company who hires me to write a story for them, dictates what the subject of my story is going to be. Not always. Sometimes I do spend time considering different subjects, and how they’ll affect my themes. As with this WWII example, your subject can greatly enhance the theme. Having a war theme underneath a war subject is obviously very handy. However, having a theme and a subject that are in conflict with each other isn’t a bad thing either.

Think of Casablanca – an amazing love story. Had this movie not had the subject of war, being set during WWII, would it have been so amazing? I mean, the rollercoaster ride Ilsa and Rick have, her leaving him for another man in Paris because she believed it would help the war effort, Rick’s fleeing to Casablanca and opening the bar, her sudden return and all the emotions that came with it, are all fallout from the subject of war. This subject has a dramatic impact on how our hero overcomes the conflict of the story, and sacrifices (another theme) the only woman he’s ever loved because he comes to realize it’s the only honorable thing to do (another theme).

The subject makes all the above possible in a very believable way, which is what the reader needs to remain engaged in the story. Sure, Casablanca is a love story set during war, but it’s in part because of said war that the love story is so compelling.

The gist is, while the subject isn’t necessarily tied to your theme, it can play a huge role in your theme’s success with the audience. If you’re starting a new story that’s not locked into anything, I recommend you think about how your subject is going to impact your theme. Perhaps even play with a few different subjects, and see how each will influence your themes. In other words, by changing the setting, genre, and subject of your story, you change what events the Physical Layer has that you can use to tell your story.

In my Casablanca example, if it wasn’t set during the war, then war couldn’t have been used as the catalyst to force the character’s separation. The writer would’ve needed to find something else to use as the catalyst to force them apart. Would this new catalyst have been as interesting? Compelling? Believable? Relatable? Who knows. That’s why you play with them first.

Theme

“To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme.”

– Herman Melville 1819 – 1891

(Moby Dick)

Themes are the soul of the rented mule we’ve been kicking the crap out of since this journey began. (I’m starting to feel a bit sorry for oh, who am I kidding. Let’s kick that beast one more time!) The theme is what fulfills all those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have, that once fulfilled, cause them to declare your story enjoyable. (Kick!)

The theme in a story is its underlying message, or its “big idea.” In other words: What critical belief/idea about life do you want the reader to consider, contemplate, face, struggle with, come to terms with, realize, etc.?

This belief/idea should transcend cultural barriers. It should be universal in nature so it touches on the human experience, regardless of race, culture, religion, sex, or language. It’s what your story means, and yes, a story can have more than one theme. In fact, the best stories have several themes, called major and minor themes, all working in conjunction to ensure the emotional satisfaction of the reader.

Said another way, the theme is the behind-the-events meaning of your story. It’s what the reader is going to walk away with once the story has ended. The hope is, since the reader is an extension of the POV character, and the POV character has learned something through the events of your story, the reader will be able to apply what they have learned to their own lives. It’s the human element. The intangible emotional satisfaction the reader takes away and uses to better themselves.

When an academic says, “All successful stories have solid themes.” what they’re really saying is, “All stories are about the reader.”

To that end, if you’ve not sat down and spent some serious brain cells on what messages you’re trying to convey through your story, then you’ve not actually created a story at all. (More hard pills to swallow.) You’ve created a series of events (The Walk), and have failed as a writer. I award you no points for your efforts, and may God have mercy on your soul.

Many writers misunderstand what a theme is. I’ve heard more times than I can count, “A theme is a moral message.”

While this statement does hit the target, it’s not a bull’s-eye.

It’s true that themes are often moral messages. Honor triumphs over cheating, greed shall be your downfall, that sort of thing. Basically, we’re teaching morality to the reader through the events of our story. Don’t misunderstand me here. I’m not saying the hero must “win” to teach a moral lesson. (More on this in a moment.)

However, don’t fall into the trap of thinking all themes must be about morals. Themes can be so much more.

The theme is the central idea that the writer is trying to get the reader to think about, so themes can also be a testimony of the human condition, or a truth of human behavior, etc.

Think back to my “meteorite destroying the Earth” examples. Sure, there can be moral themes within those stories. They could also have themes about how humans behave when put into the worst possible situation. A theme of this ilk could show both sides of the human condition. As in, the events (the Physical Layer) will show characters who fall into darkness, abandoning all morals to look out only for themselves, as well as characters who rise above, showing even in the face of hopelessness, we humans can be pretty frickin’ awesome. It’ll be through this dichotomy in which the reader will see the contrast between the two, and be forced to contemplate where they personally would fall.

This is one of the reasons post-apocalyptic stories are all the rage these days. They pose the question, “What type of human would you be if all law disappeared?”

Themes can also be about abstract principles, such as, you must sacrifice for true love. Or that hope can keep you going against the odds. Or perhaps relying on hope too much can be the final nail in your coffin. It could also show how each of us are hunted by death from the moment we’re born.

While not moral lessons, these themes produce intriguing questions for the reader to ponder. How the story answers these questions will dictate how the reader will be affected by the story. (More on this in a moment.)

While themes are complicated creatures, if we chop them up into digestible bits, you should be able to wrap your mind around them.

How do you eat an elephant? One bloody spoonful at a time.

At the very least, by the end of ACT II you should be able to appreciate both the complexity of how themes affect the reader, as well as the skill level you’ll need to achieve before you can deploy themes effectively. (Hard pill. Years to master this crap. Swallow it. Swallow it!)

Theme

Their Function

“When I function in only one mode or the other, I am denying half myself, half my potential.”

– Dean Koontz 1945 –

(Watchers)

Themes have two very important functions – one for the reader, and one for the writer.

I’ve hammered on the importance of a theme in regards to the reader, so (kick) I’ll just reiterate: A theme is the lesson the reader will take away from the story and apply to their own lives.

However, what about you, the writer? Is the theme just more work for you without any reciprocation? No. If you’ve learned anything about me by reading this book, you should know I’m insane… oh, wait… no… I mean… I don’t do anything unless it has value to me as well. Themes are more valuable to me than sanity, because they save me time, allowing me to hold on to the last shreds of my lucidity instead of writing scenes that will end up being cut. Because to me, the very definition of insanity is cutting anything that I’ve already written.

Themes help the writer write a story that’s tight, concise, and action-packed. By defining the questions of your themes (the Invisible Layer) before you begin working on the events that will be in your story (the Physical Layer), you’ll be able to determine what events your story needs to fulfill its mission of pleasing the reader, and what’s bloated fluff that your story doesn’t need. This saves you time by not writing worthless chapters or scenes.

A great rule of thumb is to ask myself, “Mr. Amazingly Dynamic, if I remove this chapter from my story, is my story broken?”

If my answer to myself is, “Yes, if you remove this chapter the story is broken.” then the chapter will remain a part of the story. If my answer to myself is, “No, this chapter doesn’t add anything to the major theme.” then the chapter is cut and never written. It’s as simple as that.

(As a side note, I don’t actually refer to myself as Mr. Amazingly Dynamic… that would be crazy. I shorten it to MAD.)

In today’s publishing world, you can have no waste. Publishers don’t want to spend their money printing pages that don’t advance the story, and readers don’t want to read that crap anyway.

I took a jab at The Lord of the Rings a while ago with the comment that I “verbed” the word “Tom Bombadil.” While this may send a gaggle of geeks hunting me down with torches and pitchforks, I stand by this statement.

The scene in which we meet Tom Bombadil is absolutely worthless, and should never have been allowed to be published in the story. Why? Because it does nothing FOR the story. Nothing happens in this scene that affects the story or the conflict, it teaches nothing to the characters (so it teaches nothing to the readers), and once the event passes, it’s never again revisited. Worse, it doesn’t even have the same feel as the rest of the book! It’s like Tolkien chopped a chapter out of a completely different story and just shoved it into The Lord of the Rings on a whim.

Don’t give me that look! Even Tolkien himself said Bombadil was in the book for no real reason he could explain. He said, and I quote, “Tom Bombadil is not an important person — to the narrative. I suppose he has some importance as a ‘comment.’ I mean, I do not really write like that: he is just an invention and he represents something that I feel important, though I would not be prepared to analyze the feeling precisely.”

Inevitably, every time I say something like this about an iconic book or author from the past, someone responds with, “But that book (or author) created the fantasy genre (or whatever)! I should write just like that!... Shouldn’t I?”

Yes, The Lord of the Rings defined a genre. No, you shouldn’t write that way. It was published in 1954 when there was no such thing as a fantasy genre, and that’s how it defined a genre. When you create your time machine, you can take your book filled with Tom Bamdadils and publish it somewhere in the distant past, and then you’ll be a genre definer. If you plan to publish a book in today’s market, however, you simply can’t get away with something like this. So stop trying.

If the answer is “yes,” then you write the chapter. If the answer is “no,” you either delete the offending chapter/scene, or at the very least, revise it so it moves your narrative along. Either way, time and sanity saved.

This will become more clear once we delve into the Physical Layer in ACT III. For now, just take my word on this.

Theme

The Invisible Element

“Invisible threads are the strongest ties.”

– Friedrich Nietzsche 1844 – 1900

(Beyond Good and Evil)

Themes are delicate things. If you’re too heavy-handed with them, they’ll feel forced or preachy, and ruin the story. Too vague, and the reader won’t get the emotional fulfillment they need to deem your story worthy of their time. Balanced perfectly – through the right emphasis of character development, event situations, and the author’s choice of words – themes become the key ingredient to a great story.

This means you can’t simply come out and slap the reader in the face with your theme. For so many reasons.

In addition to being preachy, which no one likes, the greatest problem incurred from being too open with the question of your theme is that you’ll literally kill your story.

Think back to the first fourteen lines of Romeo and Juliet. The Bard flat out tells the audience that the two main characters are going to commit suicide. Why doesn’t this ruin the story? Because their suicide isn’t the story. Their suicide is simply an event that happens within the story. As we now know, events ≠ story.

The story of Romeo and Juliet (the theme) is about love and hate. Or more accurately, about which is stronger, love or hate. Romeo says as much at the beginning of the play with the line, “Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love.”

Knowing the two main characters are going to eventually commit suicide is irrelevant. In reality, it spoils nothing.

However, you can never come right out and directly ask your reader these questions.

You must be subtle.

Theme

A Fact within the Story

“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.”

– Arthur Conan Doyle 1859 – 1930

(Sherlock Holmes)

One of the hardest concepts for new writers to wrap their brains around concerning themes is that a theme must be fact within the story. In understanding this, and using themes in this manner, you help your theme remain invisible to the reader.

Please understand me here, this is vital. I’m not saying a theme must be fact. For example, think about a story where the theme states, “Good always triumphs over Evil.” We all know this isn’t true. Bad people win in real life all the time.

However, in the world of your story, the theme MUST be FACT. If you break this rule, you break your story.

As an example, let’s say you want to write a story that proves “Good always triumphs over evil.” If this is the theme your story is going to prove, that Good wins over Evil, what would happen if your story ended with evil winning? Would the theme hold? Of course not. Your story just showed that evil won.

This is obvious with this simple theme example. However, themes are normally more complex. The more complex they are, the easier they are to break without noticing. You must stay vigilant against this happening or it’ll do the same damage as having Evil win in a “Good always wins” story.

Another example is to think about the cop dramas I mentioned back in the Event Driven section of ACT I, and how they’re the exact same at their core. They all have the theme of “Justice will Prevail.” What do you think would happen if we created a cop show that mimicked real life? In 2012, it was estimated that only 64% of all homicides were solved. How successful do you think a cop show would be if nearly half the episodes it aired ended with the murder going unsolved? Do you think millions of people would tune in each week only to be left emotionally unfulfilled when the cops failed to bag their bad guy? I don’t. I’m certain this show would be an abysmal failure. While it would be a mirror image of real life, real life isn’t what people want from their entertainment.

To that end, keep in mind that in regards to your theme, it’s a fact within the story. Circling back around to our very simple example: Within the story it’s a fact: Good always triumphs over evil.

Same with cop shows. The audience (the reader) is there for the emotional satisfaction of watching justice being served. While it’s absolutely preposterous to think that any detective, no matter how smart, can solve every single murder they investigate, that fact is irrelevant. Cop dramas must show that “Justice is Served” if they want to please their audiences.

Theme

The Author’s Belief

“You never know how much you really believe anything until its truth or falsehood becomes a matter of life and death to you.”

– C.S. Lewis 1898 – 1963

(The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe)

Adding to the discussion of themes being a fact within the story, it’s important to understand how the author’s attitude toward the validity of what they’re trying to prove will have upon the story.

The reality is, a writer isn’t required to believe in the theme of the story. They simply need to make sure the characters within the story believe it, and that the theme is written as fact throughout the story. To do otherwise is to contradict the theme and ruin the message, which will break your story.

However, a word of caution here. It’s way easier for a writer to pour their soul into a story that’s going to prove something the writer believes. This is just human nature. When picking the themes for your story, you need to take into account your own personal belief structure.

Theme

The Reader’s Belief

“We who make stories know that we tell lies for a living. But they are good lies that say true things, and we owe it to our readers to build them as best we can.”

– Neil Gaiman 1960 –

(Sandman)

The last point, however, doesn’t hold true for the reader. A reader may, or may not, believe in your theme. Either way, if you do your job well, it’ll be a win-win for the story.

If the reader agrees in your theme, they walk away feeling good about themselves and their opinions on life. Your story has given validation to their belief. These stories tend to be the better sellers, because as we discussed in ACT I, readers read for emotional fulfillment. Leaving the reader feeling good about their own personal beliefs is one way to help them appreciate your story.

If the reader disagrees, this simply strengthens their own beliefs, showing them they’re on the opposite side from your story. Which still means they walk away feeling good about themselves and their opinions on life. Be careful when crafting these types of stories. It’s way more difficult to create a story that is opposite the reader’s belief structure and still fulfill their built-in, subconscious expectations.

The biggest failure is to omit a theme. Meaning the reader has nothing to agree or disagree with. Which equates to them feeling nothing at the end of your story.

Notice the key to all of these statements is that the reader must walk away feeling something. (You can say my mantra now if you wish, but I’ve beaten that mule to death, so it has lost its fun. But that’s no reason for you to stop saying it!)

Theme

The Universal Element

“Suddenly we could all hear, we could all listen, and instead of being caught up in our finite little balls of bullshit, we could all become players in that great universal orchestra again.”

– A quote from Scar Tissue

by Anthony Kiedis 1962 –

(Red Hot Chili Peppers)

I already stated themes must be universal, but I want to take a moment to stress this fact, because it’s incredibly important for story creators to understand.

For a theme to be effective, it must be something that has only one requirement – the reader must have been born human.

The reality is, 100% of your readers will be human. Unfortunately, that’s the only fact you’ll know about these people. They could be male or female. Of any skin color, from any nation. They could be young or old, rich or poor, religious or not, evil or have a good heart. You’ll never know any other details outside of them being born on planet Earth.

While this may seem like a stupid thing to discuss, it’s important because it limits you, when it comes to themes, at least.

It means that if you use a theme that’s targeted to anything specific such as race, or what-have-you, you limit your audience. In other words, if you use the theme of, “Is eating mustard evil?” you’ve limited your readership to only those who have an interest in mustard. While this theme would be of interest to me, because I know mustard came directly from Satan himself – you’ll find no mustard within the confines of the Drake monastery – I’m going to assume this theme would appeal to a very small crowd.

With non-fiction, this isn’t the case. Normally, a non-fiction book targets a very specific audience. In the case of this book, I’m targeting people who have an interest in creating dynamic stories using the English language.

With fiction, however, you want to reach as broad an audience as possible, thereby increasing your odds of gaining that coveted “Full-Time Writer” title. To do this, you must keep in mind that your theme needs to speak to the human condition. Themes transcend everything else.

As an example, consider greed. If we create a story about how greed is bad for humans, how it corrupts, rots the soul, and eventually destroys lives, this would be something universally understood regardless of the reader.

A story with greed as its theme could be read by anyone today, from any culture, of any race, religion, sex, etc., and they would understand the message. Better, if someone read this story a hundred years from now, or five hundred, the message would still hold true. It’s the reason why Shakespeare’s plays still speak to us four-hundred years after the Great Bard was laid to rest. Or Beowulf, or the Iliad. The themes of these stories are universal, and they’re timeless.

Going the other direction, if this story about greed fell through a wormhole and traveled back in time to the dark ages, anyone who read it would also understand its meaning (assuming they could read and grasp any technology mentioned, of course).

As a bonus, a theme that’s universal to the human condition also means it can be placed in any genre, setting, or use any subject. Our story about the dangers of greed could use the dark ages as its setting, today’s time, or be set on some distant space colony. Because, regardless of whether the main character is a peasant digging for lovely filth, a tyrannical politician trying to start world-war-III, or a moisture farmer on some desert planet in a galaxy far, far away, greed is something all humans understand.

Need another example? Think on all the cop shows I listed previously. They’re set in different times, different places, have different moods (some are comedies, while others are dramas or tragedies), some are grounded in our real world, while others have a fantasy or sci-fi twist to them. Yet still, all of them have the same major theme – Justice will Prevail. Because Justice is universal, and speaks to all humans at a visceral level.

Theme

Limited by Nature

“We read books to find out who we are. What other people, real or imaginary, do and think and feel... is an essential guide to our understanding of what we ourselves are and may become.”

– Ursula K. Le Guin 1929 –

(A Wizard of Earthsea)

Since a theme must be universal and speak viscerally to us humans, it means that themes are limited.

Don’t freak out. There are tons of themes you can play with. Here’s a quick one-hundred, just to prove my point.

Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, Pride, Power, Chaos, Order, Circle of Life, Coming of Age, Relationships, Isolation, Rebellion, Ignorance, Death, Tragedy, Escapism, Imprisonment, Displacement, Empowerment, False Dreams, Hope, Hope Lost, Love, Love Lost, Racism, Sexism, Prejudice, Fear, Faith, Doubt, Family, Fate, Free Will, Feminism, Masculinist, Good vs. Evil, Pain, Pleasure, Heartbreak, Nurture, Aging, Identity Crisis, Immortality, Individualism, Inner Strength, Outer Strength, Justice, Injustice, Loneliness, Destruction, Innocence Lost, Honor, Honor Lost, Sacrifice, Man vs. Nature, Man vs. Man, Man vs. Woman, Manipulation, Materialism, Motherhood, Fatherhood, Nationalism, Patriotism, Hard Work, Laziness, Oppression, Optimism, Corruption, Silence, Wealth, Poverty, Progress, Discovery, Rebirth, Reunion, Royalty, Religion, Self-Preservation, Self-Reliance, Technology, Temptation, Totalitarianism, Dystopian, Vanity, Vulnerability, War is Glorious, War is Tragic, War is Loss, Survival, Heroism, Hedonism, Murder, Revenge, Arrogance, Dedication, Heritage, Peace.

You’ll notice that each of these will be understood by anyone who’s human – they’re universal, visceral, and that’s what you look for in a theme.

While there are a lot of them, it’s important that you come to terms with the fact that they are finite.

Why? Forewarned is Forearmed. In understanding that themes are limited, you’ll remain diligent in ensuring that your story will feel unique to the reader through the Physical Layer.

Keep thinking of those cop shows. They all have the same major theme, “Justice will Prevail,” yet they all feel completely different from one another because each has a completely different Physical Layer. Different settings, characters, moods, humor level, etc.

It’s spaghetti, my dear Watson.

Theme Wrap-up

How’s that elephant tasting? Not so scary when you break themes down a bit, are they?

Themes are questions that reside in the Invisible Layer of our story. Their purpose is twofold--to deliver emotional fulfillment to the reader, and to ensure that writers create a story that is tight and concise. Themes are delivered covertly through the Physical Layer of the story by ensuring they’re presented as facts within the story. It’s easier for a writer to get behind a theme they believe in, but so long as the writer delivers them well, it doesn’t matter if the reader agrees with them because they should walk away with a lesson they can apply to their own lives.

Since themes must speak to the reader on a visceral level about some aspect of humanity, themes are limited to topics that are universal and timeless. However, while they’re limited, when combined with the nearly unlimited things you can include in the Physical Layer – characters, settings, genres, subjects, events, etc. – writers have unlimited storytelling options.

Still, all this is just the basics of themes. Now that you have these basics, let’s dig deeper.

Major & Minor Themes

“Evil hiding among us is an ancient theme.”

– John Carpenter 1948 –

(The Thing)

Themes come in two varieties – Major and Minor. This isn’t reliant upon the theme topic itself. As in, all one-hundred of the themes I listed above, plus all the ones I didn’t list, can be used as both major and/or minor themes.

What I mean by major and minor is how the theme is used within the story.

Normally, a story will have only one major theme. This is the main idea you wish the reader to consume. The question of this major theme will manifest itself near to the beginning of your story, and will be prevalent all the way to the climax, where the question of the major theme (Invisible Layer) will be answered by the overcome of the main conflict (Physical Layer).

Every single scene in your book should feed into either setting up the question of this major theme, or answering the question of your major theme. A major theme is essentially the invisible guide you’ll follow when creating the events of your story (the Physical Layer).

The reason more isn’t the merrier when it comes to the major theme is simple; if you use more than one major theme, they tend to step on each other’s toes. In addition, using multiple major themes will force you to add more events to the Physical Layer, thus bloating your story and diluting the ideas you wish the reader to deal with. This has a high probability of causing confusion, which might lead the reader to miss the greater point you’re trying to make.

Having multiple major themes is tricky at best, and story destroying at worst. I highly recommend you pick ONE, and stick with it throughout your story.

An example of including two major themes and hitting a home run would be Finding Nemo. But they cheated. Finding Nemo isn’t one story, it’s two, woven expertly and beautifully together. You have Marlin’s story, and you have Nemo’s story. Both are told separately, therefore, both need their own major themes. Yet even here, the themes are not so different. One, Marlin’s, is about the fears of parenthood. The other, Nemo’s, is about the fears of growing up. Both major themes are different, yet both are rooted in fear – which links them, allowing both to complement each other and increase the emotional satisfaction of the audience. If you think the writers of Finding Nemo didn’t spend some brain cells planning that out, then you’re about as bright as I look.

Minor themes, on the other hand, can be woven together to strengthen not only the major theme of the story, but other minor themes as well. These are scenes throughout a story that have a theme all their own. Please understand, when a scene has its own minor theme, that scene will still be required in the fulfillment of the major theme.

Let’s go back to Miss Congeniality. If you’ll recall from my example, I listed two of its themes. (It has more, but the ones I’ve already stated work well for this example.) Theme one, a minor theme, was the question, “Can a woman do a man’s job.” Theme two, the major theme, was the question, “Can a woman doing a man’s job still fulfill what society considers feminine?”

Theme one, the minor theme, was answered in the opening of the movie when Gracie Hart kicked the crap out of some thugs. Through this Physical Layer event, the story answered, “Yes, a woman can do a man’s job.” However, had this minor theme not been both asked and answered, the major theme wouldn’t have work. The minor theme of, “Can a woman do a man’s job?” MUST be answered before you can tackle the question of “Can a woman doing a man’s job still fulfill what society considers womanly?” If you cut out this first scene and its minor theme, this story would be broken.

Same exact thing they did in Finding Nemo. In the opening scene, there’s a minor theme that asks, “What type of parent will a happy family man become after he witnesses the death of his wife and all but one of his kids?” Again, without this minor theme being asked and then answered, the major theme wouldn’t have been setup the way it was.

I’m not saying this was the only option for Finding Nemo. There are a million ways this story could have started. (I’ll dive into one alternate way this movie could’ve started in a moment.) I’m simply showing you what the writers did, and why it worked.

This is, however, a wonderful segue to the fact that all themes are not created equal.

The Emotional Impact of Themes

“Few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a good example.”

– Mark Twain 1835 – 1910

(The Adventures of Tom Sawyer)

This is the number one factor that separates the men from the boys (or the women from the girls, to stay all-inclusive), because the power that comes from how you use themes in a story is one of the few things about story creation that is less skill, and more talent.

While I can’t teach you what I mean by this, I can show you some examples. Let’s start by looking at how the Physical Layer can affect the impact of a theme (the Invisible Layer).

Let’s look at The Pied Piper. There are two different versions of this story, an original version and a modern version. Both stories have the same major theme of greed. However, through the Physical Layer, each present this theme differently. In the original version, when greed wins, the result is the death of the villager’s children. In the more modern version, when greed wins, the result is the villagers are threatened with the death of their children, forcing them to relent and pay what they promised, earning the return of their children.

To me, the original version has a much stronger impact on the reader than the modern. Killing kids because of their parent’s greed is simply a better way to teach readers about the perils of greed, in my (probably not so) humble opinion.

It’s why Shakespeare had Romeo and Juliet commit suicide as the punishment for the war between the two families. Do you think Romeo and Juliet would’ve been as successful had the pair simply thrown a temper tantrum until both families accepted their relationship? No. Their deaths were shocking, and this strong event is what teaches the lesson to the audience.

Pulling from an example I’ve already used, let’s look back at the two Beowulf movies. Both have the same base theme of “Good defeats Evil.” However, where the events of one have “Good” confront and physically defeat “Evil,” the other has “Good” confront and, in a removed-hand kind of way, defeat “Evil.” (Pun intended.)

One impacts the reader strongly, and was hailed a good movie for its execution. The other impacts the reader in a weak manner, and was classified as a failure by the audience. This is because the writers of the weaker version fixated on the events (the Physical Layer) and totally missed the theme (the Invisible Layer) and therefore created a story audiences felt was crap.

Now let’s look at some differences in the Invisible Layer.

One example we can look at is my dissection of Jurassic Park and Transformers.

Both of these movies are Event Driven rollercoaster rides. Sure, as we already discussed, I feel Jurassic Park was more successful in large part due to having better, more relatable characters. However, I also feel Jurassic Park was a better movie simply due to how themes were used in it. In addition to having a stronger major theme over Transformers, the writers of Jurassic Park skillfully used a ton of minor themes to feed that stronger major theme, thereby increasing the emotional satisfaction of the audience.

Ignoring minor themes, as that gets really complicated, let’s just look at the major themes of these two movies. Jurassic Park asks, “Are there dangers to scientific advancements?” and Transformers asks, “Can good win by being honorable, or will evil win because it’s so stinking selfish?”

Both are solid themes. Both speak to the reader on a visceral level. However, that doesn’t mean both are equal. Jurassic Park’s theme is stronger. It has a deeper impact upon the human Psyche. It’s also more timely and topical. In other words, in the time period we humans currently live, there’s way more fear revolving around scientific advancements biting us in the ass (pun intended) than there’s interest in whether honor is better than selfishness.

“But wait!” you scream. “You just contradicted something you said earlier!”

(Grumbles at your continued interruptions.) Yes, I did, sort of. Jurassic Park’s major theme isn’t exactly timeless, as I said a theme should be. I also stated on the first page of this book that there’s no magic formula for story creation. I also stated on the first page of this section that I’ve never figured out how to teach this topic as it’s more talent than skill. Now stop interrupting me, will you?

While Jurassic Park’s major theme has been in the public eye a lot over the past few centuries, it’s not totally reliant on this time period, either. We humans have been terrified of advancements since the dawn of time. I mean, I’m certain there were at least a few Neanderthals picketing outside the cave with signs that read, “Fire will be the death of us all!” and “Support the Appendix, Eat Raw Meat!”

There may come a time in the distant future where we humans no longer have any fears concerning scientific advancement. Oh, that I could live to see that day. But that day isn’t today. Nor was it back in 1993, when Jurassic Park was released. My statement still stands: Fear of scientific advancement is WAY stronger than honor over selfishness. Pick your themes well if you want to have the greatest impact upon your reader.

Though, I do have the desire to chase this rabbit about a theme’s timely relevance for a moment longer. Depending on your goal, you might want to write a story that will lose its relatability in the future. A timely written book that plays on a current fear will sell well.

Case in Point: At the time of this book’s publication, it’s the summer of 2016. President Obama has been running America for the past seven and a half years. He has about six-months left of his administration, and then he’s out. How well do you think a book would sell today if its message was about the horrible things Obama would do to America if he were to become President? Probably not very good. However, in 2007, these types of books sold like hotcakes – literally half of America was terrified of an Obama administration, and was certain the world would end if he was elected. This is being repeated today, in 2016, where books about how Donald Trump will bring about the apocalypse are flying off the shelves – literally half of America is terrified of a possible Trump administration, and feel certain the world will end if he’s elected. (Grumble… and people wonder why I think politics is so mind-numbingly stupid…)

And don’t give me that crap about, “But we’re talking fiction here, not nonfiction.” Because to me, everything political is fiction. Besides, I’m just using this as an example to say, yes, you may end up writing a story where the theme is topical only during a brief moment in human history. Books on terrorism (even fictionalized terrorism) increased in sales for several years after 9/11 because it was a topical fear of our culture.

Let’s close this topic with an exercise in speculation. Picking on Finding Nemo, I mentioned in the previous section that Marlin watching his family being slaughtered was just one way this story could have started. What if it had started a different way, with a different minor theme? Would it still have held up as a great movie? Perhaps. That’s the gamble writers take, and why I’ll again state the way a writer decides to use major and minor themes is more of a talent than a skill.

Since I love exploring the unknown, let’s go down this dark, dank hole and see if we can have ourselves an adventure like the Goonies!

What if we started our version of Finding Nemo with the minor theme of, “What type of parent will a happy family man become if he really wants a large family, but after trying very hard to have kids, he eventually ends up with only one child?”

Would this simple change affect the movie? Sure. First, the opening scene would be different. The barracuda attack would no longer happen, and instead the events of the story (the Physical Layer) would show Marlin’s desire for a large family, and him ending up with only one child for his efforts.

Would Marlin be as overprotective as he was? I mean, are you more overprotective of your only child as opposed to your only surviving child? Would this change affect how the reader relates to this Marlin character? Well, let’s chase that rabbit.

Have you ever known an overprotective parent? You know, those really obnoxious people who refuse to let their child breathe anything other than bottled air from the planet Druidia? They hide their kids away from the world, never letting them experience life on their own. I have. Let’s just say my parenting philosophies don’t line up with theirs. I have two sons, and while I’d die for either, I don’t feel it’s my job to protect them from the world. I take a more pragmatic approach. I feel it’s my job to prepare them to enter our screwed up and volatile world ready to be adults and contribute to society. (I know, shocking, considering how this book is written…)

Of the people I call friends, most don’t appreciate overprotective parenting either.

Let’s say we change the opening, giving Marlin only one child when he wanted many, and yet we wrote the rest of the movie exactly the same way – with Marlin being overly overprotective. Do you think this would change his relatability? Certainly. Those, like myself, who don’t like the overprotective parenting style would find Marlin an un-relatable character. Would this ruin the movie? Again, who knows? My theory is, it would. For me, anyway.

However, since the movie starts the way it does, with Marlin (ME, the reader) watching the family he (I) loves murdered and eaten, then discovering that ONE child actually survived, I was at the front of the line screaming, “DON’T YOU LET THAT LITTLE GUY OUT OF YOUR SIGHT!!!!”

Through that event of the story, I lived through the tragedy of losing my loving family. I was right there with Marlin, overprotective as hell. I mean, after such a tragic event, how could you not forgive Marlin his transgression? Regardless of what your opinion is on parenting.

A change to this first minor theme, as small as it seems, would have other impacts as well, such as changing the tone of the story. This new minor theme is no longer grounded in the basis of “fear.” It’s more about “hope” or “desire.” Meaning, the movie would start off with a message of hope or desire in the manner of showing that Marlin wanted a large family. Then it would switch to that of fear after the humans kidnapped Nemo. (Fishnapped?) Do you see how this would change the emotional flow of the story?

Still, even though it would throw off the emotional flow for a moment, can we still use this new minor theme of hope or desire to feed into the major theme of the fears of parenthood? Absolutely. Would it add to the major theme’s emotional impact as awesomely as watching the death of your children? Not even remotely.

Would it ruin the story? Again, who knows? It would need to be written and then consumed by a wide audience to discover that. My hypothesis is, if we made just this one, simple change to the first minor theme presented in this story, the story wouldn’t have the same “Finding Nemo is one of the best movies ever” feel.

Spend some serious time thinking about the themes of your story – both your major theme, and any and all minor themes you plan to include that will feed the major theme. Because a misstep at this stage can mean the difference between an amazing story, a not-so-amazing story, and an abysmal failure of a story.

Since I love circular writing so much, let’s return to my very first examples – the meteorite destroying the Earth movies. Remember, all three of these movies were nearly identical. Why was one great, one meh, and one a stink-burger? Answer: The writers of one made great decisions concerning the use of their major and minor themes. The writers of the second didn’t do as well, but still got some of the job done. And the writers of the third totally missed the point of a story, and through their lack of skill in story creation, missed adding anything that would fulfill those built-in, subconscious expectations audiences have.

It really is that elementary, my dear fledgling writer.

A Theme isn’t a Question, it’s Two Opposing Answers

“Exactly!” said Deep Thought. “So once you do know what the question actually is, you’ll know what the answer means.”

– A Quote from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Douglas Adams 1952 – 2001

(The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy)

Yes, yes, yes. We’ve uncovered yet another lie I told you earlier. In my defense, I was very truthful in the fact that I make crap up for a living.

All seriousness aside, this isn’t exactly a lie. A theme is a question – for the reader. It’s a question that the Physical Layer will answer – for the reader.

However, for me – the writer – I need more than just a question when it comes to crafting that illusive Invisible Layer.

This is another of my theories that’s unique to me, but it’s the core of how I see story creation. To that end, let’s roll up our sleeves and take a really good look at what a theme means to me, and how I attempt to use themes in my stories.

I wish I had something pithy to say about this topic, but I don’t. Instead, I’ll just dip my toes back into the frigid waters of academia. I’d ask your forgiveness, though I warned you things were going to get heavy.

First, let’s take a step back and look at why academics see a theme as a question and not a topic. The simple answer is; you can’t move the reader with a topic. For simplicity sake, I’m going to continue riding the classic “Good vs. Evil” theme like a Kansas tornado heading for Oz.

If I say to you, “Good vs. Evil” does this do anything for you? Stir your imagination? Drive you to contemplate the deeper meanings of life? Probably not. If I expanded this to, “Good triumphs over Evil” it still wouldn’t move you, even if I said it in that deep “movie trailer guy” voice.

Good vs. Evil is a topic. By itself, it doesn’t stir the human soul. It doesn’t connect with us on a visceral level.

When it comes to your theme, you must push yourself to think deeper. You must take your theme topic (Good vs. Evil) and turn it into something readers can ponder. Academics defines this as asking the reader a question, such as, “Can Good defeat Evil?” I agree with academics on this point. The hope is that in answering this theme question, the reader will learn a lesson from the story they can apply to their own lives, and walk away emotionally satisfied. (Just so you know, this is an incredibly weak theme as it stands. I’m simply using Good vs. Evil as an example because I’m lazy, and it’s a very simple topic to use. I’ll give you some more complex examples in a moment.)

By turning our theme topic into a question, it gives our reader the ability to ask, “Hmm? Can Good defeat Evil? I don’t know. Let’s continue reading this story and find out.” Questions force the reader to contemplate the meaning of the story.

While this is what academics teach in school, it never really helped me as a story creator. To me, knowing the question the theme poses fails to reach the potential of what a theme can do for my story.

Thinking outside the box, I discovered that if I took my one theme question, and turn it into two mutually exclusive answers, it opened up a whole new realm of possibilities for me.

Here’s what I mean.

Instead of attempting to craft the Physical Layer of my story in a way that would answer the one theme question, I take an extra step and create two opposing, mutually exclusive answers.

Using our terrible example here, instead of asking my story, “Can Good defeat Evil?” I instead ask my story to prove one of the following as true. Either prove: “Good can defeat Evil!” Or prove: “Evil can defeat Good!”

I know these two answers seem like the same thing. Again, this is a very simplistic theme. Follow me and I promise this will make sense in a moment.

These two answers are mutually exclusive because only one can be true. While you can joke with the nice police officer who pulls you over for failing to stop at a traffic light by telling him the light was orange, this doesn’t change the fact that the light was either red, and you’ve committed a crime, or it was yellow, and you had the right to pass through. (It was also a great lesson for me in learning that cops have no sense of humor whatsoever.)

By turning your theme question into two mutually exclusive answers, it actually does three awesome things for your story.

It forces the writer to stay honest to both sides of the conflict.

It creates the opportunity for the theme to drive the conflict of the story.

It helps the writer realize what events need to be included in the story, and what events can be cut without affecting the story.

Let’s look deeper at these three benefits.

One: Before you start writing a story, I’m pretty sure you know how the story will end. While you may think this is a good thing, it’s one of the reasons why new writers tend to create crappy, two-dimensional villains.

Since the writer knows the hero will win, they tend to fall into the trap of writing scenes that perpetuate this. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy, which is no fun for the reader.

By creating two opposing answers, and keeping them top of mind as you create the Physical Layer of your story, you’ll start to notice opportunities for more dynamic conflict.

In other words: “Look, the hero just kicked that guy’s ass. See? This is proving that Good can defeat Evil!” (Turn the page.) “Not so fast, fopdoodle! This chick who works for the villain just handed the hero his balls! This is proving that Evil can defeat Good.”

Why is this important? By pitting two opposing theme answers against each other like blood-thirsty gladiators, a writer is able to keep the reader off balance, unsure if the story will end the way they think it will. This increases tension, as well as the reader’s emotional satisfaction.

Of course, I get the writer already knows who will win in the end. However, when the writer is consistently looking for opportunities that will allow both sides to win, they add depth to their story.

Two: By attempting to prove two mutually exclusive answers, you create a natural conflict point. In our case here, our story will attempt to prove both: “Good can defeat Evil.” and it’ll attempt to prove: “Evil can defeat Good.”

CONFLICT!

Both cannot be true. Meaning, during the events of the story (the Physical Layer), the two opposing sides must fight it out to see who earns the coveted true trophy, and who’s the loser stuck with the consolation prize of nah-nah-na-boo-boo, the other guy’s better than you-oo.

This really is just a mental aid for the writer. A way to force yourself to look at story creation in a different light. When you’re attempting to prove both of these answers as true, you won’t simply be looking at ways for your hero (Good) to overcome your villain (Evil). You’ll also be looking for ways where your villain (Evil) can overcome your hero (Good). This means you’ll constantly be looking for opportunities to add drama into every single scene you write.

Three: Attempting to prove both of these opposing answers as true means you’ll be able to objectively look at each scene you plan to write and be able to ask each one individually if that scene is attempting to prove either of these two answers as true. If it’s not working toward that end, then the scene needs to be cut.

To this end, I implore you to take this extra step of creating two opposing answers for each major theme question you wish to address within your stories. If you can, you should try and create two opposing answers for your minor themes as well. You won’t always be able to do this with minor themes – some minor themes are in your story for just a scene or two, others (like my examples from Miss Congeniality and Finding Nemo) are required to set up the question of the major theme – but if you can, you’ll be amazed at how much this helps build tension within your story.

Let’s look at a more complex example, (finally…) and turn once again to The Pied Piper. You may not have realized it, but this story uses Greed as the Villain. Many mistakenly believe the Pied Piper is the Villain. He does, after all, kill the children of an entire village. Evil, right? Wrong. At least in regards to the major theme.

We’ll get into this in a moment, but the two physical sides of this story are actually allegories of larger aspects of humanity. (An allegory is an extended metaphor – something that is presented one way, but actually means something entirely different.) In the case of The Pied Piper, the villagers are an allegory for base human greed and dishonesty, while the Piper himself is an allegory for Justice or Punishment – exactly opposite of what you might see as the hero and the villain of this story.

The fact is, the conflict of this major theme is raging inside the villagers themselves. The Pied Piper is simply the scale. The Piper didn’t come uninvited, kidnapping the innocent children and holding them for ransom. If he had, he would be the Villain. No, the “Villain” is the Greed that lives inside the villagers, so by default, we can assume there’s a “Hero” living inside the villagers called Honesty. If Greed loses this war to Honesty, the villagers rid themselves of rats, pay the Piper, and live happily ever after. If Greed wins against Honesty, the children die. The Pied Piper is simply the instrument of Justice. (Pun intended.)

The fact that makes The Pied Piper such a wonderful story isn’t that Greed is the theme topic. It’s the fact that the major theme of the story asks the question: “What happens if you make promises and then don’t keep them?”

This is what the reader gets from the story. Most writers creating this story would stop there. However, allow me to take this a step further, create two mutually exclusive answers, and attempt to prove both through the events of the story. In this light, I’ll attempt to prove both: “You can break promises without incurring punishment.” AND “Breaking one’s promises will incur a punishment.”

I know that one of the above is true, and one is false. I also know which will be proven true, and which will be proven false. I am, after all, the creator of this story. However, keep in mind, I do this exercise so I’m forced to look at the story from both sides. By attempting to prove both of these answers as true, I’ll be able to create events in my story that will all feed into the major theme, while keeping the reader guessing as to how my story will end.

The fact is, the outcome of the story will prove either: “You can break a promise without incurring punishment.” OR “Breaking one’s promises will incur a punishment.”

The two opposing answers create conflict. Not between the villagers and the Piper, but between Greed and Honesty that resides inside the villagers.

This forces me to think about adding elements to the story where Honesty is attempting to win over Greed, as well as elements where Greed is attempting to win over Honesty. That opens up a bazillion paths for me – way too many to discuss fully. Although, here are a few I could decide to include in my version of The Pied Piper.

I may have the villagers divided in their decision as to whether or not to pay the Piper. This would be a great way to show the battle inside the villagers by turning it into a physical battle between the villagers. I could expand upon the motif of the Piper simply being the scale for justice, showing that he doesn’t care which way this goes. I could add in scenes with a minor theme of manipulation or jealously where one villager is upset that his child died at birth – this villager could be actively trying to get the rest of the children killed. I could show that everyone in the village makes promises they don’t keep as a matter of course. Since everyone does it, it’s expected. This could lead me to writing scenes that show how Greed is a good thing, as well as perhaps adding in an opposing character who comes in and shows that Honesty is actually the better policy (one option for this opposing point of view could be the Piper himself, which would make him more sympathetic, perhaps even turning him into the protagonist). This would create an interesting dichotomy, always a cool thing.

I could go on, but hopefully you can see that when you start understanding how major themes and minor themes work together, it really opens up your mind to amazing possibilities.

How does my version of The Pied Piper end? With the villagers murdering the flute playing bastard and using his body as the main course during the annual cannibal festival, of course. Because Greed rocks, and I don’t cotton to giving my hard-earned money to some weird, rat-loving carnie who smells like cabbage!

(Interesting side note – at least interesting to me. The Pied Piper has a very high probability of being based on a true story, where somebody actually came to a small village in Germany and absconded with all their children. There were no rats, or magical music, however. Just the possibility of some deranged serial killer kidnapping and murdering dozens of innocent kids. Dark, but interesting if this was the catalyst for creating a story about the moral perils of greed. Google it if you wish to learn more.)

The Protag & Antag

do not always

Answer the Theme

“Reason is intelligence taking exercise. Imagination is intelligence with an erection.”

– Victor Hugo 1802 – 1885

(Les Misérables)

Unfortunately, as we just saw with The Pied Piper, answering themes isn’t as simple as having your hero attempt to prove one answer as true, and your villain trying to prove the other as true. Remember, this is the Invisible Layer we’re talking about here, not the Physical Layer. Protagonists and Antagonists are Physical Layer elements. When it comes to proving the answers of the themes, protagonist and antagonist don’t always apply. At least not using their traditionally accepted definitions.

This is a confusing theory of mine, and another that’s also unique to me, so bear with me as I try and break this down for you.

How people normally look at stories is this: The hero (the protagonist) is the character who’s driving the story, the one readers are supposed to relate to. This could be the very definition of a hero, such as Beowulf from, well… Beowulf, or it could be something ambiguous, such as the villagers from The Pied Piper. Either way, this is traditionally your POV (Point of View) character or the entity who’s the focal point of the story.

A villain (the antagonist) is traditionally seen as whatever is opposing the hero. It could be something as in your face as the monster, Grendel, from Beowulf, or it could be more abstract, such as the giant rock from our “meteorite destroying the Earth” examples. It could even be something readers “think” is the villain, but really isn’t the “villain,” as is the case with The Pied Piper.

However, all of the above are things that inhabit the Physical Layer of a story. When thinking about the Invisible Layer where your themes reside, these “traditional” definitions of a hero and a villain don’t always hold up.

For the Invisible Layer, the “hero” is whichever answer the POV character hopes is true. In other words, what the POV character WANTS. The “villain” is whatever answer is opposite of that.

Again, this could be pretty straight forward. As in:

One of the themes in Beowulf is that, “Good, because it’s good, will always triumph over Evil, because it’s evil.”

The theme question asked to the reader is, “Can Good, because it’s virtuous, defeat Evil?” Through the events of the story, the reader will consume this theme, hopefully learning something that’s emotionally satisfying.

From the writer’s side, we can create the following two opposing answers:

“Good, by virtue of its nature, defeats Evil.”

And

“Evil, because it’s not bound by any rules, defeats Good.”

As a writer, I’ll use these two opposing answers to drive the events of the story and attempt to prove both as true. Then, through the outcome, one of these will be proven true, while the other will be proven false, thus answering the question for the reader.

Sticking with the original version of this story, I’ll have Beowulf slay Grendel, proving that, “Good, by virtue of its nature, defeats Evil.”

This example makes it pretty easy to see that the hero (Beowulf) is trying to prove, “Good, by virtue of its nature, defeats Evil.”, and the villain (Grendel) is trying to prove, “Evil, because it’s not bound by any rules, defeats Good.”

The elements of the Physical Layer line up with the elements of the Invisible Layer. This makes it easy as pie to wrap your head around how to write this story physically, and still deliver the invisible message to the reader.

It also means, and we’ll discuss this in a moment, that Beowulf and Grendel allegories – Beowulf an allegory for what’s good, and Grendel an allegory for what’s evil.

However, themes are not normally so black and white.

Let’s return to The Pied Piper.

As I stated, the Piper isn’t the villain of the story, Greed is. The question posed to the reader by the theme is, “What happens if you make promises and then don’t keep them?” When it comes to proving the answers of the major theme of this story, the war is internal – between Honesty and Greed inside the villagers. In the Physical Layer, however, the villagers are seen as the hero (the protagonist) and the Pied Piper is seen as the villain (the antagonist). Meaning, in this case, the Physical Layer does not line up with the Invisible Layer.

This type of story will be the case more times than not, due to the fact that with so many stories, the major theme’s question is being fought inside the protagonist. This is also the most missed aspect of story creation new writers make.

Remember that obscure movie I referenced called Star Wars – A New Hope? The major theme of that movie was, “Is it better to rely on technology, or trust in the belief that there’s something greater than the physical world around us?” Technology vs. Faith.

Let’s turn this theme question into our two opposing answers:

“Technology is what will save you, not some hokey religion.”

And

“Belief in something greater than yourself will save you, not technology.”

The events of the Physical Layer are attempting to prove each of these answers as true. The world around Luke – spaceships, droids, people, etc., are actively being aided by Han Solo in trying to prove Technology is the way to go. On the other side, Obi Wan, Darth Vader, and the Force are advocating for Faith as the correct answer.

As you can see in this case, when we look at the Invisible Layer, Obi Wan is no more a hero than the computer in Luke’s X-Wing is a villain. In addition, both Obi Wan AND Darth Vader are on the same side of the Invisible Layer! Both are attempting to prove that Faith is the correct answer. However, when it comes to proving which answer is true, and which answer is false, this fight is raging inside Luke. Meaning, it doesn’t matter which side Physical Layer elements support. It’s Luke (the reader) who must choose which answer is correct. Pick right, save the universe. Pick wrong, all hope is lost.

I realize I’ve done a wonderful job picking on this movie through the first half of this book, but hopefully you can see how complex a story like Star Wars – A New Hope actually is. It totally deserves to be hailed as one of the best movies of all time. On the surface it may seem like a trite, regurgitated, worn-out and tired story. In reality, George Lucas was a sharper cookie than he’s given credit for. Because, while there may have been better ways to create the Physical Layer of this story (less cliché characters, less obvious scene directions, etc.), as we’ve learned, the Physical Layer doesn’t matter all that much to the reader’s emotional satisfaction. What Mr. Lucas did brilliantly was create an Invisible Layer that moved his audience viscerally, and totally fulfilled all of their built-in, subconscious expectations. THIS is the reason the Star Wars franchise is one of the most money-making franchises of all time.

Happy Ending,

or Tragedy

“Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.”

– F. Scott Fitzgerald 1896 – 1940

(The Great Gatsby)

Another thing I find very interesting when attempting to prove two mutually exclusive answers is that it helps decide whether you’re writing a Happy Ending story, or a Tragedy.

When you have two opposing answers, one answer will normally be what the POV character wants, and the other answer will normally be what the POV character needs. I say normally, because things are not always cut and dry down here at the Invisible Layer – it’s a murky place indeed, with more shades of grey than blacks and whites.

We’ll discuss a theory of mine in ACT III I call The Two Questions of a POV, so I don’t want to dig too deep into that topic here. However, you need at least the basics of that theory to understand how this current theory works.

The fact is, there are two questions you must ask your POV character.

What do you want?

And

What do you need?

I’ll explain these questions in detail in ACT III. All you need to understand at this point is that if your POV character gets what they want, you’re writing a Tragedy. If the POV character gets what they need, you’re writing a Happy Ending story.

The Pied Piper is fast becoming my go to example. Let’s dissect that story a bit further so I can show you what I mean.

As we discussed, the battle of the major theme is between Greed and Honesty. If Greed wins, the children die. If Honesty wins, the kids live, and life goes on. However, Honesty isn’t what the villagers want. Honesty is actually what the villagers need. The villagers want Greed. Well… not Greed per se. They just don’t want to pay the Pied Piper his due. They don’t realize that in not paying what they promised, they’re condemning their children to death. Still, this creates an interesting juxtaposition to be the playground of our story, and the reason this story has stuck around for so long.

Looking at the Physical Layer, the POV character (the hero – the villagers) is trying to prove: “You can break a promise without incurring punishment.” This is what they want.

However, looking at the Invisible Layer, what the villagers need (Honesty – or paying what you promised) is trying to prove: “Breaking one’s promises will incur a punishment.” Exactly opposite, and mutually exclusive, of what the villagers want.

This is what the story is attempting to teach the POV character they need. In teaching this lesson to the POV character, the story is, by extension, teaching this lesson to the reader.

Since this story ends with the villagers getting what they want, this is a Tragedy – their children die. It’s how the message of the story must be taught. Had this been a Happy Ending story, the villagers wouldn’t have gotten what they wanted (Greed), but instead, through the events of the story, they’d have realized what they needed (Honesty). Once they realized this, they would’ve changed course and chosen Honesty, paid the Piper, kept their children safe, and lived happily ever after.

This is how a theme must be delivered for the reader to consume. It’s all about answering the major theme’s question. The events of the Physical Layer are there to let the reader ponder the questions of the Invisible Layer. In other words, the Physical Layer of this story shows villagers who promise to pay for a service, and then decide not to pay for said service. As a result of their decision, their children are murdered by the Piper. This outcome forces the villagers to realize their mistake. “By extension the readers learn this lesson as well, but without having to sacrifice their own offspring.

Conflict

It’s More than just a Word

“When all else fails, complicate matters.”

– Aaron Allston 1960 – 2014

(Aaron was a friend; one who shall never be replaced)

If the major theme is the soul of a story, conflict is its heart. Conflict is both the Physical Layer element that will keep your readers on the edge of their seats, eager to turn the page and discover what happens next, and it’s that Invisible Layer question readers are consuming without even knowing it.

While every writer knows this term, throwing it around like free beads at a Mardi Gras parade, I often wonder if they really understand how this relates to Dynamic Story Creation.

First, let’s define something very important. Just as there are two layers that make up a story – a Physical Layer and an Invisible Layer – there are two conflicts that make up a story. One, what the reader sees – the physical conflict of the Physical Layer. Two, what the reader consumes without realizing it, the invisible conflict of the Invisible Layer.

The physical conflict is easy to understand. It’s the stuff that makes up your story – what your characters are trying to overcome.

The invisible conflict should now be as easy for you to understand. It’s the conflict created by the two opposing answers of your major theme’s question.

As we’ve learned, sometimes these two layers line up. However, most times these two layers won’t fall into place so precisely.

In the Physical Layer of most stories, you have two opposing sides. These are normally the protagonist and the antagonist. The Physical Layer conflict is a battle between these two opposing sides. This could be a hero vs. a villain (Beowulf vs. Grendel), a hero vs. something inanimate (Captain Billy Tyne vs. The Perfect Storm), or just the protagonist struggling with something internally (Luke’s internal war between Technology and Faith).

Most writers, even new ones, see how this works. This is because as a reader, you see how this works. It’s the stuff stories are made from. What we’ve been consuming since we began consuming stories. As I’ve hopefully convinced you, this isn’t the story.

The story, the emotional fulfillment, comes from the Invisible Layer. This is the invisible conflict between the two opposing answers of the major theme’s question. This becomes a bit more abstract, but it’s not hard to wrap your mind around.

The reality is, the conflict of the Invisible Layer is either going to be fought inside the protagonist (most common), or between the protagonist and antagonist (more esoteric). If this becomes a battle between the protagonist and the antagonist, normally this will mean these two entities become allegories to some larger aspect of humanity.

The trick of juggling these theories is understanding how to use them to craft your story. This is a longer discussion, one with individual elements we need to discuss in detail before we can see how it all fits together.

Motif

“One of the basic motifs in fairy tales is that you find the poor and unfortunate along the side of the road, and when they beg for help, if you give it to them, you end up succeeding. If you don’t give it to them, you end up being turned into a frog or something.”

– George Lucas 1944 –

(Star Wars – A New Hope)

A motif is any element, subject, idea, or concept that’s constantly present throughout your story and has symbolic significance. Through a motif’s repetition, you can immerse the reader in narrative or literary aspects such as theme or mood.

Motifs can be images, sounds, actions, or anything that symbolically contributes to your major theme. A famous use of color as a motif can be seen in M. Knight Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense, where he so cleverly uses red as an indication of ghost interaction with the living world.

Another great example is how George Lucas used clothing color in Star Wars – A New Hope. Luke and Leah wear all white (good and pure), Darth Vader wears all black (evil), and Han wears a black vest over a white shirt (evil exterior over a good interior). The reason the Stormtroopers are white is heavily debated. Personally, I think white plastic was simply cheaper than black, or perhaps black plastic would’ve been too difficult to light correctly. Just another victim of writing slain by the technology or budget of movies?

For me, motifs are yet one more tool I can use to force my readers to deal with whatever major theme I have at the core of the story.

While motifs and themes are linked, there’s a huge difference between them. Motifs are things you’ll return to time and again and physically show to the reader. The theme, as we’ve learned, should be subtle and intangible. The trick to deploying motifs is to ensure that your motifs are feeding your theme(s).

Let’s look at Ridley Scott’s masterpiece, Blade Runner. As with most stories, this one has tons of themes; Empathy, Dystopia, Oppression, Corporate Power/Greed, Conscience, etc. However, the underlying major theme of this story is, “What classifies something as having a soul?” Or to create two opposing answers: “To have a soul, you must have been naturally born.” And “Even if an entity is manufactured, it can still have a soul.”

This is a deep topic, and one many have pondered since our species climbed to the level of technology where “creating artificial life” has become a possibility.

As we’ve discussed, you can’t hammer the reader in the face with your theme. It must be handled with delicate care or you become “preachy.” Motifs, however, are a tool you can use to drive home your underlying theme(s). In Blade Runner, Scott uses up-close images of character’s eyeballs to call into question both the narrator’s ability, as well as the audience’s own ability, to accurately perceive and understand reality. This skewed reality then becomes the subconscious burr under the audience’s saddle that hopefully forces them to begin questioning their own stance on the unmentioned, underlying major theme of, “What classifies something as having a soul?”

Motifs can help you set the mood or atmosphere for your story, but to me they’re far more valuable as contributors to themes. As you start working on the theme(s) of your story, you need to also start thinking about what motifs you can add to your story that will feed into the major theme.

Symbolism

“Good symbolism should be as natural as breathing…and as unobtrusive.”

– Ray Bradbury 1920 – 2012

(The Martian Chronicles)

Symbolism is used in literature when one thing is meant to represent something else and can help create meaning and/or emotion in a story. These are devices that can sometimes be confused with motifs, but they really are different things all together.

The reason they’re often confused is that if used well, both symbolism and motifs will help you force the reader to contemplate the question of your theme(s).

Symbolism is deployed in a story in two main ways: Metaphors and Allegories.

Let’s look at Metaphors first. In literature, metaphoric symbolism is usually when the writer presents something within the story that isn’t supposed to be taken at face value.

In Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, the black bird stands for death and loss, not an annoying bird.

Metaphors can be used in some pretty cool ways, like in How the Grinch Stole Christmas where the Grinch stole the “symbols” of Christmas – presents, trees, food, etc. – only to discover none of that crap is what Christmas actually is. (Hell yeah, I just referenced some Dr. Seuss! I’m just that high-brow.)

Other common examples are things like, Time is Money, Life is a rollercoaster, that sort of thing.

Metaphoric symbolism is also reliant on how it’s used in a story. For example, a chain could symbolize unity in one story, yet oppression, imprisonment, or even slavery in another.

An allegory is an extended metaphor. Basically, this just means you’re going to use something really big that means something else.

We just discussed how the story The Pied Piper uses the villagers as an allegory of human greed and the Pied Piper as an allegory of Justice.

In Beowulf, Beowulf is an allegory for good, and Grendel is an allegory for evil.

In William Golding’s novel The Lord of the Flies, Golding uses the character Ralph (the protagonist) as an allegory that humans are innately good, and Jack (the antagonist) as an allegory that all humans are born evil.

In George Orwell’s Animal Farm, the animals represent the attitudes and events that led up to the Russian revolution. Through this allegory, Orwell showed how greed and lack of concern for others can impact a revolution.

Symbolism

Supporting the Theme

“Magic comes from what is inside you. It is a part of you. You can’t weave together a spell that you don’t believe in.”

– Jim Butcher 1971 –

(The Dresden Files)

Let’s put all this crazy theory we’ve learned so far in ACT II into action, and dissect a story I just mentioned, William Golding’s The Lord of the Flies.

While this story is set on Earth, it’s a fictitious Earth, as the story is set sometime in the 1950s during an atomic war. The major theme of this story is that evil dwells inside us all, even as children. Meaning, the story is going to ask the reader, “Is evil inside all humans from birth, just waiting to consume us?” The story sets out to answer this theme question by taking a group of young boys and placing them onto a deserted island. Cut off from civilization, adults, and authority, the boys have only their core instincts to guide them.

From a story creation standpoint, the deserted island setting is nice, as it means the world that’s the playground for the story is finite – it’s easy to describe. It is, after all, just one tiny island.

Now that we’ve picked our setting, as well as the question of our major theme (what the reader will be forced to contemplate), we need to expand upon the question and create two opposing answers. Remember, this will help us, the writer.

Let’s use:

“Evil is inside of every human, and will consume us.”

As well as

“Humans are inherently good at their core.”

Great! We’ve got our two opposing answers, and our imagination is starting to create events we can use to prove both of these as true.

Remember, both of these answers must be treated as fact within the confines of the story until one is proven false. The next step is to choose which is true, and which is false.

We know that it’s easier for the writer to prove something they believe in. In the case of The Lord of the Flies, Golding did just that. You see, he was a bitter, hateful old man. Well… truth be told, I’ve no idea what type of person Golding was. I do know he thought the worst of us humans.

If you send your mind back to ACT I, you should remember me saying that everything we writers write comes from our own well of experience. Golding taught at a boy’s school, and he used that life experience to create incredibly believable young male characters for his story. He was also a WWII vet, and his military experience comes through during this story as well.

However, it was his attitude toward his fellow man that had the biggest impact on the major theme. William Golding truly believed that all of us are rotten to the core. He admitted as much before his passing. He wrote, “I began to see what people were capable of doing. Anyone who moved through those years without understanding that man produces evil as a bee produces honey, must have been blind or wrong in the head.”

It was his personal well of experience that shaped his author voice and helped him create his masterpiece. It was also those experiences that made him believe in the theme he was forcing readers to consume through his story – humans are evil. Remember, while not required, it’s easier for a writer to write a story that is trying to prove something they believe in.

Due to his belief, Golding was going to use his story to prove, “Evil is inside of every human, and will consume us.”

This means we know which answer is true, and which is false. It’s now time to decide if this is going to be a Happy Ending story, or a Tragedy.

Before we can do that, however, we need to remember another very important fact of story creation – do the Physical Layer elements line up with the Invisible Layer elements.

In the case of this story, they do line up.

From the Physical Layer side, the protagonist is Ralph, a little boy who’s just trying to do the right thing. The antagonist is a boy named Jack, who falls to evil, and becomes feral, taking most of the boys with him and even committing murder. The Physical Layer conflict is between Ralph and Jack.

From the Invisible Layer side, we’re trying to prove either Humans are Good, or Humans are Evil.

Since Ralph is good, trying to prove good, and Jack is evil trying to prove evil, we have alignment between the two Layers. However, this also means that both Ralph and Jack are allegories.

You see, Ralph and Jack are the embodiment of the opposing answers of the major theme. Ralph IS the answer, “Humans are inherently good at their core.” and Jack IS the answer, “Evil is inside of every human, and will consume us.”

Welcome the strange world of the Invisible Layer.

Moving now to my The Two Questions of a POV (which is really a Physical Layer theory and why it’s in ACT III), in the case of The Lord of the Flies, this doesn’t exactly work, because the protagonist is an allegory for one aspect of humanity, and the antagonist is an allegory for the other aspect of humanity. Still, we can apply this Two Questions of a POV to humanity as a whole and get what we need. Humanity wants evil to live within itself from the day we’re born. Humanity needs for itself to be innately good.

Because Humanity gets what it wants, (through the Physical Layer allegory of Jack winning over Ralph), the story is a Tragedy. Had Humanity instead realized what it needed, and embraced good (through the Physical Layer allegory of Ralph winning over Jack), this story would’ve had a Happy Ending.

Knowing the answer Golding is going to prove – that we’re all evil bastards – this theme lends itself well to that of a tragedy. It’s a dark theme, after all, and dark themes do well as tragedies.

This means the true answer of the major theme also dictates who our protagonist is going to be, because you need to keep in mind two other very important theories I stated in ACT I.

We’re writing with the intent of leaving the reader emotionally satisfied.

The POV character is our reader.

Since we know this is a tragedy, and we can guess that most of our readers will probably believe humans are innately good, we want the reader to be Ralph, the allegory of: “Humans are inherently good at their core.” If we put the reader on the other side and make Jack our protagonist, the reader will have a hard time relating to the Jack character as the “hero.” Thus, ruining their emotional satisfaction.

And just that quick, we have pretty much everything we need to begin crafting our masterpiece.

We know the major theme question we’ll force the reader to ponder.

We know the theme’s two opposing answers that will help us focus our story, and create the events.

We know which answer is true, and which answer is false.

As this story isn’t a story where the POV character is making a decision, we know the protagonist and antagonist are actually allegories for something larger.

We know the majority of our readers are going to believe humans are good, so that puts our POV character as the answer that humans are good.

If the POV character is on the good side, that puts the villain on the evil side by default.

We know that the POV character is going to lose, so that makes this a tragedy.

Now all we need to do is start picking events. For this example, let’s take two paths and fictitiously write two versions.

One, the tragedy that Golding actually wrote, and two, the Happy Ending that Drake would write. (because I believe that at our core, humans are inherently good – at least the majority of us, anyway. I’m idealistic, not an imbecile.) Meaning, if I were writing this, I’d find it easier to prove the opposite of what Golding’s story proved.

Let’s start with my version.

If we’re going to prove, “Humans are inherently good at their core,” the boys will need to end up living in some semblance of good. There’ll still be conflict – something in the story will still be trying to prove: “Evil is inside of every human, and will consume us.” To this end, I’d still create the allegories of Ralph (good) and Jack (evil) and pit them against each other. (My major theme, just like Golding’s, is still fighting in the world itself, as opposed to inside the protagonist.)

To accomplish this, I’d start looking for minor themes that will each attempt to prove my two answers as true. Each of my scenes will have minor themes such as Honor, Disgrace, Truth, Lies, Forgiveness, Revenge, etc. The list goes on, but hopefully you get my point. By selecting minor themes that will enhance my major theme, I can start building the Physical Layer events of the story.

By default, this means I can avoid minor themes that don’t feed my major theme. I can avoid Romance, Motherhood, Fatherhood, etc. Again, the list goes on. I can instead start thinking along the lines of: Is this minor theme needed to prove my major theme? As in, “Do I need a minor theme about Motherhood to prove either of my two answers?” No, I don’t. Meaning, I won’t add in a scene to my version of The Lord of the Flies that has something to do with Motherhood. I’ll avoid Tom Bombadiling my story.

In reality, my story will be the same as Golding’s. Right up until the end, that is. My version will have a Happy Ending. At the end of mine, all the boys who had originally joined Jack would realize they’re on the wrong side. The aftermath of the conflict would have the boys join Ralph, and in doing so, the story would answer the question for the reader in the positive way. Humans are basically good.

Just spit balling here, but this would actually be a pretty simple thing to change this story into a Happy Ending. Toward the end, there’s a major battle between Ralph’s few followers and Jack’s followers in which a small boy on Ralph’s side named Piggy is killed. This is a shocking event. In Golding’s version, this event drives Jack’s side to become more aggressive, embracing the evil that lives inside all humanity. To change this into a Happy Ending story, all that would be needed would be for this event to show Jack’s side the error of their ways, causing them to stop chasing evil and return to good. By the time the rescue comes, due to the tragic death of one of their members (Piggy) the remaining boys would’ve made amends, and life would’ve become civilized. Happy Ending.

However, Golding’s The Lord of the Flies, didn’t have a Happy Ending – it was a Tragedy. His story wanted to prove: “Evil is inside of every human, and it’ll consume us.” Since he was a sharp enough gentleman to know that most of his fellow humans didn’t share his belief, he put his POV character on the side of good so readers would feel comfortable, just as I would in my version.

As both his version and mine would have the same major theme, each are going to be enhanced by the same minor themes. Meaning, in Golding’s Tragedy, we’re still going to create scenes that use minor themes such as Honor, Disgrace, Truth, Lies, Forgiveness, Revenge, etc. Flip the coin over, and you’ll notice that both can avoid the same minor themes that don’t feed the major theme.

The only real difference will be the end, where the POV character loses in Golding’s version. The aftermath of the conflict where Piggy dies will be all the boys turning on Ralph, and trying to kill him. The reader still leaves the story emotionally satisfied, however.

Why? Because as we discussed, the reader doesn’t need to agree in whichever answer your story proves as true. If they agree with it, they’ll leave the story with one emotion – a positive one. If they disagree with it, they’ll leave the story with a different emotion – a negative one. Either way, if you craft your story correctly, whatever lesson the POV character gains will transfer to the reader. This is the very reason why writing tragedies are inherently more difficult to pull off than Happy Ending stories. With a Tragedy, you have the potential of simply pissing off the reader.

In the case of The Lord of the Flies, the theme is that all of us are evil. Golding places the reader as the opposition to this theme, making the reader become Ralph – the allegory that’s the good in man. In the end, Ralph (I.E., the reader) was proven wrong and that evil is inside of us all. Humanity wanted to show that it’s evil, and Humanity got what it wanted. Thus, a tragedy. The reader is moved emotionally by living life as the helpless and defeated Ralph.

Regardless of whether the reader buys into this or not, they leave the story emotionally satisfied by the experience. Readers either agreed with Golding’s theme, and think all humanity is irredeemable, or they disagree with Golding and feel humans can’t be all that bad. Either way, the story enhances the reader’s convictions and they leave emotionally satisfied by the journey.

Getting Themes

into Stories

“I do believe something very magical can happen when you read a good book.”

– J.K. Rowling 1965 –

(Harry Potter)

The Invisible Layer is a difficult, complex, confusing, and vexing concept to wrap your head around.

Or is it?

In dissecting The Lord of the Flies you should have noticed that by applying the theories we’ve discussed here in ACT II, we pretty quickly ran through the Invisible Layer.

Now let’s see if I can hit you with that magical epiphany moment.

All of the theories I’ve thrown at you so far may seem overwhelming – and if you feel that way, I’m happy. It means you’ve stopped taking story creation for granted. However, the Invisible Layer need not be as difficult, complex, confusing, or vexing as it seems. In fact, if you really understand each of the above individual theories, you understand the soul of story creation, and are ready to start using them.

All you need to do is pick your theme, flesh it out, think about how it’ll affect the scenes you’re about to write, and then write your scenes with your theme top of mind.

In other words, when you choose a major theme for your story, this gives you a base to build from. As you create scenes to tell your story, you can continually pick minor themes that will enhance your major theme.

Let’s go through this one more time using Finding Nemo as our story.

If we were writing this story, we’d know that in reality we’re going to tell two stories – Marlin’s and Nemo’s. Since each story needs its own major theme, we know we want to pick two that are compatible – we decide both will be based on Fear. The fear of parenthood, and the fear of growing up.

Now that we have the two major themes chosen, we can start thinking about the story as a whole, and look at what minor themes will play into our major ones.

In this case, we know the opening scene isn’t going to be about Marlin wanting a big family only to end up with just one child. THAT minor theme is one of Desire or Hope, and not in line with our major theme of Fear. Instead, we dive into the darker side and we slaughter Marlin’s entire family – Fear!

A scene in which Nemo is kidnapped actually feeds both major themes at the same time. There’s no bigger fear for a parent than the abduction of their child, and being abducted isn’t something any child wishes upon themselves. Fear!

As we continue to build our story, we now have the right mindset to ensure that each scene is grounded in either setting up Fear, or attempting to prove one of the two opposing answers about Fear.

As this is the Invisible Layer, we NEVER tell the reader, “Oh, this scene is all about Fear.” If we chose our scenes correctly, we won’t need to tell them… the scene SHOWS them.

Putting it All Together

I know, right? It’s been so long since we had a “Putting it All Together” section you probably forgot I was even doing chapter wrap-ups. This whole ACT was one big chapter. Lucky for you, I didn’t forget.

Hopefully, you’re now more confused than ever over how stories should be created. I did say that you must learn all of it before any of it will make sense. Hang in there. As we move through the Physical Layer, all this Invisible Layer mumbo-jumbo will start to fall into place.

Still, we’ve learned a lot in this one.

We scratched the surface of the Invisible Layer of a story by starting with the basics; learning that genres, settings, and subjects build our writer’s toolbox. We saw how using different genres, settings, and subjects gives us different tools we can use to build the Physial Layer of our story.

We learned that themes have two functions – one for the reader (the question that will answered by the story), and one for the writer (allowing us to look at each scene individually and determine if it’s feeding the major theme or not).

We discovered that themes must speak to the reader on a visceral level, and that if a theme isn’t invisible, it ruins our story because the reader will feel we’re preaching at them, instead of asking them to contemplate a question.

We also became comfortable in the knowledge that while themes are limited, we can make them feel unique through the events we choose to lay over them with our Physical Layer.

Then we dove right into the deep end and discovered there are both major themes, which is the main idea of the story and something we want to limit to just one, and minor themes that must compliment and feed into the major theme.

We figured out that by breaking a theme question into two opposing answers our job as a story creator becomes easier, as it allows us to really focus in on what events we need to include in our story, and which we don’t.

We looked at a few Physical Layer elements, motifs and symbolism, and discovered that if used properly, both work to help the reader consume our Invisible Layer elements.

We also learned that depending on how our theme is answered, it’ll help determine if we’re writing a Tragedy, or a story that’ll have a Happy Ending.

Finally, we came to the understanding that just as the Physical Layer has two opposing sides, so does the Invisible Layer. Sometimes these two Layers line up, meaning the protagonist is attempting to prove one theme answer, and the antagonist is attempting to prove the other theme answer (which normally means these two players are really allegories for some larger aspect of humanity). But normally, this isn’t the case. Most times the two theme’s answers are warring inside the protagonist, and it’ll be the protagonist who’s forced to choose which answer is true.

The cool thing about all this is, it’s all information. Information that if you plot out, you generate a great base from which to build your story.

Here’s me revealing another lie I told you at the beginning of this book. (Though one I bet you’ll be happy I told.)

While there’s no step-by-step guide to creating a story, there’s at least a step-by-step guide to gathering all the information you need to begin creating a story.

GENRE: _________________ SETTING: __________________SUBJECT: __________________________________________

MAJOR THEME: ________________________________________________________________________________________

MAJOR THEME ANSWER ONE: ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ (True False)

MAJOR THEME ANSWER TWO: ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ (True False)

MINOR THEMES: ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

PROTAGONIST: ____________________________________

Allegory Y/N:______________________________________

PROTAGONIST WANTS: _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

PROTAGONIST NEEDS: _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

ANTAGONIST: _____________________________________

Allegory Y/N: _____________________________________

PHYSICAL LAYER CONFLICT (Protag): ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

PHYSICAL LAYER CONFLICT (Antag): ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

PHYSICAL LAYER & INVISIBLE LAYER LINE UP? Y/N

HAPPY ENDING or TRAGEDY? _______________________

[Find a fillable version of this form at www.DrakeU.com]

Now that you have all this tucked away in that massive brain of yours, let’s start looking at the Physical Layer, and see how we build the events to answer the invisible questions of our story.

ACT III

The Physical Layer

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”

– George Orwell 1903 – 1950

(Nineteen Eighty-Four)

Oowee, partner! Ya made it. The championship round. The Physical Layer, where all the elements of your written story reside. Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles... All that exciting stuff readers actually get to read.

Before we get started, let me nip something in the bud right here, lest you think things are going to get easier. Even here at the Physical Layer, there are tons of theories you need to understand and employ to create stories readers will want to read. Keep mumbling the mantras we’ve learned – It’s all about the reader, and Events do not a Story make.

What could be easier than that? Ha! Sarcasm.

Fear not, my brave hero. As with much of creative writing, there are tools and concepts that’ll aid you on this noble quest.

To help us on our journey through ACT III, let’s write a fictitious story together. One that has never before been written. One with adventure and magic and all the things that make stories so amazing. Since we need a title, let’s just make something up. It doesn’t matter what it is for now, it’s just a working title. Something to get us started. Hmm… going completely off the cuff here, let’s call our brand new, never before been told story, Star Wars – A New Hope. Yeah, that’s a cool name. To really make reader’s heads spin, let’s call it Episode 4. Why start a story with Episode 4? I have no idea. It just seems like the right thing to do.

The Invisible Layer

A Lesson Recap

“And how many hours a day did you do lessons?” said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.

“Ten hours the first day,” said the Mock Turtle: “nine the next, and so on.”

“What a curious plan!” exclaimed Alice.

“That’s the reason they’re called lessons,” the Gryphon remarked: “because they lessen from day to day.”

– A quote from Alice in Wonderland

– Lewis Carroll 1832– 1898

(Alice in Wonderland)

I know what you’re thinking. You assume you can skip this section. I mean, who wants to read a recap, am I right? I personally think that would be unwise. One, because this section has important information we’ll use for the remainder of this book. Two, you know what they say, “Practice makes perfect.” I’ll use this section to really hone in on how all those Invisible Layer theories work together. Five, you never know what words my typewriter will spew out next, and you’d simply hate yourself if you missed anything witty. (Three, sir.)

Besides, we have that fictitious story to write. Since the Invisible Layer must be created before we can start on the Physical Layer, we can do that here. Two birds, one stone, and all that. Wot, wot!

Just in case you missed it during our discussion so far, and because I haven’t kicked that damn mule in a page or two, the story isn’t whatever the hero is trying to overcome. That’s an event. The story is the message you want the reader to contemplate. An invisible question that will be answered by the overcome of the Physical Layer conflict.

In other words, in our fictitious and never before told story that we’ve randomly named Star Wars – A New Hope, the conflict of the story (the Invisible Layer) isn’t between Luke and the Death Star, Obi Wan and Darth Vader, nor even between the Rebels and the Empire. Those are all Physical Layer conflicts. Important, yes. Fun for the reader, absolutely. However, not what the reader will take away once the story has concluded.

The story conflict of Star Wars – A New Hope is between Technology and Faith. This is a powerful, visceral, soul-stirring major theme, and the reason I’m certain this never-before told story of ours will be such a huge success. Not because the Death Star gets blowed up, not because Obi Wan Kenobi commits death-by-cop suicide, not because the radicals destroy some giant governmental toy, but because the audience’s built-in, subconscious expectations will be fulfilled.

Let’s walk through the process of writing this totally original and unlike any other story out there, so we can put into action all those concepts we’ve discovered so far.

As you and I are probably different writers, let’s create a fictitious character who will become our writer persona. A fabricated person to bridge the gap between the two of us. A common name, found in nearly every phonebook across the land. Let’s call the writer persona who’s going to write our story George Lucas! Yes, a solid writer name. The name of a man who sounds like he has a firm handshake and an honest smile.

First things first, the Invisible Layer.

“Hi. My name is George Lucas, and I’m a big ole geek. I really, really like science fiction.” Yeah! We know what our fictitious writer persona enjoys as a fan. This is important, because we need to write in a genre we love.

Knowing this, and knowing our writer persona is a big ole geek who loves science fiction, let’s settle on writing a science fiction story.

“But, wait!” you interrupt again, earning an exasperated eye roll from me. “Our writer persona also likes magic.”

OK, solid point. I’ll overlook your interruption… this time… With this added information, let’s write a sci-fi fantasy story!

With this realization, we decide we’re going to write a story that’ll be set in space, with lots of cool futuristic gadgets like spaceships and laser guns and weird alien races. However, since we also want to have fantasy elements, we’re going to include wizards and knights and princesses in our story. Why not? (Side note: I’m probably going to ruin this movie for you.)

Genre and setting chosen.

Next, we could pick either the theme or the subject. For this exercise, let’s start by picking our subject.

Since we know we want an action-packed adventure story with lots of built in danger, let’s decide our subject is going to be War. Lots of things trying to kill you when a war is going on. This allows us to use elements of war – things most humans are familiar with – as catalysts to drive the events of our Physical Layer. For starters, it means we’ll have two opposing sides. In this fictitious case, let’s call one side the Empire (the evil side) and the other Rebels (the good guys). This subject will add some great opportunities to both lay out the question of our major theme, as well as being a great playground while we attempt to prove the two opposing answers of the major theme.

Yeah! Perfect subject for a perfect story.

Let the work begin. We must now settle on our major theme. Our fictitious writer persona thinks we should explore Technology vs. Faith, and I must say, he’s picked a live one here. This theme inspires many things inside us wacky humans. Technology speaks to us viscerally about advancement, the future, taking control of our environment as well as our own destinies, etc. Faith speaks to us viscerally about hope, enlightenment, immortality, history, and the awe of the unknowable. Great job, Mr. Lucas! You had me at theme.

However, this is just a theme topic. We need to turn this into a theme question for the reader to ponder. Let’s use, “Is it better to rely on Technology to save you, or should you instead have Faith in something greater than yourself?” Win! Readers will be taking this theme all the way to the proverbial bank for an emotional deposit, if ya get me meanin’. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

Boldly turning to my philosophy of the two opposing answers, we create: “Relying on Technology will save you.” AND “Having Faith in something greater than yourself will save you.” Awesome! We now have the two opposing answers that will be battling each other throughout our story. I.E., the Invisible Layer conflict.

It’s time to sit down for some introspection. We, the writer, need to decide which of these answers is true, and which is false. We can’t write a story that ends up proving one or the other unless we know in advance which answer wins. The fictitious writer persona we’ve created to write this story, George Lucas, believes that having Faith in something greater than yourself will save you, and I’m inclined to agree. Remember, it’s way easier for a writer to write about something they actually believe in. Not a requirement, just a bonus.

Lookie there. Invisible Layer nearly complete. All we need to do now is figure out what Physical Layer elements will be connected to our two opposing Invisible Layer answers. In other words, who or what will attempt to prove each opposing answer?

There are two approaches here, as we’ve discussed. We can have the Physical Layer and the Invisible Layer line up. Meaning, we can have the protagonist attempt to prove true one of the answers, and have the antagonist attempt to prove true the other. Normally, as we saw in The Lord of the Flies, when you take this approach, the protagonist and the antagonist become allegories, each representing some greater aspect of humanity. These types of stories tend to have a more abstract meaning, and because of their esoteric nature, are not always intended to reach the mass market.

The more common approach is to have the battle between the major theme’s two opposing answers raging inside the protagonist. This forces the reader to deal directly with the question of the major theme because the events of the Physical Layer are going to force the protagonist to deal directly with the question of the major theme. As we know, the protagonist is an extension of the reader. Writing a story this way makes the theme more personal for the protagonist, and by extension, the reader. As everyone struggles internally with human issues, this type of story tends to be more widely accepted by the mass audience.

Looking at our major theme of Technology vs. Faith, and knowing we want to create a story that will have mass appeal, you and I agree that the latter of these is more appropriate for our story. Go team us! We can move forward with the understanding that the Invisible Layer of our fictitious story is going to be fought inside our protagonist, which will force our protagonist (and by extension, our reader) to make the choice between our major theme’s two opposing answers.

We need a name for our protagonist so I can stop writing out the exorbitantly long word “protagonist.” Let’s call him Luke, mostly because it’s four letters long and I’m lazy.

Since we’re creating a story set in space with all kinds of amazing technology at our disposal, you might assume we have one of these opposing answers already covered. I mean, the physical world of our story will be a constant reminder to Luke that: “Relying on Technology will save you.” right?

Wrong!

That’s way too passive. Remember, the two opposing questions must be in conflict. Drama! Technology that just happens to exist in the world isn’t good enough for an adventure story, so we need to introduce things that will be actively pushing Technology. One idea would be to have Luke meet a character who’s all about the laser gun. Some scruffy nerf herder who feels Faith is overrated. Let’s name this new guy Han for now. This gives us an entity on the good side that’ll be actively advocating for Technology.

What about that other answer? Faith?

Well, religion is one of those deadly sins you don’t want to throw into a reader’s face. Just like my mother always says, “Never talk about politics or religion in mixed company.” Either of these topics can be a turn off, and could spell disaster for our story. For the second of our major theme answers, we need to turn to symbolism – the writer’s roofie.

For this story, let’s invent a type of magical power that will become an allegory for religious belief. We can call this magic, “The Force.” Remember, an allegory is an extended metaphor – something we can present throughout the story as one thing, but in reality it means something completely different. I.E. The Force = Belief in Something Greater.

Yeah! Problem solved. Thank you, symbolism. Bonus: Those kooky readers will never suspect we’re coercing them to contemplate spirituality. Mwahahahahahahahaaa!

We now have pretty defined opposing sides for both the Physical Layer, and the Invisible Layer. As our major theme will be warring inside Luke, we can get creative in how we use the elements of the Physical Layer. In other words, we can do things that will make this decision difficult for Luke (and by extension, the reader).

Meaning, we can add in elements from both sides of the physical conflict that are attempting to convince Luke to choose both answers as true.

For the Technology answer, we’ve already created that weird smuggler, Han, who’ll be on the side of good. We can add in a cool spaceship, and even some sidekick robots that Luke will need to rely on to succeed. This all goes to prove the value of Technology. However, we want to show that Technology is evil as well. So, we’ll add in elements of Technology that will cause harm. The Empire could have cool spaceships of their own, a massive clone army, and even a giant, planet-destroying death ray! Yeah… this’ll all add to the complexity of Luke picking Technology as the true answer. I mean, do you really want to rely on the side that murdered your Aunt and Uncle?

For the Faith side, we could have a character be Luke’s mentor, teaching him how good the Force is, and why relying on it will save your life. Let’s call him Old Ben. But, we don’t want to make it that easy, so let’s give that scary Darth Vader access to this magic as well. Only, he uses it for evil. Booo! And this Darth guy killed Luke’s father with his evil magic. Booo! He’s also a general for the evil Empire. Booo! This will add nicely to the complexity of Luke picking Faith. I mean, do you really want to rely on the side that turned you into an orphan?

This now gives us everything we need to answer our final Invisible Layer question: Is this going to be a Tragedy or a Happy Ending story?

Since we know the major theme’s two opposing answers are going to be warring inside Luke, and we know which opposing answer is true and which is false, all we need to do if figure out how we want the story to end.

In other words, while we know that Faith is the true answer, this doesn’t mean Luke will choose Faith as his final answer. We did lay down a bunch of things that will sway Luke to go either way.

If Luke chooses Technology, which we, as the writer, know is the false answer, then Luke will lose during the final climax of the story, and be punished. Luke must be punished if he picks Technology so it proves to the reader that Faith was the correct answer. This is the sole task of a story – to teach something to the reader. Since Luke (the protagonist) loses, this would be a Tragedy. The reader will still consume the invisible message, because the reader will realize that Luke should’ve chosen Faith – but only if Luke’s final decision causes the reader grief.

If Luke chooses Faith, which we, as the writer, knows is the true answer, then Luke will win during the final climax of the story. Luke must win if he picks Faith so it proves to the reader Technology was the wrong answer. Since Luke (the protagonist) wins, this would be a Happy Ending story. The reader will consume the invisible message, because the reader will see that Luke chose wisely – and revel in whatever coolness we give Luke for his good decision at the end of the book.

As it’s easier to write a Happy Ending story, let’s decide that Luke will choose Faith in the end, win the day, and leave the reader feeling euphoric with a Happy Ending.

And just that quick, Bob’s your uncle. We have all those Invisible Layer elements figured out.

Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

GENRE: Sci-Fi Fantasy

SETTING: Space

SUBJECT: Civil War

MAJOR THEME: Is it better to rely on Technology or Faith

MAJOR THEME ANSWER ONE: Relying on Technology will save you (False)

MAJOR THEME ANSWER TWO: Relying on Faith will save you (True)

MINOR THEMES: Honor, Duty, Oppression, Good vs. Evil, Legacy, Death, Love, Friendship

PROTAGONIST: Luke Skywalker

Allegory Y/N:N

PROTAGONIST WANTS: To embrace Technology and be the best pilot, gunner, and all around badass

PROTAGONIST NEEDS: To understand that there is more to life than the tangible world around us

ANTAGONIST: Darth Vader/Empire

Allegory Y/N: N

PHYSICAL LAYER CONFLICT (Protag): Luke is on the side of the Rebels who are fighting to remove the oppression of the Empire led by Darth Vader

PHYSICAL LAYER CONFLICT (Antag): The Empire is attempting to crush the rebellion and force the universe to bow down and worship them - to do this, they have a planet-destroying death ray

PHYSICAL LAYER & INVISIBLE LAYER LINE UP? Y/N - N

HAPPY ENDING or TRAGEDY? Happy Ending

Let’s turn our attention now to the theories of the Physical Layer.

Chapter Six

Theories of the Physical Layer

“We’re not on our journey to save the world, but to save ourselves. But in doing that, we save the world.”

– Joseph Campbell 1904 – 1987

(The Power of Myth)

The Cycle of a Protagonist

“The noir hero is a knight in blood caked armor. He’s dirty and he does his best to deny the fact that he’s a hero the whole time.”

– Frank Miller 1957 –

(Batman: The Dark Knight Returns)

Theory time! That may make you sad, but I’m doing my happy theory dance.

I’ve discovered something about story creation that makes most new writers quake with fear. All main character arcs in a Happy Ending story follow the exact same path. Now, Tragedies can be a bit different. But as I’ve stated, those stories are way more complicated to pull off. Since I’m trying to cover the basics of Dynamic Story Creation in this book to give you a solid base to build your writing career from, I’m going to abandon Tragedies for the remainder of this journey and stick to Happy Ending stories. Once you master the Happy Ending, you can grow into writing Tragedies.

Let me restate my opening statement so there’s no confusion here.

Need me to prove it? Sure.

I could simply point you back to all those cop shows I’ve brought up so often, and remind you how they’re all the same. But that would be too easy, and what’s the fun in that?

Let’s start by looking at the linear nature of a story. All stories (even crappy ones) have a beginning, a rise in tension to some type of conflict, and end at some point after the resolution of said conflict. They’re linear. To create a physical representation, it would look like this:

Most feel this is how stories work, and in many ways, they do. However, when it comes to the protagonist of a Happy Ending story, if you study story structure, you come to realize this isn’t accurate. When it comes to your main character’s path through a Happy Ending story, it’s circular.

You’ll note the place a main character starts and where they end are… well… the same place. But only metaphorically, as we’ll soon learn.

The reason this path is circular has to do with the job of a protagonist. As I’ve made abundantly clear: Your protagonist isn’t your character traveling through your story overcoming obstacles. Your protagonist is an extension of the reader. As I’ve also made abundantly clear: A good story is defined by what the reader takes away with them once they read the words, “The End.”

What you come to realize as a story creator is, to make the reader walk away with a lesson, there must be transformation that’s a direct result of the journey.

To be transformed, things must start in a certain way. Meaning, before we get into the topic of transformation, let’s look at how all stories begin.

Beginning State

of the Story

“The beginning is always today.”

– Mary Shelley 1797 – 1851

(Frankenstein)

Continuing to make those newbie writers quake with fear over how all stories are exactly the same, a protagonist’s journey (in either a Tragedy or a Happy Ending) will always start in one of two “states.” They’ll either start in what’s known as the State of Perfection, or in something called the State of Imperfection.

There’s just no other way to start a story.

The State of Perfection can be a little misleading. Sometimes, The State of Perfection means exactly that – Perfection. Let’s look at Finding Nemo. When this story opens, Marlin and Coral (that’s the wife) are checking out their new home. It’s perfect. Great home, wonderful view, the best schools, awesome neighbors. They’re totally in love, and they have kids on the way – 400 of them! You don’t get a better State of Perfection than this. Life is literally perfect for them.

However, “perfection” can sometimes be too strong a word to be taken literally with this theory. A lot of times, the State of Perfection is a state in which the protagonist believes life is “as good as it gets.”

A perfect example of this is the movie As Good as it Gets. This movie opens on the face of that sweet old lady coming out of her apartment. She couldn’t be happier, because today is tulip day! She’s off to purchase some beautiful flowers to spruce up her apartment. Stepping into the hallway, she sees her neighbor and instantly stops. Her face scrunches up into a wicked frown, and she retreats back into her apartment mumbling words that suspiciously sound like she just dropped the F-Bomb. That’s when we meet the protagonist, Melvin Udall, who’s in the hallway fighting with a different neighbor’s (Simon’s) dog. Melvin is attempting to stop Simon’s dog from pissing in the hallway. When Melvin fails, he scoops up the dog – spraying urine everywhere – and dumps the poor, sweet-looking puppy down the garbage shoot. Before Melvin can withdraw into his own apartment, Simon comes out looking for his beloved pet. During the ensuing conversation, we discover that ole Melvin Udall is a terrible human being who hates everything and everyone – especially homosexuals like Simon. I’d say Melvin is a modern-day Ebenezer Scrooge, but that would be an insult to how kind and generous Scrooge was by comparison. Melvin is really the worst type of human imaginable.

But this is his life, and he’s very satisfied with it. While you and I may feel this would be a terrible existence, Melvin wouldn’t have his life any other way. This gloomy, hateful, solitary existence is his State of Perfection.

We can also use The Matrix as an example of starting a story in a less-than-perfection State of Perfection. Let’s skip the prologue bit where Trinity mops the floor with a bunch of cops. When we meet Neo in the next scene, life isn’t so bad for him. He’s not exactly happy, but he’s making money, has an apartment, a good job. Sure, he hates his job and is haunted by finding out what the Matrix is. Still, life isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s pretty normal, much like how you and I probably live. Again, this is his State of Perfection. While life could be better, there’s no strange governmental organization hunting him down like a dog.

This is exactly how the fictitious story we’re fictitiously writing is going to start. Again skipping the prologue where Darth Vader captures Princess Lea, in the second scene we meet Luke, a moisture farmer. Life isn’t exactly perfect for Luke – he would rather skip doing his chores and go play with his friends. But life isn’t bad either. In fact, outside of him living on a desert planet in a galaxy far, far away, it’s pretty much like any other human’s life – normal. It’s Luke’s State of Perfection.

This is the definition of what it means to start a story in the State of Perfection. Things are pretty much normal.

The State of Imperfection is a bit more straightforward. In this state, the story starts after the protagonist’s life has been torn to shreds. Their world was shattered sometime before the story began, and when we meet this protagonist, things appear about as bleak as they can get.

Let’s look at the Shawshank Redemption as an example. This movie opens and we find ourselves inside a car with an obviously angry and upset Mr. Andy Dufresne (the protagonist). He’s drunk, crying, and fondling a loaded pistol. As this is probably not how his life normally goes on a daily basis, we can assume something very, very wrong has happened to him before we joined him in that car. This is definitely a State of Imperfection for Mr. Andy Dufresne.

In the movie 12 Monkeys, when the story opens we meet James Cole (the protagonist) and he’s in some weird, post-apocalyptic prison being used as a guinea pig in some demented science experiment. You can’t say life is good for him, and we doubt this is what he considers as normal. We know instantly that something very, very wrong has happened before the story started. Again, a State of Imperfection.

The funny thing about this theory is, if you start your story in the State of Perfection, it can’t stay that way long. Think back to my wonderfully written, The Walk. Remember how you were expecting something terrible to happen to my poor man? Riiiight. If a story starts in the State of Perfection, audiences expect that it won’t stay there long.

Going back to Finding Nemo, just seconds after the introduction of Marlin’s perfect world, a barracuda shows up and eats his wife and children. We move from a State of Perfection to a State of Imperfection in the blink of an eye. This event starts Marlin’s “journey” through the story that’ll lead to his “transformation.”

As Good as it Gets takes a bit longer to move from Melvin’s (terrible) State of Perfection to his (worst nightmare) State of Imperfection, but we get there. First the movie introduces both the lives of the waitress, Carol, and the gay neighbor, Simon. The change of “State” arrives after Simon is beaten during a robbery and Cuba Gooding Jr.’s character forces Melvin to care for Simon’s dog while Simon is in the hospital. No one or nothing has ever been in Melvin’s apartment outside of himself, so the introduction of the dog destroys his world, moving him to the State of Imperfection. This is also the event that starts Melvin’s “journey” through the story that’ll lead to his “transformation.”

The Matrix follows this same path (shocking, since all stories follow this same path). Soon after the story begins, Neo is ripped from his normal (though simulated) world and dumped into the destroyed (though real) world of a post-apocalyptic Earth. Again, this is the start of his “journey” through the story that’ll lead to his “transformation.”

When you start a story in the State of Perfection, just moving the protagonist to a State of Imperfection begins their transformation. When a story begins in the State of Imperfection, things get a bit trickier. Even though these stories start after the fall of the protagonist, we must still give the reader enough information up front to show them what the protagonist felt was their State of Perfection. It’s the only way to build a visceral connection between the reader and the hero and force the reader to care about the character. We’ll discuss this in detail in just a second, but you must keep in mind that our goal is to deliver a story that transforms the protagonist.

What about our fictitious story, Star Wars – A New Hope? Well, let’s just say that when governmental soldiers murder your parents and start hunting you down like an animal, it won’t be your finest hour. Our movie will start in a State of Perfection, and then with the death of Luke’s aunt and uncle, it’ll move to a State of Imperfection.

Why is it important to understand how all stories start? Four main reasons.

One: Setting the Benchmarks for the reader so they understand what the protagonist feels is their State of Perfection. (Accomplishing this when the story starts in a State of Imperfection is something I’ll address in the next section.)

Two: Once the reader understands this State of Perfection, they’ll care about what the protagonist loses when they move to the State of Imperfection.

Three: This creates the motivation of the protagonist to continue through the story.

Four: This begins the protagonist’s journey toward transformation.

Let’s look at each separately.

Setting Benchmarks

“Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean it isn’t so.”

– A quote from The Blank Book

– Lemony Snicket (Daniel Handler) 1970 –

(A Series of Unfortunate Events)

The number one reason to start your story in a State of Perfection is it’s the easiest way to set your benchmarks. This will become clearer when we move into laying down actual events of the Physical Layer, but stay with me for a moment.

Look back at my circular diagram of the Cycle of a Protagonist. See how the protagonist will start and end at the same place? This represents that a protagonist will start the story in their State of Perfection, journey through a series of events that will transform the character, which will allow the character to return to some semblance of a State of Perfection (a Happy Ending).

For the reader to understand and follow this journey, as well as grasp how the journey transforms the character, you must make the reader understand what the character sees as their State of Perfection. You must set benchmarks the reader can use so they care about what the character loses when they move from the State of Perfection to the State of Imperfection, and why the character continues through the journey – their motivation.

This is the first step of the emotional rollercoaster ride we’re going to take the reader on. We introduce a world that, at least to the protagonist, is about as good as it gets. This eases the reader into the world of our story, makes them comfortable, builds an emotional bond between the reader and the protagonist, and starts the reader on an emotional high.

This is extremely important. Think about an actual rollercoaster ride. Why is the first moment of every rollercoaster ride climbing to the highest peak, and starting with the biggest drop? Well… truth be told… this is all about physics. Rollercoasters are not powered by electricity, only gravity. You must start off with the biggest drop to have enough momentum to finish the ride… But gravity has nothing to do with writing, so science can piss off!

I’m gonna get metaphorical on this beeyatch.

It’s enjoyable to start off with that long, slow climb to the top of the highest peak because it builds your excitement waiting for that first drop. It adds fun and excitement.

This is the very essence of the State of Perfection. The story starts, and the reader begins a slow but steady climb up a ramp of tension. They fall deeper into the story, understanding what’s important to the protagonist, but know full well the edge of a cliff is somewhere ahead. The buildup is what keeps them reading. When the story drops, and begins its first mad dash into the pits of the unknown, the reader can throw their hands in the air and scream like they just don’t care… metaphorically, of course.

You can’t reinvent this wheel. It must happen, or readers won’t enjoy the ride. This would be like a rollercoaster that starts and remains flat. Those are called subways, and most people over the age of four don’t consider a subway an amusing ride.

Starting the story in a State of Imperfection doesn’t grant you leave to skip setting your benchmarks. You’ll still need to do this, or the reader won’t have anything to use to understand what the protagonist has lost (before the story began) nor know when the protagonist has regained some semblance of a State of Perfection. Worse, it means the reader won’t care anyway, because they have no visceral connection to the protagonist.

Since the terrible event that shattered our protagonist’s world has already happened, we must find organic ways to give the reader this same information. This could be through flashbacks, dialogue, or other ways. Let’s look at a diagram:

As we can see, the story now starts a bit later on the circle. However, all that stuff that would’ve been spelled out to the reader had we started this story in the State of Perfection must still be given to the reader.

If you skip setting up benchmarks for the reader, the reader will never develop an emotional connection to the character, nor understand/care why the character is motivated to continue moving through the story, or grasp when the character has returned to some semblance of their State of Perfection. And believe me, your story will suffer because of it.

In 12 Monkeys, we get a series of flashbacks from time to time that shows us Cole’s childhood, and what life was like for him before the plague swept across our planet killing 99% of the human race. In addition, Cole is constantly talking about that sunny beach he saw on the postcard. These let the audience understand what Cole feels is his State of Perfection – so we care about what he lost before we met him, developing our emotional connection to this character. It also lets us know what Cole is fighting for – so we believe why he’s motivated to reach his end game. (All things we could’ve done had we started this story in a State of Perfection, sure. But the writers did a wonderful job of getting this information to us organically.)

In The Shawshank Redemption, we get no flashbacks of Andy Dufresne’s life before the murder of his wife (outside of a few images of his wife boinking her young lover, which does not do anything in the way of setting up benchmarks for Andy’s State of Perfection). Instead, we learn that he was a rich and well respected banker through conversations he has with other characters. This lets the audience understand what Andy felt was his State of Perfection before the story started – so we care for what he lost before we met him, forging our emotional connection to this character. It also lets us know what Andy is fighting for – so we believed why he is motivated to reach his end game. (All things we could’ve done had we started this story in a State of Perfection, sure. But the writers did a wonderful job of getting this information to us organically.)

Loss

The Currency Used to

Purchase a Reader’s Love

“It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.”

–Chuck Palahniuk 1962 –

(Fight Club)

To understand Dynamic Story Creation, you must understand the job of a writer. Your job isn’t to be realistic, it’s to move the reader emotionally. This means fulfilling all those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have in very specific ways, expectations that’ve been ingrained in us as story consumers for millennia, and fulfilling them in a way that makes the reader feel something.

A big element in how this works is the protagonist must experience loss. For the reader to understand this loss, you must setup benchmarks so the reader sees where things started, and where they ended.

You must put the reader inside that rollercoaster car and make them emotionally attached to what the protagonist is going to lose when they move from the State of Perfection to the State of Imperfection. Or, if you’re starting your story in the State of Imperfection, you must find organic ways to show the reader what the protagonist lost before everything went to hell in a handbasket.

This emotional attachment must happen for the reader. If it doesn’t, the reader will never find emotional satisfaction from the story.

So, all stories either start in a State of Perfection and then move quickly to a State of Imperfection, or start in a State of Imperfection and organically give the reader what they would’ve gotten had the story started in the State of Perfection. They start this way because this is that first big emotional moment for the reader.

And loss is the heart of it.

Andy Dufresne loses his freedom and goes to prison.

Neo loses his normal world and awakes in a post-apocalyptic world. This is the ultimate definition of entering a new world.

Marlin loses his family.

Melvin Udall loses his solitary OCD existence.

Gracie Hart loses her comfortably masculine world.

Forrest Gump loses his innocence.

James Cole loses his freedom, and perhaps his sanity.

Pick a story, and I guarantee you, the protagonist loses something very near the beginning of the story. And if you’re paying close attention, all of the above are the events that move the respective protagonists from their State of Perfection to their State of Imperfection.

Our story? Luke loses his aunt and uncle, as well as his standing as a law-abiding citizen.

Motivation

The Driving Force of the Protagonist

“And will you succeed? Yes indeed, yes indeed! Ninety-eight and three-quarters percent guaranteed!”

–Dr. Seuss 1904 – 1991

(My First Author)

Once the reader understands what the protagonist has lost, and has become emotionally attached to seeing this character regain some semblance of their State of Perfection, by default the reader will understand and believe the motivations that’ll drive the protagonist forward through the story.

It really is that simple.

Andy Dufresne is an innocent man. He should not be in prison serving two consecutive life sentences for murder. He’s very motivated to gain back his freedom.

Once Neo understands the new world he finds himself in, he’s very motivated to protect his friends.

Marlin is very motivated in his quest to rescue his son.

Once Melvin Udall realizes he actually wants companionship, he’s very motivated to gain the friendship of the waitress and his gay neighbor.

While Gracie Hart retains her original FBI motivation to protect, she becomes motivated to become a sexy woman who happens to be a kickass FBI agent.

Forrest Gump is motivated by his love of Jenny.

James Cole is motivated first by honor of duty, then by gaining some type of life outside of his post-apocalyptic hell.

Luke is also motivated by his sense of duty to fight the evil Empire which has taken so much from him.

We’ll continue to come back to character motivations as we move forward, but in regards to setting the “Starting State” of your story, it really hinges on your ability to make sure the reader understands what the protagonist feels is their State of Perfection, the emotional impact of the protagonist losing this State of Perfection, and ensuring the reader believes this character’s motivation to return to their State of Perfection.

Do this well, and you’ll have the reader hook, line, and sinker.

Transformation

the Delivery Guy of the Theme

“All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves. We must die to one life before we can enter another.”

– Anatole France 1844 – 1924

(The Gods will have Blood)

Understanding where a story starts means you understand the starting state of your protagonist. This is crucial so you know what needs to happen through the journey of the story to create transformation.

Transformation is your UPS truck that’ll deliver all those invisible elements we’ve been discussing. While it’s important for the creation of your story, the hard truth is that having two opposing answers duke it out doesn’t mean the reader will be moved emotionally. This falls back to my Events ≠ Story.

For the reader to be moved emotionally, we need something more… well… emotional.

“Transformation walks into a bar…”

To have the events of the story move the reader emotionally, something in the story must be transformed. This is usually the main character, but not always.

In both As Good As It Gets and The Matrix, the main characters are transformed from one thing to something better. Melvin is transformed from a hateful old man to someone you might actually want to hang out with, and Neo is transformed from a nerdy programmer to a superhero.

However, transformation can happen in more abstract ways as well, and still deliver emotional satisfaction to the reader.

In V for Vendetta, the characters are not transformed, the world is. In this movie, the State of Perfection is a world that has given up freedom of choice for safety. The world has turned a blind eye to governmental oppression such as women’s rights, persecution of homosexuals, etc. so it gains the ability to sleep at night without fear of being murdered. If you’re keeping score, this means the major theme of this story isn’t being fought inside the protagonist. The protagonist and antagonist of V for Vendetta are allegories for larger aspects of humanity.

V (one of the two protagonists), is a vigilante who attacks the government and forces the world to take notice of how it’s behaving. This moves the story from its State of Perfection to a State of Imperfection, and begins the “journey” that will “transform” the world.

In the end, the world realizes it’s wrong, and choses freedom of choice. I.E., the world is transformed by the journey through the story from Turning a Blind Eye to Oppression, to believing Freedom of Choice is the way to live. As this is the true answer the story was attempting to prove, this means the story has a Happy Ending – even though V dies at the end. (Spoilers!)

Going back to another of my points; as this is a story that uses the main characters as allegories, its esoteric nature means it’s not going to be as widely accepted by the mass market. In other words, even though this story was frickin’ awesome!, it didn’t do as well with the general public as say, Star Wars – A New Hope, even though I feel V for Vendetta is a better written story.

Which reminds me of the story we’re working on. Luke (the protagonist who will be making the decision as to which opposing answer is true) must be transformed. I.E., Luke must start as one thing, and then, because of the journey, become something different. It’s the only way to fulfill all those built-in, subconscious expectations a reader has.

Let’s apply this to our story.

First, there’s no cheating with transformation. Sure, Luke starts as a whiny farm boy, and is transformed into a hotshot space pilot who can use magic. But those are Physical Layer elements and not the STORY. If you limit your story to transforming the protagonist only on the Physical Layer, you’ll fail as a story creator.

Since Luke’s changing from a farm boy to a warrior covers transformation on the Physical Layer, let’s turn our attention to the Invisible Layer. We know our two opposing answers will be warring inside Luke. We also know that since we’re aiming for a Happy Ending, Luke will end up choosing Faith. Since we know Luke must be transformed by the journey, we can use simple arithmetic… carry the one… and arrive at the understanding that Luke MUST start the story on the side of Technology. He must be transformed from relying on Technology to relying on Faith.

By starting Luke on the side of Technology, it means through the events of the journey, he’ll somehow be convinced to switch sides – he’ll be transformed.

The only way for the reader to find their emotional satisfaction is for transformation to happen at both the Physical Layer and the Invisible Layer.

Keep in mind, these are just two types of transformation. In this case, Luke is going to start as a farm boy and transform into a hot shot pilot (Physical Layer) AND have his belief transformed from one idea to another (Invisible Layer). As shown above, there are other types of transformations as well. We could start a character off broken, and transform them to whole. We could start them off whole, and transform them to a broken state (these can apply to either physical or mental). We could transform them socially, from poor to rich, weak to powerful, insignificant to popular, single to “in love”, or vice versa on any of these. We could be literal, and transform the character from one physical state to another (say, from a frog to a prince).

Like themes, there are way too many transformation types to list here, but hopefully you get the idea. Something must be transformed by the journey both at the Physical Layer and the Invisible Layer to have an emotional impact upon the reader.

Looking at our fictitious and never been told story, it means we could do all sorts of crazy things. Like, I don’t know, we could start the story with Luke farming moisture on a desert planet (in a State of Perfection). That’s strong, because it means Luke is reliant on Technology just to quench his thirst. We could even get crazy and give him some type of hover craft as his only transportation, and perhaps even workers to help him on the farm that are all robots. Basically, when we meet Luke, he’s reliant upon Technology just to survive – proving relying on Technology will save you.

If we want to be sneaky, and because we know Faith is going to be the correct answer in the end, we can start planting the seeds of Technology being the wrong answer right here in the beginning of the story, well before we introduce the allegory of Faith. We could, oh I don’t know, have Luke purchase a robot that breaks down. This will cast some doubt on the Technology side of the equation.

Through the course of the story, we’ll introduce elements that’ll attempt to prove relying on Faith will save you. We’ve already created our allegory of “the Force” taking the place of the “Belief in Something Greater,” so we just need to work out what events are going to introduce this “Force,” and how this “Force” is going to attempt to prove that Faith will save you.

Again, just shooting from the hip here, but what about an aging wizard who tells Luke about this magical “Force.” This is that Old Ben guy. And, I don’t know, perhaps Old Ben tells Luke that Luke’s father was a great wizard, and if Luke applied himself, Luke could become a great wizard as well. Nice! Getting cool now.

Let’s not stop there. Remember, the major theme is being decided inside the protagonist. We don’t just want to use the “good” side for one answer, and the “bad” side for the other. If we did, we could simply make the protagonist and antagonist allegories. The beautiful thing about having the theme’s war raging inside the protagonist is that it increases the tension within our story. We want both physical element sides attempting to prove both invisible element answers as true. This’ll make it difficult for our protagonist to decide which answer is the best answer.

CONFLICT!!!

In addition to Old Ben pushing Faith and Han pushing Technology (conflict on the good side attempting to prove both invisible answers as true), we could be awesome and have the “evil” side doing the same thing. Hmm… just off the top of my head… how about we have the Empire owning a giant technologically advanced weapon that can destroy entire planets. Let’s call it a Death Star! Yeah… scary. This will prove that if you don’t have Technology on your side, you’ll die. In addition, let’s have a big badass evil dude named Darth Vader who’ll be the evil side’s advocate of Faith. This gives us conflict on the evil side attempting to prove both invisible answers as true – but in a twisted, evil kind of way. Oh! I can see it now! Perhaps a scene where the commander of the giant space ship and Darth Vader get into an argument over which is better, Technology or Faith. Something like:

The commander glared at the large, black-clad general. “Once this battle station is fully operational, nothing in this galaxy will be able to stand up to it.”

“Don’t be too proud of this Technological terror you’ve constructed.” The general shot back in one of the deepest and sexiest voices of all time. “The ability to destroy a planet is insignificant next to the power of the Force.”

Waving a dismissive hand, the commander scoffed. “Don’t try and frighten us with your sorcerer’s ways, Lord Vader. Your sad devotion to that ancient religion has not helped you conjure up the stolen data tapes, or given you clairvoyance enough to find the rebel’s hidden fortre—”

The commander’s eyes buldged as his throat constricted, cutting off his ability to breathe. The rest of the gathered officers sitting around the conference table shifted uncomfortably, but none intervened.

Darth Vader stepped forward, increasing his grip upon the air in front of him with an empty hand, bending the Force to his will and increasing the invisible pressure choking the gagging commander sitting some ten feet away. “I find your lack of Faith… disturbing.”

[And if you still don’t believe me when I say Star Wars – A New Hope is about Technology vs. Faith, I’m at a loss over what else to show you.]

With both the old Ben and Darth Vader characters actively attempting to prove Faith is the true answer, and the scruffy Han and the evil Empire actively pushing that Technology is the true answer, what we gots ourselves here is a good-ole-fashioned showdown. Yes, siree. I do declare, we do!

OK. So, Luke is going to start in a State of Perfection on the side of Technology, be introduced to Faith by old Ben and Vader, but because Han and the rest of the world is pushing him to stick with Technology, Luke isn’t going to fully buy into all this hocus pocus business. We can then have Luke waffle between these two answers all the way to some climactic event we’ve yet to figure out (probably blowing up that Death Star thing I just created on a whim).

Whatever Luke does to overcome the climactic event, he’ll choose Faith because he’ll have been transformed by the events of the story to realize Technology won’t save him, Faith is his only option (Invisible Layer transformation).

The Physical Layer transformation will be handled by Luke starting as a farm boy and eventually becoming a warrior.

Add all this to the benchmarks showing what Luke feels is his State of Perfection, and we should get a reader who cares about Luke’s loss when he moves to his State of Imperfection. This will build an emotional connection to Luke so the reader actually cares that he succeeds. The reader will believe in the motivations that drive Luke through the story, because they’ll hope that Luke can return to some semblance of his lost State of Perfection.

Yes. Tons of theories to juggle as we create our story. I already said you must know all of it before any of it makes sense.

Still, putting all these theories into play simultaneously means that we, the writer, are starting to understand how the conflicts of our Invisible Layer can lay down the groundwork for the Physical Layer. Events that will transform Luke from relying on Technology to relying on Faith, as well as transforming him from a farm boy to a warrior. Through all this the reader finds their emotional fulfilment.

Side Note: The Anchor

“I’ve had great success being a total idiot.”

– Jerry Lewis 1926 –

(The Nutty Professor)

Before we get much deeper into this, we need to chase a rabbit for a moment. I promise, this’ll be quick.

If you’re a sci-fi or fantasy fan, you may have noticed there are a lot of stories in which the protagonist starts as a farm boy (or some similar occupation that forces him to have almost no experience with the outside world).

Have you ever wondered why?

You see, if you write a story set in the Fabulous City of Las Vegas in the year of our Lord 2016, you don’t really have much to explain to the reader about the workings of the world itself. I mean, we all know how gravity works, cars and busses, telephones and computers, etc. I stated earlier that 100% of your readers will be humans from planet Earth. By setting a story in our time and on our planet, a lot of the work is done for you.

However, if you’re creating an entirely new world, one in which nearly everything is special – races, classes, religions, social doctrines, governments, physics, technology, and the list goes on – well, you’ll need to let the reader know how all this stuff works.

One way to do this, a very terrible way indeed, is to start your book with an encyclopedia of how things work. This was common in fantasy books back in the 1960s and 70s, where the first several chapters would be this long, boring history lesson. There would be no “story” during this introduction, no characters, dialogue, or action. Only history. Dreadful! In fact, just the memory of being forced to read these terrible info-dump beginnings has made me puke in my mouth a little.

A better idea, though one that has become just as cliché, is to create a character that the literary world calls an Anchor.

An Anchor is a character who’s an idiot.

Someone who knows your fictitious, magical, completely original and unlike Earth world about as well as your new reader does. Then, because this Anchor knows nothing, they can ask all sorts of stupid questions about how things work. As they get answers to their questions, the reader, by extension, also gets these answers.

The aging wizard’s eyes took a far off look. “The Force.”

“The Force?” The young farm boy leaned forward, a vague expression of stupidity plastered across his face.

Nodding, the wizard turned back to the annoying child, attempting a smile that was not overly condescending. “The Force is what gives a Jedi his power. It’s an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy together.”

The farm boy sat back, his head nodding that he understood while his expression screamed he was totally lost.

Oh well, the wizard thought. He’ll understand eventually. Probably…

A word of caution, however. If you don’t introduce your Anchor character correctly, or fail to make your Anchor character interesting to the reader, they’ll become the other definition of the word Anchor, and drag your story to the bottom of the proverbial dead sea of terrible books.

Anchors, while a good tool to help you convey the uniqueness of your world to the reader, must be handled with care. They are cliché. That’s simply a fact. Knowing this means you must work really hard to make them feel less cliché to the reader.

The Two Most Important Questions

You’ll Ever Ask

“Be sure not to discuss your hero’s state of mind. Make it clear from his actions.”

– Anton Chekhov 1860 – 1904

(The Cherry Orchard)

This is a theory I introduced earlier, but now it’s time to really dig into it.

Above, I mentioned that since our protagonist, Luke, is going to pick the true answer of our major theme, and in picking this answer something good will happen to him, we’re writing a Happy Ending story. It actually goes a bit deeper than that.

Yes, traditionally, if the protagonist picks the theme answer that’s true, the story will have a Happy Ending, and if the protagonist picks the theme answer that’s false, you’re writing a Tragedy. However, you also need one other piece of this equation to determine what you’re writing – and this one plays into transformation.

You see, you must ask your main character (your protagonist or POV character) one very important question. Then, you must ask your story (the theme or the Invisible Layer) one very important question. Depending on how these questions are answered, combined with whether or not your protagonist picks the true theme answer, will determine if you’re writing a Tragedy or a Happy Ending story.

You must ask your protagonist:

What do you want?

Then, you must ask your theme:

What does my protagonist need?

Through the events of the story, the protagonist will only get one of these. They’ll EITHER get what they want, OR they’ll get what they need.

If your character gets what they want, you’re probably writing a Tragedy.

If your character gets what they need, you’re probably writing a Happy Ending.

This may seem opposite of what you might think, but remember, we’re not talking real life here. We’re talking entertainment. More accurately, we’re talking entertainment that delivers a message to our readers.

To deliver the message of your major theme to your reader, it must be done in a very specific way. Tragedies always mean bad things for the protagonist, because they chose the wrong answer. Happy Endings always mean good things for the protagonist, because they chose the right answer. This is simply how it’s done.

This is also how transformation happens. The protagonist always wants the false answer of the theme, and the protagonist always needs the true answer of the theme. This is how the story is going to fulfill all those built-in, subconscious expectations a reader has.

Let’s look at these theories in action using some story examples.

In The Pied Piper, the villagers wanted Greed (the false theme answer) – they didn’t want to pay the Piper for his service. Since in the end, they got what they wanted, Greed, the story was a Tragedy. Tragedies must still have transformation, but a lot of the times this is just a Physical Layer transformation, since the protagonist missed what they should have done at the Invisible Layer. This transformation is normally some terrible loss. It’s up to the writer to decide what the tragedy consists of, but it needs to be something that shows the reader why that protagonist has picked poorly. In the case of The Pied Piper, the villagers were transformed from happy parents to sad parents (Physical Layer) due to their actions, and through this transformation the reader unknowingly consumes the invisible message that Greed is bad. In addition, the readers understand that the villagers should’ve turned from their desire of Greed, and been transformed into honest people (the Invisible Layer). The events of the story teach the reader a lesson they can apply to their own lives – greed is bad. The reader understands the message of the theme due to this tragic event, and they walk away from the story having learned a lesson.

I.E., the villagers got what they wanted, not what they needed PLUS they chose the false theme answer, not the true answer. The story is a Tragedy, and succeeds in meeting what a reader feels is a good story.

A story that goes the other way with greed would be The Grinch that Stole Christmas. He chooses the true answer, and gets what he needs, so this is a Happy Ending story. He’s transformed through the journey at the Physical Layer from a mean person to a good person, as well as at the Invisible Layer from his greedy self to someone who’s “heart grew three sizes that day.” As a reward, the people of Whoville accept and welcome him into their lives.

I.E., the Grinch got what he needed, not what he wanted PLUS he chose the true theme answer, not the false answer. The story has a Happy Ending, and succeeds in meeting what a reader feels is a good story.

In the story of King Midas, the king wanted more gold. Again, a Greed based theme. He both picks the false answer of the theme, as well as gets what he wants, more gold, so this story is a Tragedy. As a result of getting what he wants, he gains the magic ability to turn all he touches into gold. Unfortunately, this means he can no longer eat – everything he touches turns to gold – plus he loses his family by turning them into golden statues.

Had the theme instead convinced the king of what he needed, to be satisfied with what he already had, he would’ve been rewarded somehow. Happy Ending.

In the movie The Matrix, Neo wanted answers. He doesn’t get what he wants, and we know this because at the end of the movie, he makes that phone call where he admits, “I have no idea where this is going.”

Instead, the theme convinced Neo of what he needed, to believe in himself and accept that he was “the one.” Because he embraced this, he was rewarded with magical powers and life. Happy Ending.

Bringing this back full circle to Star Wars – A New Hope, we need to ask these two questions – one to Luke, and the other to our theme.

Us: “Hey, Luke? What do you want?”

Luke: “Man! You know what I want? I want to be awesome in this wonderful world filled with Technology! I want to be the best pilot, the best gunner, the best sharp shooter. Because, Technology is going to save me one day.”

Us: “Interesting. Thanks.”

Us: “Hey, theme? What does Luke need?”

Theme: “Luke needs to learn that there’s something out there bigger than himself, and if he embraces it, it’ll save him in ways Technology can’t.”

Us: “Wow, theme! That’s pretty deep. Thanks.”

What have we learned? Well, Luke is starting this story on the side of Technology, what he wants. However, we know Technology will fail him in the end. Only by embracing the lesson of the theme, what he needs, will Luke be able to overcome in the end.

Since we know we’re writing a Happy Ending story, we know we must add in elements that:

Starts with Luke on the side of Technology so he can be transformed.

While he’ll fight for what he wants (Technology), we know he’ll eventually embrace what he needs (Faith).

We know Luke will use Faith to overcome the final Physical Layer conflict, and be rewarded because of this action. “Look, Ma. I got a medal!” This is the Invisible Layer transformation.

For the Physical Layer, things are more simple – we just need to transform Luke from a whiney punk into an action hero. Wait? Did I say that was the easy part?

I hope you’re starting to see how all this falls into place. Story creation is much easier than people think, if you just study and learn the theories behind how stories work. Sure, there’s a lot to keep in mind. But knowing is half the battle.

Just like everything in this industry, you can still be creative. You don’t have to follow everything listed above. However, in the end, you must fulfill all those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have.

Feel free to discover new and exciting ways to mix my theories, but if you do, remember to do so in a manner that still teaches the reader the lesson of the story.

If you forget this, or fail to accomplish it, you’ll end up with a story that sucks.

Reversals

“People may do great good accidentally, though with evil intentions – conversely people may do great evil though having the best of intentions.”

– Michael Moorcock 1939 –

(Elric of Melniboné)

One final theory before we start putting flesh on the bones of our story. This one moves away from theories that act as delivery systems for our theme. This one is more the glue that not only keeps the story together, but holds the reader’s attention as well.

You should by now have wrapped your mind around the fact that we’re going to use two separate, but connected items to create conflict throughout the story – the protagonist and antagonist of the Physical Layer, and the two opposing answers of the major theme from the Invisible Layer. All of these opposing forces will be working toward proving both answers of our major theme true right up until the climax, where one will win and one will lose.

This creates an interesting dance; one I call reversals.

Basically, a reversal is when you shift who’s winning in the story from one side to the other. As in, at one point, the protagonist is winning. Then something happens that shifts the story over to where the antagonist is winning. Or, for the theme answers, at one point one answer will be winning, and then something will happen that will put the other answer in the winning seat.

This theory can get a bit confusing, because there must be Physical Layer reversals in your story, as well as Invisible Layer reversals in your story.

The easiest way for me to explain reversals is to return to those trite cop shows. Remember, these all have the theme of Justice will Prevail. The two opposing answers could be: “Murderers will always be caught.” And “A clever murderer can get away.”

As this is an external conflict (not taking place inside the protagonist), you might assume that the protagonist and antagonist are allegories of some greater aspect of humanity, and you’d almost always be correct.

Normally, the protagonist in a cop show is really an allegory for something like Law, Social Structure, Justice, etc., and the antagonist is an allegory for something like Lawlessness, Hate, Prejudice, Base Evil, etc. Since using the protagonist and antagonist as allegories normally means that your Physical Layer and Invisible Layer line up, any reversals you put in a story like this will affect both Layers.

Meaning, let’s say we open our cop show by introducing the protagonist. He’s a handsome man. Confident, experienced, smart, this guy always gets the villain. At this point in the story, the protagonist is winning and proving murderers will always be caught. Both the Physical Layer (the detective) and the Invisible Layer (Justice prevails) are winning.

Then the call comes in – a woman’s dead body has been discovered.

Our protagonist races to the scene of the crime and begins his investigation. Surprisingly, he’s stumped. The winner is now the antagonist, proving that a clever murderer can get away. (Reversal). Both the Physical Layer (the murderer) and the Invisible Layer (murderers prevail) are winning.

But wait! What’s that small scrap of paper clutched in the dead woman’s hand? It’s a note, on which is written, “My name is John Smith, my home address is 123 Main St., and I killed this woman!”

Da da da duuuuun! Protagonist is once again winning, proving that murderers will always be caught! (Reversal). Both the Physical Layer (the detective) and the Invisible Layer (Justice prevails) are winning.

Our dashing detective races to 123 Main St., arrests John Smith, and quickly realizes this entire thing was a plant – John Smith was a red herring! Antagonist is once again winning and proving a clever murderer can get away. (Reversal). Both the Physical Layer (the murderer) and the Invisible Layer (murderers prevail) are winning.

This back-and-forth will continue to happen throughout our story until, at the end of the climax, the protagonist will win and prove once again, murderers will always be caught. Proving the true answer and giving us our Happy Ending.

A few of the above are minor reversals. We’ll want to add in major reversals as well. A major reversal is when there’s a… well… major shift in the power of the story. Continuing with our cop example above, perhaps a major reversal would be when the murderer kills someone our protagonist is actively protecting, say, their wife or child.

Let’s get a bit more complex, and bring this theory to the story we’re working on.

In Star Wars – A New Hope, the theme is an internal conflict inside Luke. This means the Physical Layer and the Invisible Layer don’t line up.

Don’t freak out, this is actually a good thing, as it gives us more to play with as a story creator. It means we have two things that need reversals instead of one. We’ll need to do reversals for the Physical Layer, as well as reversals for the Invisible Layer.

Let’s start with the Invisible Layer. We’ll need to make sure events in the story cause a reversal between Technology winning, and Faith winning. This is the war waging inside Luke, so we just need to find ways for him to be on the side of Technology for a while, and then have something happen that makes him feel he should choose Faith instead. Then, we’ll reverse things back to Technology. Etc.

The Physical Layer will also have events that reverse the winner between the protagonist (Luke) and the antagonist (Darth Vader). These are all Physical Layer events, and just mean we need to look for events that will have Luke win against Vader, and then events that will have Vader win against Luke.

Let’s see if we can put these into action.

Since we haven’t started working on the events of this never before told story, I can’t show you exactly what these will be, but let me shoot from the hip and just make up some things that might happen. I’ll add in reversals that’ll affect both the Physical Layer, as well as the Invisible Layer.

We could open the story on a desert planet. Luke is doing chores, and life is pretty good. Luke is winning (Physical Layer) and so is Technology (Invisible Layer).

Luke purchases a new droid to help around the farm and BAM! that droid has a secret message that Luke can’t retrieve (Minor Reversal). Antagonist is winning (Physical Layer and this does nothing to Technology or Faith (Invisible Layer).

Luke takes the message to an old wizard who’s able to play the message (Minor Reversal). Luke is winning (Physical Layer) and this does nothing to Technology or Faith (Invisible Layer).

The old wizard tells Luke he knew Luke’s father, and while his father was a powerful wizard, the man is dead (Minor Reversal). Antagonist is winning (Physical Layer) but surprisingly now Faith is winning (Invisible Layer).

The old wizard gives Luke a magic sword and tells Luke he could be trained as a wizard (Minor Reversal). Luke is winning (Physical Layer) and this is another big bonus for Faith (Invisible Layer).

Luke refuses, because he has chores, and goes home where he finds his parental units dead on the front lawn – killed by the evil Empire, which is looking for the message Luke has (Major Reversal). Antagonist is winning (Physical Layer) and so is Technology, in showing how it can destroy (Invisible Layer).

The old wizard shows up and tells Luke he’ll help Luke escape (Minor Reversal). Luke is winning (Physical Layer) and this does nothing to Technology or Faith (Invisible Layer).

They go to some spaceport that’s crawling with evil Empire soldiers who see Luke and move in to arrest him (Minor Reversal). Antagonist is winning (Physical Layer) and so is Technology (Invisible Layer).

The old wizard waves a hand, revealing how powerful the Force is, and the evil Empire soldiers leave (Minor Reversal). Luke is winning (Physical Layer) and so is Faith (Invisible Layer).

At the spaceport, they discover they’re trapped, and the evil Empire is stepping up its search for them (Minor Reversal). Antagonist is winning (Physical Layer) and Technology is winning (Invisible Layer).

Luckily they meet a smuggler who hides them on his ship and they’re able to escape the evil Empire (Major Reversal). Luke is winning (Physical Layer) and so is Technology (Invisible Layer).

While on the spaceship, Luke gets his first lesson in using magic, but fails. This does nothing for the physical conflict, but is a negative to Faith showing Technology is the right answer (Invisible Layer).

The smuggler consoles Luke, telling him a good blaster is all Luke needs. Again, not for the physical conflict, but Technology gets a pat on the back (Invisible Layer).

They drop out of hyperspace and are captured by the evil Empire (Major Reversal). Antagonist is winning (Physical Layer) and so is Technology (Invisible Layer).

This goes on, but you should get my point.

If you look at these examples from Star Wars – A New Hope, the things I marked as major reversals (the death of Luke’s aunt and uncle, escaping on the Millennium Falcon, being captured by the Death Star) are all things fans of this movie remember most. The minor reversals are important for the story, but it’s the major reversals that’ll impact the emotional satisfaction of the reader.

Putting it All Together

Hopefully, you’re a sharp enough cookie to see how all these pieces are starting to fit together. The theories of the Invisible Layer are irrevocably linked to the theories of the Physical Layer. All of them are working toward one purpose – fulfilling all those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have so they’ll classify your story as “good.” Once you understand this, you can lay out a solid game plan for creating any story.

As with all stories, we began by creating the Invisible Layer. Then, using the information we gained from creating the Invisible Layer, we can begin to answer the questions of the Physical Layer.

We understand that our protagonist is really a vehicle to deliver the major theme question to the reader. All protagonist journeys either begin in a State of Perfection, or a State of Imperfection. If they start in a State of Perfection, we’ll use this to set our benchmarks so the reader will understand what our protagonist sees as their perfect world, as well as caring about what the protagonist loses when they move into the State of Imperfection. It’ll also show the protagonist’s motivation for continuing to journey through our story, attempting to return to some semblance of their State of Perfection. If the protagonist begins in the State of Imperfection, we still must figure out ways to give the reader the same information had we started this story in the State of Perfection – because the reader still needs those same benchmarks so they’ll have a visceral connection to the character and the story, caring for what the character has lost, and believing in the character’s motivation for continuing through the story.

We also learned that it’s through transformation that the question of the major theme is answered for the reader. This creates a matrix that will lead us through the creation of our story.

If it’s the protagonist who’s trying to prove the truth of one of our major theme’s answers, and our antagonist who’s trying to prove the other true, then something in the world must be transformed to deliver the message of our major theme. It also means that more times than not our protagonist and antagonist are allegories to some greater aspect of humanity. This also lets us know what type of story we’re writing, for if the protagonist wins, the story will have a Happy Ending, if the protagonist loses, it’ll be a Tragedy.

If the two answers of our major theme are warring inside our protagonist, then it’s the protagonist who must be transformed to deliver the message of our major theme. For these stories, the major theme’s two opposing answers will fall into what the character wants, and what the character needs. If the character gets what they want, you’re writing a Tragedy. If the character gets what they need, you’re writing a Happy Ending story.

Regardless of whether the major theme is external or internal to the protagonist, if the correct answer is chosen (a Happy Ending), then something good must happen to the protagonist. If the incorrect answer is chosen (a Tragedy), then something terrible must happen to the protagonist. This must happen so that the major theme is understood and consumed by the reader.

Reversals are created by shifting the power of who’s winning in the story from one side to the other. We need to do reversals for both the Physical Layer, as well as the Invisible Layer. Minor reversals can happen often, but we want to make sure we include at least eight to ten major reversals in our novel.

Finally, we were introduced to what an Anchor character is, and why they’re important if you have a story with elements the reader won’t already know coming into the book.

As with the theories of the Invisible Layer, answering all these questions before you begin writing will increase the odds that you’ll write a story that’ll be worth a crap. It also means I can create yet another form to help you with this process.

Story Starts in SOP or SOI? ____________________________

Benchmarks of SOP ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

What does the protagonist lose? _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

What’s the motivation driving the POV character back to their SOP? _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

What will be transformed? ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

How will it be transformed? ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

What does the POV character want? ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

What does the POV character need? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Do they get what they want (tragedy) or what they need (happy ending)? _____________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Major Reversal ______________________________________

Chapter Seven

The 2/3/5 Act Play Structures

“What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn’t happen much, though.”

– J.D. Salinger 1919 – 2010

(The Catcher in the Rye)

Let’s face it, the Basic Arc we looked at in ACT I is cool, but it’s not “robust” enough to hang a story upon. Fear not. Where the Basic Arc is simple, stepping up to the 2-, 3-, and 5-Act play structures become incredibly confusing.

It’s widely accepted that Aristotle was the first story creator to write about story creation. For those of you keeping score at home, Aristotle was a Greek philosopher who lived 384 - 322 BC. So, yeah, this guy was around a long time ago.

Anyhoo. Aristotle noticed that the stories of his day seemed to have a very similar flow to them. They all appeared to have three parts or segments – the beginning, the middle, and the end. Later, this theory was refined and organized further. These three sections became Acts and were named the Protasis (or exposition), the Epitasis (or complication), and the Catastrophe (or resolution). Amazingly enough, this is still the way stories work to this very day, and exactly what we’ve already discussed – a setup, a rise in tension, and an overcome.

Returning to one of the first things I said way back in ACT I; we’ve been consuming written stories for over five thousand years. Because of this, we’re predisposed on how we consume those stories. Because of that, stories are predisposed to follow a defined progression to give us what we expect. (Chicken. Egg.)

Since we now know that story creation is all about the reader, and we understand the theories behind how to deliver our invisible questions through our physical events, is this any wonder? Story structure was created to ensure the reader is emotionally satisfied from the journey. Hence, all stories have a setup, a rise in tension to a defined conflict, and an overcome where the major theme’s question is answered for the reader.

How do we organize all this theory crap so we can create a story without getting lost in the process?

Let me introduce you to the 2-, 3-, and 5-Act play structures.

This is a bit more complex than most new writers think, and it’s going to seem very confusing. If you can follow me, it should become clear as mud by the end.

First, you must understand that there’s a 2-Act Play as well as a 2-Act Play. While these may look similar, they’re not the same thing. On the one hand, the 2-Act Play is talking about a physical division of the story. As in, there will be one part of the play shown to the audience, a break will be taken, then there will be a second part of the play shown to the audience. Basically, how the show is physically divided up.

On the other hand, the 2-Act Play is a term used to describe what elements need to be placed in each physical Act to ensure the audience is emotionally satisfied both at the end of Act one, and at the end of the play.

Confusing, I know. But seriously, the term “Act” is used in two different ways here. On one side it has everything to do with the medium – the medium is the method the audience will consume the story (I.E. a Stage Play, a Movie, a Book, etc.). On the other side, it has to do with the division of the story elements the audience will be consuming that’ll inevitably answer the questions of the theme.

Many times, this works out with both being the same. As in, a 2-Act Play is used as the structure to create a story that will have two physical Acts. However, this isn’t always the case as we’ll see in a moment. To make matters even more confusing, there are 1- and 4-Act Plays as well.

Still, the simple fact is, regardless of how many Acts are in your story, you’ll have a setup, a rise in tension to a defined conflict, and an overcome.

While I dabble as a playwright, for which I utilize the 2-Act structure to create a story that will be shown to audiences in two physical Acts, as a novelist I live and breathe in the 3-Act structure. I’ll go into great detail on the 3-Act Play structure in the next chapter. For now, I’ll go through each quickly so you can at least understand the basics of them.

A 1-Act Play simply means the story starts and doesn’t have a noticeable break until it ends. Today’s movies, technically, are 1-Act Plays. There’s no moment in a movie when the video stops and some weird dude fills the screen and says, “That folks, is the end of act one. Here’s act two.”

Amazingly though, 1-Act Plays are becoming increasingly popular on Broadway of late. A Life in the Theatre, Colin Quinn: Long Story Short, The Pee-wee Herman Show, Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, American Idiot, and Million Dollar Quartet is a short list of 90 minute, 1-Act Plays that have run in New York over the past few years.

Does a 1-Act Play mean there’s just a setup? Or perhaps just a conflict? Of course not! Again, we’re not talking invisible Acts here (how we chop up the elements of our story), we’re talking physical Acts (the medium used to feed the story to the reader).

In the case of a 1-Act Play (the medium), it simply means that the story starts (with the setup), continues (through a rise in tension to a defined conflict), and ends (with the resolution of the conflict), without a break or intermission. The audience comes in, the curtain rises, and this train doesn’t stop until we reach our final destination. These “1-Act Plays” still have multiple invisible Acts to them (normally either the 3- or 5- Act Structure). There’s simply no “break” delineating where one invisible Act ends, and the next invisible Act begins.

A 2-Act Play is the “traditional” Broadway structure. It simply means that sometime near the middle of the story there’ll be an intermission where wine and cheese will be served, and those with the bladder of a small child can relieve themselves. This is primarily due to the fact that many theatrical features are three hours or more in length.

The interesting thing here is, when you have a delineated break, it does affect how you tell the story. In other words, the structure of the invisible elements you’re giving to the audience needs to match the physical medium in which the story is being divided up. While a 1-Act Play, or modern movie, will just slip unnoticed from one Act to the next (the invisible elements), when you have a fifteen-minute break between Acts one and two, you must structure the story in a certain way to make the first Act not only emotionally fulfilling, but “hook” the audience so they can’t wait for the curtain to rise for Act two.

A 2-Act Play still has a setup, a rise in tension, and an overcome. It’s simply chopped up a bit differently. Both Act 1 and Act 2 have roles they must fulfill, and invisible story elements they must give to the audience. I’m not going into the details of a 2-Act structure in this book, so if you’re writing a script for theater that will be shown in the traditional 2-Act format, you need to study this further.

As my primary focus here is novel writing, we’ll spend most of our time looking at the 3-Act Play structure.

A 3-Act Play is actually the most natural to me, as it follows the way stories are created – in three parts. Beginning, Middle, End. As I’ve said, most modern movies follow a 3-Act structure (invisible elements to the reader) to create their 1-Act show (the medium).

This will become clearer once we get into the next chapter and really sink our teeth into the individual sections of the 3-Act Play structure.

Lumping 4- and 5-Act structures together, we find that in essence these are simply ways of chopping up the 3-Act Play structure into even more digestible parts.

Since I’m not going into detail of either of these, I’ll simplify things here.

Act I of a 3-Act structure is the setup. This is identical to Act I of both a 4- and 5-Act structure.

Act II of a 3-Act structure is for defining the conflict and raising the tension toward that defined conflict. In a 4- or 5-Act structure, this is divided between Acts II and III.

Act III of a 3-Act structure is the overcome and the return (what happens after the climax is over). This is simply Act IV of a 4-Act, and Acts IV and V of a 5-Act structure.

Don’t get me wrong, there are differences between these structures, and each is conducive for different types of stories. I mean, Shakespeare LOVED the 5-Act play structure – Romeo and Juliet is written in 5-Acts. However, in today’s modern age, the 3-Act structure reigns supreme. Why? Just speculating here, but I feel this is mostly due to the fact that audiences today are way more savvy than they were in the past. We “consume” more stories, so we get things quicker.

Go back to my example of the first fourteen lines of Romeo and Juliet. Do you really think it would please any of today’s audiences if you started your story with a short synopsis of how the story they’re about to consume will unfold? No. However, Act-1 of a 5-Act structure is all about doing just that. Hence why very few story creators today use this antiquated structure.

Still, I recommend that you do further independent study on every type of story structure. All knowledge will help you become a better story creator.

In the end, you shouldn’t get hung up on all this “Act” business. I include it here for completeness. The market you write for is going to dictate what “medium” structure you need to follow. All you really need to walk away with is regardless of whether you’re writing a 1/2/3/4/5-Act structure, you’re simply creating a story that’ll need to be setup, followed by a rise in tension to a defined conflict, which will lead to a resolution of that conflict. All this will need to end with an emotionally satisfying answer to your theme to fulfill all those built-in, subconscious expectations the reader has.

See… clear as mud.

Chapter Eight

Structure in Action

“Inspiration is wonderful when it happens, but the writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time... the wait is simply too long.”

– Leonard Bernstein 1918 – 1990

(Westside Story)

The Hero’s Journey

“First, find out what your hero wants, then just follow him!”

– Ray Bradbury 1920 – 2012

(The Martian Chronicles)

The time has come to put all these Invisible Layer and Physical Layer theories to the test. We’ve answered the questions of our Invisible Layer, as well as the Questions of our Physical Layer.

Time to put some flesh on this puppy.

For this, we’re going to use the 3 Act play structure and follow a type of story model called the Hero’s Journey to create our fictitious and never before been told story we’ve temporarily titled Star Wars – A New Hope.

O.K., so this story has already been told, written by the real George Lucas. Still, Star Wars – A New Hope is a wonderful tool to showcase the Hero’s Journey, and I’ll continue to use this movie as my main example as we move forward.

I also know that in reality, the major theme of Star Wars – A New Hope is Good vs. Evil. But that’s way too boring for us to use here. To that end, I’m going to promote what I’ve been discussing as the major theme, Technology vs. Faith. I’m doing this for two reasons. One, I want to show you how amazing you can be with the use of themes in your stories. The more you put into them, the better they’ll be received by your readers. Two, I just think the Technology vs. Faith is a cooler theme than the tired old Good vs. Evil shenanigans.

The Hero’s Journey was coined by a brilliant man named Joseph Campbell. Just like Aristotle, Campbell noticed that many stories tend to follow a very similar path. In dissecting these stories, he learned that at their core, these stories share some startlingly similar plot devices.

Just to squash the raging fear some new writers have concerning whether or not using the Hero’s Journey will make their stories exactly like everyone else’s, let’s look at a random list of stories.

Hamlet

Beowulf

Rain Man

Star Wars

Finding Nemo

The Wizard of Oz

Pride and Prejudice

Silence of the Lambs

The Shawshank Redemption

Think about each of the above stories individually. Do you feel any of these are the same? Or do you feel this is a list of very dissimilar stories? I mean, is Hamlet anywhere close to The Wizard of Oz? Or Star Wars anything like The Shawshank Redemption?

Actually, yes. They’re all the exact same story. At least when it comes to the code that creates them. They all follow the Hero’s Journey structure.

But the thing that “those people” who are against the Hero’s Journey (or any defined story structure for that matter) don’t understand is, these structures are guides, not maps.

Story structures like the Hero’s Journey are meant to remind you of all those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have, and help you fulfill them, so your imagination is free to accomplish this in ways that have never been done before.

To that end, let’s look at some examples of how George Lucas created his masterpiece, Star Wars – A New Hope.

I’m not going to delve into every aspect of the Hero’s Journey here, that would require me writing another full novel to explain all the details from this very robust story structure. I just need to show you how my theories from this book can be used to Create Dynamic Stories. Besides, books about the Hero’s Journey have already been written. I recommend you add the following to your reading list – The Hero’s Journey by Joseph Campbell and The Writers Journey by Christopher Vogler. Both go into great detail of this mythic structure.

Let’s start by looking at a very basic three-act play structure.

This is a chart I made for myself decades ago, and one I use to this very day. The graph on the top is what I call a tension ramp-up. It’s simply a reminder to me to add tension that constantly rises from the moment my story starts. This graph is lined up with the sections of the three-act structure, with the percent of the story that will normally fall into each section. Keep in mind, 78.4% of all statistics are made up on the spot… so… the percent shown are not necessarily accurate. They’re just numbers. Your mileage may vary.

Another tool we’ll use to accomplish our goal of creating our dynamic story is the Cycle of the Protagonist. Here it is again so it’s fresh in your mind:

Cycle of the Protagonist

starting in the State of Perfection

Cycle of the Protagonist

starting in the State of Imperfection

We’ll use these models continually as we create our story. Let’s go through this and see how we apply the theories of the Invisible Layer and Physical Layer to create a story.

The Setup

ACT I of the 3-Act Structure

“I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.”

– Douglas Adams 1952 – 2001

(The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy)

Act I of a story is all about setup. However, this is the most dangerous time for your story. If you fail to deliver everything you need to fulfill all the built-in, subconscious expectations readers have in a manner that entertains the reader, said reader will stop reading your book. These are the first few hours after the birth of a gazelle-like novel – if the lion of boredom catches your story’s scent here, you’ll be left childless.

We’re either going to start our story in the State of Perfection (SOP), or the State of Imperfection (SOI).

If starting in a SOP, we’ll create the benchmarks the reader uses to understand what the protagonist feels is their SOP. Or, if starting in the SOI, we must find ways to organically show these benchmarks to the reader as fast as possible.

If starting in a SOP, we’ll make sure the reader understands what the protagonist loves, so the reader cares about what the protagonist will lose when they move from the SOP to the SOI. Or, if starting in the SOI, we must give the reader enough information in an organic way as fast as we can so the reader cares about what the protagonist has already lost before the story began.

Either way, once we’ve arrived at a SOI, we’ll make sure the reader cares about the protagonist’s desire to return to their SOP – the motivation of the protagonist.

In addition to the above, we also need to start threading in our major theme question. The sooner we accomplish this, the faster the reader will be hooked into the conflict of the story. We must do this in an organic manner that keeps our Invisible Layer… well… invisible. Keep in mind, one trick is to lay down a minor theme here that is not the actual major theme but purchases us the time to get to our major theme. (This minor theme must tie in to our major theme, however.)

Last, we need to start setting up the world around our protagonist. This helps ground the reader into the story, as well as building mundane connections between our reader and our protagonist.

“Look!” our reader says excitedly. “The hero is making soup. I can make soup. The hero and I must be the same!”

This may sound silly, but it’s true. We need to look for ways that make the reader relate to the protagonist. This’ll build that visceral connection that’s so vital to a story’s success.

To this end, let’s look at five very basic steps of the Hero’s Journey meant to accomplish all of the above.

Creating the EveryMan

“After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.”

– Philip Pullman 1946 –

(The Golden Compass)

It’s crucial that your reader viscerally connects to your protagonist from the very first page. If your reader doesn’t like your character or care for what they’ve lost, your reader won’t care if the protagonist succeeds in returning to some semblance of their SOP.

This isn’t an easy thing to accomplish because you must also include tons of things that can be boring to read if not well written. The opening of a story must lay down the mundane, things like where our protagonist comes from, what they like, what they do, aspects of their personality. It must also begin setting up the world the story will take place in.

You can successfully accomplish all this if you remember two main theories.

Keep in mind the lessons of the SOP – create benchmarks so the reader cares about what the protagonist loves and doesn’t want to lose.

Figure out a minor theme you can use as an event that will begin heading toward your major theme.

In the case of Miss Congeniality, the story opens and we’re introduced to a young girl-child who very quickly proves that she’s a badass. There’s also a minor theme of how hard it is to find love. This is cliché, sure. But if it works, it works. And in this case, it worked. From the start, audiences feel a connection to Gracie Hart.

In the case of The Shawshank Redemption, the story opens with a tearful Andy Dufresne sitting in a car. He’s drunk, fondling a pistol, and we get flashes of a beautiful woman who we instantly understand is Andy’s wife having passionate sex with a gorgeous young man. Infidelity is a powerfully visceral theme, as most of us humans understand the pain associated with it, regardless of whether we’ve experienced it personally.

In the case of Finding Nemo, we meet Marlin, his wife, see his new home, his baby eggs, etc. We’re introduced to a world of hope and happiness which is something we all want. Reaching the “dream” of happiness is a wonderful theme.

In the case of Star Wars – A New Hope, let’s skip the prologue. (If you ever meet me at a live event and want to know why I feel the opening scene of this movie is totally worthless, just ask.) We meet Luke, a young farm boy. Like Finding Nemo, this story starts in a SOP, with life being pretty good for our protagonist. While a bit whiny, Luke is cute, seems smart, and has that vibe of someone you could easily be friends with.

Through the first few scenes, we get to see more of his personality through the interactions of him and his family, between him and how he treats the “inanimate” droids, his willingness to chase after R2D2, his brush with death at the hands of the sand people, and finally his interactions with Old Ben. These scenes, while not overly exciting, have minor themes of family, duty, etc. which all help not only keep the reader’s interest, they also do a wonderful job of creating that bond between the reader and the protagonist.

This is that slow rise up that first hill during a rollercoaster ride.

They also introduce aspects of the world in which Luke lives. The story is building upon itself, creating the setting that shall become our playground. Much of this is done in very mundane ways. Luke has parental units, chores, must eat dinner, go to bed at night – things the reader probably has in common.

These scenes are also giving the reader the benchmarks they need to understand what Luke’s SOP is. No, he doesn’t want to be a farmer, like he is when we meet him. He wants to join the army like his dead father did. While he’s not thrilled by his uncle’s answer, we find out that Luke will be allowed to join the army next year.

He’s excited. And since we now kind of like him, we’re excited as well.

In addition, all of these scenes do a wonderful job of quickly laying out the Technology side of the major theme. Once we get to Old Ben, the scenes begin laying out the Faith side of the major theme.

All of the above adds up to the wonderful beginning Star Wars – A New Hope delivers, and why the lion of boredom was never able to sink its teeth into this fledgling story.

The Call to Adventure

“The mystery of life isn’t a problem to solve, but a reality to experience.”

– Frank Herbert 1920 – 1986

(Dune)

At some point during the setup phase, we need to let both the protagonist and the reader know the “big picture.” Destiny must come a-knocking.

For this to be an epic quest, this must be something that’s beyond the protagonist’s current capabilities. Something larger than life, and something there’s no way the protagonist will ever be able to handle.

Remember, on the Physical Layer, the protagonist must be transformed. Meaning, whatever your conflict is, the hero will have no ability to overcome it when we meet them in ACT I. Only by traveling through your story will the protagonist be transformed into what’s needed to overcome the plot.

The Call to Adventure is normally the introduction of the main physical conflict, and is a huge injection of drama into our story.

In Miss Congeniality, this happens after the run in with the Russians in the restaurant where Gracie’s actions get one of her fellow FBI agents shot. She’s in the office the next morning, and they get another letter from “the citizen” who’s a very bad man. We discover that “the citizen” is a domestic terrorist of the worst kind, and one of FBI’s most wanted.

In the Matrix, this is when Neo is told to follow the white rabbit. In Finding Nemo, this is when Marlin is following Nemo who’s about to leave for his first day of school. Both of these events begin foreshadowing that something is about to happen that will shatter these character’s lives, moving them to the SOI.

In Star Wars – A New Hope, this is when Old Ben asks Luke to leave with him and train to become a Jedi.

Notice with the events listed above, none of them are the event that moves our protagonist from the SOP to their SOI. This is simply the introduction of what the physical conflict will be (or might be, as you can have misleading Calls to Adventure). Either way, this is a hint, something to entice the reader to continue reading.

Using my rollercoaster analogy, this is that moment when the car is right at the top of that first drop.

Refusal of the Call

“Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”

– Louis L’Amour 1908 – 1988

(The Quick and the Dead)

Unless you want your protagonist to look like an idiot, you may need to show the reader that the hero understands that the Call to Adventure is beyond their current capabilities.

Remember – transformation. The protagonist (or something, but in the Hero’s Journey, it’s normally the protagonist) must be transformed by the journey. Meaning, when the story opens, the protagonist can’t have the ability to overcome the climax of the story. They must earn this through the journey – transformation.

However, if they take up a quest that will obviously kill them, they should at least acknowledge this fact.

This continues to build the connection between the protagonist and the reader by showing the reader that the hero is vulnerable.

When we meet Gracie Hart, her hair is always a mess. She always has food stains on her shirt. She’s always wearing drab men’s clothing. She’s never wearing makeup. She trips over things. She slouches. The list goes on. Gracie, in the state we meet her (her SOP), has absolutely zero ability to win a beauty contest.

But it’s not good enough just to show this to the reader. The character should admit this so they don’t come off as a fool.

Gracie states very clearly that she could never win. In fact, she states very clearly she dreads putting on makeup and wearing a bikini.

In the Matrix, all Neo has to do is follow Morpheus’ instructions. He just needs to escape his office building, and Neo will get all his questions answered (what Neo wanted). Unfortunately, he refuses to climb out on a ledge that’s a mere thirty stories above the city street. Wimp.

In Finding Nemo, Marlin is very vocal about not letting Nemo go to school.

Don’t overlook the Refusal of the Call. This is a very important moment in building your connection between the reader and the protagonist.

In Star Wars – A New Hope, Ben gives Luke a cool magic sword and asks him to train to become a Jedi. But Luke has chores, and he can’t leave his uncle shorthanded. Besides, what could one young kid do against the entire army of the Empire? He’s sorry, but he has to decline.

And we, the audience, totally understand.

Still, if you use the Refusal of the Call plot device, you will need to add a scene that will organically force the protagonist to take up the Call to Adventure despite their protestations.

Sure, Luke refuses... and then the Empire kills his family and starts hunting him.

The Outside Aid

“There are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts.”

– Charles Dickens 1812 – 1870

(A Christmas Carol)

If you’ve done your job as a writer, and really sold that the protagonist doesn’t have the ability to overcome the conflict of the story, then you’ll need to come up with a believable way to start the protagonist down the path that’ll lead them to finding these abilities.

Enter the Outside Aid.

This is often some character who becomes a mentor to the protagonist. A person who has the ability to overcome the physical conflict, but who isn’t in a position to overcome said conflict. Because, let’s face it, hero-ing is a young person’s game.

Many times, this is the very definition of a mentor. In Miss Congeniality, this would be the Pageant Consultant Victor Melling played by Michael Caine. The Matrix has Morpheus.

However, the title of this section isn’t “the Mentor,” it’s “the Outside Aid.” Meaning, what’s needed here is something to help the protagonist start gaining whatever it is they need to overcome the conflict of the story - transforming. In Finding Nemo, it’s scatter-brained Dori who comes along to help Marlin begin gaining the skills he’ll need to overcome the conflict.

Also note, I said whatever this is will “begin” helping the protagonist. Meaning, there’s no guarantee this Outside Aid will remain with our protagonist all the way to the end of the story. Most of the time they do, but not always. Those that don’t, normally die (an overly cliché device these days). Try to be creative.

In my three examples above, all of the Outside Aid characters are with the protagonist right up to the very end. However, let’s look at Star Wars – A New Hope.

First, the Outside Aid character is obviously Obi Wan Kenobi – the aging wizard who tells Luke about the Force, his dead father, and hands him the magic sword – all things Luke needs to begin his quest. However, we all know things don’t go well for the aging Jedi, and poor Kenobi doesn’t make it past the opening of ACT II.

Still, as we discussed, losing loved characters along the way brings its own level of rewards to the story. If done well, it makes the reader care even more for the protagonist, and their motivation to return to some semblance of their SOP.

Moving to the

State of Imperfection

“There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they’ll take you.”

– Beatrix Potter 1866 – 1943

(The Tale of Peter Rabbit)

At some point, Kansas has to go bye-bye. Things must get real, and the character must lose all they love. They must move from their SOP into that terribly sad SOI.

Back to the rollercoaster, it must plummet over that first hill, taking its passengers screaming along with it.

This is the tragic moment in the story that crashes down and ruins our protagonist’s whole day. If you’ve done your job up to this point, the reader should fully understand the world the protagonist calls home, have a visceral connection to the protagonist, care about what is being taken away from the protagonist, and even morn this loss with the protagonist.

Gracie finally relents and allows herself to be the agent who goes undercover as a contestant in a beauty pageant. Neo takes the red pill and awakes to a post-apocalyptic world. Marlin witnesses his son being fishnapped.

In Star Wars – A New Hope, Luke rushes home to find his aunt and uncle’s crispy husks laying on the front lawn.

This is not necessarily the end of ACT I. You may still need to do some setup. Case in point: in The Wizard of Oz, this is the moment when the tornado carries Dorothy away. We then need to setup the new world we find ourselves in. All that stuff with the Munchkins, the Good Witch, discovering we need to see the Wizard to get home, etc. are still apart of setting our Benchmarks (i.e., still in ACT I).

Transforming the Protagonist

ACT II of the 3-Act Structure

“I write to give myself strength. I write to be the characters that I am not. I write to explore all the things I’m afraid of.”

– Joss Whedon 1964 –

(The Cabin in the Woods)

Welcome to ACT II.

This is the section of your story where the protagonist has moved from their mundane world into the special world of the story. They’ve lost what they loved most, and are motivated to get it back. Or at least something that resembles it.

Your readers may not notice this moment, but you damn-well should. You must be able to point to the exact second when ACT I ends and ACT II begins. Why?

This is where the tension is ratcheted up, seatbelts are recommended to be fastened, and the story takes off in high-gear.

In Miss Congeniality, this is that first lunch meeting where Gracie meets Melling and the Pageant Consultant begins training her. In the Matrix, this is when Neo wakes up on the Nebuchadnezzar, after he’s gone through the medical procedures to reconstitute his muscles. In Finding Nemo, this is the moment when Marlin leaves the reef and disappears into the unknown.

In Star Wars – A New Hope, this is when the Millennium Falcon drops out of hyperspace and they are confronted with the remains of the destroyed planet Alderaan.

All of these moments say, “Howdy, hero. Welcome to the New World!”

Let’s look at my tension ramp up graph.

As you can see, the tension should start to climb more rapidly. ACT II will normally take up about half your story. It’s the meat of things, and there’s a ton of stuff that needs to happen to please the reader. However, unlike what we discussed in ACT I, the following events don’t follow any predefined order. Meaning, everything I’m going to discuss through ACT II isn’t meant to be doled out in the order I have them listed here. In addition, all of these things are events to help the story in a varied amount of ways. You’ll notice that some stories use these aids, others don’t, and still others use the same aid more than once.

The important thing is to let your imagination run wild as we move through ACT II.

For Love and Honor

“If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn’t brood. I’d type a little faster.”

– Isaac Asimov 1920 – 1992

(I, Robot)

One plot device that’s a great addition to any ACT II is love – specifically the desire to rescue or protect. This isn’t just a believable device; it’s one that’ll normally grow your character as well.

In Miss Congeniality, the story begins to lay down hints that Gracie has the hots for her handsome FBI partner during the setup of ACT I. As an example, she’s very passive-aggressive toward his “date.” However, she begins to show her true feelings toward Eric as she gains confidence as a pretty woman through ACT II. Better, when she starts to believe she could win his heart, this becomes a huge motivator for her.

In the Matrix, love literally brings Neo back to life (although, in ACT III - again, these plot devices can be used all over the place).

This doesn’t have to be love in the romantic sense, this could also be familial love. It’s Marlin’s love of his child that’s his sole motivator in Finding Nemo.

It doesn’t even need to be love at all – it can be a motivation of honor. In Beowulf, Beowulf is motivated to sail across the ocean and do battle with the monster Grendel due to a debt his father owed to the king of that land.

In Star Wars – A New Hope, it’s the small hologram of Princess Leah that Luke falls in love with (which later we learn is his sister, so it’s a bit creepy). When the Millennium Falcon is captured by the Death Star, the only thing Luke and his friends should be concerned with is escaping. However, they soon discover that the chick from the hologram is a prisoner on the Death Star as well. Since Luke has fallen in love with her (again, creepy with the knowledge that she’s his sister) he abandons thoughts of escaping, throws caution to the wind, and hatches a crazy plan to rescue her. Bonus: the audience totally buys into this hook, line, and sinker because they totally buy into the fact that a young man does stupid stuff in the name of love (even if it’s creepy love).

Two Halves

Make a Whole

“You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.”

– Jack London 1876 – 1916

(The Call of the Wild)

The protagonist, to become complete and overcome the ultimate challenge of the plot, needs to mature and unite their masculine and feminine sides. They need to become whole and comfortable with who they are.

The masculine side of us contains the aggressive, focused, conquering traits. The feminine side contains our soft, nurturing, contemplative traits. For a reader to feel the protagonist has truly become a hero, they need both. Transformation!

This could come from a brush with the opposite sex, such as a mother figure (father for female), or anything that can open our hero’s eyes to whichever side they lack.

In Miss Congeniality, this role is filled by a variety of characters, including the mentor Milling. However, it’s the Miss Rhode Island character who really opens Gracie’s eyes to the benefits of embracing her feminine side. Transformation!

In Finding Nemo, Marlin starts more feminine, having adopted more of a motherly role. Through his journey, he learns that he must “buck up” and let go, allowing Nemo to experience life on his own terms (the more masculine method of parenting). A great example of this was when he spent time with the daddy and son sea turtles. Their relationship was way more father/son than Marlin’s own with Nemo, and this caused Marlin to grow. Transformation!

In Star Wars – A New Hope, Luke starts as a farmer, not a warrior. Through the journey, he becomes more and more comfortable with the violent aspects of life in this strange new world he finds himself in. Han fills this role nicely. Starting with the laser battle to escape the Death Star and continuing with the famous scene where Luke must operate the guns of the Millennium Falcon to fight off the Tie Fighters.

“Great, Kid! Don’t get cocky.” (Thanks, Dad!)

Facing the Conflict

“You don’t write about the horrors of war. No. You write about a kid’s burnt socks lying in the road.”

– Richard Price 1949 –

(The Color of Money)

There needs to come a time when the protagonist is confronted with the main conflict. This is not the overcome, the final confrontation where the protagonist must use all they have learned through their journey to overcome said conflict. That happens at the end of ACT III. This is more of a preview, foreshadowing what that title bout might look like.

This is the moment where the protagonist comes face to face with whatever is causing them grief. This moment can take nearly unlimited forms. For the reader, this is a huge emotional moment.

In Miss Congeniality, this is when Gracie finds herself in the dental chair having her teeth cleaned, the tangles of her hair being fought with, and her nails being done (both finger and toe). It’s the eye-opening moment that shows her what she’ll be forced to live through if she continues to move forward. Since we learned what is motivating her during the setup portion of the story – that she’s willing to do anything to get the bad guy – we understand where she finds the strength to continue through this horrible ordeal. Since ACT I did its job, and we now care for this character, we are right there with her, hoping she can bear this punishment.

In Finding Nemo this device is used often, but a great example is when Marlin must confront the sharks. They are big and mean and there’s no way a tiny clownfish like Marlin can defeat them. Again, we understand his motivation, and know full well that no stupid sharks are going to stop him from… well… finding Nemo.

In the Matrix it’s when Neo is in the training program with the Woman in the Red Dress who magically turns into Agent Smith then points a pistol between Neo’s eyes. There’s nothing that screams, “You’re gonna die!” more than staring down the barrel of a massive gun. The fact that these Agents can become anyone at any time just makes them that much more lethal. Still, we understand Neo’s motivation, so we buy into the fact that even this terrifying revelation won’t stop him.

In Star Wars – A New Hope we have a wonderful example when Luke and the gang drop out of hyperspace into an asteroid field that was not there a moment ago. Oh, never mind. That’s simply the remains of a massive planet the evil Empire just blew up with one shot from their evil death ray. …bwaaaa?!? Perhaps someone should do something about that? I bet the farm boy will. I mean, he has no chance of doing that just now, but he’s scrappy. I’m sure he’ll figure out something eventually.

Temptation

“Writing is something you do alone. It’s a profession for introverts who want to tell you a story but don’t want to make eye contact while doing it.”

– John Green 1977 –

(The Fault in Our Stars)

Look, we all know our hero is probably not going to die, or fail in the end, or just say F-it and walk off the page hoping to find a beer. But like the Invisible Layer, you can’t throw this reality into the reader’s face.

We need to constantly look for ways to make it appear the hero is going to lose. These are your reversals, and if you apply this theory with fervor, it will go a long way to ensuring you do this job effectively.

So, while you’re not going to have the villain shove three-feet of steel through your hero’s chest and then lop his head off (screw you, George R.R.!), temptation is a reversal device you can throw at your hero and the reader will never know which way the pendulum will swing – perhaps the hero can resist the temptation, perhaps they will succumb to it. Yeah... they’re gonna succumb.

To do this, all you need is for something to come along and try to lure your hero off their path, or into destruction, or at the least, pull them away from their current goal.

Readers want us to test our heroes. Show them, “Sure, this person’s gotten all these mondo cool powers, weapons, etc. But what would happen if they weren’t the Little Goody Two-Shoes they appear to be? Or, what if they’re not as strong on the inside as they are on the outside? Or, can this powerful hero stay the course if they’re offered a different path? Or, how easy would it be for our hero to abuse what they’ve gained?”

In Miss Congeniality, Gracie is undercover. Rule one of being undercover is never break your cover. Still, during the pageant, Gracie is on stage playing the water glasses when she sees a man who might have a gun. She continues playing while trying to get her team to take the guy out. But no one can seem to find this guy. Since we all know she would rather be a cop than a beauty contestant, Gracie is “tempted” to break cover and tackle this guy. She even says so, to which her superior states very clearly, “Don’t break your cover!” In the end, Gracie disobeys orders, tackles the man, and ends up in a world of trouble for falling to temptation.

I’ve already discussed Samson and Delilah, so we know how well Samson resisted his temptation. Not.

In The Lord of the Rings, Frodo is under constant pressure from multiple sources to give up his quest – the enemies, the ring, even his very friends. “What chance do you think you have? They will find you. They will take the ring, and you will beg for death before the end! You fool. It could’ve been mine. It should’ve been mine! Give it to me!”

While Luke doesn’t deal with temptation in A New Hope, (keep in mind these are devices that you can use as your story needs) he absolutely does fight temptation for the remainder of the series as the Dark Side repeatedly tries to win his love.

The Whiff of Death

“Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.”

– Pablo Picasso 1881 – 1973

(Who Isn’t Moved by a Good Painting?)

Another nice thing about the Hero’s Journey is it organically prepares the hero to overcome the final obstacle. It has built-in opportunities for transformation – the delivery guy of the Invisible Layer.

One thing the hero must overcome is their fear of failure. This means they can’t fear death (or losing whatever the climax is all about). They must face it, know it’s a reality, and then get over it. Because, if fear grips them, they will freeze and fail.

The Whiff of Death is a believable and organic plot device that can ease the hero toward getting over this fear. This can be a near death experience for the hero, the hero making a choice that causes the death of another, the hero watching another’s death, the death of a piece of the hero’s personality, the loss of something irreplaceable, and the list continues. And when I say “Death,” please know I mean that metaphorically.

In Miss Congeniality, a decision Gracie makes in the opening scene gets a fellow FBI agent shot. While this agent doesn’t die, the event sticks with Gracie throughout the remainder of the story.

In The Matrix, once Cypher reveals himself as a traitor, he kills most of the team and there’s nothing Neo can do but watch.

The opening scene of Finding Nemo does a wonderful job of showing Marlin the pain of loss, but it’s the fishnapping that breaks his heart.

In most action adventure stories, failure normally means death. However, understand that this plot device can be used on whatever the story is about. Let’s say we are writing a romantic comedy. This is a story genre that can be pretty formulaic. You know, a guy who’s about a 3 or a 4 falls in love with some chick who’s either a 9 or a 10 – a girl WAY out of his league. Still, for whatever reason, this chick returns his love and they’re getting married. While the concept of marriage makes our male protagonist nervous, he has a good role model in the form of two loving parents who’ve been married for forty years.

During the story, he goes to his parents’ home to break the news that he’s engaged. When he gets there, mom is sitting in the kitchen, but he doesn’t see dad. He asks where his father is because he has some big news and wants to tell them both at the same time. To which mom replies, “Sit down, honey. We have some big news of our own. Your father has moved out.”

BAM! This would be the Whiff of Death of the very thing our poor protagonist is trying to accomplish.

Please don’t get hung up on the word “death.” No matter what you are writing, the Whiff of Death can be included as a wonderful device to grow your protagonist, we well as adding another emotional rise and fall to your reader’s ride.

The Ultimate Boon

“When writing a novel, that’s pretty much entirely what life turns into: ‘House burned down. Car stolen. Cat exploded. Did 1500 easy words, so all in all it was a pretty good day.”

– Neil Gaiman 1960 –

(Neverwhere)

The ultimate boon is that turning point in the hero’s quest where they find the one thing every hero needs – the ability to believe in themselves.

Don’t underestimate this wonderful little plot device.

What you’re doing with this is showing the reader the hero “thinks” they’re ready. In other words, they’ve won more battles than they’ve lost, they’ve gained tons of things they feel will help them win in the end, and they proclaim, “By golly, I’m ready! Take me to the Villain!”

There are two really awesome things about this.

One, if you do this well, the reader will agree with the hero. They will be on board, feeling there’s no way the villain can defeat them now.

Two, you and I both know damn well the hero isn’t actually ready, and in just a few moments the hero’s going to get their ass handed to them.

Highs... and lows... the rollercoaster ride continues.

Why is this so awesome? Because if you can sell this device to the reader, it means the reader will be just as shocked when the hero gets beat down.

Remember, it’s all about the reader’s emotional ride. Nothing creates a better rise and fall in emotions than feeling like you can take on the world, and then having that world kick you square in the teeth.

You may have noticed that I’ve been randomly reorganizing all the labels as we add them to ACT II. The reason for this is to continue to show that all the things we’re discussing in this section can be used in an unlimited way. Mix them up, use them more than once, don’t use them, it’s all good.

However, this particular plot device usually happens either close to, or at the very end of ACT II. The reason will become clear as we move into ACT III.

The Climax

ACT III of a 3-Act Structure

“Make it dark, make it grim, make it tough, but then, for the love of God, tell a joke.”

– Joss Whedon 1964 –

(Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

If you’ve done your job as a story creator, the reader should be on the edge of their seat by the time ACT III rolls around. We used ACT I to set up our benchmarks, introduce the world and the conflict, as well as forging a bond between the reader and the protagonist so the reader actually cares what happens through the story. We used ACT II as the playground to transform our protagonist both on the Physical Layer and the Invisible Layer. This means our Hero is ready to face the conflict – regardless of whether that conflict is a nasty monster, a villain wearing all black, or their pissed-off mother who has finally had enough!

It’s now time to wrap this story up.

But don’t think things are going to get easier for our intrepid hero. Oh, on the contrary. Our villain hasn’t been sitting idly by with his thumb up his bum. They’ve been laying plans and hatching schemes. Remember, the villain is the hero of his (or her) own story and your protagonist is just the annoying twit who’s been getting in his way.

Perhaps it’s time to let that little twit in on this fact.

Refusal of the Return

“Writer’s block is a fancy term made up by whiners so they can have an excuse to drink alcohol.”

– Steve Martin 1945 –

(Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid)

The refusal of the return is simply a device to make sure your hero hasn’t become so powerful the reader can’t relate to them. If your hero has become a god because it was the only way to overcome the conflict, great. However, remember our mantra – It’s all about the reader.

An over-powered character is normally a boring character.

One device to combat this is to have your hero take a moment’s pause. Either to have some self-doubt, to wonder if the world is ready to be saved (or even if the world deserves to be saved), to worry with how this new power (or weapon or item) the hero has gained will affect the world, to come to the realization that they are the wrong person for the job after all, or even just an, “Oh, crap. After I do this, I’ve got to go back to farming!”

Anything that’ll bring the hero down a notch or two will work.

This device reveals the hero is still vulnerable – something readers will relate to. This is also a very difficult plot device to use organically, as it can come off as cliché – one of the reasons this device is used less often than the other devices I’ve shown here.

Still, if done right, this can be an emotional moment for your reader.

This is a device that can actually happen in either ACT II or ACT III.

Truth be told; all elements of the Hero’s Journey are able to migrate to any ACT. It’s one of the many wonderful things about this story structure. The reason I’ve laid these examples into the ACTs I have is to simply show how they work toward meeting those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have. As you get more and more comfortable with story creation, you’ll be able to get incredibly creative with the things you’ve learned in this book. Another cool thing about the plot devices of the Hero’s Journey we haven’t discussed is the fact that these devices don’t necessarily need to be performed by the protagonist. Any of these devices can be delivered to the reader through secondary characters as well and still fulfill the reader’s emotional needs.

A great example of this would be Star Wars – A New Hope. In this story, Luke never Refuses the Return. However, the reader still gets to consume this plot device in a wonderful exchange between Luke and Han at the rebel base just before the final assault upon the Death Star. It’s Han who Refuses the Return and leaves. While the protagonist didn’t refuse, the fact that Han does means the reader is aware that perhaps things won’t go exactly as planned.

Again, you’ll use all these plot devices to create the ups and downs of your story’s emotional rollercoaster ride.

In Miss Congeniality there’s a wonderful scene in ACT II when Gracie literally quits. She storms out, confronts her boss, and tells him she’s done. She comes to the realization that, while she gave it her best shot, she’s the wrong woman for this job. She’s screwing things up, and if this story’s overcome is going to be… well… overcome… someone else needs to do the overcoming.

All Hope is Lost

“Give yourself an impossible task and solve it – then you’ve got a really good story.”

– Carl Reiner 1922 –

(The Jerk)

Continuing to use my rollercoaster analogy, this would be the moment when the ride goes into its loop, suspending the screaming passengers upside down for those few terrifying seconds.

Our hero has stirred up a hornet’s nest getting the tools they need to overcome the conflict. Now the repercussions of these actions are going to come around and bite them in the ass. Our villain has not been idle. Far from it. Our antagonist is most definitely still playing to win. And it’s time for them to take the gloves off, roll up their sleeves, and get dirty.

This is the moment that comes in every story where we’re going to convince the reader that the hero, even after all their effort, is going to lose. All hope is lost.

In Miss Congeniality, this is when, despite Gracie’s best effort, Miss Rhode Island still puts on the crown with the bomb hidden inside. Her head is so getting blown off! All hope is lost.

In Finding Nemo, this is when Marlin trusts Nemo when he says he can save Dori from the fishing net. And while Nemo succeeds, he ends up crushed at the bottom of the ocean. He’s so going to die and leave Marlin childless despite all the effort to save the little twit. All hope is lost.

In The Matrix, this is when Agent Smith puts twelve bullets into Neo’s chest, killing him. He’s so going to d… oh, wait. Yeah, he’s already dead. All hope is lost.

In Star Wars – A New Hope, Luke is in the trench about to take his shot when mean ole Darth Vader kills Luke’s wingman. There’s no one between Luke and Darth, and Vader’s targeting computer is locking onto Luke’s X Wing. Luke is so going to die. All hope is lost.

This is harder to pull off than you might think. Spend some serious time on this scene. It’s quick, word-count-wise. But if you don’t really nail it, it will leave a bad taste in your reader’s mouth.

Rescue from Without

“The best time for planning a book is while you’re doing the dishes.”

– Agatha Christie 1890 – 1976

(Murder on the Orient Express)

Back at the beginning of this whole Hero’s Journey business, you might recall me mentioning something about how a hero should start without the abilities they’ll need to overcome the conflict of the Physical Layer. They need to start this way so transformation can happen at the Physical Layer. We need transformation to happen at both Layers to fulfill all those built-in, subconscious expectations readers have.

However, starting them in this state normally means they will need a bit of help to get the ball rolling. We gave them this help using an Outside Aid. Well… now that they just got their ass handed to them (or are about to get it handed to them), perhaps they need one last tiny bit of help.

Be warned! This is NOT where someone else comes in and saves the day. Your HERO must be the one who overcomes the final obstacle. If they don’t, the reader will feel jilted. Robbed of the glory. Don’t do this. It’s really, really bad for stories.

However, a small bit of assistance to pull the hero’s bacon from the frying pan wouldn’t go amiss.

In Miss Congeniality, Gracie’s partner wrestles with the insane bomber long enough for Gracie to snatch the crown off of Miss Rhode Island’s head.

In Finding Nemo, it’s a net-full of nameless fish who spring into action to help save Dori.

In The Matrix, Trinity is there screaming in Neo’s ear about how she loves him, and because of her love, he isn’t allowed to die. (Sheesh, even in death she’s a ball and chain.)

In Star Wars – A New Hope, it’s good ole Han Solo who swoops in to take out Darth Vader and his gang, delivering his wonderful line, “You’re all clear, Kid. Now let’s blow this thing and go home.”

Again, DO NOT let whatever is the Rescue from Without overcome the conflict. This is simply a helping hand that opens up the opportunity for the hero to do their job.

Master of Two Worlds

“In old days books were written by men of letters and read by the public. Nowadays books are written by the public and read by nobody.”

– Oscar Wilde 1854 – 1900

(The Picture of Dorian Gray)

Golf Clap.

Heck no. Stand up and frickin’ cheer!

This is that moment when the protagonist does what needs doing and overcomes the conflict. They’ll choose the true answer of the major theme (or false answer, if this is a tragedy – but that changes things drastically, so let’s just go with the hero picking the true answer). This answers the major theme question the reader has been pondering since this ride began.

Our hero has been transformed and reached a point where they can defeat the conflict and overcome the plot because they’ve learned to master both the world around them, and what’s inside them. They’ve combined the lessons from the “normal” world they came from with the lessons from the “special” world of the story.

This is the turning point where the hero is truly free. Free to live without fear of failure, even death. The unbelievably huge task from the beginning of the story – the thing the hero knew they couldn’t overcome – has finally become achievable.

Don’t give this to your protagonist until the very bitter end. If you give this to your hero too soon, they won’t have earned the victory. If they don’t fully earn this victory, the reader won’t achieve their full emotional fulfillment from this moment.

The reader needs to truly feel they’ve personally snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.

In Miss Congeniality, Gracie flings the crown containing the bomb into the air, and it explodes without injuring anyone.

In Finding Nemo, Dori is saved, and Nemo is reunited with Marlin, healthy and unharmed.

In The Matrix, Neo gets up, walks into the hall, stops dozens of bullets in mid-air, and then kills Agent Smith.

In Star Wars – A New Hope, Luke turns his targeting computer off (choosing Faith as the true answer of the major theme), and blows up the Death Star.

This is truly the moment when the audience should jump to their feet with glee.

The New Hero

“Some writers enjoy writing, I am told. Not me. I enjoy having written.”

– George R.R. Martin 1948 –

(A Game of Thrones)

If you’ve done your job as a Dynamic Story Creator, your reader should be sweating bullets over the exciting rollercoaster adventure you just dragged them through. It’s now time to bring it all home.

The New Hero, or the Return as it’s sometimes called, does not happen in all stories. But it should. This is that last little bit where you allow the reader a glimpse of what life will be like for our hero now that this grand adventure has come to an end.

To me, this is more of a thank you to the reader for having lived through the turmoil our sadistic mind conjured up for them to read. That moment where we pat them on the back and say, “Enjoy. You earned this.”

In Miss Congeniality, this is when Gracie starts singing to her love interest Eric, “You think I’m pretty. You want to kiss me.” And in fact, yes, her hunky partner does kiss her. And the reader gets to bask in the glory.

We get a bit longer of a Return in Finding Nemo with Marlin jumping on Nemo saying, “Time for school! Time for school!” and we get to see how wonderful life ended up for our two heroes. We even get a tearjerker of a father/son hug before the end credits roll. Still, the reader gets to bask in the glory.

The end of The Matrix is one of my favorite Returns because it isn’t just a Return, it’s a hook promising more badass movies to come. Neo calls the program overlords and informs them their world is about to come to an end. He then launches into the air and flies away while the reader basks in the glory. Bonus: it started in a phone booth. Take that Superman!

In Star Wars – A New Hope, the boys get all dolled up and receive medals from that hot princess… who’s still Luke’s sister, so it’s still a bit creepy.

To put it into the context of my State of Perfection theory, this is the moment when the audience gets to see our hero return to some semblance of their State of Perfection. From here, there’s must basking to be had by all.

Putting it ALL Together

I promised at the start I’d give you tons of tools you could use to Create Dynamic Stories. Hopefully you feel I’ve delivered on my promise.

But really, everything I’ve laid out for you are things you’ll need to practice and master over time.

It begins with you, and the mindset you have as a writer. Understanding that writing isn’t easy, and it takes time to learn. If you really want to do this, and do this the correct way, you will.

Once you’ve prepared yourself, you begin to realize what a story really is – the message you’re trying to convey to the reader. The Invisible Layer. This layer encapsulates your major theme, and everything feeds into this major theme.

From there, it’s just a matter of understanding that the Physical Layer is all about finding ways to use characters, dialogue, situations, and events to covertly force the reader to deal with the message you are attempting to convey. To take them on an emotional rollercoaster ride.

That’s why we have story structures. To help guide us, keep us on track, so we deliver a story worthy of reading.

A million words.

A million words.

A million words.

A million words.

A million words.

A million words.

A million words.

A million words.

A million words.

A million words.

A million words.

A million words.

That’s your target. That’s your goal.

What? Sorry to disappoint, but this novel doesn’t have a Happy Ending. This was a straight up Tragedy. You should’ve guessed that from the title, if nothing else.

Another hint should’ve come from all the quotes I included. Read them again and you’ll see that even the biggest names in our industry feel that writing is a bitch. And those are the one’s making money.

Fine! I’ll leave this on a happier note... sheesh...

The reality is, you started writing because you loved writing. Focus on that, not on turning this into a career. Sure, treat it like you want to be a professional. Do so by writing those million words, learning what you need to learn from them. But dammit! Have fun writing them instead of stressing over the money you ain’t gonna make.

Writers are gods amongst men.

Go be godly.

And Now,

It’s Your Turn

“Friendship – my definition – is built on two things. Respect and trust. Both elements have to be there. And it has to be mutual.”

– Stieg Larsson 1954 –

(The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo)

If I call you a friend, will it be mutual?

Let’s see.

If I’ve done my job, your head is spinning with new information. Some of it has probably gotten your creative juices flowing. Other bits of it either have you terrified or hopping mad.

If you’re angry with me, and feel this book was a waste of your time, you can go ahead and stop reading now. There’s really nothing more for you here.

Go on. Have a nice day.

Are the angry people gone. I’ll know if you’re not.

Great!

Now it’s just us. Those who felt this was a good book, full of helpful information.

If you felt this book has added to your writing knowledge, I meant the title of this section literally – It’s your turn.

If you learned anything from this book, if any of the words of wisdom I’ve poured into the pages of this tome – theories generated from nearly thirty-years of studying story creation – have helped you become a better writer, then I humbly request that you now do a few things for me.

First, go to Amazon.com and write a review for this book. You needn’t have purchased this book from Amazon to write a review on it, all you need is an Amazon account, which I know you have. Log in, put this book title in the search bar, and write a review for me.

Don’t assume your fellow readers will write me a review – they won’t.

Don’t assume I have enough reviews for this book – I don’t.

Reviews are your way of helping me continue doing what I do. If I’ve helped you at all, and you’d appriciate it if I wrote more books concerning the craft of writing, this is your way of showing me.

Second, please share this book on your social media. You’re a writer (why else would you have subjected yourself to the torture of reading this book?), so I know you’re on some type of Social Media platform – Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, whatever. I also know some of your Social Media friends are writers themselves. We writers tend to be a cliquey bunch, huddling together for warmth and protection.

If this book opened your eyes to things you feel will make you a better writer, don’t you feel it might do the same for your friends as well? Please take the five minutes to throw me a bone here.

Besides, your support will go a long way to pleasing Mother. And we all know, disappointing Mother is a bad idea.

Lastly, as I’m a writer, I’m on social media. Please follow me on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram – just plug in my name. I’m always posting little nuggets of writing wisdom, silly little stories, geek culture things you might have missed, etc. Bonus, you can even interact with me. You know, ask me questions, bug me about what I’m working on, really anything I can use as an excuse to avoid writing.

In closing, I want you to know I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our time together through this adventure. It was… therapeutic for me. All in all, I have to admit, you weren’t a terrible companion. You are the Watson to my Sherlock. As a reader, I give you an A-. Just so you know, had it not been for your annoying interruptions, you would have earned an A+.

Oh, and... The End

“For a writer, there’s literally no better feeling in the world than writing those magical two final words.”

Maxwell Alexander Drake

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About Drake

I’ve been professionally writing for over ten years now, working for both large and small companies. I’ve been the Lead Fiction Writer for a massive video game from Sony titled EverQuest Next, won awards as a novelist, been a graphic novelist, and even dabbled as a playwright for movies, television, and stage.

I’m considered one of the highest-rated presenters and have been teaching creative writing classes since 2008 for events such as Comic Con San Diego, Gen Con, book festivals, writing conferences, as well as holding local writing classes for the Clark County Library District since 2009.