The Wandering Hero: No Goal, No Plot, No Chance
by John Robert Marlow

Imagine, if you will, a lead character who wanders aimlessly through 120 (or 300) pages, with no particular destination in sight. As an editor, I don’t have to imagine it; I see it again and again—and yet again. The aspiring author sits down to write, and does—with no purpose in mind save following the exploits of their lead character. Trouble is, not every lead is worth following.

And therein lies the problem.

PSSST, HEY BUDDY…

Let’s say someone comes up to you in a bookstore, or outside a theater—perhaps even someone you find quite charming. And they say, “Hey dude, come with me, let’s hang out.” The first things you’ll want to know, of course, are where he wants to go and what he wants to do. So you ask. “I dunno,” he answers. Would you be inclined to go with him?

Or let’s say he comes back with this: “I thought maybe we could wander around aimlessly for the next seven hours and, who knows, maybe have some fun?” Chances are, you’d turn him down flat. First off, you don’t know this guy (as an agent, editor or producer doesn’t know you)—and for all you know, his idea of fun is jumping off the Empire State Building without a parachute (just as an agent, editor or producer has no idea what kind of story you consider worth telling). At least he’s not asking you to pay him for the pleasure of his company.

Without a solid concept consisting of a Who (your lead character or hero), a Goal (something he or she sets out to accomplish), and an Obstacle (which must be overcome in order to reach the Goal)—you’re going to look (to that same agent, editor, or producer) an awful lot like the guy you just met. With one difference: you’re planning to charge for the experience.

THE CRUCIAL QUESTION

To be worth following, a lead character must lead. Not blindly, but with purpose.

Think back over your favorite books and movies. Now ask yourself the same question about each: what is the hero trying to accomplish—his goal, desire, or mission? Is it to get the girl, rob a bank, escape the bad guy—what? Another way to phrase the same question: does the hero succeed or fail at the end? Because once you know what he’s succeeded or failed at, you’ll know his goal.

Without even knowing what your favorite books or movies are, I can state with absolute certainty that—if those stories were commercially successful—then 999 times out of a thousand, you’ll be able to answer that question. Why? Because as a general rule, stories with aimless heroes do not get bought, published, or made into movies.

In those few cases where this does actually happen, those books and movies are almost invariably—by money-making standards—miserable failures. And while an established author or filmmaker’s career might survive such a debacle, the beginning creator’s career may not.

If your lead character is to be worth following, he must be moving toward something. That something is the goal. Without this, plot cannot exist. No plot means no story, means no audience. End of story (if there was one). With no goal, there can be no consistent obstacle for the hero to confront and overcome. (Think back to the obstacles in those same favorite stories.) No obstacle means no conflict—which again means no story.

And so, instead of guiding your would-be audience through a real story, you (and they) wind up stranded in…

MEANDERVILLE

What you get instead is a meandering collection of random events connected by nothing more than the lead character’s presence at the time they take place. And while you may believe that the force of your hero’s magnetic personality is strong enough to overcome this—it’s not. In fact, chances are the hero is no hero, but is instead as deficient as the nonexistent plot itself.

The reason is simple: people who wander aimlessly through life with no overall purpose, no particular goal, no burning desire they feel compelled to fulfill—are, quite simply, boring. It makes no difference whether they’re trust-fund brats or street people; dull is dull. Even if they’re fascinating in the short run—funny, charming, whatever—in the long run they will inevitably come off as shallow and (because of that) ultimately uninteresting. At best, they’re fun in small doses. Books and screenplays are not small doses.

In the case of a fictional character (or even a real person in a true-life story) with no goal, there’s nothing for the reader or audience to get behind, nothing to root for, no ultimate satisfaction in seeing something achieved—because there is nothing to be achieved. It’s like being lost in the desert without compass, map—or desire to get out. You just keep plodding along until you drop. No one’s going to buy that. And if you publish it yourself, no one’s going to read it. Better you find out now than later. Because of the thousands of stories I’ve encountered, I’ve seen no exception to this rule.

Now, your hero can–to a certain extent–be aimless and carefree at the very beginning of the story. (Even in such cases, there’s often a glimpse of some redeeming quality early on.) But the hero then finds his goal and struggles to attain it, embarking on this journey at the turn of the first act. And he’d better be a damned interesting fellow regardless, all through that act.

THE PITCH FROM HELL

How do you pitch something like that? Probably with something like this: “Well, it’s about this guy, and he…” And already you’ve lost them. For good examples of pitches from hell, think back to Miles explaining his unpublished novel to Maya in the Sideways movie, or (more recently) Eddie explaining the plot of his unpublished manuscript to the guys sitting at the bar in the Limitless movie. Miles gets lost, and Eddie seems to bore even himself.

Do not pitch a work that has no plot; it has no chance of success, and it might even get the door slammed in your face when you try to come back with something better. Don’t do it.

REPLOTTING THE PLOTLESS

Your best bet, if you already have (or think you may have) a work like this, is to step back and reassess. Take a look at the Story Development for Writers series on this blog. Once you’ve finished the series, reevaluate your story to see how it measures up.

If it doesn’t, decide whether you feel the story is important enough to rework. If not, move on and do better next time. If you do decide to rework it, follow the recommended steps in laying the groundwork for the revision or rewrite. You can tackle that alone, or seek professional help. The next time around, you won’t have to rework things in this way, or to this extent—because you’ll lay the foundation before you start writing.

The first story—like the first million—is always the hardest.

Author John Robert Marlow is available for professional editing, development, and consultation. If you’d like help taking your work to the next level, contact John here.

JRM

copyright © by John Robert Marlow
all rights reserved

The Digital Outline: Creating a Beatline for Your Story
(Story Development For Writers, Part 6)
by John Robert Marlow

PAY NO ATTENTION TO THAT MAN (OR WOMAN) BEHIND THE CURTAIN

You’ve no doubt heard that art is 1% inspiration, and 99% perspiration. Actually, it’s not that simple. If coming up with the concept is inspiration, and the actual writing is perspiration—that still leaves everything we’re doing now: logline, structure, pitch sheet and (finally) beatline. This is the man-behind-the-curtain-work that makes the final product—the art—seem effortless. To the audience, that is; the artist knows better.

HAMMERING OUT THE DETAILS

Now that we have the logline, structure, and pitch sheet in place, it’s time to get down to the nitty-gritty details of just how, exactly, we get our characters from first page, through all seven story points, past the obstacle (which is usually, but not always, overcome) to the goal—and beyond.

This is the land of story development proper, an area many writers—and most beginners—ignore at their peril. Which sounds dramatic, but it’s true. Every good story is a new destination, never visited before. And unless you have a fondness for blundering through the forest in random directions (a fondness which your readers will not share), you’re going to need a map.

The structure set forth in SDFW Part 4 described the landmarks; now it’s time to zoom in and look at the actual path we—and our characters—must travel between them.

WHAT IS THE BEATLINE?

Unfortunately, no one can be told what The Beatline is. You have to see it for yourself.

Oh wait, that’s not entirely true. It’s best to do both. So let’s start with the telling. A beatline is…

A bullet-point version of your story, detailing (in story order) every significant physical and emotional event that takes place during the course of the story.

Most bullet points should be one to three lines long. Some may include more than one event, if those events are very closely related. No significant event is overlooked. Ideally, a complete stranger should be able to pick up your beatline and follow the story from beginning to end, without needing to read the story itself.

Sounds easy, right? It’s not—but it beats the heck out of any “conventional” outline you’ll ever see. Bad news and good news here. If you blow (or skip) the beatline (or more conventional outline), you’ll more than likely blow the story as well. Maybe partially, maybe completely; you won’t know until you’ve finished writing or—worse—when agents, publishers, or production companies start turning it down. That’s when the endless rewrites begin.

On the other hand, if you truly ace the beatline, your story and characters should be in excellent shape—before the writing begins. Then it’s a matter of making sure your writing does justice to the tale being told. If story revisions are needed, they’ll probably be minor.

GETTING STARTED

This is where the specifics of your particular story come into play and, thus, where an article like this offers the least assistance. That’s because we’re no longer dealing with universals like story structure and pitching, which apply to everyone; it’s now down to you and the unique tale you have to tell.

When working with clients, I know the tale, and a great deal of my development work involves helping clients beatline their concepts (for expansion) or existing stories (for revision or adaptation). Because I don’t know your story, I’ll return to the previous installment’s example and beatline the first part of a story most readers already know.

BEATLINING THE MATRIX

This is what a beatline looks like…

• Traced phone call: Trinity tells Cypher that Morpheus believes Neo is The One; Cypher expresses doubt, says “We’re gonna kill him” (Neo)
• Four cops move down dark tattered hall with guns and flashlights, kick in door of Room 303; Trinity sits inside bare room, working laptop; she raises her hands
• Agents pull up outside, speak with Lt., who was told to wait for them; Agent Smith tells Lt. the four men he sent are already dead
• Cops move to cuff Trinity; she kills them all with freakish, inhuman abilities
• The Agents enter the building with more cops
• Trinity speaks to Morpheus on cell phone; earlier call traced, hardline cut, Agents coming; he tells her where to find another phone
• Trinity steps into hall as elevator opens, takes off; Agents and cops pursue, large Agent in the lead
• Trinity hits fire escape; Agent Smith on ground outside so she goes up
• Trinity hits the roof; Agent follows; she jumps to next roof, he follows; cops lagging, barely make jump
• Agent fires, misses; Trinity makes impossible jump over street to next building; Agent follows, cops stop
• Trinity bolts across roof, leaps off edge, crashes through small window in next building
• She tumbles down staircase, lands on back with two guns aimed at window; no one follows, she rises
• Trinity runs outside, spots phone booth; garbage truck skids into turn, stops with headlights on phone booth; phone rings
• Garbage truck burns rubber for phone booth; Trinity sprints toward booth
  She steps inside, picks up phone, turns to face oncoming truck
• Truck smashes phone boooth through wall, backs up
• Agent Smith steps from truck, other Agents walk up; there is no body in the phone booth; “She got out;” Smith says their informant is real, and the name of their next target is Neo; a search is already running
• Neo sleeps in front of his computer; news headline about Morpheus eluding police on the monitor
• The newscroll disappears; words appear as Neo wakes: “Wake up Neo… The Matrix has you… Follow the white rabbit;” He tries to shut down but can’t; next message is “Knock knock, Neo”
• Someone knocks on the door; the monitor goes black
• Neo answers, small group in hall; he sells illegal disk to lead dude in hall; dude invites Neo to party; Neo passes, then spots white rabbit tattoo on gal’s shoulder, agrees to go

That’s a beatline. Every significant event is there. (In this case, they’re all physical.) The final level of microdetail—Trinity leaving a footprint in the concrete when she lands on the third rooftop, for instance, or spinning as she sails toward the window of the fourth building—isn’t needed until the actual writing begins. Though you can of course make notes as cool little microdetails come to mind.

As you can see, once you have the beatline in place, it’s hard to write too far astray. On average, I find a tightly written beatline comes out somewhere between 20 and 40 pages long. Novel beatlines run longer than script beatlines.

NONFICTION BEATLINES

There’s no reason you can’t use this same process to beatline a work of nonfiction, substituting topics covered and examples for physical and emotional events. Conventional outlines are klutzy and often hard to rearrange; the beatline is more streamlined, and a cinch to alter.

BEATLINE NEW AND EXISTING STORIES

Simply put, it’s faster and more economical to work in beatline form. While it’s easy to see the advantages of this process for new works, let’s take a look at beatlining existing material.

Many writers know something. What they know they can’t explain, but they feel it. They’ve felt it for some time: There’s something wrong with their manuscript or screenplay. They don’t know what it is, but it’s there, like a splinter in their mind—driving them mad. Or causing rejections. It is this feeling that brings many clients to me.

In short, they need need to revise their stories—and the beatline works here, for the same reason it works with something new. In this case, you can either plow through 120 or 300 pages (or more), over and over again, changing this and fixing that, and rereading yet again to see if you missed something.

Or you can clunk through a complicated formal outline of some type—in which case, go with God.

Or you can, instead, work with a 20-40 page beatline, where each bullet point becomes, in effect, digital or (if you prefer analog) modular. You can add, delete, move, or alter any beat without worrying about futzing up some multiply-indented, numbered-and-lettered-and-subnumbered monstrosity of an outline.

You can see immediately how your changes affect neighboring scenes. In a matter of minutes, you can see how it affects the story as a whole.

Using a beatline also allows you to keep the whole story in your head while you tinker, because it doesn’t take 2 or 3 or 6 hours to read it through (which also means you’re more likely to read it through in one sitting). In the time it would take to read your manuscript or screenplay, you can rip through the beatline 5, 10, 20 times or more.

You’ll actually get to know your story’s pitchable points better (and faster) this way than you will by reading the actual story. Ghosts, orphans and other oversights will “pop out” at you in a way that just doesn’t happen while slogging through the entire work, in part because you seldom read the entire thing in one sitting.

To break things up a bit and provide points of reference—so you can see, at a glance, where you are in the story—list the seven major story points (see SDFW Part 4) in their proper place in the beatline, like so:

• Neo gets FedEx delivery at work, finds phone inside

INCITING INCIDENT

• Phone rings in his hand; it’s Morpheus, who says he’s been looking for Neo and wants to show him something, Neo may not be ready but they’ve run out of time because “they’re coming for you and I don’t know what they’re going to do;” tells him to look
• Neo looks over cubicle wall, sees Agents (including Smith); Morpheus guides him (as if he can see everything) to outer office and painter’s scaffold, says only ways out of building are walking skyscraper ledge to scaffold and taking that to roof, and leaving in Agents’ custody; Morpheus leaves choice to Neo and hangs up
• Neo goes onto ledge, damn near falls, drops phone, goes back
• Neo escorted from building by Agents, placed in car outside; Trinity watchersd from motorcycle, takes off when Agent Smith turns her way

You might even make the story points a different color.

Once the beatline is complete (or revised), you’ll know exactly where you’re going before your fingers ever touch the keyboard—avoiding the otherwise inevitable blind alleys and endless rewrites that could cost you weeks, months, even years.

Another thing the beatline will do for you is this: help kill your darlings—those choice bits you’ve labored over and become invested in and just can’t seem to part with, even though they don’t quite belong in the story.

Novelist and Oscar-winning screenwriter William Goldman goes so far as to say that this is in large part what distinguishes the professional from the amateur writer: the ability to kill one’s darlings. When those darlings exist as mere bullet-points in a beatline, it’s easier to show them the door.

The beatline is also appropriate for adaptations—where perfectly good stories must nevertheless undergo additions, deletions, and alterations to meed the demands of the new medium.

STRIKING COLORS

A few useful tips I use with clients…

Once you have a complete draft of your beatline, save two versions: an original and a numbered working draft: Brilliant Work beatline (original) and Brilliant Work beatline (working 01). Park the original and use the working draft.

When making changes to the working draft, use strikout for deletions and a new color for all other changes. If you move something, strike it out in the old spot and color it in the new. Choose an easy-on-the-eyes color for this, or you’ll go blind. (You can also track changes in Word, but I find this to be more trouble than it’s worth, through multiple versions and with two people working the beatline.)

Before “permanently” deleting strikeouts, save a new working version (“Brilliant Work (beatline working 02)”). If you change your mind on anything later, you can revert to (or pull beats from) earlier versions.

Note that after a while, it gets really annoying to read through, or even look at, a document with large blocks of strikeout text—so at some point, you’re going to want to dump those blocks and continue with a “fresh” document.

When you reach the end, and have gone through everything and made all of the changes you think best, save another draft as-is, then black all text (changing colored text to black), save as “Brilliant Work v2 (beatline working 0-whatever).”

Now repeat—because there will be things you missed, new “aha moments” as you go through the revised beatline, and new changes to be made. If you need help, or want to brainstorm, find a good editor or story development guy (Hello), and have at it.

Repeat again, as needed—until the story seems flawless.

Then go write it.

Alter your beatline to reflect the new full draft. Check it over for mistakes and possible improvements. Do a final pass on the work itself and—

Viola!

You’re done.

NEXT UP:

Starting this month, the Self Editing Blog will be expanding its coverage with guest posts from agents and others, interviews with authors and screenwriters—and more. Stay tuned…

The articles in this series are:

Story Development for Writers, Part 1: The Basics

Building the Perfect Logline for Your Book, Screenplay, or Other Story (SDFW Part 2)

Logline Workshop: Jurassic Park (SDFW Part 3)

Story Structure: Laying Down the Bones (SDFW Part 4)

The One-Minute Story: Crafting a Pitch Sheet for Your Book, Screenplay, or Other Tale (SDFW Part 5)

The Digital Outline: Creating a Beatline for Your Story (SDFW Part 6)

Author John Robert Marlow is available for professional editing, development, and consultation services (including logline, structure, and story development options). If you’d like help taking your work to the next level, contact John here.

JRM

copyright © by John Robert Marlow
all rights reserved

The One-Minute Story: Crafting a Pitch Sheet for Your Book, Screenplay, or Other Tale
(Story Development For Writers, Part 5)
by John Robert Marlow

PITCHING AS COURTSHIP

We already know (from Part 2 of this series) that most commercial concepts can be conveyed in 10 seconds or less, via something called a logline. Now we’re going to look at expanding that micropitch into something positively extravagant: a one-minute pitch. (Okay, sometimes it’s a minute and a half.)

Think of it like courtship: you start small to test the waters, tossing out your best line to see what happens. If the response isn’t favorable—that is, what happens is nothing—you move on. That’s the logline stage.

If the other party shows interest, you take the next step—ask them out to lunch, maybe, where you reveal a bit more about yourself. That’s the pitch sheet. If all goes well, you’re on for dinner, where you lay the whole script on the table. If that goes well, you dance around for a while and—hopefully—close the deal. By selling the book, script, or whatever it is you have to offer.

Sometimes the stars align and you’ll go straight from opening line to dinner. But you can’t count on that, so you have to plan on lunch—which is what we’re doing here. Lunch also makes for good practice, so we don’t want to skip it and go hungry.

A good pitch sheet is the written equivalent of a movie trailer. It doesn’t show you everything, nor is it meant to; it is not a synopsis. Instead, it shows you just enough to make you want more. Agent Andrea Brown’s description of a query comes to mind: “It should be like a skirt. Long enough to cover everything, but short enough to be exciting.”

LOGLINE RELOADED

The pitch sheet starts with a logline, which you should have by now. (If not, revisit SDFW Part 2 and SDFW Part 3, in that order.) The idea here is to quickly hook those new to your concept, and refresh the memories of those who’ve already seen or heard the logline—hitting them again with the thing that got them excited in the first place.

With that accomplished, it’s time to start…

UPPING THE ANTE

If you’re wondering how to get started, don’t; you’ve already laid the groundwork by coming up with a logline (SDFW Part 2 and SDFW Part 3) and figuring out your major story points (SDFW Part 4). All of that comes into play here, which is why we did things in this order.

The logline takes 10 seconds of someone’s time. If they decide that’s time well spent, you’ve bought yourself another minute. Your job now is to expand the logline and fill that minute in a way that causes the reader to bump you up from casual-glance status to someone they’re willing to spend a few hours with.

Which is, of course, precisely the working dynamic of a movie trailer. And you already know how that goes. There are three possible outcomes: you’re left with a burning desire to see the film; you’re sort of iffy about it; or it’s really not your thing.

Professionals in the book and film industries don’t have time for iffy; there’s too much new stuff coming in the door. So with very rare exceptions, it’s an immediate “worth a look” or “not interested.”

Here’s how to get yourself in the first category.

BREAKING THINGS DOWN

Title, genre, your name up top. Followed by the logline. So far, so good.

Now, keeping your three basic story elements—WHO, GOAL, OBSTACLE—firmly in mind, take a look at your tale’s basic structure. This, as you may recall from the previous installment, consists of seven things: inciting incident, first act turn, midpoint, low point, second act turn, climax, and denouement or wrap-up.

Let’s start winnowing that down. Obviously, we’re going to need to include the inciting incident and the first act turn, and in the process of doing that, we will inevitably cover the WHO and the GOAL. How hard was that?

We may (and may not) keep the midpoint; it’s more likely to make the cut if it’s a no-turning-back point rather than an unsuspected-element-in-play reveal (see SDFW Part 4). We might also keep or partially reveal the low point, and maybe (but not always) the second act turn.

The climax will certainly be implied (and so reveal the OBSTACLE against which (or whom) our hero struggles), but since giving away the outcome wrecks any possibility of suspense, we won’t be including the climax proper in the pitch. Likewise, we can leave out the wrap-up, which would serve only to give away the outcome of the climax.

So already we’re down from seven to four, maybe five structural elements, along with our trusty WHO-GOAL-OBSTACLE mantra. Now that we’ve broken everything down and stripped away the things we don’t (for the moment) need, it’s time to get busy…

BUILDING THINGS UP

For our working example, let’s use a story everyone is—or should be—familiar with: The Matrix. Our starting point is the logline. When I think about this story, here’s what I come up with:

A young hacker discovers the world we know is a dream, created by intelligent machines to enslave humanity. Now he must lead a rebellion to free Mankind—while pursued by virtual assassins no man has ever defeated.

Because this concept is a bit more complex than usual, I’ve chosen to employ a setup line with the WHO, followed by the GOAL and the OBSTACLE. Those are the basics. Delving more deeply into this particular concept is going to result in something far too complicated to get across in a logline.

Now let’s get into story structure. As pointed out in SDFW Part 4, classically structured stories have seven major structural elements. Let’s take a quick look at these before we start building our pitch:

INCITING INCIDENT: Morpheus calls Neo at work

FIRST ACT TURN: Neo takes the red pill

MIDPOINT: Cypher revealed as traitor

LOW POINT: Tank, Neo and Trinity about to pull the plug on Morpheus

SECOND ACT TURN: Neo and Trinity set out to rescue Morpheus

CLIMAX: Neo confronts Agent Smith in hall outside Room 303

DENOUEMENT: Phone booth talk / system failure / Neo takes flight

Time to rock and roll. First thing we do is set up our main character, the WHO:

Thomas Anderson spends his days as a cog in the corporate machine. By night, he hacks the web as “Neo,” searching for answers to questions he doesn’t know.

Right away he’s relatable, to both the cubicle worker and the rebel—and to those who are a bit of both. That’s a massive audience. Of course, we still need a fabulous story…

Next up, the INCITING INCIDENT:

Contacted by the most wanted man on earth, Neo escapes government surveillance for a meeting.

That’s heavy. Lots of danger, along with the revelation that Neo has been under surveillance. We’re oozing tension already. We’ve also brought up two intriguing questions: who is the most dangerous man on earth, and why would he contact Neo?

Time to touch on that FIRST ACT TURN:

“Morpheus” tells Neo he’s a slave in a prison he cannot see, and offers a choice: return to his soul-crushing corporate life, or take a pill that will reveal this prison-called the Matrix.

The world we know is a computer-generated dreamland, wired into our brains to control our minds and bodies. This is the Matrix.

Because the concept is so extraordinary, this part of the pitch focuses on the reveal, setting up the world of the story and generating further empathy for Neo—whose whole world vanishes before his eyes. Any reader worth his or her salt is firmly hooked at this point. Unless we screw up big-time with what follows, we’ve got ‘em. We can now move on to suggest the GOAL:

Believing that Neo is the long-prophesied savior who will turn the Matrix against itself, Morpheus and his small band of rebels train Neo to enter the Matrix with them, evade its defenders, and attack the machines.

Here we raise the stakes, and explain who the most dangerous man in the world is (Morpheus, whose goal is to take out the entire machine civilization) and why he would take the time to contact a cubicle worker/hacker (he believes that Neo can help him achieve his own goal).

We also throw down another question: Is Neo, in fact, The One? Providing the answer would wreck the suspense—so we’ll leave the reader hanging on this One.

Clearly the GOAL is, in part, to attack the machines. In this case, we’ll save the rest of it for later.

The MIDPOINT isn’t needed here and, if included, would require us to introduce Cypher and explain his betrayal. TMI: too much information, when we need to keep this flowing smoothly. The no-turning-back point was Neo taking the pill.

We’ll use the LOW point to set up the final act:

When Morpheus is captured,

That’s bad. It’s like seeing Obi Wan Kenobi cut down—the fall of the hero’s mentor. Which, of course, places the burden of success squarely on our hero’s shoulders, giving us in one fell swoop the SECOND ACT TURN, the immediate OBSTACLE (the large-scale obstacle is the Matrix itself), and the suggested CLIMAX:

Neo must lead a rescue assault—against virtual assassins no man has ever defeated.

Clearly, the climax will involve a final battle between Neo and the Agents. (The Agents are here called virtual assassins in order to intrigue without getting bogged down in lengthy explanations; likewise, saying that Neo and Trinity are the assault team’s only members would force us to explain who Trinity is and what happened to everyone else. Again, TMI at this stage.)

This leads quite naturally to the fully-stated CLIMAX / GOAL, and the (large-scale and personal) consequence of failure:

Neo must fulfill the prophecy and free Mankind—or die.

We will not use the WRAP-UP, as that would give away the outcome of the climax.

Now let’s put it all together in…

THE ONE-MINUTE-PITCH

Thomas Anderson spends his days as a cog in the corporate machine. By night, he hacks the web as “Neo,” searching for answers to questions he doesn’t know.

Neo will fulfill the prophecy and free Mankind—or die.

That’s 35 seconds to read on screen or page, and 1 minute, 6 seconds to read aloud. Add the title, genre, author, and logline up top, and you’ve got…

THE FINISHED PITCH SHEET:

THE MATRIX
(action / sci-fi / tech thriller)

by Larry and Andy Wachowski

A young hacker discovers the world we know is a dream, created by intelligent machines to enslave humanity. Now he must lead a rebellion to free Mankind—while pursued by virtual assassins no man has ever defeated.
_

Thomas Anderson spends his days as a cog in the corporate machine. By night, he hacks the web as “Neo,” searching for answers to questions he doesn’t know.

Contacted by the most wanted man on earth, Neo escapes government surveillance for a meeting.
“Morpheus” tells Neo he’s a slave in a prison he cannot see, and offers a choice: return to his soul-crushing corporate life, or take a pill that will reveal this prison—called the Matrix.

Neo takes the pill and learns the truth: the real world is a wasteland, shattered by a war between Man and Machine. Humanity has been enslaved by a victorious race of intelligent machines.

The world we know is a computer-generated dreamland, wired into our brains to control our minds and bodies. This is the Matrix.

Believing that Neo is the long-prophesied savior who will turn the Matrix against itself, Morpheus and his small band of rebels train Neo to enter the Matrix with them, evade its defenders, and attack the machines.

When Morpheus is captured, Neo must lead a rescue assault—against virtual assassins no man has ever defeated.

Neo will fulfill the prophecy and free Mankind—or die.

[Contact info at bottom]

That’s 44 seconds to read; 1 minute, 20 seconds to speak. If I were pitching The Matrix today, this would be my pitch sheet.

THINGS NOT TO DO

Go over one page.

Also—unless you’re attending a pitch fest (where such things have come to be expected)—do not, under any circumstances whatsoever, plaster your pitch sheet with graphics. This includes your idea of what the book cover or movie poster should look like, photos of yourself or anything else, nonstandard (and often hard to read) fonts, and so on.

You’re here to sell the steak, not the sizzle. The more you dilute your steak pitch, the more likely you are to be viewed as unprofessional, or as desperately trying to bling-up a product with no substance.

Exceptions: You’re pitching something where the graphics are an integral part of the work (illustrated children’s book, graphic novel, etc.); you’re pitching an adaptation of an existing work (in which case you might—and might not—want to include, say, an image of the existing work’s cover or case); you’re playing off your own brand logo (which is already widely known); you’ve been asked to do this by the same person you’re sending it to.

Even here, though, words—not images—take precedence. Put bluntly: you’re a writer; act like one.

MAPPING YOUR COURSE

The pitch sheet is a vital tool not only for selling—but for keeping you on track as you put your story together. Think of it as a map to a place you’ve never gone before. You can step outside and wander in the general direction of your destination, hoping to get lucky—or consult a map and know exactly where you’re going before you set out.

Using a map doesn’t mean you can’t make adjustments along the way; if a flash flood has washed away the bridge, you find a way around. A map helps you do that—and ensures that you’ll find your way back to the route you wanted to take.

Once you’ve reached your destination, you can review the map—the pitch sheet—and update it to reflect your final route.

[For those seeking professional help with logline, structure, or story development, see the author's contact link below.]

UP NEXT:

SDFW Part 6: Filling in the details with a beatline…

The articles in this series are:

Story Development for Writers, Part 1: The Basics

Building the Perfect Logline for Your Book, Screenplay, or Other Story (SDFW Part 2)

Logline Workshop: Jurassic Park (SDFW Part 3)

Story Structure: Laying Down the Bones (SDFW Part 4)

The One-Minute Story: Crafting a Pitch Sheet for Your Book, Screenplay, or Other Tale (SDFW Part 5)

The Digital Outline: Creating a Beatline for Your Story (SDFW Part 6)

Author John Robert Marlow is available for professional editing, development, and consultation services (including logline, structure, and story development options). If you’d like help taking your work to the next level, contact John here.

JRM

copyright © by John Robert Marlow
all rights reserved

Story Structure: Laying Down the Bones
(Story Development For Writers, Part 4)
by John Robert Marlow

SEVEN ELEMENTS OF STRUCTURE

Classically-structured (three-act) stories have seven basic structural elements: inciting incident, first act turn, midpoint, low point, second act turn, climax, and denouement or wrap-up. Though you’ll occasionally hear about “mythically structured” tales (like Star Wars) having more than three acts, all of those acts fall within three major acts, so the structure laid out below still holds true.

It’s not as complicated as it sounds. Really. And the structure is exactly the same for books, movies, and other story venues—because story is story, regardless of medium. I use movies as examples because they have a broader audience, and readers are more likely to have seen a given movie than to have read a given book. One note of warning: a great many “spoilers” follow.

INCITING INCIDENT

The inciting incident is the event that kicks off your story. That doesn’t mean your hero rolling out of bed in the morning qualifies, just because it’s the first scene; that’s part of your protagonist’s (the WHO’s) ordinary life. The inciting incident is the thing that throws a wrench into your character’s ordinary life—after which, things are never quite the same. Generally speaking, this happens roughly 10% of the way into the story.

The inciting incident can be as seemingly innocuous as a chance meeting of two strangers (Dan and Alex in Fatal Attraction, Connie and Paul in Unfaithful, Rose and Jack in Titanic, Jake and Neytiri in Avatar), or as obvious as a letter (Sleepless in Seattle, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone), a new job (Midnight Run, Jurassic Park), or having a friend or loved one kidnapped (Taken, Die Hard) or murdered (Beverly Hills Cop, Ghost, Batman Begins).

While the placement of the inciting incident can occasionally be altered (Iron Man, The Fugitive), this is a rare move most often attempted by seasoned pros—and not recommended for those still looking to break in.

FIRST ACT TURN

This is where the first act ends and the second begins—the point at which your hero (WHO) knows what he must do (the GOAL), and sets out to do it. Knowing alone is not enough, and making a decision (which is passive) doesn’t cut it. There must be action taken toward the achievement of the Goal: a decision coupled with action. The first act turn marks the beginning of the hero’s journey, and typically takes place about 25% of the way into the story.

The “journey,” in this sense, isn’t necessarily physical, but refers to the overall path embarked upon by your main character. This is always emotional, and also includes physical (and sometimes spiritual) elements as well.

Examples include John Anderton going on the run to prove his innocence in Minority Report; Richard Kimball going on the run to find his wife’s killer (and so prove his innocence) in The Fugitive; Neo taking the red pill in The Matrix; Somerset taking one last case and training Mills in Se7en; Steven blackmailing/paying David to kill his (Steven’s) wife in A Perfect Murder (proving that the protagonist isn’t always the good guy, though this is a risky move); the guys in Hangover setting out to learn what happened last night/find their missing friend Doug; Harry Potter leaving the Dursleys to begin his new life (in the first book/movie).

The first act turn needn’t be a single event; multiple, very closely-spaced events sometimes combine to create the act turn, as in Rocky—where he accepts Apollo Creed’s offer (which happens offscreen), takes Mick as his coach, and begins training for the fight. In such cases, the turn takes place over a short span of pages.

MIDPOINT

The midpoint can be one (or both) of two things: the point of no return (beyond which your hero cannot turn back, cannot undo his actions), or the point at which an unsuspected element is revealed to be at work within the story. This happens at the halfway or 50% mark, or thereabouts; hence the term midpoint.

In The Matrix, for example, the first act turn (taking the red pill) is also a point of no return, so the midpoint takes the form or an unsuspected element revealed; this is where we (but not the protagonist) learn that Cypher is working for the other side. In Harry Potter, the midpoint is where Harry (and we) discover that the mysterious package from Gringott’s is now at Hogwarts.

LOW POINT

This is the all-hope-is-lost point, where the main character is as far as it seems possible to be from achieving his Goal. Put another way: if your main character were going to commit suicide, this would be the place. The low point almost always occurs in the second half of the second act, between 50% and 75% of the way in.

This is where almost everyone is dead, and Tank is about to pull the plug on the captured Morpheus (The Matrix); where Rocky realizes he cannot defeat Apollo; where Alan refuses Madison’s touch in the water tank, after they’re captured by the government (Splash); where Mr. Incredible’s family is held captive and they’re all about to die because of his actions (The Incredibles); where Wesley dies and Buttercup gets married (The Princess Bride); where Harry Potter and friends rush to tell Dumbledore that Hagrid has accidentally given away the secret and the stone is in danger, only to find that Dumbledore himself has been lured away—leaving the stone vulnerable to Snape.

It’s also where Doug learns that Fergie will not let him walk away from the trade, and that the FBI has turned Claire against him (The Town); where Tony Stark gets his plug pulled by Obadiah Stane, then collapses just short of reaching his backup power source (Iron Man); where Jake’s previous actions catch up to him, Neytiri turns against him, Hometree is destroyed and Jake is tied up and left to die in the aftermath—and, to top it off, Mo’at seems about to run him through with a blade (Avatar).

SECOND ACT TURN

This is the point where, after what seems a massive, even hopeless defeat (leading to the Low Point), the protagonist comes back with a new plan—taking new action to achieve his goal. This usually happens about 75% of the way into the story.

This is where Harry Potter and friends come up with their own plan to save the stone and set it into motion; and where Jake sets his new plan (the counterattack) into motion by jumping Toruk (Avatar). It’s also where Neo decides to go back for Morpheus, and he and Trinity jack in and enter the building where Morpheus is being held (The Matrix); and where Alan takes action to help Madison escape (Splash). As with the first act turn, the second turn is a decision coupled with action, which can take the form of a single event, or a very brief sequence of events).

CLIMAX

The point of maximum conflict between hero (WHO) and OBSTACLE (usually but not always an antagonist or villain), toward which the whole story has been building. For the hero, this is the make-or-break point, because the outcome of the climax determines whether he will succeed or fail in his efforts to achieve the goal. The climax takes place in the last 25% of the story, most often in (or concluding in) the last 10% or even 5%.

This is the final round (and the decision) in Rocky’s fight with Apollo; Harry Potter’s confrontation with Voldemort; Neo’s final confrontation with Agent Smith in the hall outside room 303 (Matrix); Steven and Emily’s final confrontation in A Perfect Murder; Dan and Beth fighting Alex in the bathroom (Fatal Attraction); Sam’s battle with Carl in the abandoned attic (Ghost); Richard Kimball defeating Nichols and saving Gerard, who now knows he’s innocent (The Fugitive).

It is Anderton confronting Lamar (Minority Report); Harry Tasker’s battle with Aziz to save his daughter (True Lies); Sam and Annie meeting atop the Empire State Building (Sleepless in Seattle); Alan jumping off the dock to go with Madison (Splash); Jake and Neytiri’s fight with Colonel Quartich and Jake’s rebirth as one of The People (because this—and not the fight alone—is the culmination of Jake’s emotional, spiritual, and physical journey in Avatar).

DENOUEMENT

The denouement is the wrap-up, showing (sometimes merely indicating) where things go from here. Because the climax is the high point, the denouement is typically kept short—say, the last 1% to 3% of the story. Enough detail to let people know how things are going to turn out, but not so much that it detracts from the climax-induced high. In faery tales and comedies, this sometimes comes down to a single line: And they lived happily ever after.

NONCLASSICAL STRUCTURE

Nonclassically structured stories can lack any or all of he above elements, including the denouement—and often end ambiguously, refusing to tie things up with a clearly-defined resolution.

TRUE STORIES

Real life, of course, does not adhere to classical story structure. Then again, real life abounds with boring minutiae and meaningless detours that are of little interest to anyone, including the people living through it. In short: few people will pay to read or watch that. Another important difference between reality and storydom: fiction has to make sense.

Which is why it’s crucial, when adapting real stories for the screen, to adapt them in such a way that the finished product adheres to the classical structure expected—indeed demanded—by Hollywood filmmakers. If you’ve ever wondered why such adaptations are promoted with phrases like “based on a true story” or “inspired by true events” rather than “a true story” or “everything happened exactly like this”—ponder no longer. (Fargo, of course, did claim to be a true story—but they were fibbing, so that doesn’t count.)

Even when writing a true story in book form, it seldom hurts to relate the details in classically structured format—assuming this can be done without fundamentally altering the truth of the narrative.

CONCLUSION

Look again at your favorite stories, and you’ll find these seven elements forming the skeleton upon which those stories are built. This is no coincidence—and if you want your stories to appeal to a large audience, this is the way to go. And while there are exceptions to everything, but as Damon Runyon once wrote:

The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong—but that’s the way to bet.

[For those seeking professional help with logline, structure, or story development, see the author's contact link below.]

UP NEXT:

SDFW Part 5: The Pitch Sheet. Look for it Thanksgiving week.

The articles in this series are:

Story Development for Writers, Part 1: The Basics

Building the Perfect Logline for Your Book, Screenplay, or Other Story (SDFW Part 2)

Logline Workshop: Jurassic Park (SDFW Part 3)

Story Structure: Laying Down the Bones (SDFW Part 4)

The One-Minute Story: Crafting a Pitch Sheet for Your Book, Screenplay, or Other Tale (SDFW Part 5)

The Digital Outline: Creating a Beatline for Your Story (SDFW Part 6)

Author John Robert Marlow is available for professional editing, development, and consultation services (including logline, structure, and story development options). If you’d like help taking your work to the next level, contact John here.

JRM

copyright © by John Robert Marlow
all rights reserved

Story Development for Writers, Part 1: The Basics
by John Robert Marlow

HOW NOT TO WRITE

Most writers, when they get around to writing, sit down and do just that—start writing. The story grows with no real plan or, at best, a fuzzy idea about where things are going and (maybe) how they’ll get there.

I know this because, as an editor, I see the less-than-stellar results. And when I ask how things wound up this way, the answer is most often the same: “I just started writing.” For most of us, this is not the way to write things worth reading.

Imagine a skyscraper constructed with no blueprint: floors are added and subtracted on the fly; some floors are bigger than others; stairways connect random floors, but don’t go from top to bottom; someone decides to fix the stairway problem with an elevator, punching a ragged hole through every story; only half the rooms are lighted, and there’s an Olympic-sized pool on the roof, so the helipad has to go in the basement.

That’s what happens when you just start writing. I see it all the time, as do agents, editors, and producers sifting through mountains of submissions. Sure, these problems can be fixed—I help writers do this all the time—but it would be a whole lot easier, faster, and less stressful to get it right the first time. And, not coincidentally, make a better first impression on that agent, editor, or producer—because if your first impression isn’t your best, it may be your last.

Whether you’re starting or finishing that latest novel, screenplay, or short story, the same five steps can be used to get your story to where it needs to be. They can also be applied to true stories adapted for the screen.

WRITING SMART

The five steps are: logline, structure, pitch sheet, beatline, and putting it all together as you write. I came to this method through trial and error in both New York and Hollywood, combining what I found to be the most useful elements of book editing, screenplay development, and pitching. I now use it with all of my development clients.

The next several blog posts will be devoted to a detailed explanation of these steps. For now, a few brief definitions…

LOGLINE: A ten-second summary of your story. Hollywood uses loglines to pitch scripts and movie concepts—but they’re also an excellent way to pitch a book, and to focus on your story’s most essential elements: who the story is about, what their goal is, and the obstacle in their way.

STRUCTURE: The skeleton on which your story is built, consisting of seven distinct story points: inciting incident (kick-off), first act turn, midpoint, low point, second act turn, climax, and denouement (wrap-up). Three-act structure has been dominant for over 2,000 years, and the vast majority of today’s commercial fiction follows this pattern. Don’t fight it (yet).

PITCH SHEET: A dynamic summary of your story, usually presented in several brief paragraphs. This is an expansion of the logline, a sort of whirlwind teaser incorporating some of the structural elements worked out in the previous step. It’s the kind of text that winds up on the book’s back cover—or serves as a launching point for the movie trailer. When someone likes the logline and wants to know more, but isn’t yet ready to read the work itself—this is what you give them. If all goes well, they will then ask to see your book or screenplay. The pitch sheet is also a useful guide, helping to keep things on track during the writing process.

BEATLINE: A bullet-point listing of every significant event (physical and emotional) that takes place over the course of your story. Less formal than a typical (and boring) outline, more extensive than the Hollywood beat sheet. Once the beatline is finished and revised, you’re ready to write a first (or next) draft that will be remarkably close to a finished product.

By completing these steps before you WRITE or revise (the last step), you will know what your story’s about, where it’s going, and how to get there. There will be no blind alleys or dead ends, no long pauses while you struggle to figure out what happens next, no impossible situations or useless story elements you labor over for weeks only to discard, and—most frightening of all—no excuse for not writing.

MORE TO COME…

If that sounds like where you want to be, read the rest of this series here:

The articles in this series are:

Story Development for Writers, Part 1: The Basics

Building the Perfect Logline for Your Book, Screenplay, or Other Story (SDFW Part 2)

Logline Workshop: Jurassic Park (SDFW Part 3)

Story Structure: Laying Down the Bones (SDFW Part 4)

The One-Minute Story: Crafting a Pitch Sheet for Your Book, Screenplay, or Other Tale (SDFW Part 5)

The Digital Outline: Creating a Beatline for Your Story (SDFW Part 6)

Author John Robert Marlow is available for professional editing, development, and consultation services (including logline, structure, and story development options). If you’d like help taking your work to the next level, contact John here.

JRM

copyright © by John Robert Marlow
all rights reserved

Flashing the Reader: Flashbacks and Other Perilous Transitions
by John Robert Marlow

TRICKY TRANSITIONS

Few works of fiction relate events in a continuous flow, from start to finish. Sometimes the story moves back in time (as with flashbacks); more often it jumps forward, sparing the reader the dull details of ordinary life. Frequently, the transition will take the reader from one location (and set of characters) to another, lending a godlike perspective unavailable to the characters themselves. Each of these transitions has its place—and each is fraught with peril.

Transitions are probably the single biggest source of confusion in unpublished manuscripts—many of which are otherwise of decent, even outstanding quality. Confusion stops the read, interrupts the flow of the story, and pulls the reader out of the world you’ve worked so hard to create. Worst of all, it gives the reader an excuse to put your book down and go do something else. And if the reader’s last impression was one of confusion—they may never pick it up again.

TIME-JUMPS AND PLACE-JUMPS

Time-jumps are just that: passages where the story jumps from one time to another—usually later—time. Very often, this is accompanied by a change in location. Typically, the author is switching from what’s going on with Character A at Location A to events taking place (again, usually at a later time) around Character B at Location B, and then going back to pick things up with Character A. Occasionally, the narrative will stay with Character A while jumping ahead (sometimes changing location, sometimes not). When handled poorly, any of these can be confusing—sometimes wildly so.

Problems arise when the reader is not crystal clear on time or place or characters present in the scene. This is one of those situations where everything is clear in the author’s head—but perhaps not quite so clear on the page. As with typos, we as authors tend to fill in the blanks: because we know how it’s supposed to read, that’s the way we see it—even though that’s not what’s actually on the page. The moment someone else picks it up—someone not intimately familiar with the story, and so unable to fill in the blanks—confusion reigns.

I cannot count the number of times I’ve been reading an otherwise competently- (occasionally brilliantly-) written manuscript, only to find myself grinding to a dead halt at a transition point—confused about time, place, character, or some combination of the foregoing.

When you jump ahead (or back) in time, say so immediately: “Later,” “That night,” “The next morning,” “Three weeks earlier,” and similar phrases make good, solid, confusion-busting openings for the first sentence describing events in the new time. The same goes for location: openers like “Later at Sam’s house,” “That night at the concert,” “The next morning in the bedroom,” serve to clarify both time and place.

Another way to do this—when appropriate—is through the use of headings, or what Hollywood calls slug lines: “Moscow, Soviet Union / 1989″ for example, saves a lot of explaining. Such headings are most often used in prologues, which tend to take place in the past. If you do this, and the next chapter takes place somewhere (or somewhen) else, be sure to employ another heading there—”Cleveland, Ohio / The Present” for example. Don’t go overboard with this technique, though: I recall one military thriller manuscript that started each and every chapter with a four- to six-line heading stating city, country, specific locale, and time of day. Absent some extraordinarily good reason for doing this, such antics instantly mark you as an amateur.

More typically, you might use a heading or two in your opening chapters to establish your main locations, and then revert to more standard techniques, trusting the reader to remember (with the help of a few narrative reminders) what those locations are. For example: to explain time, place, and character at the start of a transition, something as simple as “Later at Sam’s house, I…,” “That night at the concert, Janice…,” or “The next morning in the bedroom, the twins…” will serve to start readers out on the right foot. The important thing is this: regardless of where the scene is headed, you want your readers to know exactly where, when, and with whom they’re starting off.

There are exceptions: Situations in which you’re deliberately concealing the when, where, or who from the reader; situations where the character himself is unsure of one or more of these elements and you want to get this confusion across to the reader. The Bourne Identity, for example, opens with a character who hasn’t a clue about any of these—including his own name. Even in such cases, however, care must be taken to avoid disorienting the reader to the point of confusion, which will stop the read. There’s a difference between uncertainty and confusion.

DREAMS, VISIONS, AND FLASHBACKS

These are transitions of another sort, but share many potential pitfalls with time- and place- jumps. Any time you go into a flashback, dream sequence, or vision of any kind (psychic, religious, hallucinatory), you are walking on thin ice above a sea of confusion; one false step, and things become unpleasant—sometimes incomprehensible—for the reader.

Here again, problems can arise when any one of three things becomes unclear: time, place, or identity. But now add a fourth variable: perspective. You may get away with being intentionally unclear or ambiguous on time, place, or (in some cases) identity—a psychic vision of the future isn’t likely to come with time, date, and place stamps—but when it comes to perspective, lack of clarity can be deadly.

I recall a particular fantasy novel manuscript in which three different characters had the ability to see through the eyes of various animals and insects. Each character would occasionally drop into an alternate perspective, which was described in some detail. Trouble was, there would often be no warning that this was about to happen: one moment Character A is standing in a field; the next we’re seeing through the eyes of an insect. At times, the point-of-view would bounce back and forth between human and critter. In some places, there were so many characters projecting into so many creatures that it was impossible to discern who was seeing what.

In other instances, a character would see into the future—but it quickly became unclear what was future-vision and what was present-day reality. The result was occasional—and total—confusion. Editors are paid to read a story regardless of flaws. Readers, on the other hand, will quickly abandon what cannot be understood—or is too difficult to decipher.

The trick here is to maintain clarity when it comes to perspective or point-of-view: if we’re seeing a vision of the future (or the past or some distant place, for that matter), we need to know that. We also need to know where that vision ends and present-day reality resumes. If we’re being dropped into a sudden flashback, we need to know that, too—as well as when we return to the present. And so on. As a general rule, you can get as wild as you like with the visions etc. (the film Batman Begins employs seamlessly-executed flashbacks within flashbacks: do not try this at home), so long as the reader knows where they begin and end.

Dreams often break this pattern; here, the reader may find himself in the dream, and realize it was a dream only when the character suddenly wakes. If you’re very careful, you can do this with visions, flashbacks, etc., so long as the technique is appropriate to the situation—when, for example, the vision etc. first appears to be a part of everyday reality. In most cases, this technique will not be appropriate, because the sudden shift from reality to vision etc. will confuse or disorient the reader.

Here too, there are exceptions: situations in which the character himself is disoriented and you’re trying to get this across to the reader; situations where you’re intentionally blurring the line between reality and vision etc., because (for example) that line is no longer clear to the character in question. Either can be a tricky proposition, and both are easily fumbled. Proceed with caution.

SKIPPERS

The skip-ahead or “skipper” occurs when the story is clearly leading up to a specific event—but instead of showing that event, the author skips past it, picks up later and continues with the story. Often, the event will later be referred to as having taken place, even though we never saw it. The event itself is almost always an important one. (In one of the manuscripts I edited, the entire story led inevitably toward a large battle—that never happened because the unpublished author was “saving it” for the sequel.) The problem here is that when you build toward an event, you also build the reader’s expectation that he or she will witness this event taking place. By failing to show it, you disappoint or frustrate the reader by creating an expectation which you then fail to meet. It’s also confusing: why build toward something—and then not show it?

When you build toward an event, fulfill the reader’s expectations by showing it. Do not skip past it and pick up afterward. You’re not shooting a movie here; your production costs are the same whether you’re writing a car crash or the destruction of civilization.

PERSPECTIVE EXCEPTIONS

There are exceptions to showing events as they happen, and most of these involve perspective, and/or situations where there’s some compelling reason not to show the event in chronological order. Such exceptions are rare. One example would be a story in which the character who experiences the event lies to another character about what took place, and you need to keep the reader in the dark as well; in this situation, showing the event as it happens would make it impossible to tell the story in this way because the reader will not be misled by the lie. It’s even possible to depict the past event in an entirely false manner—again because the character is lying.

The film Courage Under Fire, for example, presents multiple versions of the same event, each related by a different character with a personal stake in the outcome of a military investigation. The Usual Suspects (skip this sentence if you’ve not seen the movie) depicts an entirely fictional storyline from start to finish—again because a character is lying. Both Identity and High Tension (more spoilers coming) depict fictional storylines because the main characters are delusional. In the Bad Blood episode of The X-Files, viewers are treated to different versions of the same event as actually perceived by two different characters, neither of whom is really lying.

DIALOGUE IN TRANSITIONS

Opening a transitional scene with dialogue probably triples your chances of confusing the reader. The problem in this case is invariably the same: the speaker is not immediately identified—and the longer that situation continues, the greater the confusion. I’ve seen entire paragraphs of dialogue preceding any speaker attribution. Sometimes the lengthy dialogue will push the attribution onto the next page. The issue here is that long blocks of dialogue deprive the reader of the vital information mentioned above: where, when, and who.

The solution is simple: if you open the transition with dialogue, immediately identify the speaker. Not at the end of a paragraph, and not after two or three lines. Right away. If the first spoken line is more than a few words, ID the speaker in the middle of the sentence: “If I’m not mistaken,” Bob whispered, “there’s a hungry tiger crouching several yards to your left.”

CONCLUSION

Any time you find yourself writing a transition, ask the following the questions: Is this transition necessary? Is it absolutely clear where and when we are in the story, and which characters are present? If you’re opening with dialogue, is the speaker’s identity immediately clear? And, after all of that: is there any possible way that any of these details could be misread or misinterpreted? When you can say yes to the first three and no to the last, you’re ready to roll—and not before.

Author John Robert Marlow is available for professional editing, development, and consultation. If you’d like help taking your work to the next level, contact John here.

JRM

copyright © by John Robert Marlow
all rights reserved

Opening with a Bang May Be Shooting Yourself in the Foot (or Head)
by John Robert Marlow

HEROES IN PERIL

Many authors feel compelled to open their stories with a scene involving their hero in action and/or high drama. This is particularly true of those writing in the action/adventure and science fiction genres. But unless you know what to avoid here, this is almost always a mistake—and it can be a fatal one.

There are several films I like to cite as examples of this principle at work. Speed 2 is the first. We open with a SWAT cop on a motorcycle, pursuing a step van up a steep and twisting road. During the chase, the van’s rear doors pop open, and large boxes fall onto the road, threatening to crash the cop, who swerves this way and that to avoid the tumbling boxes. It’s meant to be exciting, but it’s not, and here’s why: we’ve never seen this guy before, we don’t know who he is, and—because of that—we don’t care what happens to him.

Despite the fact that this was a sequel to one of the biggest hits of all time, Speed 2’s worldwide gross was a bit over half of what the first film made ($164 million vs. $350 million). Factor in the budgets (Speed cost about $28 million; Speed 2 more like $110 million) and that’s a very serious discrepancy.

Contrast this with Titanic, a one-shot with no sequel potential. The film is over three hours long and set on the water, at a time when either one of these alone was considered certain death at the box office. The budget was somewhere north of $200 million (no one will admit the actual cost), the movie is of all things a period piece, and you pretty much know going in that everybody dies. The studios—it took two working together to finance the film—were in a panic before the 1997 release, and the movie was widely expected to tank.

Instead, it vaporized all previous records, hauling in well over $1.8 billion (and more like $6 billion with video sales included) and spinning off the best selling soundtrack in film history (a soundtrack which, incidentally, almost no record label wanted). Titanic also swept no fewer than eleven Academy Awards—tying a record set in 1959.

Now let’s take a look at how Titanic begins. Writer/director/producer/editor James Cameron uses the opening scenes to introduce us to the main characters. We get to know and like them quite a bit. Though there is a good deal of romantic tension, it’s a full hour and forty minutes before the ship hits the iceberg and places our hero and heroine in mortal danger. That’s about as far from opening with a bang as it’s possible to get. Yet by the time that danger comes, we think of Jack and Rose as friends—and we care very much what happens to them.

The two styles of opening are like night and day. It’s the difference between reading about a complete stranger involved in a car wreck—and learning that a close friend or family member was in the same accident. The first has minimal if any impact because you have no “connection” to the stranger; you’re not emotionally invested, so he becomes a statistic. The second can be devastating because you are deeply connected and emotionally involved. When it comes to your characters, you want an emotional investment on the part of your readers—and for most writers, that takes time to establish.

Which is not to say it can’t be done: Cameron himself opens True Lies with hero Harry Tasker torching through underwater bars and sneaking past armed guards with dobermans. And while this may not be opening with a “bang,” exactly, it is placing a protagonist we know nothing about in immediate jeopardy—which is the whole problem when “opening with a bang.” So what makes this different?

THE SUSPENSE OPENER

In those few brief moments it takes Harry to sneak in, we get to know a bit about him. First of all, he’s both daring (to even attempt getting into this place) and smart (taking a route few would expect). Slipping from the icy water, he peels off his dry suit to reveal—improbably but believably—a tuxedo; this is a spy with style. Next, he slaps on a bit of cologne; clearly a man with a knack for detail. Dropping a communication device in his ear, he checks it by saying, “Honey I’m home.” Already we have a daring, smart, stylish spy—with a sense of humor to boot.

After sneaking past the guards and their dogs, he enters an imposing mansion through the service door (a stealthy spy)—only to be noticed by the chef as he passes through the kitchen. Instead of waiting for the chef to ask him what he’s doing there, he starts complaining about the gourmet food as if he owns the place—in French, no less (a multilingual spy who’s quick on his feet).

Emerging into a grand room filled with important people, he snags a glass of wine from a waiter, greets several guests as if he knows them, leaves his used glass in a guest’s hand and makes his way upstairs, where he accesses encrypted files on a secure computer (making him technically adept).

When noticed in an upstairs hallway, he bluffs his way out of it by asking the security man–in perfect Arabic–where the bathroom is (cool under pressure; knows at least three languages). Returning to the party, he ducks suspicious security men (an elusive spy) and does a hot tango (a sexy spy) with the girlfriend of the billionaire who does own the place (how gutsy can he be?). This man fears nothing, and sees no reason why he shouldn’t take time to tango—even when he knows the jig is almost up.

Inside of ten minutes, we feel we know this guy—and we like him. A lot. Then the real action begins—by which time we care what happens to Harry Tasker. In Iron Man, Tony Stark is set up even faster—but he action is also very brief, and we then jump back 36 hours and spend more time getting to know him better before we pick up with the action line.

THE BAD GUY ACTION OPENER

Often, a film or novel will “open with a bang” involving the villain rather than the hero. In fact, most successful “bang” openers do this. Cameron’s Terminator opening is a classic: we see the cyborg from the future appear in our time and attack three punks with astonishing force. Why does this work?

The reason is simple: our sympathies aren’t supposed to be with the bad guy. Because of this, the reader/audience focus shifts from wondering “Who the hell is this guy that I should care what happens to him?” to “Oh my God what’s this horrible person going to do next?” and maybe even “Someone’s got to stop this guy—who’s that going to be?” And that’s much easier to accomplish without some prior groundwork.

Then we move on to our hero (in this case, heroine), and spend some time getting to know and like her. After that, her life is placed in jeopardy.

SEQUELS: THE BOND OPENER

The glaring exception to all of this, of course, is the classic James Bond-style opening, which places Our Hero in immediate and extreme jeopardy. There is, however, one crucial difference here: Bond is an ongoing character, so readers and viewers already know him—and root for him—because he was established in a previous story.

By the same token, something like Dark Knight—impressive though it may be—does not stand on its own. An enormous amount of time was well-spent setting up Bruce Wayne’s character in the previous film, Batman Begins. Dark Knight draws from and builds upon that known backstory—but even here, the writer employs the Bad Guy Action Opener, and not the Bond Opener, which is inherently risky.

CONCLUSION

Opening with a bang may be shooting yourself in the foot—or head. Avoid placing your hero in peril before your reader or audience has a chance to “connect.” In fiction as in life, danger—even death—mean less when they happen to strangers.

Author John Robert Marlow is available for professional editing, development, and consultation. If you’d like help taking your work to the next level, contact John here.

JRM

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