Story Structure for the Win

How to Write Faster, How to Write

Better—Whether You’re a Plotter or a
Pantser
Kindle Edition, v 1.0

H. R. D’Costa

Copyright 2020 H. R. D’Costa. All rights reserved.

Cover icon courtesy of iconmonstr.

scribemeetsworld.com

Storytelling, Simplified
This book is dedicated to the screenwriters, novelists, and authors of
writing guides who helped me learn how to win at story structure.

Thank you.
 Introduction
Do any of these sound familiar?

When you sit down to write your novel or screenplay, you end up
staring at a blank page, wondering, What happens next?

You get upset with yourself because you’re not making the most of
your writing time.

Or, once you’ve managed to finish a draft, you’re unhappy with it.
The pages you wrote don’t seem to add up to a gripping story.

You fear that you’ll lose readers halfway, and your novel will get
dinged with a DNF (Did Not Finish). Or that your screenplay will get
saddled with brutal coverage.

Even after spending months on rewrites, you’re still not sure whether
your story can keep readers hooked.

Happily, it doesn’t have to be this way.

Whether you’re a plotter or a pantser, whether you’re a novelist or a

screenwriter, everything can change once you finally understand
story structure.

That’s because story structure can help you create a loose outline
(emphasis on loose) that’ll give you purpose and direction when you
write.

Because you’ll have markers to write toward—markers interspersed

throughout the beginning, middle, and end of your story—you won’t
get stuck.
Moreover, because you won’t waste time wondering What happens
next?, you’ll finish your draft more quickly too.

That’s not all. With solid story structure in place, you can solve so
many plot problems—the kind of problems that can lead to a
lukewarm (even hostile) response to your novel or screenplay.

Problems like these:

The story starts too slowly.

The middle sags and drags and turns to mush.
The ending delivers sparklers (instead of fireworks).
There are pages filled with words—but they don’t add up to a
page-turner.

Basically, story structure enables you to deliver what audiences want

—when they want it. It’s how you give them the roller-coaster ride
they crave.

That’s why it’s so valuable to understand story structure. That’s why

story structure will help you win at writing.

Imagine What Your Life Would Be Like If You Got a Handle on

Story Structure…

No more hitting a wall when you write. No more getting stuck, bailing
on your draft, and tucking it away in a box under the bed.

When you manage to finish a draft, you wouldn’t be facing a

complete structural overhaul. *shudder* Instead, you’d be looking at
more of a polish.

When a competition deadline rolls around, you’d have something

ready to go, instead of having to scramble to put something together
at the last minute.

When you send your novel or screenplay out into the world, you’d
feel confident about it.
You’d have readers eager to pay full price for your books and
managers eager to sign you as a client because they know you don’t
just promise a roller-coaster ride.

You deliver one.

With story structure, these dreams can become reality. This book will
help you get there.

What You Will Learn with This Story Structure Guide

First, we’ll take a closer look at how you can benefit from story
structure. In chapter 1, you’ll see how it can help you write faster. In
chapter 2, you’ll see how it can help you craft better novels and
screenplays.

These chapters are great to read if you feel kind of dubious toward
story structure, and can’t understand why so much fuss is made
about it. If you’re already clear about how story structure can
improve your writing life, then you might want to skip ahead to
chapter 3.

You can think of that chapter as your cheat sheet to story structure.
This is where you’ll find definitions of six major structural turning
points:

inciting incident
first-act break
midpoint
trough of hell (a.k.a. the “all is lost” moment)
climax
resolution

In the chapters that follow, we’ll examine each turning point in

greater detail. This is where you’ll learn things like:
 how to use the inciting incident to start your story in the right
place
how to create a first-act break that gets audiences to settle in for
the roller-coaster ride you have in store for them
4 approaches to figure out a suitable midpoint (which will
prevent the middle of your story from sagging and turning to
mush)
how to craft an Act Two ending that re-engages audiences so
they don’t tune out at this crucial juncture
the basics of building a story climax that’ll reinforce the
impression that you are an amazing storyteller
how to choose a resolution that’ll satisfy audiences (instead of
inviting backlash)

Sounds good, right?

But before we get started, I want to make you aware of a few

caveats.

If you’re acquainted with any of my other writing guides, you know

that they dive deep. (For instance, the paperback edition of Sparkling
Story Drafts, which teaches writers how to identify and fix plot holes
and other problem spots, clocks in at almost 550 pages.)

This book isn’t like that. It provides an overview of story structure,

and it’s meant to be read quickly—in an afternoon, let’s say. Think of
it like this: if story structure were an ocean, this book is intended just
to get your feet wet.

And if you’re not acquainted with me or my website, Scribe Meets

World, let me say hi *waves hello* and share a super-condensed
version of my story. I almost gave up on my writing dream because I
found it so difficult to write. (In fact, I almost became a lawyer.
Twice.)

It was difficult for me to write for two main reasons: (1) a ferocious
inner critic and (2) a lack of proper plotting tools.
To zoom onto the second item, I had read all the books, but I still
didn’t get it. For example, although Blake Snyder’s guide Save the
Cat had convinced me about the merits of the midpoint, I couldn’t
figure out what to put there.

So I decided I would try to discover the answers on my own. I

analyzed hundreds of films, screenplays, and novels to understand
why some stories were so gripping…while others were easy to walk
away from. I shared my discoveries:

on my website (scribemeetsworld.com)
in my online course Smarter Story Structure
in writing guides like the one you’re reading right now

That’s the gist of my story (if you want the longer version, please visit
my website), but now, back to the caveats.

By virtue of being a primer on story structure, this book can’t cover it

all. If you want to further deepen your understanding of story
structure, I’ll point out resources where you can find more
information (typically at the end of a chapter).

The content of this book has been compiled from a variety of

sources: my website, my writing guides, and content that I only send
to writers on my newsletter list. Which means that you may have
encountered some of this information before. Even so, you haven’t
encountered it like this because, prior to this book, it’s never been
assembled together in one convenient place.

Also, as a general rule, I tend to use films—not novels—to illustrate

my points because films are more universal. With regard to structure
in particular, I favor films because they have tighter structure than
novels, which makes them better study material.

Finally, although it might not be clear from my name, I am female,

and as such, I recognize that females make fantastic protagonists.
Nevertheless, for the sake of simplicity and clarity, I tend to use
masculine nouns and pronouns.

Okay, caveats over. Whew! *wipes brow*

Are you ready to learn how to use story structure to win at writing?
Let’s go!
 Write Faster with Story Structure
- chapter one –

Oh, boy.

I bet you got a lot on your plate.

You’re probably juggling multiple responsibilities like:

the day job

carting the kids from one after-school activity to the next
household chores (alas, the laundry doesn’t wash and fold itself
—note to MIT grads: work on that)
attending to the needs of your fur baby, a.k.a. the Real Boss of
the House

Which means you don’t have much time to write.

You’ve got to make the most of what you’ve got, which is why you’re
so keen to increase your productivity during your writing sessions.

Story structure can help with that.

To explain how, first let me ask you a question. (Technically, a series

of them.)

What’s it like to figure out the plot of your story as you go along?

It wastes so much time, right?

Why?
Because—instead of writing—you spend half your time staring at a
blank page, while wondering, What happens next?

Or, in another scenario, your story may start off being a breeze to
write. You’re cruising along—and then, 50 pages in, you just stall
out.

You have no clue where your story is going.

You’ve got nada. Zilch. Nothing.

Nothing but a wall of blank pages.

If things get really bad, you might avoid writing altogether. Instead,
you might spend your writing time:

checking your social media accounts

daydreaming about the money you’ll get when you sell your
novel or screenplay that’s nowhere near being finished (don’t
deny it; we all do it!)
cleaning your dusty ceiling fan

These are all disheartening prospects (especially cleaning the ceiling

fan). Happily, with story structure, the picture becomes rosier.

With story structure, you can increase your output and avoid the
frustration of squandering your writing time.

That’s because story structure gives you markers to write toward.

These markers function like streetlights on a long road. Which

means you won’t be flailing in the dark. Not when these markers will
light up your path ahead.

No need to wonder, Where am I going?

You’ll know.
You’ll have purpose and direction when you write.

With these markers there to guide you, you should spend less time
staring at a blank page—and get more words down during your
writing sessions.

You’ll be able to hit your target word count—easily.

Actually, it gets even better. In addition to helping you save time AS

you write, these structural markers can help you save time AFTER
you write.

But before we get into that, I want to address a potential source of

resistance.

Notice that your structural turning points create a loose outline. If

you’re a plotter, someone who outlines your stories in advance, you
should have no problem with that.

In fact, you may use your structural markers as a springboard to take

your outline even further, and really accelerate your productivity.

In contrast, if you’re a pantser, someone who writes on the fly, by the

seat of your pants, then you might not be terribly enthused about
creating an outline. But, remember, an outline built using story
structure is loose.

You still have the freedom to “pants away” between each of your
structural markers.

There’s still plenty of your story left to discover.

And that’s why, if you’re pantser, you shouldn’t consider structure to

be an imposition that stifles your creativity. Instead, regard it as a
tool that enables your imagination to fly free—ultimately leading to
more productive writing sessions.

In sum, whatever your writing style—whether plotter or pantser—with

story structure, you come out on top.
So far, we’ve been talking about how story structure can help you
save time while writing a first draft. But structure can also help you
save time after the first draft is done, and it’s time to revise your
baby.

To explain how, I’d like to start by sharing a brief anecdote about

former White House Pastry Chef Roland Mesnier.

Some years ago, the Queen of Denmark was scheduled to dine at

the White House. For the occasion, Chef Mesnier planned to serve
raspberry soufflés for dessert. [1]

I don’t know if you’ve ever made soufflés, but they’re like Piglet’s
ego: fragile and sensitive.

It’s easy for things to go wrong.

And alas, for Chef Mesnier, they did.

When he was whipping up his egg whites—80 at a time—they

refused to come up and form peaks, the way they should have.

So, he cleaned his mixing bowl, and started again. And still, the egg
whites “refused to cooperate.”

Can you imagine what Chef Mesnier felt like? How stressed he
must’ve been?

He had to fix what was wrong.

Quickly, while the clock was ticking down.

I mean, it’s not like you can keep the Queen of Denmark waiting.

As Chef Mesnier put it, “In every state dinner I aged about 10 years.
I was a nervous wreck until the last minute.” [2]

And no wonder. If Mesnier failed to get the job done, he’d be

embarrassing his boss.
The president of the United States.

*gulp*

Building story structure into your draft, after the fact, is like that.

A total nightmare.

In Chef Mesnier’s case, he took a risk, and tweaked his recipe to buy
himself some time. [3]

Happily, it worked. The raspberry soufflés came together perfectly.

Disaster was averted, and dessert went smoothly.

In Mesnier’s words, “My experience saved me that day.”

Becoming experienced with story structure, likewise, should save

you from a world of heartache.

If you nail down your story structure before you write a first draft, you
can avert disaster and sail through your rewrites.

Because you’ve already got your structure in place, you won’t have
to spend weeks (more likely months) trying to massage it into shape
and feeling like a nervous wreck because it feels impossible to make
everything work.

You won’t have to invest so much time fixing it up…only to realize

that after all of your hard work, all the energy you spent rewriting
pages and adjusting details so everything would hang together…

…your draft still feels more like a Frankenstein than an enthralling,

well-woven tale.

Nope. Not with story structure.

With story structure, you can avoid this hassle. You won’t have to
suffer through the time-consuming ordeal of a structural overhaul.
Actually, if you’re a plotter, you can save even more time. Like I
previously mentioned, you can use story structure as a springboard
to take your outline even further. You can map out your entire story
before you sit down to write.

Because you’ll know 100% of your plot points (at least their broad
strokes; you’ll discover the fine details as you write), you can identify
a ton of problems in advance.

Once you identify them, you can fix them—also in advance.

So, after you bang out your first draft, your list of editing tasks
shouldn’t be overwhelming or time-consuming.

Instead of a massive rewrite, you could be looking at more of a

polish, just:

punching up dialogue
refining characterization and imagery
smoothing your transitions
fine-tuning your diction and sentence structure
spotting typos and grammatical errors, etc.

Wait. You haven’t gotten to the best part yet. (And it applies to both
plotters and pantsers, btw.)

’Cause if story structure were a soufflé, it’d be served with organic

whipped cream on top.

Here’s why: the plot points comprising story structure aren’t like
regular plot points. That’s because they take on special load-bearing
duty.

Basically, they give you a framework to hang the rest of your scenes,
and organize those scenes in such a way…

…that once audiences start reading your novel or screenplay, they’ll

remain glued to your pages.
In short, they’re the plot points that help you craft a better story.

I’ll dig into the details in the next chapter, so turn the page and keep
reading!

Notes for Chapter 1

1. White House Historical Association, “State Dinner Desserts,” Slide

7 of 14, accessed February 23, 2020,
https://www.whitehousehistory.org/galleries/state-dinner-desserts.

2. Linda Kulman, “Q&A: Roland Mesnier – Sweet Perspective on

First Families,” Washington Post (Special), February 28, 2007,
https://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-
dyn/content/article/2007/02/27/AR2007022700351_pf.html.

3. Erin Gardner, “Interview – Former White House Pastry Chef

Roland Mesnier,” Erin Bakes (blog), April 24, 2015,
http://erinbakes.com/white-house-pastry-chef-roland-mesnier/.
 Write Better with Story Structure
- chapter two -

Wanna know something cool, fellow scribe?

While you’re using story structure to amplify your writing speed,

you’ll be doing something else.

You’ll be building a better novel or screenplay.

That’s because the plot points that comprise story structure are the
MVPs. They’re like the Tom Bradys and Lindsey Vonns in the world
of professional sports.

What makes these plot points so special?

They’re the load bearers that help you create a gripping plot (in any
genre).

They generate the up-and-down rhythm—the roller-coaster-ride—

that keeps audiences engaged from beginning to end.

As story consultant and author Chris Vogler explains in The Writer’s

Journey:

“The structure of a story acts like a pump to increase the

involvement of the audience. Good structure works by alternately
lowering and raising the hero’s fortunes and, with them, the
audience’s emotions.”

I also like the way New York Times bestselling author Jerry Jenkins
explains how structure helps you create a better story:
“The order in which you tell your story determines how effectively
you create drama, intrigue, and tension, all designed to grab readers
from the start and keep them to the end.” [4]

In other words, whether you’re a novelist or a screenwriter, with story

structure, you’ll be crafting a plot that’s going to captivate readers so
much, they’ll know that when they sit down with one of your stories,
there’s no way they’re going to bed early.

Betcha you like the sound of those apples! I know I do. *smile*

In contrast, without story structure, you’re looking at the opposite

result.

Without story structure, you’re not going to increase your readers’

emotional involvement.

You’re not going to be very effective at creating drama, intrigue, and

tension.

In short, you’re not going to be able to keep readers hooked—and

your story won’t be strong enough to fare well in the marketplace.

As author and writing instructor James Scott Bell put it, “Manuscripts
that ignore structure are almost always filed under unsold.” [5]

Award-winning mystery novelist Jane Cleland knows this firsthand.

In her writing guide Mastering Suspense, Structure, and Plot, she
relates an anecdote about why her first novel didn’t sell:

“I know too well the downside of deciding structure doesn’t matter.

The first novel I wrote, Exposed, suffered from a lack of architecture.
Exposed was a mystery featuring a private eye named Tony Barnes.
I loved Tony. I still do. I relished telling Tony’s story—all of it—not
only what pertained to the mystery, but a fair amount about his
family, too. Instead of a tightly woven plot, I’d created a rambling
narrative about a fictional character. There was no structure, just a
muddled heap of words on the page. It’s no surprise the book didn’t
sell. Choose a compelling structure, and your stories will enjoy a
happier fate.”

This anecdote illustrates the pitfalls of writing a draft without taking

structure into account. Because your protagonist is moving around,
you may think that your plot is advancing forward. But in reality, it’s
not going anywhere.

Thankfully, applying story structure can get you out of that jam. By
the way, the chapter where that anecdote can be found is entitled
“Structure Is King.” It would seem Steve DeSouza (who wrote the
script for Die Hard) would agree with that sentiment.

As related in Karl Iglesias’s 101 Habits of Highly Successful

Screenwriters, when asked what makes a great story, De Souza
basically said you need two things: surprises—and structure. To
quote:

“I’m a firm believer in the three-act structure and all the Aristotelian
techniques that are a part of a good story.”

Ah, that’s the first time the term three-act structure has been used in
this book. Let’s take a closer look at it.

In classic three-act structure, your story is divided by two act breaks,

thus creating three sectors that correspond to the stages of
storytelling that you already know so well:

Act One = beginning

Act Two = middle
Act Three = end

Furthermore, each act makes a specific contribution toward the plot:

Act One sets up the plot.

Act Two develops the plot.
Act Three resolves the plot.
Certainly, dividing up your story in this manner should make writing a
draft of your novel or screenplay more manageable.

However, to gain the benefits we’ve been talking about (a loose

outline to help you write faster; the up-and-down rhythm that keeps
readers hooked) you need to broaden your gaze and look beyond
the act breaks, toward additional structural turning points.

We’re going to examine those in a second. Before we do, I’d like to

address another potential pocket of resistance. You might not be
terribly keen on three-act structure. You might think it produces
cookie-cutter stories.

Allaying that concern is beyond the scope of this book (although I do

discuss this issue at length in Module 5 of my online course Smarter
Story Structure). Suffice to say that regardless of your personal
stance on three-act structure, if you are a screenwriter, you have be
comfortable conversing about it.

Why? Screenwriter and blogger Scott Myers said it best. “As a writer,
you can craft a story with however many acts or sequences as you
want, however in story meetings, you have to be able to translate
that into three acts because that’s the most universal language of
screenplay structure in Hollywood.” [6]

Moving on, let’s take a look at the structural turning points besides
the act breaks (as well as continue to explore why structure helps
you to create a better story). To do so, I’d like to visit a comment in a
video called Endings: The Good, the Bad, and the Insanely Great,
which was made by Michael Arndt.

Are you like, Hmmm. That name sounds familiar…but I’m not quite
placing it?

Well…Arndt won an Oscar for writing Little Miss Sunshine.

He’s also credited with writing a Toy Story movie, a Hunger Games
sequel…and Star Wars: The Force Awakens.
Yep, that guy.

Anyway, about 17 and a half minutes through the video, he drops a

gold nugget. This is what he said:

“If you can just tell me what these 6 moments are, if you can tell me
what the 6 tent-pole moments of your story are, I can tell you
whether or not you’ve got a good story.” [7]

Before we zoom in onto those tent-pole scenes, I want to draw your

attention to what Arndt is saying. Basically, he’s saying that the
quality of a story is determined by its structure.

Not character.

Not theme.

But structure.

Now, you might love character and theme the way Jimmy Fallon
loves Saved by the Bell.

I get that. Arndt does too.

After all, according to Wikipedia (citing FORA.tv), he wrote Little Miss

Sunshine as a rejoinder to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s comment, “If
there’s one thing in this world I hate, it’s losers. I despise them.” [8]

In other words, Arndt wrote his Oscar-winning script for the sake of
theme.

But, even though character and theme are important…

…without structure, everything falls apart.

That’s because structure is the framework that everything else hangs

off of.
Without it, character and theme—no matter how intriguing—don’t
shine as bright. Without it, it’s impossible to create a roller-coaster
ride that’ll keep readers hooked to your story.

So, what are the tent-pole scenes, exactly? Here’s how Arndt
describes them in his video.

Once upon a time = Opening image

And then one day = Inciting incident
And so the quest began = First-act break
Suddenly and without warning = Midpoint
No going back = Second-act break
All or nothing = Climax

As you can see, in addition to the two act breaks, four additional
structural markers have been added to the roster. In the following
chapters, we’re going to take a closer look at all of them—with some
adjustments.

For starters, we’re not going to talk about the opening independently,
but we will touch upon it briefly when discussing the inciting incident.

I equate the second-act break with the “all is lost” moment that ends
Act Two. For reasons (which will be made clear in the next chapter),
I call it by another name: the trough of hell.

Finally, we’re going to add one more structural turning point to the
list, one that plays a key role in your story’s ending: the resolution.

Putting it all together, the remaining chapters in this writing guide will
focus on these structural turning points:

inciting incident
first-act break
midpoint
trough of hell (a.k.a. the “all is lost” moment)
 climax
resolution

To kick things off, we’ll begin with a handy list of definitions. Turn the
page and take a peek…

Notes for Chapter 2

4. Jerry Jenkins, “7 Story Structures Any Writer Can Use,” accessed

February 22, 2020, https://jerryjenkins.com/story-structures/.

5. James Scott Bell, “The Two Pillars of Novel Structure,” The

Writer’s Dig, Writer’s Digest, March 14, 2013,
https://www.writersdigest.com/online-editor/the-two-pillars-of-novel-
structure.

6. Scott Myers, “Werner Herzog Calls Three-Act Structure

‘Brainless.’ Is It?,” Go into the Story (blog), June 28, 2019,
https://gointothestory.blcklst.com/werner-herzog-calls-three-act-
structure-brainless-is-it-bc77d0670e34.

7. Michael Arndt, Endings: The Good, the Bad, and the Insanely
Great, Vimeo video, 1:30:13, posted by “Pandemonium,” October 17,
2017, https://vimeo.com/238637906.

8. Wikipedia, s.v. “Little Miss Sunshine,” last modified February 22,

2020, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_Miss_Sunshine.
 Story Structure: Your Handy List
of Definitions
- chapter three -

This chapter is short and sweet.

It lists definitions for the structural turning points that we’ll be

examining in greater detail in the remaining chapters of this book.

I wanted to give this list of definitions its own chapter so that you
could easily find and refer to it when you need to.

Okay, now let’s look at definitions for these structural turning points:

Inciting Incident

The inciting incident is a catalyst that sets your plot in motion and
nudges your protagonist toward his journey. Without it, your
protagonist’s life would pretty much go on as usual.

We’ll examine how the inciting incident prevents readers from

abandoning a novel or screenplay in chapter 4 and how to tell when
your story’s actually getting started in chapter 5.

First-Act Break

The first-act break is the invisible boundary that separates the

beginning of your story (a.k.a. Act One) from its middle (a.k.a. Act
Two). This is where your plot gets off the ground, as your protagonist
begins his Act Two journey and takes action to achieve his goal.

Typically, the first-act break occurs 25% of the way through a story.
However, this percentage can vary by genre (it may be lower for
comedy and higher for sci-fi).

In addition to providing you with a helpful marker to write toward, a

strong first-act break can get audiences to settle in for the amazing
ride you have in store for them—a topic we will revisit in chapter 6.

Midpoint

Occurring halfway through a story, the midpoint divides the middle

into two equal halves, sometimes referred to as Act 2A and Act 2B.

A good midpoint functions as a fulcrum that swings the plot in a new

direction, thus preventing the middle of a story from sagging.

In chapter 7, you’ll find four approaches for discovering a suitable

midpoint for your novel or screenplay. (We’ll elaborate on one of
them in chapter 8.)

Trough of Hell

The trough of hell is the series of setbacks that afflicts the

protagonist (as well as other characters) at the end of Act Two, with
the last part of the trough occurring approximately 75% of the way
through the story.

In effect, this is where you dig as deep a hole for your protagonist as
possible (that’s what the trough refers to). Moreover, these setbacks
are physically, emotionally, or psychologically painful for your
protagonist to endure (this is where the hell aspect comes into play).

Oftentimes, the trough is also paradoxical. It brings the protagonist

closer to his goal, although on the surface, he seems the furthest
away from it.

Like the midpoint, the trough prevents the middle of a story from
sagging. Plus, when it’s done well, the trough re-engages audience
interest right when it has a tendency to wane.
We’ll look at the characteristics of the trough in greater detail in
chapter 9; in chapter 10, you’ll discover a power tip to make the
trough extra effective.

Climax

The climax is the final confrontation between your protagonist and

his central antagonist. The nature of this confrontation will largely be
determined by genre.

The climax answers, once and for all, the story question inherent
within your plot. Yes, he does get the girl; she does save the world;
they do catch the killer.

An epic climax reinforces your status as a crazy-good storyteller—

paving the way for word-of-mouth recommendations and future
sales. We’ll explore the basics of crafting an epic climax in chapters
11 and 12.

Resolution

The resolution of a story depicts the outcome of the climax.

Resolutions typically come in three forms: happy, tragic, or
bittersweet. They should be long enough to: (1) give your readers
closure and (2) tie up any loose ends.

The resolution is the absolutely last impression audiences have of

your story, coloring their experience of everything that transpired
before. Because of this, it’s vital to get it right.

We will take a closer look at how to pick the perfect resolution for
your story in chapter 13.

***

One last point: in practice, before you work on your story’s structure,
you need to vet your idea to make sure it has all six qualities of a
compelling story and can sustain a full-length draft. Without taking
this preliminary step, you’ll be building your structure on a weak
foundation, which won’t do you any good.

Although this prewriting step is vital for both plotters and pantsers to
take, we don’t have time to go into it in this book. If you’re interested
in learning how to vet your story idea, you can find instructions in
Part I of my writing guide Sizzling Story Outlines. Alternately, if you
visit my website and download the Ultimate Story Structure
Worksheet, I’ll send you a series of emails on this topic.

I’ll share links where you can find these resources later on. Now,
we’re going to move on and zoom in onto one structural turning point
in particular: the inciting incident.
 INCITING INCIDENT: Your
Insurance Against Story
Abandonment
- chapter four -

Question for you.

Have you ever dreaded editing the beginning of your novel or

screenplay?

I hear ya.

Like meeting a potential mother-in-law, story beginnings stir up a

storm of anxiety.

If things don’t go well with your potential mother-in-law, she’ll make

your married life unbearable.

Likewise, if your story beginning doesn’t shine, the outcome isn’t

pretty.

See, you managed to hook audiences with a:

cool premise (What’s that you say? A heist on the moon, like
Andy Weir’s Artemis? I’m there!)
compelling character (Holden Caulfield, Mr. Darcy…and yes,
even Melvin Udall)
intriguing or cute title (The Rogue Not Taken – perfect pun for a
romance, right?; The Spy’s Bodyguard – uhm, why does a spy
need a bodyguard? Guess I’ll have to watch to find out…)
But now…

…you’ve got to keep your audience hooked.

Unfortunately, many writers stumble here.

Rather than get to the story, they do the authorial equivalent of

clearing their throat.

They start their story too slowly.

They fill up their story beginning with material—exposition,

backstory, etc.—that goes nowhere.

If the throat clearing goes on for too long, then audiences are going
to put down your story. They’re going to replace it with something
else.

Obviously, to make money from your writing, you have to avoid this
outcome.

Obviously, you have to get rid of all of the throat clearing.

Slice off that chunk of unnecessary pages—and boom!—you’d know,

with absolute certainty, that you’re starting your story in the right
place…

…that you’ve taken measures to keep audiences hooked.

Alas, most writers don’t have the objectivity to see when their throat
clearing ends…and when their story actually begins.

Fortunately, the inciting incident (which, remember, is a catalyst that

triggers the plot) is there to help you out.

It’ll open your eyes.

It’s like your friend who’ll tell you, with unflinching honesty, that those
jeans really do make you look fat.
Yep, the inciting incident is objective like that.

It’ll tell you in no uncertain terms when your story is actually getting
started.

Well, to be technical, the first inciting incident in your story will tell
you that.

You see, a novel or screenplay can have more than one inciting
incident. This is why discussing inciting incidents with your writing
buddies can provoke spirited debate.

You’ll argue that *this* is the inciting incident of a movie, but your
friend will argue that *that* is the inciting incident. Fact is, you’re
probably both right!

Anyhow, the first inciting incident controls the pacing of your story.
The last one is il primo marketing material. Moreover, in conjunction,
they form an excellent diagnostic tool to evaluate the soundness of
your story beginning.

If you’re interested, I discuss how this works in more detail in my

writing guide Inciting Incident. But here, we’re only going to talk
about the first inciting incident.

Like I said, it controls the pacing at the beginning of your screenplay

or novel. When it’s deployed at the right time, you won’t spend too
long clearing your throat.

Audiences will want to keep on reading your story. They won’t

abandon it for another one that doesn’t begin with slow-poke,
tortoise-level pacing.

And if audiences have to keep on reading your story because they’re

obligated to do so—studio reader, I’m looking at you—then, with a
well-timed inciting incident, they’ll WANT to continue reading, even if
they weren’t being paid for it.
A better position than the alternative, no?

In short, the inciting incident is your insurance against story

abandonment.

Read that line again. Let it sink in a little.

The inciting incident is your insurance against story abandonment—

at least during the dicey early stages, when audience members are
mostly non-committal toward your story.

Later on, you have to rely on other structural turning points (namely
the midpoint and the trough of hell; see chapters 7–10) to keep
audiences hooked. But at the beginning, this duty falls squarely on
the shoulders of the inciting incident.

Once you identify the first inciting incident in your story, you know:

where the throat clearing ends

where the storytelling actually begins
where’s a good place to make your cut (i.e. as close to the
inciting incident as possible)

Essentially, the inciting incident tells you the best place to start your
story.

This is one reason why so much fuss is made over this structural
turning point: a major editing decision—one that’ll affect the pacing
of your story beginning—hinges on it.

Here’s the thing: while an event may look like an inciting incident, it
might not really be one.

This situation is problematic because it may lead you to believe that

you haven’t begun your story with a bunch of throat clearing (when
you really have).
You’ll mistakenly conclude that you don’t need to make a cut (when
you really do).

If you have trouble identifying inciting incidents, don’t worry. In the

next chapter, I’ll explain the easy way to win a round of Can You
Spot the Inciting Incident?

Turn the page to get started!

 INCITING INCIDENT: 4 Key Traits
That’ll Help You Start Your Story in
the Right Place
- chapter five -

From the previous chapter, you know why the inciting incident is a
plot point MVP.

It reassures audiences.

When well timed, it tells them you’re not going to stall.

You’re not going to regale them with a bunch of backstory or other

material that they don’t really need to know right now (perhaps not
ever).

You’re not going to describe everything about your protagonist—

except how he actually gets embroiled in the plot.

You’re not going to spend 20 pages, maybe even 50 (gasp!), on the

literary equivalent of clearing your throat.

Nope.

You’re going to do what you promised. You’re going to give them the
story you enticed them with (in a logline, query letter, book cover, or
book description, etc.).

Moreover, you’re going to do it sooner, rather than later.

Having been thus reassured, audiences will be confident about your

storytelling skills. They will keep on reading your screenplay or novel
instead of putting it down.

In other words, if you want the beginning of your screenplay or novel

to have the kind of pacing that attracts—rather than repels—
audiences, then you need to be able to identify when the first inciting
incident of your story occurs.

The sooner it appears, the more quickly audiences will conclude that
you know what you’re doing.

Here’s where things get tricky: a lot of events can look like an inciting
incident…but not really be an inciting incident.

Look for the earliest plot point that fulfills all four of the following
characteristics.

The inciting incident is:

passive
disruptive
personal
causally linked to the first-act break

Let’s examine each characteristic in turn.

The Inciting Incident Is Passive

The inciting incident is something that happens to your protagonist.

He doesn’t orchestrate it.

Not directly.

Sure, sometimes his actions may inadvertently lead to the inciting

incident, but usually, that’s not his intention.

Look at Kung Fu Panda’s Po.

Was he trying to become the next Dragon Warrior?

No.

He did everything he could to secure a spectator seat at the Dragon

Warrior tournament…

shooing customers out of his dad’s restaurant so he could stop

working and attend the spectacle
hustling up the hundreds of stairs that lead to the Jade Palace,
where the tournament is taking place
devising zany strategies to catapult himself over the palace’s
walls

…but he didn’t actively pursue Warrior status.

In fact, at the film’s inciting incident, when he is selected as the next

Dragon Warrior, Po is as incredulous as the other competitors, their
mentor, and his adoptive father.

The Inciting Incident Jolts Your

Protagonist out of His Everyday World
If the inciting incident didn’t occur, it would just be “business as
usual” for your protagonist.

But, due to the inciting incident, his existence is thrown into disarray.
He’ll spend the rest of your screenplay or novel trying to restore
balance to his life—balance that the inciting incident threw out of
whack.

In your final draft, this “business as usual” section shouldn’t take up

many pages. In fact, after you make your cut, most of it may be
gone.
All the same, make what remains intriguing—at least to some
degree.

If the inciting incident didn’t happen, there should still be something

going on within your protagonist’s everyday world that would warrant
audience interest.

As Alex Epstein comments in Crafty Screenwriting, maybe it’s not

something you’d pay money to experience, but nevertheless, it
piques curiosity, however slight.

Naturally, the more curiosity you can evoke, the better.

Matt Weston is a CIA agent in the spy thriller Safe House. Because
his safe house is underutilized, his everyday existence is pretty
vanilla. The arrival of Tobin Frost—a former agent who’s “an expert
manipulator of human assets”—will change all that.

But before Frost enters the picture, there’s still stuff going on in
Weston’s life. Weston is clearly lying about his job to his French
girlfriend. At any minute, his lies could blow up in his face.

Weston’s also a talented guy with barely anything to do. If the

inciting incident didn’t happen—if Weston was never told to prepare
his safe house for Frost’s arrival—Weston could’ve done something
reckless just to prove to his superiors that he’s worthy of an exciting
assignment away from his pokey old safe house.

You can see something similar in Total Recall (1990). Like Matt
Weston, Doug is dissatisfied with his life, especially with his job.
Even if Rekall, Inc. never tempted Doug with its offer of a memory-
implanted vacation that’s “cheaper, better, and safer” than the real
thing—even if he never went to its headquarters, never discovered
that his memories had been erased—there was a real possibility
he’d do something rash, just to shake things up.

In sum, Weston’s and Doug’s discontent with their respective

everyday worlds piques curiosity. Mild curiosity, sure—but mild
curiosity is better than none at all.

The Inciting Incident Is Personal

The inciting incident personally affects your protagonist (or someone
or something that he values) in an essential way.

That is, in most cases.

There is a big exception: it’s the commission of a crime. Without this

event, your murder mystery or thriller couldn’t get started. That’s
why, technically speaking, it’s the inciting incident of your story.

But if you think about it, the case that results from the commission of
the crime doesn’t have to be assigned to your protagonist. It could
be assigned to someone else.

A colleague of your protagonist, perhaps.

Things don’t become personal for your protagonist until he’s

embroiled in the plot.

Until he’s assigned the case.

For this reason, I suggest you treat:

a non-personal crime as a facilitative, or conducive, condition

the assignment of the case (or however your protagonist
becomes personally involved in the plot) as the inciting incident

Operating on this principle should help you better understand when

your story’s really getting started, and hence, puts you in a better
position to evaluate the pacing and momentum of your story
beginning.

Because Sherlock Holmes (2009) handles the assignment-of-the-

case story beat in an illuminating way, we’re going to take a closer
look at it. To start, let’s examine three pieces of information:

1. The plot of the film revolves around Holmes’s attempts to stop

Lord Blackwood’s nefarious schemes.
2. At the beginning of the film, Holmes cavorts around London in
order to find a missing girl whom Lord Blackwood intends to
sacrifice.
3. The first event that gets Holmes entangled in this particular plot
is when the girl’s parents seek him out, i.e. they assign him this
case.

Here’s where it gets interesting: the third item—the film’s inciting

incident—isn’t shown onscreen.

Instead, the film begins with Holmes’s reaction to this inciting

incident. As a matter of fact, audiences don’t immediately know what
Holmes is up to.

Six minutes transpire before Holmes explicitly states that the missing
girl’s parents hired him to find her. And that’s why he’s cavorting all
around London.

Notice that if this offscreen technique hadn’t been used, audiences

would’ve seen the girl’s parents ask Holmes to take on the case.
Audiences would’ve experienced this scene firsthand instead of
hearing about it after the fact, from Holmes.

Because the offscreen technique was used, audiences were able to

skip over this administrative task, which in all honesty, would have
bored them.

Indeed, this is one reason why it can be advantageous to dispense

with your protagonist’s everyday world and start your screenplay or
novel with your protagonist’s reaction to the inciting incident.

From word one, page 1, scene one—your story is in motion.

If you’ve ever been accused of taking forever to get your story
started, take the offscreen technique for a little test-drive. It’s an
excellent way to quicken the pacing of your story’s opening pages.
With it, no one can claim your screenplay or novel has a sluggish
start.

And now, for the final characteristic—

The Inciting Incident Is Causally

Linked to the First-Act Break
The inciting incident specifically triggers the first-act break, which is
when your protagonist pursues his overall goal in earnest.

More simply, the inciting incident is the cause; the end of Act One is
the effect.

If you’ve already written your draft, you can use this trait to help you
identify the first inciting incident—and when your story’s actually
getting started. But if you haven’t written your draft yet, you can use
this trait to brainstorm a potential inciting incident to trigger the plot.

Let me show you how. Frequently, in romances, comedies, romantic

comedies, and buddy-cop stories, the protagonists become locked
into their particular situation at the first-act break. (I call these plots of
coerced coexistence.)

Think of when:

An uptight FBI agent must solve the case with an unpredictable

Boston cop (The Heat).
An uptight playwright must share her home with a free-spirited
media mogul (Something’s Gotta Give).
An uptight professional ice skater must pair with an easygoing
partner in order to have a shot at a gold medal (Cutting Edge;
Blades of Glory).
 A monster, who’s supposed to terrify children, must come to the
aid of a giggling little girl who treats him like a cuddly pet
(Monsters, Inc.).

Because the first-act break and the inciting incident are causally
linked, when you know that your protagonists are going to become
locked together by the first-act break, you can work backward from
the first-act break to derive a potential inciting incident for your story.

As an example, let’s zoom in onto Something’s Gotta Give. What

could cause the playwright (her name is Erica) to share her home
with the mogul—despite her misgivings? What could cause this to
happen?

What if the mogul unexpectedly has a heart attack—and receives

medical advice to convalesce somewhere nearby? From these
circumstances (assuming Erica grants her consent), it’s easy to see
how the mogul could end up in Erica’s home.

Heart attack. Voila, instant inciting incident.

Same goes for Blades of Glory. Why would two male figure skaters
who (a) are accustomed to singles skating and (b) despise each
other want to skate together, as a pair? What would drive them to
such extremes?

Well…if they got banished from their specialty and could no longer
compete as individuals, it’s easy to see how they might exploit a
loophole just to stay in the game.

Banishment. Again, instant inciting incident.

As a quick side note, although Pitch Perfect 2 isn’t driven by a plot of

coerced coexistence, it uses an inciting incident similar to Blades of
Glory. Only, rather than men’s singles figure skating, Pitch’s heroines
are banned from competing in collegiate-level a capella.
That concludes our discussion of the inciting incident. If you’d like to
explore it further, let me direct you to the following resources:

The Ultimate Story Structure Worksheet: Page 8 of the worksheet

will help you verify that your inciting incident has all four key
characteristics of the inciting incident. You’ll also find a bonus tip on
how to increase curiosity about your protagonist’s everyday world.
You can download the worksheet for free at the link below:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/ussw-win/

Smarter Story Structure: In Module 1 of this online course, you’ll

find videos and infographics that will reinforce what you’ve learned in
this chapter as well as a slide deck that covers three approaches to
timing the inciting incident (with examples from popular films and
novels). Also includes a cheat sheet with 10 types of inciting
incidents, which will give you extra reassurance that you’ve picked a
solid inciting incident for your story. Click on the link below to learn
more about this self-paced course, which you can take from the
comfort and convenience of your own home:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/3as/

Inciting Incident: In this “deep dive” writing guide, you’ll learn how
to use genre and the inciting incident to craft a story beginning that
sets up your premise and addresses the “slow” stuff (i.e. likeability
and stakes)—but which, at the same time, captivates audiences.
Includes tips on how to make your protagonist’s everyday world
more interesting and your inciting incident more memorable; how to
handle the section of your story after the inciting incident; and eight
ways to start your story (and why some “controversial” beginnings
might not be as bad as you believe). Click on the link below to learn
more:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/inciting/

And now onward, to the first-act break!

 FIRST-ACT BREAK: How to Get
Audiences to Settle In for the
Roller-Coaster Ride You Have in
Store for Them
- chapter six -

Let’s talk about the first-act break.

As a quick refresher, the first-act break is the invisible boundary that

separates the beginning of your story (a.k.a. Act One) from its middle
(a.k.a. Act Two). Typically, it occurs 25% of the way through a story
(although this percentage varies by genre).

From the previous chapter, you know that you can work backward
from the first-act break to derive an inciting incident for your plot.
However, the first-act break is also valuable in its own right.

As one of the essential plot points comprising your story’s structure,

it’ll give you a bright and shiny marker to write toward as you dash
out the beginning of your novel or screenplay.

Moreover, when it’s time to edit your draft, the positioning of the first-
act break will help you craft a story beginning that’s effective in both
the short- and long-term.

Here, I’ll elaborate. Even after you use the inciting incident to
eliminate “throat clearing,” the pages between the inciting incident
and the first-act break may be stuffed with material audiences don’t
need to learn at the moment (perhaps not ever).
If, due to this material, your first-act break occurs too late—far
beyond the quarter-mark—then audiences will get antsy because it’s
taking you so long to get the plot off the ground. You’re likely to lose
them then.

On the other hand, if your first-act occurs too early (10% of the way
through your story, let’s say) then you probably haven’t spent
enough time establishing:

a bond between audiences and your protagonist

a bond between audiences and the stakes (the negative
consequences that will occur if the protagonist fails to achieve
his goal)
the groundwork necessary for audiences to understand later
events

The net result? You’ll lose audiences at the middle of your story,
either because they don’t care about what’s happening or because
they’re confused by it. Although this problem manifests itself at the
middle, it can really be traced back to the beginning—and a poorly
positioned first-act break.

That’s why it’s so important to understand what your first-act break

is, and where it occurs.

To do so, Blake Snyder’s description of the first-act break (as related

in his screenwriting guide Save the Cat) may prove useful:

“The act break is the moment where we leave the old world, the
thesis statement, behind and proceed into a world that is the upside
down version of that, its antithesis. But because these two worlds
are so distinct, the act of actually stepping into Act Two must be
definite.”

As for me, I like to think of the first-act break as when the

protagonist’s goal and your story’s hook fuse together. It is your
logline “in motion.” (A logline is a one-sentence summary of your
story.)

I explain this in more detail (as well as describe four ways the first-
act break commonly plays out) in Lesson 1.1 in my online course
Smarter Story Structure. You can preview the entire lesson for free
*happy dance* by clicking the link below:

https://storystructure.teachable.com/courses/three-act-structure_v1-
1/lectures/6768880

All right. Say you have a good idea of what your first-act break is.
However, its presence alone isn’t enough. To get maximum mileage
out of it, you need to go a step further.

Make it glaringly obvious.

Make it as hard—as unambiguous—as possible.

At first, this advice may seem rather bizarre. But when your first-act
break is hard (i.e. it’s glaringly obvious), it gives audiences a clear
signal, “We’re off.” Or, to put it another way, “And so it begins.”

Due to this signal, audiences can stop shifting restlessly. They can
stop wondering when you’re going to finish getting your plotting
pieces in place.

Instead, they can sink deeper into their seats and settle in for the
amazing ride you have in store for them. A good place for them to
be, agreed?

To sum it up, a first-act break—one that’s hard and unambiguous—

helps get audiences mentally and emotionally prepared for the
entertaining adventure that’s just around the corner. They’re ready
and eager to go where you’re planning to take them.

With that in mind, you’re probably wondering how to make the first-
act break of your story hard, like a set of washboard abs.
It’s pretty easy.

You just have to create a strong transition.

In terms of style, if you’re writing a screenplay, you should cut to a

new scene at the first-act break. If you’re writing a novel, you should
start a new chapter at the first-act break.

In terms of content, it might be helpful to look at Pilar Alessandra’s

explanation of a button. In The Coffee Break Screenwriter, she
describes a button as a “great line or piece of action…[They] often
leave us with a key question or hint at problems or issues to come.”

Later she adds, “An easy way to keep your story moving is to begin
a new scene by building off of the button that preceded it.”

Now, let’s apply this button concept to the first-act break. The end of
Act One will contain the button. Then the first scene in Act Two will
build on that button. Moreover, it will build on that button
immediately, without other scenes getting in the way.

Let’s look at a couple of examples. First up: Beverly Hills Cop. At the
end of Act One, Detroit detective Axel Foley asks his boss for some
vacation time. The next scene builds on that button. In it, Foley’s no
longer in Detroit. He’s in Beverly Hills. He’s on his vacation.

Second example: Legally Blonde. At the end of Act One, audiences

learn that Elle has been accepted to Harvard Law School. Similar to
Cop, the next scene builds on that button. Elle is no longer with her
sorority sisters in southern California. She’s on her way to
Cambridge, Massachusetts.

From both of these first-act breaks, it’s clear that the plot of each film
is taking off. Correspondingly, audiences settle in. With eager
anticipation, they get ready for the fish-out-of-water hijinks that are
soon to follow. They’re keen for the roller-coaster ride they’re about
to go on.
Here’s another way to think of it: at the end of the first act, the
protagonist makes an announcement of intent (this is the button).
The following scene builds on the button, as the protagonist takes
action to fulfill his intention. In between is the first-act break, marked
by a scene cut (in a screenplay) or a chapter break (in a novel).

One final observation: sometimes, at the first-act break, writers do

not cut to their protagonist taking action. Instead, they cut to the
antagonist or to a subplot character. There are both pros and cons to
doing this.

For instance, by cutting to the villain, you may create dramatic irony
that heightens the tension. Indeed, as screenwriter Terry Rossio
argues, these kinds of cuts can be “more artful and powerful.” [9]

Actually, he’s christened this kind of cut with its own name: the
storyteller cut. This is how he describes it:

“With the storyteller’s cut, you take the audience where you want
them to go, where you need them to be for the story to work, rather
than building on what they already know. Initially the audience may
not know why you’ve put them there, why they’re seeing what they’re
seeing. They have to trust you—the storyteller—that the scene and
sequence will eventually become relevant to the overall tale.”

While storyteller cuts can be quite effective, they come with

drawbacks. As Rossio points out, “a filmmaker (or beginning
screenwriter) can really lose an audience” with them. Also, because
they take your story sideways instead of forward, they tend to
dissipate momentum.

If you use one at the first-act break, then your signal to audiences—
the one that says your plot is taking off—won’t be as strong.
Consequently, audiences might never have that moment where they
settle into their seats, in anticipation for the good times they know
are ahead.
If you’re leaning toward using the storyteller cut at your first-act
break, you’ll have to weigh the pros against the cons. This raises an
important writing lesson (perhaps more valuable than figuring out the
first-act break).

And it’s this: storytelling is about making a series of decisions. With

some of these decisions, there’ll be no drawbacks. But with others,
tradeoffs will be involved. There will be a downside.

To maintain your peace of mind, you’ve got to accept that—and

move on.

Speaking of, it’s time to move on to our next structural marker: the
midpoint. But before we do, here are some additional resources
pertaining to the first-act break:

The Ultimate Story Structure Worksheet: On page 2 of the

worksheet, you’ll vet your protagonist’s goal. Then, you’ll use that
goal to come up with a first-act break for your story (see page 5 of
the worksheet) and perhaps even a set piece (see page 7). You can
download the worksheet for free at the link below:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/ussw-win/

Sizzling Story Outlines: This writing guide teaches you how to

develop a story idea into a loose (or full-fledged) outline, step by
step. In chapter 2, you’ll learn how to reverse engineer your
protagonist’s goal from situation, character, or theme. Then you’ll
turn that goal into a logline and use that logline to come up with a
first-act break (see chapters 7 and 9). Chapter 9 also includes
questions to help you weed out the information that doesn’t belong at
the beginning of your story. Click on the link below to learn more:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/outline/

Smarter Story Structure: In Lesson 1.1 of this online course, you’ll

learn how to figure out the first-act break of your story, including four
ways it commonly plays out. Remember, you can preview that lesson
for free. Lesson 5.3 explains, in detail, how the first-act break can
make several storytelling problems go away. Click on the link below
to learn more about this self-paced course, which you can take from
the comfort and convenience of your own home:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/3as/

And now onward, to the midpoint!

Notes for Chapter 6

9. Terry Rossio, “The Storyteller Cut,” Column 45, Wordplay,

accessed February 22, 2020,
http://www.wordplayer.com/columns/wp45.The.Storyteller.Cut.html.
 MIDPOINT: Your Solution for
Sagging Middle Syndrome
- chapter seven -

What’s it like to be mentored by John Grisham?

I have no idea.

But Tony Vanderwarker does. (Lucky guy!)

See, the two men are neighbors. And when Vanderwarker told
Grisham that he wanted to write a novel, Grisham offered to mentor
him. (Which isn’t surprising. By all accounts, Grisham is pretty
generous.) [10]

Anyway, for 2 years, Grisham spilled his blockbuster secrets to

Vanderwarker, and what it takes to successfully write commercial
fiction.

One of the secrets is this: a strong middle.

As Vanderwarker explains it, Grisham told him that “coming up with

the opening and ending is easy.”

But the middle? That’s the hard part. It “has to hold up and not run
out of gas.”

Oh, boy. Grisham ain’t joking.

The middle of a story is a bugbear to write.

It’s just so darn long. In a screenplay of 100 pages, it’s about 50

pages. In a novel of 350 pages, it’s about 175 pages.
Does the sound of writing 50 pages (in a screenplay) or 175 pages
(in a novel) make your mouth dry? Does it make your palms sweat?

Me too.

Happily, it doesn’t have to be that way.

That’s because story structure has your back—specifically, the

midpoint and the trough. (But we’re going to focus on the midpoint
for now. We’ll save the trough for later.)

Occurring right smack-dab in the middle of your story, the midpoint

breaks up that looooong stretch of pages from Act Two into two,
smaller halves.

So, with it, if you’re a screenwriter, you’re no longer looking at writing

50 pages; you’re looking at 25. If you’re a novelist, you’re no longer
looking at 175 pages. You’re looking at 88. Btw, I rounded up.
*smile*

Of course, writing 25 pages (in a script) or 88 pages (in a novel) isn’t

a cakewalk.

But they feel more doable than 50 pages and 175 pages, don’t they?

A lot more doable.

You can manage that.

And it’s not like you’re telling yourself, Write 25 pages. Or, Write 88
pages.

Because you’ve figured out the midpoint (and trough) in advance,

you’re going to be telling yourself, Write 25 pages that lead toward X.
Or, Write 88 pages that lead to Y.

See the difference?

You’re not writing blindly.

You’ve got those structural markers to guide you. You’ll have
purpose and direction when you sit down to write those 25 (or 88)
pages, which makes the whole process less stressful.

Now, I gotta be honest. If the midpoint only provided you with a

marker to write toward, it wouldn’t be terribly useful. Because in that
case, it’d only be improving your writing experience.

That’s good for you…but what about your audience? How does
minimizing your stress benefit them?

Exactly.

It doesn’t.

And if there’s no benefit for them, then you’re not going to enjoy the
sales and rave reviews you’d like. Fortunately, the midpoint can
improve an audience member’s reading experience, too.

To explain how, let’s examine why the middle of a story is often

described by unpleasant adjectives such as:

sagging
dragging
mushy
murky
messy

During Act One, your job was to set up the plot. But at the first-act
break, when you cross the threshold into Act Two, your job is to
develop the plot.

And that’s significantly harder.

You must show your protagonist trying (and failing) to achieve his
goal—repeatedly—until the end (or Act Three), where he finally
achieves his goal or solves his problem. (These repeated attempts
are sometimes referred to as try-fail cycles.)
And this is why so many screenplay and novel middles sag and drag
and turn to mush.

The writer doesn’t know how to keep the try-fail cycles fresh. Either:

1. The try-fail cycles repeat themselves.

2. The try-fail cycles do not increase in intensity (i.e. they do not
escalate).

BORING.

But look what happens once the midpoint enters the picture.

A well-chosen midpoint shakes things up. It changes the direction of

your story.

As a natural result, the try-fail cycles after the midpoint vary from the
try-fail cycles before the midpoint.

Voila, no more repetition. No more monotony.

No more bored audiences.

By now, you’re probably sold on the merits of the midpoint. All you
want to know is how to come up with one. That’s what we’ll tackle
next.

4 Ways to Discover the Perfect

Midpoint for Your Story
In this section, I’ll share four ways for you to come up with a midpoint
that’s suitable for your story. In the next chapter, we’ll dig deeper into
one method in particular.

Let’s get started!

Overarching Principles
Recall that the midpoint splits Act Two into two halves: Act 2A and
Act 2B.

An overarching principle is the pattern of activity that, generally

speaking, governs each of these halves. Typically, with an
overarching principle, you can describe what happens in Act 2A and
Act 2B in five (or so) words.

Below are a few examples to show you what I mean. The first item
on each line is the overarching principle for Act 2A; the second item
is the overarching principle for Act 2B; and the third item is the name
of the movie the example comes from.

Pursue ex-boyfriend; pursue professional advancement; Legally

Blonde
On the run (defensive); prove innocence (offensive); Minority
Report
Husband framed by wife; husband lawyers up, wife turns prey;
Gone Girl
Survive space with another astronaut; survive alone; Gravity
Solve the case “for show”; solve the case for real; L.A.
Confidential

If you can describe the first half of the middle of your story with one
overarching principle, and the second half of the middle with a
different one, then you’ve built a midpoint into your structure by
default. It’s where your story transitions from one overarching
principle to another.

If you’d like to build a specific scene or sequence around your

midpoint, think about the difference between your overarching
principles—and what event could cause such a change.

Plot Archetypes
At one point or another (especially if you’ve ever looked for writing
inspiration on Pinterest), you’ve probably come across a list of Carl
Jung’s 12 archetypes. These patterns, which emerge from the
collective unconscious, influence our behavior and personality.

In her book The Hero Within: Six Archetypes We Live By, scholar
Carol Pearson explains how we can use six of these archetypes (the
Innocent, the Orphan, the Wanderer, the Warrior, the Martyr, and the
Magician) to thrive in modern society.

In short, those six archetypes can help you live a better life.
Moreover, four of the six may help you plot a better story.

That’s because you can use them as a framework to take your

protagonist through various stages of evolution, like so:

During Act One, your protagonist is an Orphan.

During Act 2A, your protagonist is a Wanderer.
During Act 2B, your protagonist is a Warrior.
During Act Three, your protagonist is a Martyr.

At this moment, you might be thinking something along the lines of,
Okay this is all fascinating stuff…but what does it have to do with the
midpoint?

Simply this: if you can think of an event that could trigger your
protagonist’s evolution from Wanderer to Warrior, you’ll have a
midpoint for your story.

I heard about applying Jung’s archetypes to plot in two places: My

Story Can Beat Up Your Story by Jeffrey Alan Schechter and Story
Engineering by Larry Brooks. Their descriptions of the Wanderer and
Warrior stages might help you in your quest to create a perfect
midpoint, so I’ll share them now.

Schechter describes the Wanderer stage as when your protagonist

goes “hither and yon looking for clues, meeting helpers, running into
opponents, and overcoming obstacles in the task of resolving the
central [story] question.”

During this wandering, he will “acquire most, if not all, of the helpers
and all of the skills and items he or she needs in order to resolve the
central question in a favorable way.” Having acquired these
resources, he must put them to good use. He must become a
Warrior, “fighting unsuccessfully to resolve the central question.”

Below are three examples Schechter provides to explain Warrior plot

stage (these are direct quotes, fyi):

In Star Wars, Luke fights to get to the Princess and save her.
In Jaws, Brody goes out on the boat to fight and kill the shark.
In Titanic, the ship has just hit the iceberg, and Jack and Rose,
fresh from steaming up the windows, must now fight to get away
from Cal and off the sinking ship.

And now for Brooks’s definitions. He defines the Wanderer stage as

when your protagonist is:

“Responding to this new situation [set up during Act One], reacting to

it, running from it, investigating it, challenging it, disbelieving it…but
not really attacking the problem yet, at least in an informed manner.
It could be said that the hero is exploring his options here,
wandering. This is where he makes mistakes that teach him lessons
about what he’s facing, what he must achieve, and what blocks his
path.”

During the Warrior stage, the protagonist “gets aggressive and

proactive. He attacks. It may not work as well as he hopes—in fact, it
shouldn’t, not yet—but he’s not going to fail without a fight. The
training wheels come off and the hero is doing unabashed battle with
his obstacles, both interior and exterior.”

Mirror Moment
As a third option for your midpoint, you can follow advice from
award-winning novelist and writing instructor James Scott Bell and
create a reflective moment in the middle of your story where your
protagonist takes stock of the situation.

This is how Bell describes it:

“At this point in the story, the character figuratively looks at himself.
He takes stock of where he is in the conflict and, depending on the
type of story, has either of two basic thoughts. In a character-driven
story, he looks at himself and wonders what kind of person he is.
What is he becoming? If he continues the fight of Act 2, how will he
be different? What will he have to do to overcome himself? Or how
will he have to change in order to battle successfully?

“The second type of look is more for plot-driven fiction. It’s where the
character looks at himself and considers the odds against him. At
this point the forces seem so vast that there is virtually no way to go
on and not face certain death. That death can be professional,
physical, or psychological.” [11]

Midpoint Fulcrums
When you need help discovering a suitable midpoint for your
screenplay or novel, the general guidelines above should serve you
well.

Sometimes, though, you need specific options to choose from. In

that case, you can use the midpoint-fulcrum system that I developed
and share in my writing guide Midpoint Magic.

In this system, you match a logline (which, remember, is a one-

sentence summary of your story) to a specific midpoint fulcrum
(there are eight in total).

We’ll examine three of those fulcrums in the next chapter. Turn the
page to get started!
 Notes for Chapter 7

10. Zachary Petit, “John Grisham’s 3 Must-Haves of Novel Writing,”

There Are No Rules, Writer’s Digest, September 6, 2013,
http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/there-are-no-rules/john-
grishams-3-must-haves-of-novel-writing.

11. James Scott Bell, “The Magical Midpoint Moment,” Kill Zone
(blog), July 7, 2013, https://killzoneblog.com/2013/07/the-magical-
midpoint-moment.html.
 MIDPOINT: 3 Types of Fulcrums to
Swing Your Story in a New
Direction
- chapter eight -

As mentioned in the previous chapter, one way to come up with a

midpoint for your story’s structure is to use the midpoint-fulcrum
system that I developed.

To outlay the whole system is beyond the scope of this book. But
what we can do here is discuss three (of the eight) fulcrums.

One of them is great for any story where a relationship is forged (e.g.
a romance or a buddy-cop movie). The other is perfect for a story
with a villain or a killer (e.g. a thriller, a mystery, or any movie with a
bad guy, whether it be a “pure” action movie or a hybrid like action
comedy or action fantasy).

Basically, between these two midpoint fulcrums, you’ll be covered.

No matter what genre you write in, you’ll have something to:

shake things up at the middle of your story (and keep your

readers happy)
guide you as you traverse the long road of your story middle
(and keep yourself happy)

As for the third fulcrum we’ll talk about, it’s one of my favorites. I’m a
big fan of it because it doesn’t just shake things up. At the same
time, it helps you to escalate the conflict naturally.
Many stories fail to do this, which is unfortunate because escalation
—the sense that your story has gotten progressively more interesting
—is essential to sustaining audience interest. (We’ll revisit this topic
when we reach the section about the story climax.)

Here are the names of the three fulcrums we’ll discuss in this
chapter:

bond builder
antagonist aha
manifest midpoint

At the end of the chapter, I’ll share resources where, if you’re

interested, you can learn about five additional fulcrums.

Okay, let’s dive in!

The Bond Builder

Do you remember when we talked about plots of coerced
coexistence?

In those stories, two characters become locked into their particular

situation at the first-act break—and they’re not happy about the
pairing. They’re apathetic toward it, reluctant to embrace it, or
downright hostile regarding it.

However, at the midpoint, the dynamic between these characters

(usually co-protagonists) changes.

Prior to the midpoint, during Act 2A, when they’re not ignoring each
other, they’re arguing with each other. But at the bond-builder
midpoint, they share a moment of emotional intimacy. They display
vulnerability to each other. In the process, they form an undeniable
connection which’ll take the plot in a new direction during Act 2B.
This is the kind of moment where the protagonists think to
themselves, Hey, maybe this other person isn’t so bad after all. This
person may have more to offer than I thought. If we weren’t in this
situation, we might be friends or in a relationship.

This could be the first time they entertain such thoughts. Alternately,
they could’ve harbored such thoughts before, but the midpoint marks
the first time they’re not so quick to brush them aside.

The Antagonist Aha

This fulcrum is exactly what it sounds like: at the midpoint, the
protagonist experiences an aha moment, gaining insight into his
antagonist’s:

identity
nature
end game

Unsurprisingly, this fulcrum is often found in action movies, thrillers,

and mysteries. However, it’s not limited to these genres. It can be
used to good effect in any story where the protagonist behaves like a
sleuth, even though he’s technically not a sleuth.

If you were thinking that the antagonist-aha fulcrum is perfect for

triggering your protagonist’s evolution from Wanderer to Warrior…
well, you’d be right. *smile*

Prior to the midpoint, the protagonist is wandering, trying to figure

out what exactly he’s up against. At the midpoint, the missing piece
of the puzzle falls into place. He acquires the information he needs
to become a warrior and launch his attack.

You can see the antagonist-aha fulcrum in action in Casino Royale

(2006). During the first half of the film, Bond is pretty much in the
dark. Sure, he knows the identity of the villain (Le Chiffre); he knows
the name of the villain’s plan (Ellipsis); and he knows the villain’s
method of destruction (a bomb).

Even so, Bond is clueless as to what the villain actually plans to do

with the bomb. This situation changes at the midpoint.

With M’s help, Bond finally pieces together the clues he gathered
during Act 2A, when he was “vacationing” in the Bahamas. He
realizes the villain’s target is a prototype for the world’s largest
airplane. With this hard-won insight in hand, Bond is now able to
thwart the villain’s plan, which incidentally, yields a thrilling midpoint
set piece perfect for the film’s genre.

Oftentimes, the insight gleaned via the antagonist-aha fulcrum will

narrow the protagonist’s sphere of focus. During Act 2B, he will
concentrate on a narrower pool of elements than he did during Act
2A.

To a degree, the film adaptation of The Silence of the Lambs follows

this structural model. Initially in the serial-killer thriller, the culprit
could be anyone with an association with one of Hannibal Lecter’s
past patients.

But at the midpoint, the suspect pool shrinks, becoming significantly

narrower. That’s when Lecter provides Clarice with a major tip-off:
the FBI should look for someone who sought out, but was denied,
sex-reassignment surgery.

In Lesson 2.1 of my online course Smarter Story Structure, I recap

these points about the bond-builder and antagonist-aha fulcrums. It’s
a great way to reinforce what we just covered, especially if you learn
better with video. You can preview the lesson for free by clicking on
the link below (to watch the video, make sure to scroll down after you
click!):

https://storystructure.teachable.com/courses/three-act-structure_v1-
1/lectures/6768904
 The Manifest Midpoint
Ah, here we are, at one of my favorite midpoint fulcrums. Like
Downton Abbey, it deserves the hype.

I love the manifest midpoint because it does double-duty. It not only

zaps the repetition, but also nips escalation problems in the bud.

Here’s how it works: you wait until the midpoint to present the full
version of your hook. Until then, you entertain audiences with a
“shadow” version of your concept.

Does this sound more like a hazy magic trick than an awesome plot
trick?

Let’s see if the following explanation clears away any confusion.

First of all, let’s define hook.

We talked briefly about this before, in one of the chapters about the
inciting incident. That was a little while back, though. Maybe a quick
refresher is in order.

An intriguing title can be a hook. A compelling character can be a

hook. Even the tone of your story can be a hook.

But when we’re talking about the manifest midpoint, the hook arises
from your story’s premise.

Second, let’s incorporate our Act 2A (and Act 2B) terminology. With
the manifest midpoint, during Act 2A, you present a shadow or “lite”
version of your hook.

During Act 2B, you shake things up. As a matter of fact, you ramp
things up. You deliver the substance. You let the hook manifest in
full.
Okay, with those basics in place, let’s look at a specific example: The
Hunger Games.

The hook of this story is seeing a teenage girl (Katniss) fight other
teenagers to the death in a televised reality show.

It’s a great hook. And when audiences crack open the novel (or start
watching the film), this is what audiences expect to experience.

But they have to wait to experience it.

Because Katniss doesn’t enter the arena during Act 2A. She enters it
at the midpoint.

Till then, she prepares for the competition. She doesn’t actually start
to participate in it until Act 2B.

This is not exactly intuitive. As I said earlier, audiences expect to

experience a competition. It doesn’t make sense to delay it.

Or does it?

Let’s play with this scenario. Imagine that you immediately gave
audiences what they were expecting. You threw Katniss into the
arena during Act 2A.

Now you have to come up with cool arena combat for three sectors
of your story: Act 2A, Act 2B, and Act Three.

This is hard.

Honestly, most writers would bungle it up. In all probability, the action
in the arena would remain the same in quality or repeat (or both).
The plot would become boring. The execution of the idea wouldn’t
fulfill its blockbuster potential.

Bummer.
With the manifest midpoint, though, look at what happens. With it,
you just have to come up with cool arena combat for two sectors (Act
2B and Act Three), not three.

Your authorial burden lightens. You’re more likely to ratchet up the

intensity of the combat—and less likely to repeat yourself.

You can capitalize on the blockbuster potential of your concept.

Betcha like the sound of that!

Yeah *fist pump* me too.

This is why I said that the manifest midpoint (like Downton Abbey)
deserves the hype. By nipping so many escalation problems in the
bud, it helps ensure that your story idea lives up to its potential.

Try it out; you’ll see. But before you do, take heed of the following
two caveats.

One, when you use the manifest midpoint, you have to make sure
that Act 2A is interesting enough to entertain audiences before you
bring out the full version of your hook.

Two, the manifest midpoint isn’t suited for all stories. Put another
way: although it’s always worthy of consideration… it’s not always
going to work.

That said, it does lend itself to certain kinds of plots. If you’re writing
a story with one of these plots, then you definitely, definitely should
experiment with the manifest midpoint. It’ll make so many escalation
problems go away.

You already know one kind of plot that’s well suited for the manifest
midpoint: arena stories. These include sports tournaments or any
competition that takes place within an enclosed space.

So during Act 2A, you’d show your protagonist preparing to enter the
arena…but you’d wait until the midpoint to actually throw him into the
arena.

Another plot type that works well with the manifest midpoint: monster
in the house (MITH). This term was coined by Blake Snyder in his
screenwriting guide Save the Cat. Basically, this is the kind of story
where a monster (not necessarily supernatural) attacks a localized
area.

If you’re writing a MITH story, don’t show audiences the monster until
the midpoint (ideally, even later!). Until then, give audiences the “lite”
version. Tease them with glimpses of the monster.

As for the other plots that work well with the manifest midpoint...you
can find them (where noted) in the resources described below:

The Ultimate Story Structure Worksheet: On page 10 of the

worksheet, you’ll find a place to record overarching principles that
govern Act 2A and Act 2B of your story as well as your story’s
midpoint. Download the worksheet for free at the link below:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/ussw-win/

Smarter Story Structure: In Lesson 2.1 of this online course, you

can watch a video that recaps the bond-builder and antagonist-aha
midpoint fulcrums. Remember, you can preview that lesson for free.
In Lesson 2.2, you’ll get a cheat sheet that lists all the types of plots
that work well with the manifest midpoint. Plus, you’ll learn a surefire
way to detect whether you’ve written a slow starter (where your story
doesn’t gain traction until halfway through)—and how to fix that.
Click on the link below to learn more about this self-paced course,
which you can take from the comfort and convenience of your own
home:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/3as/

Midpoint Magic: This “deep dive” writing guide will teach you how to
zap sagging middles like a pro. You’ll learn the ins and outs of all
eight midpoint fulcrums, and how to match your story to the right
one. Plus, you’ll discover the plot device you absolutely need to
know about if your characters are on the run; the plotting trick adored
by Jane Austen (which perhaps explains why her novels are still
popular today); and the remaining plot types that work well with the
manifest midpoint. This guide also covers a special midpoint-
boosting plot point that will not only help you fill up those pesky
pages that follow the midpoint but also take care of the plot—without
sacrificing theme. Click on the link below to learn more:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/midpoint/

And now onward, to the trough of hell!

 TROUGH OF HELL: 3 Traits That
Prevent Audiences from Tuning
Out
- chapter nine -

In the previous two chapters, we showered attention on the midpoint.

That’s because a well-chosen midpoint will help:

minimize your stress when you’re writing

maximize audience enjoyment when they’re reading

But the midpoint doesn’t have a monopoly on these benefits.

The trough of hell, another structural turning point, contributes too.

Remember, the trough is my term for the series of setbacks that

occurs at the end of Act Two. You may also know it as the:

“all is lost” moment (many screenwriters, including Blake

Snyder)
black moment (many romance novelists)
bleakest moment (novelist Angela Hunt)
Act Two ordeal (hero’s journey plotting method)
the third disaster (Randy Ingermanson’s Snowflake Method)
big gloom (UCLA screenwriting professor Richard Walter)

Same concept; different terms.

Anyhow, when you’ve got a trough all picked out, you have a
destination to write toward as you navigate the long stretch of Act
Two. This should increase your writing speed.

Additionally, when troughs are done right (more on this in a sec),

they’re emotionally intense. They re-engage audience interest, right
when it’s liable to flag.

Unfortunately, many writers struggle here. They have no idea what to

use as a trough.

One time, I came across advice along the following lines: just hold it
in your hands. It will come to you eventually.

Hold it in my hands?

Really?!

I thought to myself, There must be a better way.

So I set my sights on creating one.

After looking for patterns in hundreds of movies, screenplays, and

novels, I noticed that the most effective Act Two endings shared
three characteristics:

pain
emotion
paradox

In other words, the best way to end Act Two is with a series of
painful, emotionally charged scenes that somehow brings your
protagonist closer to his goal…even though, on the surface, he
appears to be the furthest away from it.

That’s what you need to create a second-act ending that’s effective

and powerful. Let’s take a closer look at each characteristic in turn,
starting with…
 Pain
As a writer, you’re probably inclined to be kind to your protagonist.

After all, he’s usually the character whose essence and history most
mirror your own personality and experience.

But you must resist that urge. Instead, you must follow rule number
six from Kurt Vonnegut’s Eight Rules of Creative Writing (as
described in the introduction to his short-story collection Bagombo
Snuff Box):

“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.”

While this is true throughout your script, it’s especially true at the end
of Act Two, at the trough of hell.

By being cruel to your protagonist, you’re being kind to audiences,

who expect to experience a roller coaster of emotions. The trough is
the dip that makes your protagonist’s eventual ascent during Act
Three all the more powerful.

In all likelihood, your first set of ideas of how to end the middle of
your story is probably the equivalent of a paper cut.

That’s not good enough, not to create a trough with impact.

For that, you need to turn the paper cut into a gaping wound (which,
needless to say, is genre appropriate).

And after that…

…you should throw some salt onto your protagonist’s wounds.

Unstinting pain, that’s your primary order of business at this stage of

your story.
Take Bridesmaids. The screenwriters, Kristen Wiig and Annie
Mumolo, created a truly horrendous trough for their heroine, Annie.

At the end of Act Two, Annie:

is demoted from her position as Lillian’s maid of honor

wrecks her blossoming romance with Officer Rhodes
gets fired from her job at the jewelry store
is ousted from her apartment by her two comically creepy
roommates
completely ruins her friendship with Lillian

Notably, Kristen Wiig also starred as Annie. Even so, Wiig treated
her character with sadistic hands.

When writing and revising your own novel or screenplay, you should
follow Wiig’s lead: be merciless to your protagonist at the end of Act
Two.

That’s not to say that you must wound your protagonist on multiple
fronts in order to create an effective trough. A single, deep gouge
can be equally as powerful.

Look at Speed. At the end of Act Two, Jack Traven experiences only
one major loss. But it sure is a doozy. The death of Jack’s best friend
and police partner, Harry, is enough to take Jack out of commission.
(At least temporarily.)

Why did this loss pack such an emotional punch?

It was a powerful moment precisely because of the way the action

movie portrayed Jack and Harry’s friendship, which brings me to the
second characteristic of the trough—

Emotion
Your protagonist’s trough must elicit a significant degree of emotion
from audiences.

Otherwise, it’s about as useful as a flat tire.

As far as emotional reactions go, tears are great, but not always
probable. Wide eyes and an involuntary gasp work equally well.

Whether expressed through tears or gasps—or something in

between—if successful, your trough should recharge audiences’
emotional investment in your protagonist’s success all over again.

Sadly, this is where writers often make a fatal mistake. They assume
that audiences will automatically care about whatever tragedy befalls
the protagonist at the end of Act Two.

But this isn’t the case—even with death.

Whether your protagonist experiences a personal loss or a setback

that seriously jeopardizes the stakes, you must show—not tell—
audiences how and why this state of affairs matters to your
protagonist.

As an example, let’s examine Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes (2009).

Toward the end of the second act, Watson is seriously injured in a
factory explosion. Obviously, he’s in a great deal of pain.

But Watson’s suffering doesn’t automatically produce a moment of

emotional resonance for audiences. This event has resonance
specifically because the film took the time to show how meaningful
Watson’s friendship is to Holmes.

Even if your protagonist experiences a setback that puts an entire

city, country, planet, or galaxy into serious jeopardy, it’s still
imperative to give audiences a reason to care about such tragedy.

As screenwriter and blogger Scott Myers explains in an interview

with Script Magazine:
“I read a LOT of scripts and one recurring issue I find, regardless of
genre, is a lack of emotional resonance. There can be all this huge
stuff going on in the plot, literally in a sci-fi story at the scale of
blowing up an entire planet, but if there aren’t points of connection
for a script reader to the story’s characters, where we actually FEEL
something authentic for them, then the effect can be so much noise.

“That’s why I have this writing mantra: Substantial Saga / Small

Story. That is whatever the big story is, what I call the Plotline, there
have to be some intimate subplots and dynamics going on which
engender a human connection between the reader and the
characters.” [12]

Here’s one way to make that human connection that Myers is talking
about: build a subplot around a character who comprises the stakes.

For example, if an entire planet will disappear if your protagonist fails

to accomplish his goal, then weave in a subplot about fraternal twins
trying eke out an existence on this planet.

Another worthwhile option: use a subplot to demonstrate the value of

whatever your protagonist loses at the end of Act Two.

This way, your trough will have emotional impact.

This way, you’ll have audiences right where you want them–eating
from the palm of your hand.

Paradox
This, perhaps, is the trickiest aspect of the trough to understand.

We both know that your story climax is just around the corner.
Assuming your story ends on a positive note, your protagonist’s
victory is within close reach.

So, then, how can your protagonist be the furthest away from his
goal at the trough?
In truth, he’s not. It just looks like he is.

See, oftentimes, your protagonist’s Act Two defeat, as negative and

unpleasant as it is, is exactly what your protagonist needs to:

push past his demons

give up his crutches
overcome his innate resistance to change

Because your protagonist has hit rock bottom at the trough, he’s
desperate enough to take the path of most resistance—and confront
the very thing he’s been trying to avoid.

In the process, he’ll blossom into the person he was meant to be.

In other words, the epic defeat at the trough contains the seeds of
lasting victory. If you examine the end of Act Two from this
perspective, then success is not as far off as your protagonist
imagines—he just has to hang in there a little while longer.

It certainly doesn’t seem that way. Not to your protagonist, and

certainly not to audiences.

Therein lies the paradox!

There are multiple ways this paradox can manifest itself. We’ll
explore one of them here: the paradox of unfettered growth.

In this type of paradox, the protagonist is typically reliant upon the

support of his mentor or on the assets of his employer.

But to vanquish the villain, the protagonist will have to let go.

Like most people, protagonists are often resistant to change, and

correspondingly, are reluctant to part ways voluntarily. At the trough,
however, the choice is taken out of the protagonist’s hands.

His mentor might die; his organization might cut him loose.
Either way, although this is a devastating moment for the
protagonist, paradoxically, it contains the seeds of future victory.

Star Wars: A New Hope is a classic example. Until Obi-Wan is killed

by Darth Vader, Obi-Wan instructs Luke in the ways of the Force. But
in the future, Obi-Wan won’t always be at hand to fight Luke’s battles
for him.

Although Luke receives messages from Obi-Wan from beyond the

grave, Luke must learn to rely on his instincts and to refine his
mastery of the Force on his own. As counterintuitive as it may seem,
Luke’s development is facilitated by Obi-Wan’s death because this
loss forces Luke to grow.

Put another way, Luke’s separation from Obi-Wan in A New Hope

helps prepare Luke for the trials he must endure in The Empire
Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi.

In the DVD commentary for Return of the Jedi, George Lucas

summarizes this idea quite nicely:

“There is a point, where the hero has to be left alone, on his own two
feet, without anybody there to help him…at some point…all the
props have to be taken away, and he has to face the evil monster
alone.”

That’s the power of the trough.

It forces your protagonist to face the monster all alone—to prove his
heroic mettle. And in doing so, he’ll prove he’s worthy of his Act
Three reward.

There you have it, the three characteristics of the trough: pain,
emotion, and paradox. In the next chapter, I’ll share a power tip that
will make your trough extra painful, and consequently, your story
super gripping.

Turn the page to take a peek!

 Notes for Chapter 9

12. Jenna Avery, “Sci-Fi Circuit: Exploring Sci-Fi with Writer Scott
Myers,” Script Magazine, July 11, 2013,
http://www.scriptmag.com/features/sci-fi-circuit-exploring-sci-fi-with-
writer-scott-myers.
TROUGH OF HELL: A Power Tip to
Make It Extra Effective
- chapter ten -

When you’ve done your job right, your story should make your
readers ignore their responsibilities.

They’ll ignore the dishes that need washing.

They’ll ignore the laundry that needs folding.

They’ll be like editor Rosemary Brosnan when she read Lauren

Oliver’s manuscript for Before I Fall:

“When I first read the manuscript, I stayed up until three a.m.,

knowing that I had to wake up at six, but unwilling to stop reading.”

Getting so lost in your story isn’t exactly the best position for them.

*early morning meeting, whoops*

But it works out very well for you.

They have proof that you know how to craft a page-turner…

…which means they’ll want to devour your backlist; they’ll have your
name top of mind for an OWA (open writing assignment).

However, for many writers, it doesn’t work out that way.

That’s because they lose the plot somewhere around the middle.

Nothing interesting happens for pages and pages.

As a result, readers abandon that screenplay or novel like a ghost
town.

Thankfully, it’s not that hard to stop the exodus. Not if you know how
to use story structure to your advantage.

As part of your strategy, you’ll want to end the middle of your story
with a series of painful, emotionally charged scenes that
paradoxically contain a hidden benefit to your protagonist (i.e. with a
trough).

To ensure that you really engage audiences, to ensure that it’s

impossible for them to put down your story, you must execute the
trough well.

In this chapter, I’m going to share a nifty technique that will help you
do just that. It’s so effective that when you use it, your story should
come with a warning label (you know, the kind with an exclamation
point inside of a triangle).

To explain this technique, I’m going to ask you a question: How

many Hollywood agents does it take to screw in a light bulb?

Just kidding. That’s not my question. (Although it’s kinda in that

vein.)

My question is this: What’s the worst way to wound a novelist?

Answer: criticize his novel.

Why is this hypothetical novelist in so much pain? It’s not like you’ve
hurt him physically. You haven’t injured his body.

Yet, he’ll be bleeding on the inside.

That’s because a novel isn’t like a business memo or a legal

contract.
The financial planners and legal advisors who draft those documents
view them as separate from themselves.

Alas, this isn’t the case for a novelist.

For a novelist, a novel is an extension of his identity. By criticizing it,

you’ve dealt him a wound that damages the very core of his psyche
—which is why it cuts deep.

It’s also an excellent wound to layer in, at the end of Act Two.

Hurt your protagonist like that, and audiences won’t be able to walk
away.

Say, for instance, that you’re writing a new-adult romance novel.

Your heroine is the first person in her family to graduate from college.
It’s an achievement that defines her identity. She’s the Girl Who
Made It.

Commencement should be a happy day for her, right?

Only it’s not because that’s the day the hero decides to pick a fight
with her. Right before a celebratory dinner, he gets so furious with
her, he rips up her commencement program.

The program printed on fancy cream paper, with a gold insignia on

the cover. The one that gave her thrills every time she glimpsed her
name in the list of graduates. The one she was planning to show
everyone back home.

The one that proved she had made it.

Oww.

That’s going to hurt.

Bad.
After this heated encounter, after the heroine’s commencement
program has been turned into confetti—after her devastating psychic
wound—readers will be reeling.

There’s no way they’d abandon that novel now.

’Course, with that move, the hero’s likeability hits the skids. It’s going
to be hard to rebound from that. But I’m sure a savvy author could
find a way to make it work. *smile*

Now, while this kind of psychic wound is very effective, you can
create a version that’s even more powerful. How?

Don’t damage an object. Instead, damage a person whom your

protagonist views as an extension of his identity.

I’m not talking about brainwashers and control freaks, in case your
mind went there. I’m talking about something along the lines of the
relationship between a mentor and his protégé.

Corrupt the protégé and you’ll wound the mentor.

Deeply.

Actually, the entire plot of the third Karate Kid film is built around this
idea. The villain wants to hurt Mr. Miyagi. But does he go after Mr.
Miyagi directly?

No, the villain’s more devious than that.

He targets Daniel, Mr. Miyagi’s protégé (and surrogate son).

It’s horrifying, certainly.

But it’s also great cinema.

If your novel or screenplay has to remain family-friendly, take this

technique for a spin. It should work well.
That’s because a psychic wound is intense enough to make
audiences worry about your protagonist. But, because it doesn’t
require violence, it’s not so intense that it’ll ruin your story’s tone.

And if you have no such restrictions, pair a psychic wound with an

extreme action sequence. That’s a knockout combination for an
action movie or thriller!

After the devastation of the trough, your protagonist will—like a

phoenix—rise from the ashes and forge ahead to engage in the
climax. That’s the structural marker we’ll discuss next. But before we
do, here are some additional resources pertaining to the trough:

The Ultimate Story Structure Worksheet and Sizzling Story

Outlines. Pain, emotion, and paradox tend to combine themselves
in certain ways. In both of these resources, I list seven different
trough types, i.e. seven different ways to end Act Two.

You can find that list on page 12 of the worksheet. To download the
worksheet for free, visit the link below:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/ussw-win/

You can also find that list in chapter 12 of Sizzling Story Outlines,
which includes step-by-step instructions for how to develop a story
idea into a loose (or full-fledged) outline. Click on the link below to
learn more:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/outline/

Smarter Story Structure. In this online course, your list of trough

types is packaged in a beautiful slide deck, which also includes
examples of each trough type. Perfect if you’re a visual learner.
Additionally, you’ll find tips on how to execute troughs well. Plus,
after completing the writing exercise “Gloves Off!” that follows
Lesson 2.4, you’ll be less likely to yield to an instinct that can easily
derail your quest to write a gripping story middle. Click on the link
below to learn more about this self-paced course, which you can
take from the comfort and convenience of your own home:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/3as/

Trough of Hell: Similar to the course, in this “deep dive” writing

guide, you’ll learn about all the different trough types, and what it
takes to execute them well. Additionally, you’ll discover how to
combine multiple trough types (and really enchant audiences) as
well as how to extricate your protagonist from his dicey predicament.
Along with tips on pacing and genre, this book also includes eight
detailed case studies from films as diverse as Lord of the Rings: The
Fellowship of the Ring, Monster’s Inc., Ocean’s Eleven (2001), and
Braveheart.

By the way, one Amazon reviewer praised Trough of Hell for being
the only writing guide—out of his collection of 83!—that “actually
explains how to cross that desert of Act 2 and get to the other side
with a story that works.” Click on the link below to learn more:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/trough/

And now onward, to the climax!

 CLIMAX: How to Be Known As an
Amazing Storyteller
- chapter eleven -

We’re going to do something slightly different in this chapter.

I’m going to ask you to indulge in a little flight of fancy. Its relevance
will soon become apparent. Just stay with me.

So, the star of our flight of fancy is Bora Bora, an island group that’s
located in the South Pacific. (It’s part of Tahiti if you must know.)

It’s famous for its crystal-clear lagoon, which you can peek at
through the glass floors of your overwater bungalow.

Oh yes, in this flight of fancy, you are taking a vacation to Bora Bora.
Score!

When you arrive, you’re delighted by what you find. Bora Bora is like
the way they said it would be. Maybe even better.

Gorgeous flora, gorgeous beaches, gorgeous lagoon.

Most important, gorgeous weather.

Well, at least during the first 5 days of your vacation, the weather
was gorgeous.

On the sixth day, it started to rain.

And it didn’t stop.

It continued raining for the next 2 days.

It was still raining when you left.

In fact, your luggage is still slightly damp.

Despite those initial 5 days of gorgeousness, when your friends ask

you about your trip, are you going to rave about it?

Doubtful.

Those last 3 rain-soaked days put a damper on your enthusiasm.

It can be like that with the climax of a story, too.

Along with the resolution, the climax is your last chance to make a
good impression on audiences.

Bungle it up, and they’re not going to rave about your screenplay or
novel—even if they were keen on its beginning and middle.

Get it right, though, and audiences will only be able to draw one
conclusion. Gosh, this writer is an amazing storyteller. Investing time
in this story was a good call.

Or, to paint it more dramatically, they’ll feel like That Guy who bought
a stake in Seinfeld.

Best. Decision. Ever.

And they will gladly recommend your story to others. With that
positive word of mouth, the burden of marketing falls from your
shoulders.

That sounds pretty sweet, doesn’t it?

But it all starts with crafting a killer story climax.

The 5 Ws + 1 H of the Story Climax

To craft a killer story climax, it helps to have a handle on the basics.

That’s what we’re going to cover in this chapter, which describes the
5 Ws + 1 H (who, what, where, when, why…and how) of the climax
—only I’ve put them together in a different order.

Check it out:

Why is the climax important?

It’s important to your protagonist because it solves his problem for
good.

Yes, he does get the girl. Yes, she does save the world. No, they
don’t catch the criminal. (Uhm, that last one is a downer. Tread
carefully with that kind of climactic outcome. By the way, we’ll revisit
the topic of tragic endings in chapter 13.)

The climax is important to you because…well, I just told you that.

*smile*

The climax (along with the resolution) is your last chance to make a
good impression on audiences so they equate your name with
gripping stories.

What is the climax, exactly?

It’s the final confrontation between your protagonist and his central
antagonist.

The nature of the confrontation will largely be determined by genre.

Who are the key players (besides the protagonist,

duh)?
Although henchmen, gatekeepers, and other low-level antagonists
can play a role in the climax, the climax isn’t about them.
It’s about your protagonist’s final struggle with his central antagonist,
i.e. the most powerful entity that has, throughout Act Two, repeatedly
stood in between your protagonist and your protagonist’s goal.

Basically, the central antagonist is the person who’s given your

protagonist the most grief.

Antagonists typically come in four forms:

villains (evil bad guys)

nemeses (as driven as villains, but not evil; think Miranda from
The Devil Wears Prada or Terry Benedict from the Ocean’s
Eleven remake)
amorous opponents (my fancy term for love interests *ooh la la*)
rivals (a special class of nemeses who compete for the same
thing; e.g. the treasure, a sports trophy, a promotion, etc.)

When does the climax occur?

It occurs during Act Three, or the end, of your story.

It comes after the period when your protagonist deals with the
ramifications of the trough and before the resolution (when your
protagonist, assuming a happy ending, gets to enjoy the fruits of his
labor).

Let’s focus on the climax’s late positioning for a second. Do you see
what this means? It means that the climax has greater burdens to
bear than the beginning or middle of your story.

See, a jaw-dropping climax can salvage a beginning or middle that’s

so-so.

Alas, the reverse isn’t true.

Even if audiences are impressed by a memorable beginning or

middle (loaded with twists and turns), their enthusiasm is going to
evaporate as they sit through a climax that’s dull or wimpy.

Essentially, in this scenario, you’ve built up audiences’ expectations,

made them feel like they were in for a really good ride…only to dash
their hopes at the last second.

This offense is less forgivable than starting off slowly, only to pull off
a miracle and astound audiences at the end.

Fortunately, there are some great tools at your disposal to ensure

that your story climax is up to scratch—namely, the remaining W…
and the lone H, i.e. where and how.

Where does the climax take place?

What happens during the climax (and how it happens) are dictated
by your:

plot
protagonist
genre

But where it happens? That’s basically up for grabs.

Picking the right setting is an easy and surefire way to take your
climax from drab to fab.

Choose carefully!

How do you make the climax spectacular?

As discussed above, if you want audiences to gush about your story
once they’re done with it, your story climax can’t be overshadowed
by your beginning and middle.

To avoid that career-stalling outcome, your climax must pass three

quality control tests:
 personal agency
stakes
escalation

Let’s take a brief look at each one, in turn.

Personal Agency

Your protagonist must solve his problem or achieve his goal through
his own skill and ingenuity.

He can’t be rescued by coincidence or another character because

that’ll make him appear passive—and undermine your entire climax.

At the same time, your protagonist can’t hog the spotlight. Other
characters should also have a chance to shine. In sum, a balance
must be struck.

Stakes

Not sure if I mentioned this before, but the stakes (the negative
consequences of failure) should be raised at the middle of your story.

In other words, the negative consequences should become worse

somewhere close to the midpoint.

As for the end of your story, the stakes need to be in play for the
entirety of your story climax.

Don’t become overly protective of your protagonist (or the stakes)

and take the stakes out of play prematurely.

Because, once you do, it doesn’t matter what your protagonist does.
All of his hijinks will feel anticlimactic and unsatisfying.

Quick pro tip: at the climax, money (by itself) doesn’t make for great
stakes.
So if the climax matters because it determines whether the bad guy
will get away with millions (or whether the good guy will get the stash
in the heist)…your climax is going to receive a lukewarm reception.

To earn audiences’ enthusiastic approval, make the climax about

something more. Put another set of stakes in play. (For ideas,
consult my writing guide Story Stakes.)

Escalation

The climax should feel bigger and grander than what precedes it.
(This is due to its late positioning, which we already talked about.)

Multiple elements play a role in achieving the desired effect. Let’s

focus on one of them: duration.

The duration of the climax sends a message about its importance. A

long climax infuses your ending with a sense of weight and
momentousness, i.e. escalation.

A short climax can feel insubstantial—and hence, unsatisfying—in

comparison.

Put another way, a short climax can make audiences feel

shortchanged.

Even though you’re tired, and you want to finish the darn draft
already, don’t rush through your ending. Don’t let your climax
become wimpy!

Instead, take the time to build up the climax and extend its duration.
As a matter of fact, in the next chapter, I’ll share a neat plot trick
that’ll help you extend the duration of your story climax in a super-
satisfying way.

To see what it is, keep reading!

CLIMAX: Deepen Audience Delight
with One Last Surprise
- chapter twelve -

Like we did at the beginning of the previous chapter, we’re going to

take a brief detour. As before, I’ll link it back to the story climax, so
bear with me.

For this sojourn, we’re going to visit the Shelbourne, a grand hotel
tucked away in Dublin, Ireland.

The Shelbourne is a posh place, with its own in-house florist—plus a

doorman who wears a top hat and tails (even in the summer!).

And, for some guests, it’s been known to roll out a red carpet.

Yep, a genuine red carpet.

That’s not all the Shelbourne does to make its guests feel special.

On St. Patrick’s Day, the male staff wears boutonnieres with four-leaf
clovers.

The hotel even has a genealogist on-site. If you stay there, you can
book a complimentary appointment with her and discover whether
you have any Irish roots. (Gives new meaning to “Kiss Me, I’m Irish,”
doesn’t it?)

Sometimes, the kitchen will send up a plate of chocolate macarons

and bottled lemonade to a guest’s room…just because.

Guests love that. It goes over real well.

As Lukas Simko (the in-room dining supervisor) observes in episode
one of the first season of the documentary series The Shelbourne
Hotel, “Those small treats make people happy.”

Which might not make sense, not at first.

Like I said, the Shelbourne is a posh place. It’s where high rollers
and movers & shakers (think JFK, Angela Merkel, Gabriel Byrne,
Omar Sharif, and the Irish rugby team) have spent the night.

Its guests can easily afford to buy a baker’s rack full of macarons, or
a dozen cases of bottled lemonade. (To give you a ballpark figure, a
guest room at the Shelbourne can cost over 500 euro. And a suite?
Over a thousand. Per night.)

What am I getting at?

The guests aren’t delighted because they got something for free.

They’re delighted because they got more than what they were
expecting.

They’re delighted because of the surprise.

Alas, to delight your audience, you can’t send them a plate of

chocolate macarons.

Nor can you hand them a couple of mints, which, when given as a
surprise, increased waitstaff tips by 23%! (This stat comes courtesy
of Help Scout, citing the Journal of Applied Social Psychology.) [13]

But you can create a similar experience for audiences (and

hopefully, as a result, get them to gush about your story, the way
guests gush about the Shelbourne).

How?

Through a ninja-level tactic I like to call the aftershock.

This is how it works: per usual, you deliver a showstopping climax.
You make audiences think that the story is just about over, that it’s
about to head into the resolution.

But…

…you don’t go there.

Instead, you—surprise!—put your protagonist’s (or another

character’s) safety or happiness in jeopardy once more. (This, by the
way, is the aftershock.)

Then, after your characters handle this new threat, you cruise
through to the resolution. (Unless *mwahahaha* you have another
aftershock up your sleeve…)

The aftershock is a useful little guy. In addition to giving audiences

an extra thrill, it also extends the length of your story climax, adding
to the feeling of escalation.

Also worthwhile to note: if the pre-aftershock part of your climax has

certain deficiencies, the aftershock (when done well) can
compensate for those.

Plus, the aftershock is a great way to show a female character some

love and give her an opportunity to be a badass. This way, she
doesn’t turn into a Mary Sue.

At the same time, you won’t be undermining your male protagonist

(assuming your protagonist is male). That’s because he’ll be the one
dealing with the central antagonist at the end of the climax, right
before the aftershock.

But…the whole key to this she-bang is the surprise element.

I want to stress that.

Before you pull the rug from underneath audiences’ feet with the
aftershock, it’s imperative that they believe (however briefly) that the
happy ending is on the way.

As I said a little while ago, a small surprise (in the form of mints)
increased waitstaff tips by 23%. What do you think a small surprise
(in the form of the aftershock) could do for you?

Could it get audience members to badger everyone they know into

reading your story? Could it get your screenplay a vote on the Black
List? Or an additional star in a review?

There’s only one way to find out.

Test out this ninja-level tactic. Add an aftershock to your story climax,
and see how the end of your story perks right up.

If you’re not sure what to use as an aftershock, you can find six
options (where noted) in the resources described below:

The Ultimate Story Structure Worksheet. On pages 14–15 of the

worksheet, you’ll evaluate the setting of your story climax and gauge
its set-piece potential. You’ll also take steps to make sure your
protagonist and antagonist are evenly matched (which keeps the
tension high). Download the worksheet for free at the link below:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/ussw-win/

Smarter Story Structure. In Lesson 3.7 of this online course, you’ll

learn how to create an epically long climax, sure to delight
audiences. (The videos in this lesson cover both action and
romance, by the way.) You can cap audiences’ experience with an
extra thrill with the cheat sheet from Lesson 3.9 which lists six types
of aftershocks. Click on the link below to learn more about this self-
paced course, which you can take from the comfort and convenience
of your own home:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/3as/
Story Climax: In this “deep dive” writing guide, you’ll learn what it
takes to pay off your narrative debts in a way that exceeds audience
expectations (which were fairly high to begin with). To that end, you
will explore the three quality control tests (personal agency, stakes,
and escalation) that your story climax must pass to earn audiences’
enthusiastic seal of approval. Also includes a list of 6 aftershocks, 12
techniques to extend the duration of your story climax, and tips on
how to avoid the dreaded “race to the airport” cliché that concludes
so many romantic comedies. Click on the link below to learn more:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/climax/

And now onward, to our last structural marker, the resolution!

Notes for Chapter 12

13. Gregory Ciotti, “The Art of Customer Loyalty,” Help Scout,

accessed February 23, 2020, https://www.helpscout.com/customer-
loyalty/.
 RESOLUTION: The Choice That
Could Lead to Big Bucks, Glowing
Praise—or Major Backlash
- chapter thirteen -

You are this close to writing THE END of your novel or screenplay.

All you have to do is write the resolution, i.e. depict the outcome of
your story climax.

The resolution is not that long. Because it’s so short, you might not
give much thought to this structural marker in advance.

But that can lead to all sorts of problems.

In fact, that could undermine all the effort you put into crafting a
gripping beginning and middle. Not to mention all the effort you put
into prolonging the tension at the climax.

That’s due to the resolution’s late (even later than the climax)
positioning.

If you bungle it up, that will cast a dark cloud over everything that
comes before it.

Instead of praising you for everything you did right, audiences will
criticize you for ending on the wrong note.

I’ve seen Amazon reviewers dock stars from their reviews because
the writer picked the wrong resolution (or, perhaps, left it out
altogether!).
As award-winning sci-fi author Nancy Kress put it, “Endings carry
tremendous weight with readers; if they don’t like the ending,
chances are they’ll say they didn’t like the work.” [14]

So if you don’t want to sabotage your story’s chances of success,

you need to pick the best, most appropriate, resolution for it.

But before you even send out your novel or screenplay for real-world
feedback, you’ve got to write it first.

Here again, the resolution is crucial.

It tells you where your story is ultimately headed. Without knowing

this destination, it’s virtually impossible to develop a cohesive,
meaningful plot.

This is how screenwriter Craig Mazin, in episode 44 of the

Scriptnotes podcast, explains why knowing the ending is valuable:

“Frankly if you’re writing and you don’t know how the movie ends,
you’re writing the wrong beginning. Because to me, the whole point
of the beginning is to be somehow poetically opposite the end.
That’s the point. If you don’t know what you’re opposing here, I’m not
really sure how you know what you’re supposed to be writing at all.”
[15]

Let’s frame Mazin’s comment within the context of the writing

process.

If you’re a dedicated pantser, then the resolution might be the only

major structural turning point you need to know before you start
writing a draft.

If you’re a hardcore plotter, then you’ll determine not just the

resolution beforehand but also all the plot points that precede it.

If you’re somewhere in between, you might generate a loose outline

based on story structure. Accordingly, your outline would include the
resolution, along with the inciting incident, first-act break, etc.

But the common denominator between all of these approaches is the

resolution.

It’s what you need, at the bare minimum, to start writing a draft—
whether you’re a plotter or a pantser. What exactly are your options
and how do you decide which one is best? Let’s take a look.

4 Questions to Ask Yourself to Pick

the Perfect Resolution
When you’re figuring out what your resolution will be, you don’t need
to know exactly what your protagonist will be doing during it.

Nor do you need to know how you’re going to present it (as a

bookend, twist ending, etc.).

That can come later—after you’ve determined its overall nature.

That’s the only thing you need to know about it before plotting or
pantsing your way to a rough draft.

Typically, the outcome of the climax comes in three forms:

happy (the protagonist achieves his goal)

tragic (the protagonist fails)
bittersweet (the protagonist achieves his goal, but at great cost
OR despite the protagonist’s failure, the ending is, nevertheless,
infused with hope)

How to figure out which ending is most appropriate for your story?
Easy. Reflect on the following four considerations:

genre
meaning
 impact
honor

Let’s dig into each of these in turn…

What is your story’s genre?

In some cases, genre predetermines the ending of your novel or
screenplay.

You really don’t get a say in the matter. The conventions of genre
dictate your choice.

Romance is one such genre.

A happy ending is par for course. If you don’t end with an HEA
(happily ever after), or perhaps with an HFN (happy for now), then
you’re going to anger your audience.

Massively.

The happy ending is what they’ve been looking forward to. They’ve
been waiting your whole story to reach it.

That’s why tragic and bittersweet endings don’t cut it. Using them is
not a good way to make your plot feel fresh.

Here’s how Angela James, an editor for Carina Press, explains the
appeal of the happy ending in a romance:

“This guaranteed ending is what makes romance work. It generates

comfort, satisfaction and positive feelings within readers…Kill off a
protagonist, pair him or her with someone else, or leave things
unfinished, and you’ll have readers who feel you’ve disrespected
them and the genre. In their eyes, you may have written a love story,
but you haven’t written a romance.” [16]
Noir (or neo-noir, if you prefer) is another genre that dictates the
ending of your story. In noir films and fiction, the world is painted as
dark and harsh. Because happiness and hope are ruled out, you
only have one option for your story ending: tragic.

What meaning (i.e. theme) do you want to convey

through your story?
The theme of your story expresses a viewpoint on life. It’s a
statement about how the world works.

Your story can say that the world is a harsh, hopeless, and unjust
place. Or it can say the opposite.

It all depends on how you choose to end your novel or screenplay.

Think about a protagonist who, throughout a story, has tried to

conquer his inner demons and become a better person. At the very
end of the climax, he is faced with one last temptation.

The entire meaning of your story hinges on his decision.

If he succumbs to temptation at this final stage (a tragic, or perhaps,

bittersweet ending), you’re saying it’s impossible for people to
change. They cannot separate themselves from their weakness. This
is a bleak worldview.

On the other hand, if you opt for a happy ending where he resists
temptation (and gets to enjoy all the benefits that entails), you’re
saying that people have the capacity for improvement, which is a
more uplifting outlook.

Regardless, the meaning of your story is contained within the

outcome of that final choice.

Stories in the mystery genre, by and large, end happily; i.e. the
criminal is identified and apprehended at the end of the story.
However, if you believe the world is an unjust place—and you want
your story to reflect that—then you should choose a tragic ending,
where the criminal gets away with the crime.

Before we move on to the next question, I want to point out

something. Although happy endings tend to reflect the view that the
world is a just place, they are not synonymous with justice.

Say, for example, you’re writing a story with a redemption plot. If

your protagonist did something particularly egregious before he was
redeemed, it wouldn’t seem quite right for him to enjoy a 100%
happy ending.

For the scales of justice to be in balance, he has to pay for whatever

sin he committed pre-atonement. Which means the most appropriate
ending is bittersweet.

What kind of impact, ideally, would you want this

story to have on your writing career?
If you want to make money, choose a happy ending.

As Michael Hauge observes in Writing Screenplays That Sell:

“If given a choice, give your movie a happy ending, because, by and
large, happy endings sell…Providing an audience with that
emotional satisfaction, particularly if you are trying to launch your
screenwriting career, increases your chances of getting work.”

In How Not to Write a Screenplay, Denny Martin Flinn cautions

screenwriters not to quote the famously tragic ending of Thelma &
Louise to studio executives because tragic endings don’t make as
much money.

“Executives love to tell you how it [Thelma & Louise] would have
made twice as much money if it had a happy ending.”

If you look up the film, it made $45 million on a $16 million budget,
which isn’t too shabby. Of course, in terms of commerciality, $90
million would’ve been even better.

But the film was compensated in other ways.

It received an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay (and was

nominated for five additional Oscars).

If the movie had ended happily, do you think screenwriter Callie

Khouri would’ve taken home a gold statuette?

Unlikely.

As Lindsay Doran pointed out in her talk “The Art of Storytelling” at

the 2019 Austin Film Festival, agents are “sophisticated” and “cool.”
They want sophisticated and cool clients, and they want to make
sophisticated and cool films.

It’s not unreasonable to assume that the voting members of the

Academy (and other award-granting bodies) fit the same mold.

They want to reward films that are—like them—sophisticated and

cool.

Alas, happiness, is anything but.

As more evidence, let us examine the Nicholl Fellowship, a

prestigious screenwriting competition administered by the same
group behind the Academy Awards.

Judges are asked to rate submitted screenplays on a range of

criteria, one of which is this: “Are the themes of the story thought-
provoking, across genres? Is the story ‘about something’ that might
spark discussion among friends?”

Spark discussion.

That’s a telling phrase.

Happy endings are not exactly conversational fodder.

In fact, provoking conversation is one reason why Roman Polanski
changed the ending of Chinatown from happy to tragic:

“If it all ended with happy endings, we wouldn’t be sitting here talking
about this film today. If you…feel…there’s a lot of injustice in our
world, and you want to have people leaving [the] cinema with a
feeling that they should do something about it in their lives, [then] if
it’s all dealt for them by the filmmakers they just forget about it over
dinner, and that’s it.” [17]

Notice that the film also had to end tragically in order to: (a) reflect
Polanski’s view that the world is unjust (see resolution question #2)
and (b) be billed as neo-noir (see resolution question #1).

Without delving into details, it would appear that the residents of

New York publishing share the same attitude as the residents of
Tinseltown. They’ll push writers down the path of happy endings
when they’re focused on money. But it’s the tragic and bittersweet
endings that truly get them jazzed.

In sum, if you want to make money as a writer, end your stories

happily, as happy endings resonate the most with the general public.

But if you want to win over the critics and earn prestige and
recognition, then tragic or bittersweet endings are better options.

Do you want your ending to honor your story,

your audience, or yourself?
Earlier, we examined how genre may dictate the ending of your
novel or screenplay.

Sometimes, your story itself dictates how it will end.

It doesn’t matter whether your worldview is rosy or bleak. It doesn’t

matter whether you’re seeking fortune or acclaim.
There’s only one legit option. And deep down inside, you know your
story couldn’t end any other way.

Seven is a good example. A happy or bittersweet ending would’ve

felt completely out of place. The film had to end tragically.

In other situations, the nature of your story doesn’t dictate the

ending. In situations such as these, writers can reject the happy
ending out of hand simply because they don’t like happy endings.

They consider happy endings to be:

too commonplace, and want to rebel against the trend

too unrealistic, and want to portray a more faithful depiction of
life

Let’s take a closer look at the second item for a second. Somewhere
down the line, you’re going to ask audiences to pay you (either with
their money or—equally valuable to them—with their time). Because
of this exchange, their needs should be taken into account at some
stage.

Actually, I’m a proponent that your audience comes first, even before
you. This is how I explained it in an interview for Kay DiBianca’s
Craft of Writing series:

“If you do a quick search for speechwriting tips, you’ll come across
advice to think about the big takeaway that you want your audience
to have.

“If you do a quick search for copywriting tips, you’ll encounter similar
advice. The sales pages with the highest conversions focus on the
pain points of the customer, and how your product will solve them.

“The way I see it, novel writing is no different. If you want readers to
buy your books, you need to take their expectations into account at
some point—if not when you’re writing, then at least afterward.
“To sum up the above three paragraphs: audience before speaker;
customer before product; reader before author.

“By putting readers first, it doesn’t mean that you write by committee
or cater to the lowest common denominator. It just means that before
you send your story out into the world, you ask yourself, Okay this
was fun for me…but will it be fun for my readers?” [18]

In her grammar guide It was the best of sentences, it was the worst
of sentences., June Casagrande expresses this sentiment even
more forcefully:

“If you want to master the art of the sentence, you must first accept a
somewhat unpleasant truth—something a lot of writers would rather
deny: The Reader is king. You are his servant. You serve the Reader
information. You serve the Reader entertainment…In each case, as
a writer you’re working for the man (or the woman). Only by knowing
your place can you do your job well.”

Let’s apply this principle to happy endings. You may loathe them…
but does the same hold true for your audience members?

Why are they choosing to curl up with your novel on a rainy

afternoon? Why are they leaving the comfort of their home to see the
movie based on your screenplay at the theater?

Did they choose your story to be reminded about the way the world
really is? Or did they choose your story to escape from that world?

If they are reading your novel or watching your movie to escape, and
if you want to honor their needs (because they are paying for the
privilege of this experience), then you have two choices:

ignore your dislike of unrealistic endings, and opt for a happy

ending
make a compromise, and opt for a bittersweet ending
Let’s examine the bittersweet ending in more detail. In a 100%
happy ending, the protagonist does the right thing and is rewarded
for it. He gets to enjoy the fruits of his labor. In a bittersweet ending,
the protagonist does the right thing, but doesn’t live long enough to
enjoy his victory.

In all likelihood, this is a realistic outcome (which honors your

sensibility). At the same time, the ending isn’t a complete downer. It’s
somehow infused with hope (which honors the members of your
audience who seek out stories for escape).

An effective way to create that uplifting feeling and buoy the spirits of
audiences is to, in some fashion, emphasize life.

Although your protagonist has died, subplot characters have

survived their struggles. They at least have the opportunity to enjoy
happiness. Alternately, your protagonist himself will survive—but
metaphorically. Unlike other men, he will not be forgotten. He will live
on, as legend.

Once you’ve decided on the kind of resolution you’re going to use,

you have to figure out what should go in it and how long it should be.
The resources below can help you out with that. Take a look:

Sizzling Story Outlines: Chapter 14 of this writing guide discusses

tips for what to put into your resolution. The book also includes step-
by-step instructions for how to develop a story idea into a loose (or
full-fledged) outline. Click on the link below to learn more:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/outline/

Sparkling Story Drafts: This book will teach you how to identify—
and fix—plot holes and other problem spots, as well as how to look
for places to make your story “pop.” As part of your quest to improve
audience satisfaction, you’ll seed your resolution with callbacks (see
chapter 12) and payoffs (see chapter 26). Click on the link below to
learn more:
http://scribemeetsworld.com/draft/

Smarter Story Structure. In Lesson 3.7 of this online course, you’ll

learn what to do to increase the odds that your resolution will net you
more sales in the future; while in Lesson 3.8, you’ll take steps to
ensure that your resolution doesn’t turn into deadweight. Also, in
Lesson 4.2, you’ll find examples of closing images that’ll make your
characters seem more three-dimensional as well as a tactic to spur
readers to buy the next book in your series—without resorting to a
cliffhanger. Click on the link below to learn more about this self-
paced course, which you can take from the comfort and convenience
of your own home:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/3as/

And now onward, to the final chapter of this book!

Notes for Chapter 13

14. Nancy Kress, “How to Write Successful Endings,” Writer’s

Digest, March 11, 2008, https://www.writersdigest.com/writing-
articles/by-writing-goal/improve-my-
writing/how_to_write_successful_endings.

15. “Endings for Beginners,” by John August and Craig Mazin,

Scriptnotes (podcast), Episode 44, July 3, 2012,
https://johnaugust.com/2012/endings-for-beginners.

16. Angela James, “5 Ways to Write Romance with Respect,” There

Are No Rules, Writer’s Digest, February 14, 2017,
https://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/there-are-no-rules/5-
ways-write-romance-respect.

17. Brian Cronin, “Did Chinatown Originally Have a Much Different

Ending?” Entertainment Urban Legends Revealed (blog), December
28, 2012, http://legendsrevealed.com/entertainment/2012/12/28/did-
chinatown-originally-have-a-much-different-ending/.
18. Kay DiBianca, “26.2 Story Stakes,” January 13, 2020,
https://kaydibianca.com/2020/01/12/the-craft-of-writing-january-
2020/.
 You Don’t Need No Genie
- chapter fourteen -

Say a writer discovered a magic lamp, and having unleashed the

genie inside, was granted three wishes to further his writing career.

Those three wishes might look like this:

Wish #1: Write better stories.

Wish #2: Write them more quickly.

Wish #3: Make more money.

Happily, you don’t have to comb the world in search of a magic lamp.
With story structure at your disposal, you have what you need right
in your own backyard.

That’s because, with story structure, your novels and screenplays

will have the up-and-down rhythm that keeps readers hooked. Plus,
because your structural markers are there to guide you, you’ll be
able to finish your drafts more quickly, too.

Rinse and repeat…and you’ll have more high-quality products for

sale, and accordingly, should make more money.

All right. I admit it. My scenario comparing story structure to a magic

lamp was rather tongue-in-cheek. But it’s meant to illustrate a deeper
issue.

So often, we think that we’d have the success we dream about if we

just got a lucky break. We see luck as something outside of
ourselves, something we don’t control.
But if we view luck the way the Roman philosopher Seneca did—as
where preparation meets opportunity—a different picture emerges.

We might not be able to make opportunities happen, but we do have

control over the other factor in that equation. We can take steps to
be prepared for whatever good fortune comes our way.

Which means every time you work on improving your writing skills
(including your ability to use story structure), you may not be
unleashing a magic genie…but you are creating your own luck.

I sincerely hope this book has been a useful resource that will
contribute toward your luck-making endeavors and help you win at
writing.

I wish you much success on your storytelling journey.

 What Would You Like to Do Next?
Would you like to dig deeper into learning how to use story
structure to outline a novel or screenplay?

In this book, we covered the basics of creating an outline using story

structure.

For practical, step-by-step instructions on how to develop a story

idea into a full-fledged outline—and take your characters from A to B
—check out Sizzling Story Outlines.

Here is an overview of the process described in Sizzling:

First, you’ll make sure your story idea has the 6 components
that all compelling stories share.
After summarizing these 6 components in a logline (a one-
sentence summary of your story), you’ll use this logline to
crack your story’s structure (including the midpoint—which is
where many writers get stuck).
Finally—in as little as 2 hours—you can use a technique that
Stanford researchers have concluded can make you 60% more
creative (on average) to discover the remaining plot points in
your story. *pantsers, this is optional*

“If you want a proven nuts-and-bolts method to get your stories told,
trust this guide. I followed the instructions for my last script to break
the kernel of my story idea into a real outline. It took about two
months to finish a first draft—which received extremely positive
professional coverage.”

~ Ronald Drescher, screenwriter of The Inventors, a Quarterfinalist in

the ScreenCraft Public Domain Screenplay Competition
Read a free preview of Sizzling Story Outlines here:

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B016W6QL30/

International readers: http://scribemeetsworld.com/amazon-

international-iterative-series/#outline

Would you like a “deep dive” into each of the major structural
turning points?

This writing guide gave you a primer on story structure. It got your
feet wet.

If you’d like to go deep-sea diving and explore each structural turning

point in depth—so you can execute them in the most gripping way
possible—check out the writing guides in the Story Structure
Essentials series.

Click on one of the links below to read a free preview of Inciting

Incident, the first book in the series. It’ll teach you how to craft a
story beginning that (a) hits readers’ “buy buttons” and (b) gets your
plotting pieces in place.

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00D9UQUXO/

International readers: http://scribemeetsworld.com/amazon-

international-structure-series/#inciting

To learn about the other books in the Story Structure Essentials

series (Midpoint Magic, Trough of Hell, and Story Climax), click on
the link below:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/books/#structure

Would you like to wield story structure like a pro in the shortest
amount of time?

Enroll in my online course, Smarter Story Structure.

It takes the best tips from the Story Structure Essentials series (plus
Story Stakes and Sparkling Story Drafts) and combines them into an
easy-to-apply framework that you can use—right away—to create
stories that readers crave.

Naturally, there’s overlap between this book and the course.

However, the course does contain additional material, not covered
here.

Also, if your situation can be described by any of the options below,

the course should be a good fit for you:

You have an AMAZING story idea that you know the

marketplace would gobble up, so you’re in a rush to bang out a
draft.
With your schedule, you know that you’re probably going to stop
writing, and then come back to it…and when you return, you
want a handy refresher on plot and structure at your fingertips
so that you can get back into your writing groove as quickly as
possible.
Writing tips don’t really sink in for you unless you see them in an
image or hear them in a video (or audio).
You enjoy plotting with worksheets and reinforcing your
knowledge through writing exercises.

Here’s what Rupert Colley, author of The Woman on the Train and
founder of the bestselling History in an Hour series (published by
HarperCollins), had to say about the course:

“Smarter Story Structure provides a solid foundation and, at the

same time, provides so many suggestions and ‘tricks’ that can take a
WIP up a level or two. I enjoyed the course very much, and will refer
back to it as I work on my current WIP.”

To learn more about this self-paced course, which you can

conveniently take from the comfort of your own home, click on the
link below.
http://scribemeetsworld.com/3as/

Would you like hands-on help that can’t be found in a writing

guide?

If you prefer something more collaborative, consider booking a

coaching session with me.

We can figure out the structure of your story together, so you’ll be

able to dash out your draft, knowing that you’ve built it with a sound
blueprint.

Click on the link below to learn more about my services:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/services/

*** Thank you for reading! ***

 Complete Booklist
Story Stakes

Story Structure for the Win

Story Structure Essentials series

Inciting Incident

Midpoint Magic

Trough of Hell

Story Climax

Iterative Outlining series

Sizzling Story Outlines

Solid Story Compass

Sparkling Story Drafts

Also Available

Smarter Story Structure (online course)

To access a printable version of this booklist, click on this link:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/printable-booklist/
 Table of Contents
Introduction
Write Faster with Story Structure
Write Better with Story Structure
Story Structure: Your Handy List of Definitions
INCITING INCIDENT: Your Insurance Against Story Abandonment
INCITING INCIDENT: 4 Key Traits That’ll Help You Start Your Story
in the Right Place
FIRST-ACT BREAK: How to Get Audiences to Settle In for the
Roller-Coaster Ride You Have in Store for Them
MIDPOINT: Your Solution for Sagging Middle Syndrome
4 Ways to Discover the Perfect Midpoint for Your Story
MIDPOINT: 3 Types of Fulcrums to Swing Your Story in a New
Direction
TROUGH OF HELL: 3 Traits That Prevent Audiences from Tuning
Out
TROUGH OF HELL: A Power Tip to Make It Extra Effective
CLIMAX: How to Be Known As an Amazing Storyteller
The 5 Ws + 1 H of the Story Climax
CLIMAX: Deepen Audience Delight with One Last Surprise
RESOLUTION: The Choice That Could Lead to Big Bucks, Glowing
Praise—or Major Backlash
4 Questions to Ask Yourself to Pick the Perfect Resolution
You Don’t Need No Genie
What Would You Like to Do Next?
Complete Booklist