Midpoint Magic

How to Swing Your Screenplay or

Novel in a New Direction and Say
Good-Bye to Sagging Story Middles
That Put Audiences to Sleep
{ Story Structure Essentials }
Kindle Edition, version 1.0.1

H. R. D’Costa

Copyright 2016 H. R. D’Costa. All rights reserved.

Cover image is adapted from Flame by Naveen Kadam, which is

licensed under CC BY 2.0.

scribemeetsworld.com

Story Structure Made Simple

 INTRODUCTION
Man, oh man.

The middle of your story.

What a nightmare.

Having given screenwriters and novelists all sorts of grief, it’s been
saddled with unappealing adjectives like: sagging, swampy, boggy,
mushy, and muddled.

And no wonder.

The middle (or Act Two) is just so dang long.

It’s almost inevitable that you’ll flounder. Get lost. Lose sight of
where your story is going.

There’s another troublesome factor, too: plot is based on repetition.

The protagonist tries to achieve his goal, fails, and then tries again.
Rinse and repeat, as necessary. (These are sometimes referred to
as try-fail cycles.)

From a writer’s point of view, he’s got a lot of pages to fill (the
lengthy second act) and basically one item to fill them with (try-fail
cycles).

Without a targeted plan of attack, the results will feel exactly the way
you’d predict: repetitious, boring, and monotonous.

Just like a monotonous voice, a monotonous middle is liable to put

readers to sleep.
Obviously, that’s not going to help you sell your spec script or race to
the top of the bestseller lists. It’s not going to kick your writing career
into hyperdrive.

What’s the solution, then?

It’s not to replace try-fail cycles with something else.

No, that simply won’t work.

If your protagonist stops trying to achieve his goal, audiences will

have nothing to root for. If he succeeds in achieving it, in most cases,
your story will end right there, somewhere in the middle of the middle
—before it’s actually reached its true ending (the climax and
resolution).

Your protagonist must repeatedly renew his attempts to succeed, but

—and this is the critical part—the attempts should feel different.

This might seem obvious to you, right now, when it’s spelled out in
black-and-white. But when you’re writing your screenplay or novel,
it’s easy to forget.

So, so easy.

And if you forget it, then your try-fail cycles will feel the same, and
the endless repetition will weigh down your story.

You’ll wind up with that horror of horrors—a story that sags in the
middle.

A story that’s more snooze fest than page-turner.

A story that audiences abandon.

Happily, this unwanted outcome can be avoided if you camouflage

the inherently repetitious nature of plot.
You can accomplish this pretty painlessly once you embrace the
structural turning point known as the midpoint.

At its most basic, the midpoint functions as a divider, neatly splitting

your story itself as well as its middle in half.

By breaking down the lengthy second act into two separate chunks
—and providing you with a destination to write toward—the midpoint
makes your task more manageable. You’re far less likely to go off
track and get bogged down in the midst of writing your middle.

But a successful midpoint does more than that. It also functions as a

fulcrum that swings your screenplay or novel in a new direction.

In other words, after the midpoint, your protagonist will still be

engaged in try-fail cycles. However, because the midpoint fulcrum
has taken your story in a new direction (whether subtly or more
dramatically), his post-midpoint endeavors will feel different in some
key way.

And voila! The repetitious nature of plot is masked. The sensation of

monotony fades away.

No more same old, same old.

No more sagging middle.

That’s the magic of the midpoint.

Even better, when you braid multiple fulcrums together, and then add
in the natural consequences that emerge from them as well as the
logical circumstances that led to them, your story will practically start
writing itself.

No joke.

At this point, you may be thinking to yourself, This fulcrum thingy

sounds like just what I need to prevent audiences from abandoning
my story. But I’m at a loss…what kind of plot points yield suitable
fulcrums?

Don’t worry. This writing guide has got you covered.

It isn’t going to dole out vague advice like, “throw rocks (or a
curveball) at your protagonist” or “shake things up.”

As you can see, it drills deeper than that:

8 Specific Ways to Swing Your Story in a New Direction

You’ll learn the ins and outs of eight different fulcrums, which are
suitable for a variety of plots and genres. Plus, you’ll discover:

the linchpin of virtually any romance (or buddy-cop story)

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)
2 questions that can tell you whether your story is a slow starter
the best fulcrums to solve escalation problems
5 kinds of plots where it actually pays to bury your hook
why you SHOULDN’T keep your big plot twist up your sleeve for
as long as possible
8 practical considerations that you should ponder to extract the
most “anti-sag” capability from your midpoint
5 common pitfalls (and easy ways to sidestep them)

A Foolproof System to Map Out the Middle of Your Screenplay

or Novel

Here, you’ll take 2 preparatory steps that will help you instantly get to
the heart of your story. Then, you’ll be ready to match your premise
to the perfect fulcrum.
By the time you finish, you might have so much material, your story
middle won’t be able to contain it all.

You’ll have to whittle it down, and pick the best fulcrum to build your
story around, the one that will help you organize all of your ideas.

That’s a pretty sweet position to be in, especially considering the

alternative (i.e. repetitious plot points that sag and drag…or even
worse, none at all).

The Midpoint-Boosting Plot Point That Can Take Your Story to

the Next Level

Closely associated with the midpoint is a plot point you’ve probably

never heard of.

But if you master it, you’ll not only fill up those pesky pages that
follow the midpoint. In addition, you’ll be able to:

take care of your plot without sacrificing theme

reinforce the heroic stature of your protagonist
slow down the pace of your story without losing your audience

Sounds good, right?

But before we continue, you should be aware of the following:

(1) Unless otherwise indicated, the tips in this book apply equally to
screenplays and novels.

Despite this, I primarily use film examples to illustrate my points.

That’s because movies are more universal.

Chances are greater that you’ve watched RED or Mean Girls, rather
than read the graphic novel or the non-fiction tome, respectively, on
which each film is based.
On paper, the titles of films adapted from novels (or a TV series)
appear the same as novel (or TV) titles. Customarily, all are
indicated via italics. But since I mainly rely on film examples, unless
otherwise noted, it’s safe to assume I’m referencing the film version
only.

(2) There are a ton of examples in this writing guide…which means

there are some spoilers too.

A few of these examples may’ve cropped up on my website or in

other books I’ve authored.

Speaking of examples, at the end of this book, you’ll find two

extensive case studies that will help you put together everything
you’ve learned so you can craft an epically awesome midpoint of
your own.

The first is from a novel written by two New York Times bestselling
authors; the second is from a classic blockbuster that grossed over
$200 million (domestic).

(3) I analyze stories using three-act structure. You might not like
using three-act structure. That’s cool. This writing guide can still help
you.

Where appropriate, just replace Act One with “the beginning,” Act
Two with “the middle,” and Act Three with “the end” of your story.
That way, you’ll be able to make use of all the tips in this book
without any quibbling over structure.

Earlier, I mentioned that the midpoint neatly splits the middle of a

story (i.e. Act Two) in half. In screenwriting circles, the first half of the
middle is commonly referred to as Act 2A, while the latter half is
referred to as Act 2B.

Due to their convenience, these terms (Act 2A, Act 2B) will be used
frequently throughout this book.
Sometimes, I’ll refer to the end of Act 2B as the hero’s trough of hell
(or, more simply, the trough). This is my term for the setbacks he
experiences prior to the climax. You might call this plot point the “all
is lost” or black moment. They’re the same.

(4) To prevent the middle of your story from sagging, you need to do
more than deploy a suitable midpoint fulcrum. In addition, you must
(a) use the emotional intensity of the trough to reengage audiences,
and (b) escalate the obstacles your protagonist encounters.

As suggested by its title, this writing guide is exclusively dedicated to

the midpoint. We’ll only discuss the trough and escalation as they
pertain to the midpoint. (By the way, if you’d like to learn more about
using the trough to prop up a sagging middle, a separate writing
guide on this topic is available.)

(5) Subplots can have their own midpoint fulcrums too. But unless
otherwise indicated, this book focuses on the fulcrum that swings the
main plot, not a subplot, in a new direction.

(6) Finally, for the sake of simplicity, I tend to stick to masculine

nouns and pronouns.

Okay, that’s all.

To say good-bye to sagging middles that put audiences to sleep—

preventing you from achieving your writing dreams—continue
reading!
 8 SPECIFIC WAYS TO SWING
YOUR STORY IN A NEW
DIRECTION
- chapter one -

By propping up the middle of your screenplay or novel, the midpoint

fulcrum will prevent it from sagging.

Wait. It gets better.

Once you braid together multiple fulcrums and various forks (the
midpoint-boosting plot point we’ll discuss in chapters 5 and 6)…and
add in the consequences that result from them as well as the
conditions that led to them, the second act of your story might
magically start writing itself!

But to unleash the magical potential of the midpoint, you must first
pick an appropriate fulcrum. To do that, you need to know what the
fulcrums are, and what kind of stories they’re best suited for.

That’s what we’ll cover in this chapter. There are eight fulcrums in
total, eight different ways to swing your story in a new direction. For
easy reference, I’ve listed them below:

bond builder
BFF breaker
tide turner
passivity pivot
antagonist aha
revelation acceleration
manifest midpoint
 game changer

Not sure what the passivity pivot or manifest midpoint is? Don’t
worry, we’re going to take a closer look at each fulcrum on this list
right now.

Ready to dig deeper? Let’s go!

 Midpoint Fulcrum #1: The Bond
Builder
Stories with this midpoint usually start with a premise like the
following: due to a special circumstance (often the hook of the story)
two people are forced to spend time together. (Note: We’ll talk more
about hooks when we reach midpoint fulcrum #7, the manifest
midpoint.)

Since their coexistence is coerced, both characters (sometimes just

one of them) are not keen on the pairing. They’re apathetic toward it,
reluctant to embrace it, or downright hostile regarding it.

During Act 2A, when they’re not ignoring each other, they’re arguing
with each other. But at the midpoint, their relationship dynamic
changes. They share a moment of emotional intimacy, becoming
vulnerable and defenseless. In the process, they form an undeniable
connection, or bond, with each other—whose creation swings the
story in a new direction.

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 bond-builder fulcrum is a staple of romances and romantic

comedies, as The Proposal aptly demonstrates. At the beginning of
the film, Andrew is a mere pion to Margaret (played by Sandra
Bullock), while, to him, she is just a nasty-tempered boss. But at the
midpoint, the dynamic between them changes. After the shower
incident, their heretofore buried attraction rises to the surface,
leading them to (partly) shed their armor.
Of the two, Margaret is particularly vulnerable. For the first time, she
demonstrates interest in (rather than condescension toward)
Andrew’s personal life. Not only that, she reveals a slew of personal
details, including the story behind her bird tattoo: it’s of swallows,
and she got it as a teenager, after her parents died.

A quick power tip: make your bond builder more emotionally

resonant (as The Proposal does) by turning it into a callback, i.e.
have it reference an earlier moment from your story.

Margaret is not prone to confide personal details in anyone. Because

it’s such a marked departure from normal behavior, on its own,
Margaret’s confession about her tattoo would feel meaningful.
However, because Andrew asked Margaret for details about the
tattoo earlier on—and was perfunctorily shut out—Margaret’s
decision to confide in him now makes this midpoint feel even more
significant.

In sum, while you can craft a decent bond builder by having your
protagonists share confidences with each other, you can craft an
even stronger one by showing them sharing confidences that they’ve
withheld before.

To be clear, in these kinds of stories, the protagonists’ coexistence

doesn’t have to be romantic in nature. To illustrate, let’s look at
another Sandra Bullock movie, The Heat. Right around the midpoint,
her character confides that she was married, is lonely, and was a
foster kid.

While these confidences are similar to the ones Margaret makes in

The Proposal, this time, Sandra Bullock’s character (Sarah) isn’t
laying herself bare to a love interest, but to her professional partner,
an agent of the law to whom Sarah was initially hostile. As a matter
of fact, a bond builder like this one is pretty standard in buddy-cop
films like The Heat.

So far, we’ve focused on story premises in which fruitful partnerships

blossom on the ashes of apathy, reluctance, or hostility. But the bond
builder can be used with other relationship dynamics, too. For
instance, a romance where the hero and heroine are madly in love
with each other but outside forces conspire to keep them apart.

At the midpoint, their attempts to be together—for once—aren’t

thwarted, and they can linger in each other’s company. This scene,
where they can enjoy the bond that’s already been established
between them, equates to the bond-builder fulcrum.

Oftentimes, although both characters will initially be overjoyed to be

with each other, something will go awry, prompting one (the heroine,
let’s say) to remark to the hero, “I thought we were in this together.”

As a result, the hero will feel compelled to avow his commitment to

their relationship. Depending on how you develop the plot, this
response might be genuine (and vigorously expressed). On the other
hand, this response might be rather lukewarm, as the hero
recognizes that the reality of being together isn’t living up to
expectation, after all.

Note: Frequently, such explorations of commitment come part and

parcel with the midpoint (bond builder or otherwise). We’ll cover this
topic in greater detail in chapter 5.

If the bond-builder fulcrum is used to develop a romantic

relationship, then physical intimacy may accompany the emotional
intimacy. Sometimes, physical intimacy will precede the emotional
intimacy; in other cases, physical intimacy will follow. They can
coincide as well—as talented romance novelists have demonstrated
over the years.

Regardless, between the two, emotional intimacy is paramount. A

midpoint bond that’s solely based on emotional intimacy is sufficient
to compel audiences to invest in your characters’ relationship. The
same cannot be said for a midpoint bond built solely on physical
intimacy.
 Midpoint Fulcrum #2: The BFF
Breaker
In contrast to most tales of coerced-coexistence, in BFF-breaker
screenplays and novels, the partnership between two protagonists is
well established at the beginning of the story. (By the way, although
I’m using the acronym BFF, Best Friends Forever, this partnership
may be romantic, not platonic.)

However, something (again, often the hook) tests this partnership,

threatening to destroy it. Maybe it buckles under the stress of a
rivalry (Bridesmaids, This Means War); the strain of family (Meet the
Parents, Four Christmases); or the pressure of being a “fish out of
water” (Date Night, My Cousin Vinny, The Five-Year Engagement),
surviving a life-altering accident (The Vow), or perpetrating a ruse
(Wedding Crashers).

During Act 2A, these threats will seemingly roll off the protagonists’
backs like water, and the partnership will hold firm. But at the
midpoint, the cracks start to show. By the end of Act 2B, these
cracks will snowball into fissures wide enough to finally split apart the
protagonists.

As you’ve probably observed, the BFF breaker is the polar opposite

of the bond builder. Hence, using both of them can create an
interesting—dare I say ironic—juxtaposition.

Pregnant Pals is a good case in point. A spec script written by

Emmitt Webb, it’s about “two brothers-in-law who hate each other
[but] must get along when their wives become pregnant and the
couples are forced to move in together to save money before the
babies arrive.” [1]

Now, I haven’t read the script, but it seems to me that the concept
lends itself perfectly to both the bond-builder and the BFF-breaker
fulcrums.
Let me elaborate. At first, the brothers-in-law would be at each
other’s throats, while the two sisters, contrastingly, would get along
fine. But at the midpoint, things would change. The brothers-in-law
would form a bond over something (pregnancy related perhaps?),
initiating a “bromance.”

Meanwhile, a long-suppressed childhood issue would drive a wedge

between the sisters, ultimately resulting in a rift that would be
repaired during the climax. Thus, while one relationship unravels,
another blossoms—a structural combination that is quite compelling
to watch unfold.
Midpoint Fulcrum #3: The Tide Turner
As discussed in the introduction to this writing guide, failure is an
essential part of plot. A protagonist can’t succeed right away.
Otherwise, the story would be over.

But in some premises, failure is particularly pronounced because it’s

compressed into Act 2A. No matter what the protagonist does, he
doesn’t gain a foothold (not even a toehold) into solving his problem.
He’s scrabbling just to keep his head above water.

He’d probably give up too, if it weren’t for the midpoint, when the
tides—finally—turn in his favor. Frequently, the protagonist doesn’t
get his first taste of major success through his effort alone. He
receives help from an ally, like a way cooler older brother (Rob in
Never Been Kissed), an ambitious reporter (Christian in The Devil
Wears Prada), or a disgruntled “worker bee” (Gretchen in Mean
Girls).

As you can imagine, this midpoint is especially well suited for stories
with a fish-out-of-water protagonist, who’s completely out of his
league. During Act 2A, he flounders. But at the midpoint, the tides
turn. Finally realizing how to apply his skill set from his everyday
world to his “new waters,” he adapts. Consequently, during Act 2B,
he accumulates a series of successes.

So far, we’ve focused on stories that swing from negative (failure) to

positive (success) at the midpoint. But the tides can turn in the
opposite direction, from positive to negative.

Wish-fulfillment stories, or stories in their vein, lend themselves to

this pattern. When the protagonist is granted his wish, he has a blast
with his newfound gift during Act 2A. But at the midpoint, the shine
starts to wear off. He begins to understand that life with his wish
fulfilled is not as wonderful as he thought it would be. As Act 2B
progresses, his gift transforms into a Trojan horse, only getting him
into deeper trouble.

Both the comedy Click and the thriller Limitless follow this structural
model (which may be kind of surprising, considering their difference
in genre). Click’s Michael and Limitless’s Eddie are dissatisfied with
their lot in life (Eddie more so than Michael). But when a magical gift
unexpectedly enters their lives (a fast-forwarding remote for Michael;
a brain-boosting pill for Eddie), happiness is theirs for the taking.

At least, that’s how it appears during Act 2A, where Michael gets to
skip over the tedious aspects of life (being nagged by his spouse,
sitting through family dinner with his parents and his children’s
hyperactive friends, etc.). Likewise, Eddie experiences one playboy
fantasy (fast cars, loose women, ninja moves) after the other.
However, around the midpoint, the tides turn. The luster of the
magical gifts fades, and their downsides can no longer be ignored.

After one overly long fast-forwarding session, Michael wakes up

majorly obese—and estranged from his wife. He realizes that while
his remote enables him to avoid life’s tedium, it also causes him to
miss out on the things he’d like to experience, whether good (his
children growing up) or bad (the death of his dad). Meanwhile, for
Eddie, the physical side effects of his magical pill start to kick in with
a vengeance. The karmic effects, too—with his playboy fantasies
replaced with unwelcome nightmares (an aggressive loan shark, a
creepy assassin, and a potential murder charge).

When utilizing the tide-turner midpoint, bear in mind that each half,
whether positive or negative, doesn’t have to be uniform. While Act
2A may be akin to a sea of failure, a few successes may be
scattered here and there (and vice versa). Likewise, although the
majority of Act 2B may be filled with success, failure might not be
entirely absent (and vice versa).

Look at the way Andy fulfills her professional obligations for Miranda
during Act 2A of The Devil Wears Prada:
 Failure: Andy struggles to understand Miranda’s instructions,
which are incoherent because Miranda omits key details.
Failure: Andy doesn’t secure Miranda a flight back home (when
all flights from Miami have been grounded due to a hurricane).
Success: Andy (now better dressed) handles Miranda’s
incoherent instructions with ease.
Success: Andy organizes a preview of a designer’s collection.
Failure: Tasked with delivering an important item (the Book) to
Miranda’s home, Andy overhears an argument between Miranda
and her husband.
Success: With Christian’s help, Andy secures a copy of the as-
yet-unpublished Harry Potter manuscript for Miranda’s
daughters to read.

This last success marks the transition into Act 2B, where Andy
doesn’t experience any professional failure. Andy’s ascent is further
emphasized through contrast. During Act 2A, Miranda’s other
assistant, Emily, brims with officious competence. But after the tide-
turning midpoint, Emily is shown at a disadvantage for the first time,
and can no longer lord over Andy, whose star is on the rise.
 Midpoint Fulcrum #4: The Passivity
Pivot
With this fulcrum, the protagonist starts out in a passive position.
During Act 2A, he’s on the defensive (or reactive). At the midpoint,
something changes. It’s like a switch has been flipped. Hence,
during Act 2B, he’s on the offensive (or proactive).

When implementing the passivity pivot, you can base it on either plot
or protagonist. If you’re working with a plot-based pivot, then your
protagonist isn’t a passive person per se. But the circumstances in
which he finds himself render him passive.

Think of goals like the ones below, which are all candidates for the
passivity-pivot fulcrum:

to escape
to survive
to guard or protect
to go on the run

Of these, the on-the-run variation is probably the most common. So,

to demonstrate the passivity pivot in action, we’re going to study it a
little more closely.

In its rudimentary model, the hero starts out running away from the
antagonist who’s pursuing him. In this case, the hero is the hunted,
not the hunter. This is a defensive stance. It’s inherently passive. It
will get old—fast—unless the plot undergoes a fundamental shift at
the midpoint via the passivity pivot.

Instead of being on the defensive, the hero will change his strategy
and go on the offensive. In other words, instead of just reacting to his
pursuer, the hero will take the initiative to accomplish his own
agenda, which encompasses more than eluding capture. Typically, to
pursue this agenda, the hero must venture to locations where he’s
most likely to get caught.

Notice the effect of the hero’s change in strategy. Now that the hero’s
behavior is more active in tenor, he’s more interesting for audiences
to watch. Plus, since the hero will be exposed to more danger and
more risks, the story, correspondingly, will become more gripping.

Good examples of the passivity pivot include The Fugitive and

Minority Report. In each film, during Act 2A, both heroes (Kimble and
Anderton, respectively), are on the run, trying to escape their
relentless pursuers.

Around the middle of each film, the story swings in a new direction
as both heroes try to prove their innocence. This requires them to go
on the offensive, boldly venturing into the open during Act 2B. In fact,
in order to acquire exonerating evidence, they must infiltrate police
headquarters—where the dangers to them are the greatest.

All right. That was the plot-based passivity pivot in a nutshell. Let’s
move on to the character-based one. With the latter variation, the
protagonist’s circumstances may be passive or not. That’s irrelevant
(with respect to the pivot).

What matters is that the protagonist is fundamentally passive in

nature, yielding his personal agency to other characters. At the
midpoint, though, something changes in him. He starts to make his
own decisions, to take control of his life.

Think of Thelma and Louise. The eponymous protagonists—unlike

Kimble and Anderton—are on the run during Act 2A, Act 2B, and Act
Three. Their goal is to elude capture, and safely reach the Mexican
border. That’s their only agenda.

Yet, despite this, the story doesn’t feel monotonous. That’s because
it pivots in a different (and arguably more sophisticated) way that
emphasizes character development. Louise starts out as the active,
take-charge member of the duo, while Thelma is the passive, flighty
one.

But at the midpoint, when their money is stolen from them, the
characters pivot, switching roles. The baton of proactivity is passed
from one leading lady to the other. Unable to cope with the direness
of their situation, Louise melts down.

In contrast, Thelma’s strength, long lain dormant, rises to the

surface. To preserve their freedom—in a marked departure from her
meek origins—Thelma even goes so far as to rob a bank.

Passive protagonists like Thelma can be paired with an active

antagonist (rather than another co-protagonist, like Louise). In such
stories, the protagonist often transforms from passive to active
toward the end of the second act, rather than at the midpoint. Keep
in mind, though, that by delaying the switch until the end of Act Two,
the climax of your story will have even greater burdens to bear.

Let me explain. Audiences generally don’t like passive protagonists,

who aren’t very fun or interesting for them to vicariously live through.
You’ve probably come across the advice to avoid writing passing
characters; this is why.

It’s sound advice to follow; that is, unless the transformation of your
protagonist, from passive to active, underpins your entire story. In
these cases, the climax—where your protagonist will demonstrate a
high level of activeness and proactivity—functions as a redeemer. It
should justify all the time audiences spent following around your
passive protagonist.

Put another way, in addition to all the standard duties your story
climax has to fulfill (whether the protagonist is active from the
beginning or not), it must also make up for the fact that your
protagonist has been passive for the preceding three-quarters (or
thereabouts) of your story.
Your protagonist must truly demonstrate that he’s now proactive, not
reactive. While that’s true of virtually all climaxes, in this situation, to
reward audiences for patiently putting up with a passive protagonist,
the bar is raised. Your protagonist has an even higher threshold of
activeness to meet.

Not an easy obligation to fulfill.

But look what happens when you utilize the passivity pivot, and your
passive protagonist transforms from passive to active earlier on, at
the midpoint. Then, your protagonist will be active throughout Act 2B,
knocking down the time he’s passive from 75% to 50%.

This, in turn, reduces the threshold level of activeness he, in order to

satisfy audiences, must demonstrate at the climax. In sum, because
audiences have already gotten a taste of your protagonist being
active during Act 2B, the climax doesn’t have to play redeemer to the
same degree.

Less pressure on your story climax means less pressure for you.
Score! By the way, if you’re feeling nervous about crafting a climax
that’s captivating enough to thrill and delight audiences, check out
my writing guide, Story Climax.
 Midpoint Fulcrum #5: 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, or 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. (I’ll cover a specific
example at the end of this section.)

Also, while the antagonist in the antagonist-aha fulcrum is a villain

most of the time—he doesn’t have to be. Antagonists come in other
forms as well. A love interest, for example, is an antagonist who
“battles” for another character’s love (which is why I call such
antagonists amorous opponents). Thus, at the midpoint, a
protagonist may glean insight into the nature of a love interest, and
this knowledge will swing their relationship in a new direction.

That said, if you’re writing a romance, it’s probably more helpful to

view this kind of insight as evolving from (a) the emotional intimacy
shared by your characters in a bond builder (midpoint fulcrum #1;
discussed previously), or (b) a startling revelation that the
protagonist never saw coming (midpoint fulcrum #6; see below).

Accordingly, the examples in this section will be exclusively

dedicated to villains. To kick off, we’ll start with 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.

If the antagonist-aha fulcrum can narrow the scope of a screenplay

or novel, can it do the opposite? You bet.

The scope of a story may widen during Act 2B as the protagonist’s

midpoint insight compels him to confront antagonistic forces that are
more powerful than those he encountered before. But we’ll save a
deeper discussion of that topic for chapter 3.

The Antagonist Aha and False Insight

To paraphrase Matthew 6:23, Jesus remarks that if the light you

have is really darkness, then that darkness will be quite extensive.

Sometimes, this quotation aptly describes the protagonist’s midpoint

insight. That is to say, the protagonist thinks his insight is accurate,
but in fact, it’s erroneous.

How does this happen?

Maybe wrong information has been innocently fed to him by well-
meaning friends or colleagues; maybe the villain (or a jealous
colleague) purposely led the protagonist astray. Perhaps, the
protagonist misinterpreted the evidence because of an associate’s
error—or because of the protagonist’s own flaw (usually lack of
impartiality).

Regardless of the cause, the net effect is the same: the protagonist’s
still in the dark. Despite this, his false midpoint conclusion will swing
the story in a new direction, guiding the overall bent of the
protagonist’s actions—until he realizes the truth.

Frequently, this realization will occur at the end of Act 2B. The
painful events at the trough force the protagonist to reevaluate his
midpoint insight, and he finally realizes that his light was really
darkness. In some stories, this insight at the trough may also be
false! Consequently, the events of the climax will force the
protagonist to reevaluate his trough-induced realization, and only
then will the scales fall from his eyes.

To study the false-insight version of the antagonist-aha fulcrum, let’s

examine the first film in the Harry Potter series, The Sorcerer’s
Stone. Notice the film’s genre. It’s a fantasy—not a mystery or a
thriller. But because the child protagonists (Harry, Ron, and
Hermione) adopt the role of sleuth for part of the film, the antagonist-
aha fulcrum is well suited for the plot.

At the midpoint, Harry pieces together information that he and his

friends have gleaned throughout the first half of the story.
Interestingly, his insight is a curious mix of partial light and complete
darkness. What do I mean by that?

Well, at the film’s beginning, Harry saw Hagrid remove a package

from a bank vault. Now, Harry concludes that the three-headed dog
secreted away at Hogwarts is guarding the package so that the
villain can’t get his hands on it.
Harry’s conclusion is correct; that’s his light. It’s only partial,
however, because he still doesn’t know what’s in the package or why
the villain wants it. Solving this aspect of the mystery will drive Harry
& co.’s actions during Act 2B. Furthermore, Harry believes that
Professor Snape is the villain who’s after the package. This is where
the darkness comes in.

Harry’s wrong. Snape is trying to prevent the villain from obtaining

the package. The children’s error in judgment will eventually guide
them to the truth. By trying to protect the package from Snape at the
climax, Harry will run into the individual who’s actually after it, and
discover the villain’s true identity.

Harry drew the wrong conclusion because of his personal bias

against Snape. In this case, having adopted Harry’s point of view,
audiences side with him. Equally convinced of Snape’s malfeasance,
they give no credence to Hagrid, who dismisses Harry’s theories
about Snape. In short, just like Harry, Ron, and Hermione, audiences
are in the dark, not knowing how vast their darkness really is.

In other stories, audiences may not be so quick to champion the

protagonist’s perspective. Having surmised that the protagonist’s
bias has clouded his judgment, they’ll question his motives and
conclusions.

The sleuth, in effect, becomes an “unreliable narrator,” and second-

guessing him is part of the fun of the story. Is the protagonist’s bias
leading him astray, causing him to supply audiences with faulty
information? Or are his instincts correct, and the writer is merely
trying to throw audiences off the scent by toying with the idea of
bias?

Using this technique can be a great way to add depth and richness
to a standard mystery plot. It’s particularly effective in a series, as
audiences entertain doubts about the sleuth they’ve come to trust
and respect over the course of several installments.
If you’re interested in trying it out yourself, study the episodes “The
Mind Has Mountains” and “Beyond Good and Evil” from the
television show Inspector Lewis (a.k.a. Lewis). In both, Lewis argues
that a certain individual is the murderer. Hathaway, meanwhile,
counters that Lewis’s bias has clouded his judgment. As each
character presents his case, audience allegiance is likely to vacillate,
and this up-and-down roller-coaster ride adds to audiences’ overall
enjoyment of each mystery.

Speaking of mysteries, a special type of false insight often pops up

in this genre. In it, the antagonist-aha fulcrum functions like a reset
button, taking the sleuth’s investigation back to square one.

Below are three common ways this reset may unfold in a mystery:

(1) The Dead-Suspect Reset

During Act 2A, the sleuth focuses on one individual (prime suspect
#1). At the midpoint, prime suspect #1 is found dead. This forces the
sleuth to reevaluate the evidence (and his conclusions).

During Act 2B, he’ll focus his attention on identifying and tracking
down prime suspect #2, i.e. the person who had the means, motive,
and opportunity to commit the murder that launched the initial
investigation as well as the murder of prime suspect #1.

(2) The Accidental-Victim Reset

To catch the culprit, the sleuth spends Act 2A searching for clues
within the victim’s history. At the midpoint, the sleuth discovers that
this murder was accidental; in truth, the murderer intended to kill
someone else.

Thus, the sleuth will spend Act 2B delving into the history of the
intended victim. Sometimes, the sleuth will successfully protect the
intended victim from the murderer; sometimes the sleuth will fail.

(3) The Key-Witness Reset

The sleuth’s Act 2A inquiry is based on the assumption that the
victim was murdered based on who he was. At the midpoint, the
sleuth realizes this assumption is erroneous. The victim was killed
due to what he saw.

Consequently, during Act 2B, the sleuth will search for clues in order
to puzzle out what, exactly, the victim witnessed.
 Midpoint Fulcrum #6: The Revelation
Acceleration
Let’s start our discussion of fulcrum type #6 by describing the
revelation aspect first.

In point of fact, it’s very similar to the antagonist-aha fulcrum: a

reveal is made that yields new insight into the antagonist of the story.
Because of this similarity, the revelation-acceleration fulcrum
probably could be considered a subcategory of the antagonist-aha
fulcrum.

However, the revelation acceleration has two distinguishing features

that warrant giving it a category of its own. The first distinguishing
feature is an element of surprise and shock.

Here, the insight is a plot twist, something audiences never saw

coming. Hence, it’s likely to elicit a gasp of surprise from them.
Casting new light over the events that transpire before the midpoint,
this insight will oftentimes galvanize audiences to question
everything they previously watched or read.

To see what I mean by a shocker, check out the sampling of

examples, below (they all contain spoilers!):

Cecilia learns The Husband’s Secret: many years ago, he

accidentally killed a local girl—the repercussions of which
continue to ripple throughout their suburban neighborhood.
Prior to the midpoint, Harry knew that The Prisoner of Azkaban,
Sirius Black, wants to kill him. At the midpoint, Harry learns that
Sirius killed his parents’ friend, Peter Pettigrew, before Peter
could warn them of an impending attack. Harry’s parents would
perhaps still be alive if Sirius didn’t betray them years ago. Even
worse, Sirius “was, and remains to this day, Harry Potter’s
godfather.”
 Mickey Haller, The Lincoln Lawyer, figures out the connection
between his current case and a past one. Mickey’s current client
is not only guilty of the crime he’s accused of; he also committed
the crime that one of Mickey’s past clients is currently serving a
life sentence for.
In Jane Austen’s classic novel Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth
Bennett learns that she’s been consorting with a fraud. Austen
will pull a similar trick in Sense and Sensibility. This time, Elinor
Dashwood discovers that the man she loves (and who appears
to return her affection) is secretly engaged to another woman.
(Incidentally, Austen’s use of the revelation acceleration could
partially explain the enduring popularity of both novels.)
In Oblivion, Jack discovers that the stranger he rescued is
actually his wife. And (surprise!), he’s actually a clone.
While Marcus (as well as audiences) believes he’s human, he
isn’t. He’s really a new breed of Terminator (Terminator
Salvation).

In some cases, the element of surprise isn’t what distinguishes the

revelation-acceleration fulcrum from the antagonist aha. Instead, the
distinguishing factor is one of dramatic irony.

In other words, the reveal isn’t surprising to audiences because

they’ve been aware of it from the story’s beginning. As such, they’re
in a superior position to most (or all) of the characters, who continue
to be clueless—until the midpoint, when at least one of them will
catch up to audiences.

In You’ve Got Mail, Kathleen and Joe are buddies who anonymously
swap confidences with each other. Online, at least. Offline—it’s a
different story. Offline, they’re professional rivals with a contentious
relationship. While they’re blissfully unaware of the connection
between their online world and their offline one, audiences are not.
Kathleen will remain in the dark for much longer than Joe, who
discovers the truth at the film’s midpoint.

To drive home the difference between the revelation-acceleration

fulcrum and the antagonist aha, let’s examine the third film in the
Iron Man trilogy. About halfway through it, Tony (with some help),
discovers that the Mandarin is hiding out in Miami.

Structurally, this insight is helpful, swinging the story in a new

direction as the plot relocates to Miami (and Tony recovers some of
his lost mojo). Helpful, sure—but certainly not shocking. Through
and through, this insight is of the antagonist-aha variety.

Around the same time, an ex-flame of Tony’s (Maya), chats with

Tony’s current flame (Pepper). So far, Maya has been presented as
a good Samaritan, intent on protecting Tony and Pepper. But now,
it’s revealed that Maya’s intentions are less than savory. In fact,
Maya’s not only in cahoots with one of the villains, she also abducts
Pepper in order to force Tony’s hand.

The reveal about Maya (a) sets the stage for the plot developments
of Act 2B, and (b) gives audiences greater understanding into the
villain’s plan. In these two respects, it’s just like Tony’s Miami insight.
But the Maya reveal is noticeably different in quality because it is
shocking. It is likely to elicit a gasp from audiences, who wouldn’t
see it coming. That’s why it should be classified as a revelation
acceleration.

To sum it up, the revelation acceleration contains an element of

surprise or dramatic irony (sometimes both; more on this topic, later)
that distinguishes it from the antagonist-aha fulcrum type.

That said, these distinctions are subjective. Don’t get too caught up
in them—and lose sight of their value.

Attaching a label to a fulcrum isn’t helpful for its own sake. It’s helpful
because it enables you to determine how to present the material
preceding the midpoint to best effect.

Insight generated from an antagonist-aha fulcrum must be set up

differently than insight generated from a revelation-acceleration
fulcrum (whether the revelation involves surprise or dramatic irony).
In regard to developing your scenes, the following should warrant
special attention:

dialogue (with the antagonist-aha fulcrum, characters can

openly disclose details that you may have to withhold with the
revelation acceleration)
dramatization (with the revelation-acceleration fulcrum, you may
have to omit scenes that you could include if you utilize the
antagonist aha instead)
point of view and interior monologue (if you’re writing a novel,
you may have to refrain from using various points of view until
audiences—or various characters—are brought into the loop
using the revelation acceleration; with the antagonist aha, you
could alternate between points of view more freely)

All right, we’ve got the revelation part of this midpoint sorted. What
about the acceleration part? What’s that about?

To explain, let’s examine the plot of Gone Girl. Nick’s wife, Amy, has
gone missing. Audiences are led to believe that she’s dead—while
Nick is the prime suspect.

But nothing is as it seems.

Amy is still alive. Not only that, the whole thing is a setup. Amy hates
her husband so virulently, she framed him for her own murder so that
he’ll get the death penalty.

Great twist, right?

If you came up with a similar idea, where would you make this big
reveal?

I’m betting that you’d want to draw out the suspense and delay
presenting this plot twist for as long as possible. You might be
inclined to keep audiences in the dark until the end of the second
act, approximately 75% of the way through your story.
Do you know when Gone Girl reveals its shocking twist?

According to my e-reader, it’s made 52% of the way through the

novel. It’s made 66 minutes into the film adaptation, which has a
running time of 144 minutes (excluding credits).

See the point I’m getting at?

The novel (and its adaptation) don’t withhold the surprise for as long
as you might expect. Instead, they unleash the shocker at the
midpoint. That’s what I mean by acceleration: with this fulcrum,
you’re advancing your reveal, moving it up to the middle of your
story, clueing in audiences faster.

At first glance, giving away your big twist so early may seem like a
foolhardy idea. You’re banking on the lure of the mystery—the
prospect of discovering the twist—to keep readers turning the pages
of your story. Once you let the cat out of the bag, that mystery is
gone.

If your premise is built on dramatic irony, you face a similar issue.

But here, you’re mostly banking on the lure of anticipation—the
prospect of discovering how other characters will react to the
protagonist’s secret, once it’s revealed—to keep readers turning the
pages of your story.

You’ll probably also maintain audience interest by putting them under

tension, as they wonder whether the protagonist will be able to keep
his secret safe, despite repeated threats of exposure. Again, once
the cat is let out of the bag, this source of tension and anticipation
evaporates.

But, as you’ll see in the next section, if you’re willing to pay the price
and sacrifice the mystery (or the tension and anticipation), you may
gain much more than what you’ve lost…

5 Reasons Why You Should Move Up Your Big

Plot Twist to the Middle of Your Story
Keep the cat (i.e. a huge plot twist or your protagonist’s secret) in the
bag until the end of Act Two, and you have a ready-made source of
mystery, tension, or anticipation that should, in theory, keep
audiences enthralled until then.

But if you move up this reveal to the midpoint and hasten its
disclosure, you’ll likely discover a host of valuable (even magical)
benefits.

Take a look…

(1) Accelerating the reveal opens up new story possibilities.

Once you let the cat out of the bag, there’ll be lots of stuff you can do
with your characters that you couldn’t do before.

It might not feel like it at first. But trust me, there’ll be a whole new
world at your fingertips.

Most of these opportunities will evolve from dramatic irony (this is

true whether your accelerated reveal initially involves dramatic irony
or not). Before we get to these opportunities, let’s briefly review the
base position these opportunities will be built upon.

If your reveal is of the shocker variety, then audiences might learn

the secret at the midpoint by themselves, i.e. they’re clued in before
the characters are. Alternatively, one character might learn the
secret in conjunction with audiences. It all depends on how you
decide to script the reveal.

If your reveal isn’t a shocker, but initially involves dramatic irony, then
audiences will know the secret from the get-go. Sometimes, another
character (usually the protagonist) will know it too. When you
accelerate the reveal, an additional character (the protagonist, a co-
protagonist, or otherwise) will join the loop.

Basically, in all of these scenarios, an entity (audiences alone, a

character alone, audiences + a character) who was clueless prior to
the midpoint will be in a superior position to other characters after
the midpoint.

Because this entity is the first to learn the secret at the midpoint, I’m
going to refer to this entity as the primary superior. (Note: While this
term is collective, and correspondingly uses singular pronouns and
verbs, remember it can encompass multiple individuals.)

Here’s where the fun stuff comes in. Now, with the primary superior
clued in, you can decide how to bring other characters up to speed.

You can create a progressive sequence of reveals, with new

characters being brought into the loop at various junctures.
Depending on how many characters you have to play with, you could
have a secondary superior, a tertiary superior—even a quaternary
superior.

To the last character to be brought into the loop (whoever he may be;
secondary, tertiary, etc.), we can append the label of terminal
superior. (I’m not trying to add more jargon to the mix, by the way.
This term actually simplifies our discussion.)

Choose your terminal superior wisely. Ideally, it should be someone

who’s going to be impacted the most, emotionally, by the reveal.

As a matter of fact, this reveal could constitute your Act Two ending.
To put it another way, the reveal you may’ve originally planned for
the trough would become part of your midpoint, and a new reveal
involving the terminal superior would take its place.

Don’t be afraid to test out different variations (e.g. Character A is the

primary superior in one scenario, but the tertiary superior in another).
This will help you design the most effective progression, so that each
reveal builds on the one preceding it.

In particular, look for combinations wherein one character, due to his

superior position, can “torture” (or be tortured by) another character.
Whether used to comedic or thrilling effect, this entertains audiences
to no end.

That’s the gist of it. With that general overview in place, let’s talk
specifics. Earlier, we used the third Iron Man film to illustrate the
difference between the antagonist-aha fulcrum and the revelation
acceleration. To illustrate the new story possibilities that become
available by accelerating your reveals, we’ll return to the franchise
once more—but this time, we’ll be reviewing the first film of the
trilogy.

To be clear, in the film, the sequence of reveals I’m about to describe

doesn’t occur at the midpoint. But I’m using it as an example,
nonetheless, because it gives you a clear glimpse of all the fun stuff
you can do if you let go of your inclination to keep your shocking plot
twist up your sleeve for as long as possible. (This definitely comes in
handy when you don’t—as Iron Man does—have another fulcrum to
use in lieu of the revelation acceleration. In case you’re wondering,
to anchor its middle, the film makes use of the manifest midpoint,
which we’ll cover in due course.)

Partway through Act 2B, audiences discover that Obadiah, Tony’s

mentor (and therefore presumably a good guy), is—surprise!—in
cahoots with the character who’s been presented as the bad guy.

Notice that audiences alone are the primary superior. They learn the
truth separately from Tony and Pepper, who still remain unaware of
Obadiah’s involvement. This decision, in turn, opens up new scene
possibilities involving secondary and tertiary superiors. Indeed, it’s a
fantastic example of marrying the shocker variety of the revelation
acceleration to dramatic irony.

When Pepper, following Tony’s instructions, downloads files at his

office computer, she finds evidence that ties Obadiah to the
assassination attempt made on Tony’s life. Thus, she becomes the
secondary superior. Since Pepper learns of Obadiah’s treachery on
her own, the door is left open for one more reveal, the last of the
sequence—Tony’s. He wizens up when Obadiah assaults him in
Tony’s home, an event which marks the end of Act Two.

Observe that each scene in the sequence is a variation of the same

basic idea: revealing the identity of the bad guy. The same
knowledge is passed to audiences, then to Pepper, and finally to
Tony. Despite this similarity, each scene feels different. Moreover,
with three scenes, audiences’ enjoyment is extended, lasting for a
longer period.

Unfortunately, this is an opportunity that beginners often overlook.

Having come up with a shocking reveal, they don’t take advantage of
it to its full extent. They design the reveal so that all the key
characters discover the truth at the same time. They get one great
audience-pleasing scene out of it, true enough. But had they
designed a progressive sequence, they could’ve gotten three of
them!

We just studied how a progressive sequence of reveals can be built

on a shocking revelation. For our next example, let’s change things
up. This time, we’ll look at a few episodes from season five of
Friends—a different genre (comedy), a different medium (TV), and a
different type of accelerated reveal (dramatic irony).

Before we dive into the nitty-gritty details, I’d like to bring two points
to your attention: (1) although Friends is a sitcom, the principles
behind this example can be extrapolated to novels and feature-
length screenplays; and (2) the reveals are scattered across the
season, but the most memorable use of them occurs in episode 14,
which, in a season containing 24 episodes in total, can be construed
as midpoint territory.

Okay, with that sorted, let’s examine the particulars. At the end of
season four, Monica and Chandler’s friendship blossomed into
romance. But they’ve decided to keep it a secret from the others in
their group (Joey, Rachel, Phoebe, and Ross). Audiences, however,
are in the loop, placing them in a superior position to most of the cast
for the first half of season five.
At the end of episode five, Joey is clued into the truth. He is the
primary superior. At Monica and Chandler’s request, Joey doesn’t
reveal the secret to the others. Actually, in episode nine, Joey goes
above and beyond. When evidence of the romance becomes
apparent, Joey makes a fool of himself to prevent everyone else
from discovering the truth. Among other things, he shaves his legs
and claims underwear that isn’t his own. By the end of the episode,
he turns the tables on Monica, so that she is subjected to the same
ridicule he was.

This is an example of the torture I was talking about earlier on. While
painful for him (and eventually for Monica), Joey’s position is highly
entertaining for audiences. Notice, though, that this entertainment is
impossible to create until Monica and Chandler’s secret is revealed
(at least to Joey).

Eventually, Rachel discovers the truth by accident. Despite Rachel’s

nudging, Monica plays dumb, refusing to spill the beans. In fact, we
could say that Rachel’s inability to extract the truth from Monica is a
form of torture for her (Rachel).

But that’s small potatoes compared to episode 14, when Phoebe

discovers the truth. Then, the real fun begins, and the show gets
major mileage out of accelerating the reveal. In order to force
Chandler to confess, Phoebe unleashes her seductive wiles on him.
Now Chandler is the one who’s under torture. He doesn’t want to
reject Phoebe and hurt her feelings, but he also doesn’t want to
reveal his secret relationship with Monica.

Chandler’s situation becomes more dire when Monica realizes that

Phoebe’s playing mind games with him. As a result, Monica urges
Chandler to pretend to reciprocate Phoebe’s feelings in order to
force Phoebe to confess that Phoebe knows their secret—putting
Phoebe under torture, and prolonging Chandler’s suffering. (This
sounds rather complicated, I know. But the whole episode is an
elaborate farce. It goes with the territory!)
Ultimately, Chandler is the one to crack. But he doesn’t just reveal
his secret—that he’s in a relationship with Monica. He goes one step
further and confesses a new one: he’s in love with her. Thus, while
the farce is fun, it isn’t used just to make audiences laugh. It also
creates a moment of emotional truth, taking the whole episode from
good to great.

The last reveal is made at the end (as a tag to the episode), when
Ross learns the truth. This choice is perfect. Since Monica is his
sister and Chandler is his best friend, Ross would be the most
affected by their relationship. If Ross discovered the secret earlier,
any subsequent reveals would probably feel anticlimactic. But
because he is saved for last, the sequence of reveals is milked for all
it’s worth.

In theory, Monica and Chandler could’ve spent the entire season

going to outrageous lengths to hide their secret from the others.
While this would’ve been amusing for audiences (to a point), by
accelerating the reveal, the writers were able to explore new
possibilities, torturing additional characters in novel ways—thereby
multiplying audience delight.

Retracting the Reveal

If your accelerated reveal is of the shocker variety, you can take

advantage of another possibility: you can retract it.

That is to say, at the midpoint you clue in audiences to a shocking

truth, but later on, you reveal that this truth is a lie. As a generic
example, at the midpoint, the hero concludes that his seemingly
trustworthy mentor is the villain, but at the trough, the hero realizes
he misinterpreted the midpoint evidence, and his mentor is innocent
of all wrongdoing.

Again, revealing this kind of shocker is a plot twist most writers

would be tempted to delay until the end of Act Two. Here, the reveal
originally intended for that destination would advance to the
midpoint, and a retraction of it would occur in its place. Basically, by
layering one surprise (the retraction) on top of another (the initial
reveal), you get two twists for the price of one!

As you already know from a previous list of examples, at the

midpoint of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Harry learns
that Sirius (a) killed Peter Pettigrew, (b) is responsible for killing
Harry’s parents, and (c) is Harry’s godfather.

At the end of Act Two, two thirds of this reveal is retracted. While
Sirius is, indeed, Harry’s godfather, Sirius didn’t betray Harry’s
parents. Someone else did. Actually, it was Peter Pettigrew. That’s
why Sirius attacked him. Unfortunately, Sirius didn’t finish the job.
Peter isn’t dead. He’s still alive—and he, not Sirius, is after Harry.

Likewise, at the end of episode seven (the mid-season finale, or

midpoint episode, of White Collar’s first season), Neal learns that
Peter, the FBI agent Neal’s working with (and whom Neal has
gradually learned to trust), has—shocker!—abducted Neal’s
girlfriend. During the following episode, this reveal is retracted. It’s
made clear that another FBI agent, not Peter, is responsible for the
abduction. (If you’re familiar with the show, other reveals are
interwoven in there, but I’m skipping over these to keep things
simple.)

As you may’ve noticed, the retraction of an accelerated reveal is very

similar to the false insight that’s closely associated with the
antagonist-aha fulcrum. With both, the protagonist (as well as
audiences) realizes he’s operated under the wrong assumption for
the entirety of Act 2B (perhaps longer).

However, as previously discussed, the revelation acceleration comes

with an element of surprise that’s absent from the antagonist-aha
fulcrum. Because the retraction is paired with the revelation
acceleration, and hence the surprise plot twist, it can evoke a deeper
degree of appreciation from audiences than the false insight.

At the same time, the retraction also incurs a drawback: whereas the
false insight oftentimes feels quite true to life, the retraction is in real
danger of feeling artificial, contrived purely for audience amusement.

Between the reveal about Sirius from The Prisoner of Azkaban and
the reveal about Peter from White Collar, the former seems more
natural. The latter, on the other hand, feels like a bit of a trick.

’Cause it is, really.

Even so, this trick can enable you to explore opportunities that you
couldn’t have without temporarily deceiving audiences and one (or
more) of your characters. In the case of White Collar, it adds an
extra layer of tension to an undercover mission that transpires after
Neal believes he’s learned the truth about Peter (and before this
truth is retracted).

In sum, the more you exploit the opportunities generated by the

retraction and use them to entertain audiences, the less likely they
are to levy accusations of artificiality against your plot. In contrast, if
you employ this trick but fail to exploit such opportunities, then in all
probability, audiences will cry foul.

(2) Accelerating the reveal breaks up the monotony of Act Two.

To be fair, this is a benefit of all the fulcrum types. It’s not limited to
the revelation acceleration. But its value is particularly evident here.

Say your hero is perpetrating a ruse against the heroine, and

audiences are aware of his deception from the beginning of your
story. Accordingly, the middle of it would probably look like this:

Hero tries to safeguard his secret despite obstacle #1.

Hero tries to safeguard his secret despite obstacle #2.
Hero tries to safeguard his secret despite obstacle #3, etc.

In short, your screenplay or novel is going to be one-note, hitting the

same story beat over and over again. However, if you accelerate the
reveal, so that your hero’s secret is revealed to the heroine at the
midpoint of your story, you break up the pattern.

No more same old, same old. No more sagging middle.

While it’s possible to achieve the same effect with a subplot (as a
matter of fact, we’ll cover this topic in chapter 4), in my opinion, that’s
not the most effective way to solve an escalation problem. Because
of all the new story possibilities that become available to you once
you accelerate the reveal, acceleration is one of the fixes I’d test out
first.

If your reveal is of the shocker variety, accelerating it comes with yet

another benefit…

(3) Accelerating the reveal lowers your authorial burden.

Pulling off a big reveal like the one in Gone Girl requires extensive
misdirection. The evidence piling up against Nick has to
simultaneously support two possibilities that are diametrically
opposed to each other.

It has to be strong enough to convince audiences that Amy is dead

and Nick killed her. If it isn’t, audiences won’t wonder if Nick did it…
or not. Instead, they’ll know categorically that he didn’t, and most of
the tension and suspense of the story will dissipate.

At the same time, the evidence has to be inconclusive enough to

support an alternate theory: Amy is alive, and this is a setup. If it
isn’t, and the evidence against Nick is airtight, then this alternate
theory won’t hold any water. When the reveal is made, it will strain all
credibility—and, despite its shock value—fail to entertain.

In essence, as a novelist or screenwriter, you have to generate

evidence that’s ambiguous enough to allow for both possibilities.

Generating ambiguous evidence is not easy to do.

It’s even harder to sustain.

If you delay the reveal until the end of Act Two, you’ll have to
maintain this high-wire juggling act for 75% of your story. This
percentage increases further—perhaps reaching as high as 95%—if
you delay the reveal until the climax.

I’d wager it’s almost impossible to sustain the illusion for such an
extended stretch without mucking everything up. But if you
accelerate the reveal as author Gillian Flynn did, then you’ll
circumvent several problems, increasing the odds that you’ll
successfully execute your high-concept idea.

Just to reinforce points that we recently discussed, notice that

accelerating the reveal in Gone Girl yielded other benefits as well. By
making the reveal so early on, the police investigation (as well as
Nick’s proclamations of innocence) doesn’t become monotonous, as
it would if it consumed the entirety of Act Two.

Plus, by revealing that Amy is indeed alive, Flynn could avail herself
of new story possibilities. Notably, the tables can be turned on Amy
(who, recall, hatched this diabolical scheme), as she becomes
victimized herself.

(4) Accelerating the reveal will intensify audience emotions.

Due to dramatic irony, audiences possess special knowledge. This

knowledge changes their relationship to what’s unfolding on-screen
(or on the page), eliciting a more intense emotional response from
them.

If a character in the scene shares in this knowledge, then this effect

is amplified as audiences experience the character’s emotion in the
scene (typically some form of distress) in addition to their own.

Case in point: the scene in Iron Man in Tony’s office when Pepper
downloads files incriminating Obadiah…and then Obadiah walks in.
Because audiences and Pepper are, by this point, aware of
Obadiah’s involvement in the assassination attempt against Tony,
when she interacts with Obadiah, the tension in the scene is
elevated above ordinary levels.

If audiences and Pepper were still in the dark, the tension in the
scene would be nonexistent. If audiences knew the truth but Pepper
hadn’t become the secondary superior, audiences would,
nonetheless, be worried about her safety. Yet, their tension would be
less than when both parties are in the loop. Why? Now, audiences
are vicariously experiencing her fear, which heightens their own
anxiety on her behalf.

You can see something similar in You’ve Got Mail, when Kathleen
says to Joe:

“If I really knew you, I know what I would find: instead of a brain, a
cash register; instead of a heart, a bottom line…You’ve deluded
yourself into thinking that you’re some sort of benefactor bringing
books to the masses, but no one will ever remember you, Joe Fox…
you are nothing but a suit.”

Ouch.

Being on the receiving end of remarks like those is hurtful, no doubt.

Even so, Joe is a savvy entrepreneur. This isn’t his first rodeo. He
should be able to shrug off Kathleen’s insults as the cost of doing
business.

However, at this point, Joe is aware of the truth. He knows that

Kathleen isn’t just a professional rival; she’s also the woman he’s
falling for—the kind of woman he could marry. Her insults can’t be
chalked up to the hazards of running a successful business empire.
It’s gotten personal—which means her words cut so much deeper.

That’s not all. Audiences have been in a superior position from the
story’s beginning. Witnessing this exchange (and empathizing with
Joe), they’d be hurting on his behalf. This would hold true, even if he
were still in the dark. But since he isn’t—since Kathleen’s words
have affected him at a deeply personal level—audiences are doubly
stung, feeling his pain in addition to their own.

(5) By accelerating the reveal, your story climax will captivate

audiences to a greater degree.

To explain this benefit, we’re going to return to Gone Girl (for the last
time, promise!). If audiences are convinced that Nick killed Amy,
they’ll despise him for it. If they’re only partially convinced, they
might not despise him as much, but they’ll still be emotionally distant
toward him.

This would be an accurate assessment, even if Nick were a saint.

But he’s not. In fact, he’s rather unlikeable. Thus, even when his
potential guilt is taken out of the equation, audiences would remain
ambivalent toward him.

Of course, once the truth is revealed, shedding new light on previous

events, everything changes. Audiences realize that their dislike and
distance took root because they believed in falsehoods, purposefully
planted by Amy.

Scales fallen from their eyes, audiences will sing a different tune.
Nick’s not as bad as they were led to believe; no, he’s being
horrifically victimized. Consequently, audience dislike and distance
will transmute into sympathy.

Think about that for a second—this process of transmutation.

If the reveal is made 75% of the way through the story, audiences
have little (if any) time for their emotions to reverse course. Even
though they’re currently sympathetic toward Nick, this sympathy will,
in large part, be diluted by their previous animosity. Accordingly, their
interest in the outcome of the climax, which will determine Nick’s fate
once and for all, is likely to be halfhearted and lukewarm.

If the reveal is made 50% of the way through the story, a different
picture emerges. Now, audiences’ emotions have adequate time to
undergo transformation. Due to the extent of their sympathy (which
has gradually built up over Act 2B), by the time the climax begins,
they’ll be worried sick about Nick’s future. They won’t be able to turn
the pages fast enough in order to discover whether Nick successfully
extricates himself from Amy’s trap.

This benefit applies to the other side of the same coin; that is, when
you want audiences to transmute their emotion toward the real
villain, whom you initially presented as an ally. To quote Story
Climax:

“When you delay [this] reveal until the end of Act Two, audiences
have only a brief window, between the reveal and the climax, to
really cultivate their dislike of [him]. That’s not a lot of time to prime
their emotional pumps against him.”

By positioning this reveal at the midpoint rather than at the trough,

“Audiences have more time to build up their dislike against [him].

The sooner you make the reveal, the longer they’ll know he’s the bad
guy, and the harder they’ll root against him by the time the climax
rolls around. Basically, you’ll be providing them with a deeper
emotional experience.”

***

While I’m an enthusiastic proponent of accelerating reveals, I’ll be

the first to admit, its use isn’t always warranted.

If the climactic reveals of The Usual Suspects and The Sixth Sense
had been advanced to the midpoint, these films probably would’ve
been ruined. Indeed, saving the best for last and delaying your
reveal until the trough or the climax can be advantageous, enabling
you to escalate your story very nicely.

This assumes, however, that you have a solid plan in place to

develop your plot (and keep audiences sufficiently entertained) until
you reach the reveal. If you don’t, and the middle of your story isn’t
up to scratch, it never hurts to take the revelation acceleration for a
spin. It may be the just the miracle worker you need to solve all of
your plot problems!
 Midpoint Fulcrum #7: The Manifest
Midpoint
To understand the manifest midpoint, you have to understand hooks.
So let’s start there.

Often ironic, a hook is a feature that compels audiences to choose

your screenplay or novel over its competitors within its genre; it gives
audiences a reason to invest their time or money (or both) in your
story.

In order for the hook to make sense, setup of some sort has to be in
place. In most stories, this groundwork is laid down during Act One,
and the hook springs into motion around the end of the first act.

Not so with the manifest midpoint.

With the manifest midpoint, Act One will still be used to set up the
pieces. But during Act 2A, audiences experience the “shadow”
version of your concept. It’s only after the midpoint, during Act 2B,
when the shadow transforms into “substance,” and your hook
manifests itself in full.

Here’s another way to think about it: if, post–manifest midpoint, a

story had to have a motto, “this is not a drill” would be at the top of
the list.

The 1999 remake of The Mummy is a good example. The central

protagonists of the story are searching for the lost treasure of
Hamunaptra. But the treasure isn’t the hook.

The hook is the mummy.

Audiences went to see this film at the theater in order to watch the
protagonists grapple with the mummy, not to see the protagonists
uncover the treasure.
If you came up with a concept like this, you’d probably awaken the
mummy at the end of Act One. That would be my first inclination,
too. But that’s not what happens in the film.

Sure, the mummy’s there at the film’s beginning—but in human form,

not in his mummified state. He’s only awakened at the midpoint,
which is surprising, especially considering the film’s title…as well as
its posters and trailers. Such marketing materials routinely showcase
story hooks, because they are the draw that will lure audiences in.

Speaking of hooks, their placement helps distinguish between the

manifest midpoint and the revelation acceleration…

The Difference Between the Manifest Midpoint and the Revelation

Acceleration

Although the manifest midpoint shares similarities with both

variations (shocker and dramatic irony) of the revelation
acceleration, there are ways to distinguish between the two. Again,
this is important not for the sake of labeling but because it can help
you figure out how to best implement each fulcrum.

With both the manifest midpoint and the shocker variety of the
revelation acceleration, you’re withholding something from
audiences, choosing to unleash it at the midpoint of your screenplay
or novel.

However, with the revelation acceleration, you’re withholding a

surprise, something audiences wouldn’t see coming. With the
manifest midpoint, you’re withholding the hook.

A big difference.

In the latter case, you (via marketing materials like a logline, movie
trailer, or book description) told audiences to expect something
you’re not going to deliver until halfway through your story.
As you may imagine, audiences are going to become impatient and
antsy as they wait for the hook—the very thing you told them to look
for—to appear. The longer the hook takes to materialize, the more
likely audiences will give up on your story altogether.

Likewise, the manifest midpoint can share similarities with the

dramatic-irony variation of the revelation acceleration. With both,
audiences will be in a superior position to your characters for a
significant portion of your story. (With The Mummy, for instance,
audiences know O’Connell and Evelyn are going to awaken the
mummy, but the characters themselves do not.)

But again, with the revelation acceleration, the hook does kick in
around the first-act break. It’s not delayed until the midpoint.

Another (albeit less important) distinction: with the revelation

acceleration, you’re advancing the moment when story characters
traditionally become clued into the information audiences have
known all along. Whereas with the manifest midpoint, you’re
delaying the moment when audiences expect your story characters
to catch up.

The Pros and Cons of Positioning Shadow Before Substance

Delaying the hook until the midpoint is a hallmark of the manifest

midpoint. It not only helps to distinguish the manifest midpoint from
either variety of the revelation acceleration, it also is a feature that
sets it apart from the other fulcrum types.

This means something very important: if you employ the manifest

midpoint, your Act 2A scenes and sequences must be entertaining
enough to get audiences to stick around for Act 2B. While that’s true
of all stories, it’s even more true for ones that employ the manifest
midpoint because your Act 2A scenes must play double duty.

In addition to entertaining audiences, they must also compensate for

the fact that you’re delaying the hook, which again, audiences are
expecting to experience because that’s been explicitly promised to
them via the marketing materials.

In The Mummy, audiences are given plenty of excitement before the

mummy is awakened at the midpoint. This excitement is primarily
generated through multiple, varied, and humorous sources of
conflict. At any given moment during Act One or Act 2A, O’Connell is
at odds with Evelyn, Beni, the Magi, or the rival treasure hunters.

Plus, hints that a mummy awakening is just around the corner are
woven throughout the first half of the story:

After O’Connell’s first skirmish with the Magi, the mummy’s face
is seen in the sand, growling menacingly.
O’Connell and Evelyn almost open a sarcophagus that could
potentially contain the mummy—but then they get distracted.
When they do open the sarcophagus, a gooey skeleton pops
out…but it’s not the mummy.
After Evelyn reads a spell from the Book of the Dead, a swarm
of locusts emerges—presaging the awakening of the mummy.
One of the rival treasure hunters is terrified of something, but
audiences don’t see what it is…

Such hints generate anticipation for the mummy’s eventual

appearance (which occurs 64 minutes into the movie). This is how,
during Act 2A, the film sates audiences’ desire to see the mummy
without actually showing the mummy himself. This approach is both
clever and effective.

It’s also risky.

Because the film delays the mummy’s awakening until the midpoint,
moviegoers could’ve potentially felt that the film took too long to
make good on its promise of a man-vs.-mummy showdown. A
negative reaction like this would’ve killed the film’s chances of
success.
That didn’t happen—when released, the movie made over $400
million worldwide, launching a franchise for Universal—but it was a
very real possibility. So why did the filmmakers take on the risk? Why
delay the appearance of the mummy?

Why implement the manifest midpoint when it could backfire

spectacularly, alienating your target audience?

By taking this tack, the filmmakers were able to escalate the story
very easily. Indeed, this is why it’s so advantageous to check if your
concept can yield a shadow version of sufficient interest.

If it can, escalating your story should be a breeze, primarily because

you only have to develop the full manifestation of your concept—in
this case, man vs. mummy—over two sectors of your story (Act 2B
and Act Three), as opposed to three (Act 2A, Act 2B, and Act Three).

When stretched across three sectors, a story concept often becomes

too thin. It’s just too difficult to top yourself and make your screenplay
or novel progressively more interesting. You’ll end up repeating the
same story beat over and over again.

Even if you don’t, in all likelihood, your story will nevertheless feel flat
because the dangers and obstacles won’t get worse over time. As a
result, despite not repeating the same story beat, the scenes from
your story middle will all have the same quality. Typically, Act 2B
receives the brunt of the damage, which is one reason why it has a
notorious reputation for sagging.

With the manifest midpoint, however, such difficulties are alleviated.

Going back to The Mummy, you’d be tasked with creating
increasingly more inventive ways for the mummy to wreak havoc for
only 60 pages. That may seem like a long stretch until you compare
it to the manifest-free alternative—where you’d have to come up with
90 pages worth instead.

That’s the magic of the manifest midpoint. Potentially, at least. As

you’ll see in the next section, the manifest midpoint can’t be applied
willy-nilly…

5 Story Concepts Where It Actually Pays to Bury

Your Hook
If you’re having trouble escalating your story, the manifest midpoint
is one of the top places I’d look to for a solution.

That said, the manifest midpoint isn’t suited for all stories. If you use
it when it’s not justified, your story will be accused of being a slow
starter, taking forever to get off the ground. Not exactly the response
that will enhance your author or screenwriter profile.

Thus, you have to be judicious in its application. Happily, some

concepts lend themselves to the manifest midpoint. It’s certainly not
limited to these concepts, but if your story falls into one of these
camps, you have reasonable assurance that implementing the
manifest midpoint will be an effective way to prevent the middle of
your story from sagging.

Collectively, I refer to these concepts as MOCHA stories. They are

as follows:

Multiple-protagonist epic adventures

Origin stories
Courtroom dramas, comedies, and thrillers
Heists and capers
Arena stories

From this list, it’s clear to see that MOCHA stories encompass a
rather narrow swath on the spectrum of viable plots. Even so,
studying the examples below should help you (a) get a better feel for
the manifest midpoint, and (b) spark your imagination re: developing
the shadow version of your own story. These benefits should be
useful, whether your concept is MOCHA-flavored or not.

So let’s jump in!

(1) Multiple-Protagonist Epic Adventures

These stories are exactly what they sound like: several protagonists
go on a big adventure, often to save the world. Over the course of
Act One and Act 2A, new members join the original protagonist
team.

At the midpoint, assembly of the core team is complete, and the

protagonists work together (or not, as the case may be) to solve their
problem—a task that will often take multiple installments to tell.

Examples include Star Wars: A New Hope; Lord of the Rings: The
Fellowship of the Ring; and, to a lesser degree, Marvel’s The
Avengers. In each, the protagonist team starts with one or two
members. The team’s ranks swell over time, with the last members
(Han Solo and Chewbacca; Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir; and Thor,
respectively) joining about halfway through each film.

Barring a franchise reboot or a time-travel plot, the formation of the

original team can only happen once. To spell it out: future
installments in a series can’t employ this particular version of the
manifest midpoint, and instead, must swing their story in a new
direction via other means.

As a side note, juggling multiple protagonists is not for the faint of

heart. Before you embrace the epic-adventure version of the
manifest midpoint, make sure that your project warrants such a large
cast.

(2) Origin Stories

Usually, with these concepts, a comic-book superhero is brought to

life via live action. Audiences eagerly wait for the protagonist to
transform from human to superhero. They can’t wait to see his
superhero alter ego to manifest in full, for him to look and behave the
way they’re accustomed. In origin stories, this usually won’t happen
until the midpoint.
As a matter of fact, the first half of origin stories plays out similarly to
multiple-protagonist epic adventures. But instead of witnessing the
evolution of one or two characters into a full-fledged team, audiences
witness the evolution of a regular guy into a full-fledged superhero.

During Act 2A, they get glimpses of the superhero the protagonist
will transform into. They see his special powers and tech assets
undergo various stages of growth. (In particular, they see different
incarnations of his superhero garb.) In short, audiences experience
the “rough draft” version of the superhero.

At the midpoint, however, the transformation is basically complete.

The protagonist has the attributes associated with his comic-book
depiction. In this full-fledged hero state, during Act 2B, he’ll tackle
some permutation of saving the world. You’ll see this pattern in films
like Spider-Man, Batman Begins, and Iron Man.

These examples—each the first episode in a trilogy—illustrate

another similarity between multiple-protagonist epic adventures and
origin stories. Unless a superhero franchise is rebooted, a superhero
can only have one origin story. Therefore, sequels (within a
franchise) that follow the origin story must incorporate a different
kind of midpoint. Sound options include the revelation acceleration,
the antagonist aha, or perhaps…a different incarnation of the
manifest midpoint.

To clarify, let’s zoom in on the Spider-Man film franchise that stars

Tobey Maguire and was directed by Sam Raimi. The first film, as
expected, employs the standard superhero-origin-story manifest
midpoint.

During Act 2A, Peter Parker’s superhero alter ego is in its nascent
stages. He makes himself a rather amateurish mask and costume.
He gets used to his newfound powers and uses them against the
school bully.

After the midpoint, during Act 2B, Peter evolves into a full superhero.
His Spidey garb looks much more professional. It matches the movie
poster and trailer; it’s the hook come to life. In addition, his role as an
underappreciated crime fighter is solidified.

In the second film, the manifest midpoint is used again—but in

reverse. During Act 2A, Peter Parker is still a superhero. As Spider-
Man, he behaves similarly to the way he did in Act 2B of the first film.
But at the midpoint, Peter rejects his superhero alter ego, asserting
that he is “Spider-Man no more.”

I want to point out that this move was risky. It could’ve felt
anticlimactic to watch Peter Parker live like an ordinary human being
during Act 2B after watching his superhero exploits as part of Act 2A.
In the film, this strategy worked, mostly because (a) Peter Parker’s
internal struggle is compellingly portrayed, and (b) the climax, where
Peter resumes being a superhero, is lengthy (making up for the
Spider-Man action missing from Act 2B).

What about Spider-Man 3? Due to an alien parasite, Peter Parker

morphs into symbiote Spider-Man. Featured heavily in the studio’s
marketing campaign, symbiote Spider-Man is the hook of the third
film.

You’d expect symbiote Spider-Man to appear at the end of the first

act, especially since the parasite latches onto Peter’s moped 10
minutes into the movie. But, in yet another variation of the manifest
midpoint, symbiote Spider-Man doesn’t make his appearance until
halfway through the film.

Till then, to keep audiences interested, the film teases them with
hints that the transformation is just around the corner and supplies
them with a steady stream of action stunts involving “regular” Spider-
Man.

(3) Courtroom Dramas, Comedies, and Thrillers

In these stories, oftentimes, the courtroom trial doesn’t begin until

Act 2B (which is rather counterintuitive since it’s the centerpiece of
the plot). During Act 2A, the story is in shadow mode, depicting
preparatory steps leading up to the trial.

Look at A Few Good Men and My Cousin Vinny. The former is a

courtroom drama; the latter, a courtroom comedy. Despite the
difference in genre (and tone), the two films are remarkably similar in
structure, right down to the manifest midpoint.

During Act 2A, both protagonist lawyers behave like a sleuth in a

typical mystery, evaluating evidence that could exonerate their
clients. They also partake in arraignment hearings that are
memorable, albeit for different reasons.

Approximately halfway through each film, the courtroom trial begins

in earnest. During Act 2B, the protagonists make headway toward
establishing their clients’ innocence, although a surprise twist at the
end of the second act undoes their hard-earned gains. At the climax,
they rally, ultimately acquitting their clients of murder.

(4) Heists and Capers

Audiences are looking forward to the heist (or caper). That’s the
hook that draws them in. Even so, in these stories, the heist itself
usually doesn’t occur at the beginning of the second act. It’s delayed
—until the midpoint of the story, perhaps later.

Till the heist begins, watching the protagonist prepare for the heist
provides the thrills. Typically, during Act One and/or Act 2A, the
mastermind of the heist will assemble his team. Once assembled,
the team will conduct recon missions and acquire the tools
necessary to pull off the heist.

During Act 2B, the heist will (much like a courtroom trial) begin in
earnest. Act Three might involve an extension of Act 2B activities,
prolonging the heist. It might emphasize the getaway angle of the
heist over the infiltration angle. If the protagonists (and the writer)
have pulled the wool over the eyes of audiences, and misled them
about what transpired during the heist, the ending will also reveal
what really happened.

Inception isn’t your typical heist film (Cobb and his crew are trying to
plant something, not steal it; the target isn’t a safe, but someone’s
mind), but the sci-fi thriller follows this structural model to a T.

Act 2A is all about preparation: Cobb assembles his team, trains its
novice member, formulates his inception strategy, and acquires a
special drug. Approximately halfway through the film, the preparation
comes to an end. The protagonists infiltrate Fischer’s mind, thus
beginning the heist.

(5) Arena Stories

In arena stories, the protagonist competes in an enclosed space—

that is the hook. Generally speaking, during Act 2A, the protagonist
prepares for the competition, which is the shadow version of the
concept. The substance—entering the arena for real—occurs during
Act 2B.

For instance, in The Hunger Games, Katniss ventures into the arena
(an artificial environment laced with booby traps) at the film’s
midpoint; before that, she trained with her competitors. Likewise, in
Gladiator, Maximus ventures into the arena (the Colosseum) around
the middle of the film. Prior to that, he practiced his gladiatorial skills
in the “backwaters” of Rome.

To reinforce points mentioned earlier, let’s examine Gladiator in more

detail. The action that takes place within the backwaters is
interesting enough to satisfy audiences until the combat at the
Colosseum begins. Moreover, by progressing from the backwaters of
Rome to the big leagues of the Colosseum, the second act naturally
escalates.

Imagine that you were charged with the task of developing this
concept. You (as many writers would) might be inclined to put
Maximus in the Colosseum at the beginning of Act Two. Notice how
this would create escalation problems for you down the road. In this
alternate version, you’d have to develop Colosseum combat across
three sectors of your story (Act 2A, Act 2B, and the Act Three
climax) instead of just two (Act 2B and the climax).

To drive this idea home, let’s speculate about what that development
process might look like. The beginning of Act 2A would feature
Maximus’s first round of Colosseum combat, providing audiences
with their first taste of it. As in the film, this round would take its
inspiration from the Battle of Carthage.

Exciting stuff to be sure—but you can’t repeat it. For Maximus’s next
skirmish, you need to top yourself somehow. You need to escalate
the action. Similar to the film, you may script a round of combat that
pays homage to “the legendary Tigris of Gaul,” which comes with its
own set of real-life tigers, who pop into the arena at unexpected
moments.

Excellent choice. That’s definitely a showstopper. It totally eclipses

what comes before it. However, you can’t rest on your laurels. You
started the Colosseum action at the beginning of Act Two,
remember? Which means that you still have a gap to fill before you
reach the last round of Colosseum combat—Act Three’s climactic
encounter between Maximus and Commodus.

This is where you’d run into a major escalation problem. You need to
come up with gladiatorial combat that’s an even bigger spectacle
than the tigers—a tough act to follow.

Alternatively, you need to come up with combat that’s not as jaw-

dropping as the tigers, but which is flashier than the Carthage
reenactment (and position this round in between the Carthage and
Tigris rounds of combat).

There’s a third option too: you’d have to devise gladiatorial combat

that’s not as thrilling as Carthage, but which is interesting enough to
satisfy audiences (and position it before the round inspired by the
Battle of Carthage).
With either of the latter two possibilities, in all likelihood, no matter
what you do, both rounds of combat (Carthage and your new
addition) will feel like a rehash of the other. In other words, they
won’t escalate. Bored by the repetition, audiences might not even
stick around for all of the spectacle with the tigers, which is just
around the corner.

In this situation, you might be tempted to develop your story middle

by temporarily taking Maximus away from the Colosseum. Then you
wouldn’t have to choreograph another round of gladiatorial combat.
But…seeing gladiators fight against each other in Rome’s famed
Colosseum is part of the hook that will lure in audiences. Deviate too
much from that, and audiences may complain that you’ve failed to
deliver on what you’ve promised them.

Enter the manifest midpoint. With it, you’ll kickstart your story’s full
hook partway through Act Two. Consequently, you won’t need to
invent another round of Colosseum combat, and—like magic—this
escalation problem disappears!

***

For the record, if your concept is MOCHA-flavored, you’re not

obligated to use the manifest midpoint. But if you’re having story
“teething” problems in general, then pondering about the manifest
midpoint (especially the shadow version of your concept) may get
you where you want to be—with some story development instead of
blank pages. And if you’re struggling with escalation in specific, then
the manifest midpoint may be the perfect solution.

Also, if you do implement the manifest midpoint, bear in mind that

the Act 2A–Act 2B patterns I just described are just that: patterns.
They’re not hard-and-fast rules. Embrace their flexibility. Adapt them
as you see fit.

Finally, to repeat a point from earlier on, if your concept isn’t a

multiple-protagonist epic adventure; an origin story; a courtroom
comedy, drama, or thriller; a heist or caper; or an arena story, it
doesn’t mean that the manifest midpoint is off the table.

It just means that you have to be extra careful.

Make sure that your Act 2A is, in fact, a shadow version of your
concept…and not a continuation of Act One. This is a problem that
plagues screenplays and novels all too often. Actually, it’s so
common, we’ll be revisiting this topic later on, in chapter 4.

Stretching the Manifest Midpoint to the Limit

With the typical manifest midpoint, you’re delaying presenting the full
hook of your story until Act 2B. However, in some cases, you can
extend the delay even further—presenting the hook at the climax.

This move is even riskier than using the standard manifest midpoint.

How so? You’re delaying something you explicitly promised to

audiences for an even longer period. If audiences might get antsy
when you delay the hook until Act 2B, then they might get very antsy
when you delay the hook until Act Three.

If this structural approach is so risky, why am I even bothering to

bring it up?

Because, this way, you’ll only have to develop the full manifestation
of your concept over one sector of your story (Act Three). It’s bound
to be filled with juicy stuff that hasn’t appeared (albeit in less
spectacular fashion) in your story before.

This, in turn, means that the climax of your story should truly be
climactic, with the most exciting events happening at its end. Your
story will escalate in a major, major way, much more so than with the
standard manifest model.

Great benefits, undoubtedly. But they’re moot unless Act Two is up

to scratch. It can’t be monotonous. It must escalate within itself. Plus,
it must not only be interesting enough for audiences to stick around
for the amazing Act Three that’s just around the corner but also
interesting enough to compensate for delaying the full manifestation
of the hook until the end of your story.

Fortunately, a variant of the manifest midpoint takes care of half of

this problem. With the standard manifest midpoint, the shadow
version of your concept traditionally occurs during Act 2A. With the
variant, the shadow version is shunted to Act 2B (while the
substance version takes over Act Three)—leaving Act 2A with a
gaping hole.

Act 2A. That’s the unsolved half of this problem. How can you fill up
Act 2A, which no longer depicts the shadow version of your concept?

Here are two successful strategies: (1) fill Act 2A with a shadow of
the shadow version of your concept, or (2) fill it by focusing on the
development of a subplot.

More details, below.

The Shadow of a Shadow

Essentially, to create a shadow of the shadow version of your

concept, you have to reflect on the preparatory steps your characters
could take before they’d actually prepare to execute their plan. Pre-
prep, in a nutshell. For this pre-prep to be satisfying, try to exploit a
unique angle of your story world.

Think of the heist film, Fast Five. The crew of protagonist thieves is
after a cache of cash, $100 million to be exact. At the beginning of
Act Two, this cash is distributed across multiple cash houses. During
Act 2A, the protagonists take action to force the villain to consolidate
the cash in one location.

This step—consolidation of the cash—is the shadow of the shadow

version. It’s an extra preparatory step you don’t often see in heist
films, which typically follow the standard manifest model.
Shortly after the cash is consolidated, however, the film proceeds the
way the standard manifest model would: during Act 2B, the
protagonists prepare to infiltrate the location where all the cash is
now stored; during Act Three, the heist itself begins.

Because Act One runs long, Act 2A is truncated. I suspect that’s one
reason why the shadow of a shadow version was, in this case, so
successful—it didn’t wear out its welcome. Plus, the location itself,
the one the protagonists are preparing to infiltrate during Act 2B, isn’t
another run-of-the-mill cash house. It’s a police station.

Heavily guarded by the cops, this location exposes the protagonists

to additional antagonistic forces, and hence, more trouble—which
adds up to more fun for audiences. In short, the shadow of the
shadow culminates in a satisfying payoff that makes up for delaying
both the shadow version of the heist as well as the heist itself.

The Act 2A Subplot Solution

Rocky is a boxing movie, where a Nobody from Nowheresville

(Rocky) takes on the heavyweight champion of the world (Creed).
That’s the hook of the film. Yet, the epic match between Rocky and
Creed doesn’t occur until Act Three.

At first glance, this choice may seem inevitable. How else would the
movie end? But if you take a closer look, you’ll see that Rocky’s
structure is rather atypical.

For starters, Rocky is offered the opportunity to fight Creed halfway

through the movie. While audiences know of Creed’s plans
beforehand (more on this topic later), Rocky doesn’t.

This is unusual. In arena stories like Rocky, the offer to fight Creed
would be made during Act One, and initiate the protagonist’s path
toward the arena. Going along with this, ordinarily, the protagonist—
unlike Rocky—would know he’s about to participate in a major
competition much sooner.
Second, whatever the competition type, it normally is depicted at
length during the middle of the story. Audiences witness Maximus’s
(Gladiator) and Katniss’s (The Hunger Games) exploits in the arena
long before the climax.

The same applies to sports films (which is another way to classify

Rocky). The sporting event is showcased in some form (e.g. an
exhibition match; a qualifying competition to gain entry into the
Olympics) during Act Two. In Rocky, however, no boxing rounds
occur during the middle of the story. Besides the initial match used to
introduce Rocky, there’s basically no boxing whatsoever until the
climax.

When you stop to think about it, that’s a pretty nifty feat—akin to
pulling a rabbit out of a magician’s hat. It also raises two questions:
why and how?

Let’s start with the why, as it’s easier to answer. Due to Rocky’s
structure, the match between Rocky and Creed feels epic in scope.
There aren’t any prior incarnations of it; it doesn’t have to escalate
beyond a previous boxing match from Act Two.

Imagine this wasn’t the case, and there was a boxing match during
Act Two. Then, when audiences watch the climactic match during
Act Three, they could think to themselves, I’m not impressed, not
after what I’ve already seen. But with the film version, the odds of
this happening are almost nil.

Now, let’s move on to the how. How does the film satisfy audiences
during Act Two without showing any actual boxing matches—when
Rocky is a boxing movie, and boxing is the lure that attracts
audiences to the story?

Answering this question is slightly more complicated. Although Act

2B lacks any boxing matches, it is filled with classic shadow material,
with Rocky preparing for his match against Creed. These scenes
(e.g. Mickey begging Rocky to be Rocky’s manager; Rocky running
up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art; Rocky pounding
meat at the packing plant) aren’t boring or commonplace, either.
They are memorable, entertaining audiences until the climactic
showdown begins.

All the same, these scenes traditionally occur during Act 2A of a film
that uses the standard manifest model. They aren’t delayed until Act
2B. But as aforementioned, Rocky is atypical. It doesn’t employ the
standard manifest model. Instead, it uses a variant of the manifest
midpoint, filling Act 2A with Rocky’s pursuit of Adrian, i.e. a romantic
subplot.

Structurally, this choice shouldn’t work. Think about it. If you were
writing a romance novel where the hero is a boxer, and his boxing
matches consume Act 2A, whereas his romance with the heroine is
delayed until Act 2B, your readers would complain that they signed
up for a romance and got a sports story.

Disgruntled, they would probably put down your novel long before
Act 2B even begins. On the other hand, if you portray the romantic
pursuit during Act 2A, and use a boxing match as a subplot to flesh
out Act 2B, this could work very well. (As a matter of fact, we’ll revisit
this tactic in chapter 4.)

Okay, back to Rocky. In this case, audiences didn’t complain that

they signed up for a boxing movie and got a romance. There are a
few reasons for this:

Audiences love to root for an underdog, and here, they get a

double dose of it. Rocky is an underdog not just as a boxer, but
also as a romantic hero.
Not only that, re: Adrian, Rocky’s an unexpected underdog. He’s
not a bad-looking guy. He’s got a sense of humor and a
protective streak. He shouldn’t have so many difficulties landing
a date.
Despite getting rebuffed by Adrian, Rocky persists—when so
many others would just give up.
 Similarly, Rocky sees Adrian’s beauty—when so many others
would overlook her.

In essence, audiences become so charmed by Rocky’s pursuit of

Adrian, they almost forget that they came to see Rocky fight. Almost.

To satisfy that desire prior to the midpoint, the film pairs Rocky’s
romantic pursuit with something else—something that’s vital to
successfully execute the manifest midpoint, whether standard or not.
Can you guess what it is?

Anticipation. Rocky expertly milks audiences’ anticipation for the

championship match by showing Creed strategizing behind the
scenes. Although these moments aren’t numerous, due to Creed’s
portrayal as a master strategist, their power is multiplied, becoming
effective enough to tantalize audiences with what’s around the
corner, when more boxing-centric material will take over.

Like with Fast Five’s shadow of a shadow, notice too that Rocky’s
romantic subplot doesn’t outstay its welcome. However, in Fast Five,
the shadow of a shadow version (consolidating the cash), directly
connects to the protagonists’ goal of stealing the cash.

The same can’t be said for Rocky. While Adrian’s support is certainly
crucial, it’s not directly tied to Rocky’s goal of winning his match
against Creed. Keep this in mind if you’re contemplating using this
variant of the manifest midpoint.

Rocky notwithstanding, the less connected your protagonist’s Act 2A

actions are to his overall goal, the greater the odds that your variant
will backfire, and audiences won’t stick around to experience the
shadow version of your concept during Act 2B.
 Midpoint Fulcrum #8: The Game
Changer
Here we are, at the game changer—the last fulcrum in our set of
eight. Frankly, the game changer is a catchall category, ensuring that
no midpoint, whatever its characteristics, slips through the cracks.

At its core, this fulcrum describes stories where Act 2A and Act 2B
are qualitatively different, but the other fulcrum types don’t accurately
categorize the switch. Oftentimes (but not always), the game
changer is marked by a change in the protagonist’s overall goal.

Before we proceed, let me repeat a caution from the revelation-

acceleration section of this chapter. These fulcrum labels are
subjective. While I may regard a certain midpoint as a game
changer, you may feel it’s better characterized by one of the other
fulcrums. That’s okay.

Again, the label is important to the extent that it helps you plot the
middle of your story—giving you a clear idea of what you need to
accomplish when writing and revising your scenes. If it’s more useful
for you to view a midpoint as an antagonist-aha fulcrum, for instance,
rather than as a game changer, then have at it!

With that reminder taken care of, let’s look at some game-changer
candidates. To start, I nominate Law Abiding Citizen. At the outset,
audiences are sympathetic toward Clyde, who has lost his family in a
brutal and horrifying way. Because the justice system has failed him,
he turns vigilante. Meanwhile, Nick, a local prosecutor who was
originally involved in Clyde’s case, tries to stop Clyde from exacting
justice on his own terms.

But then, around the middle of the film (some would argue even
sooner), Clyde goes too far. Initially cast as the hero, he now
becomes the villain of the piece; Nick, meanwhile, adopts the mantle
of the hero. This role reversal, that’s the game changer.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t entirely successful. Because the crimes
perpetrated against Clyde were so horrific, some audience members
never lost sympathy for him. Continuing to root for him throughout,
they never viewed him as a villain. Correspondingly, they were
outraged by his death at the film’s end.

Unsurprisingly, such dissatisfaction won’t yield ideal results. Indeed,

embracing the game-changer fulcrum is not without its hazards.
We’ll return to this topic in a second. But for now, let’s explore a
couple of other examples, where Act 2B is palpably different from
Act 2A…but nevertheless, the shift isn’t as dramatic as Law Abiding
Citizen’s.

Take Casino Royale, whose Act Two halves are worlds apart—
literally and metaphorically. Act 2A is set in the Bahamas (with a brief
detour into Miami). During it, Bond plays the role of a detective, and
the action and thrills emerge from preventing a bomb explosion. In
contrast, Act 2B is set in Montenegro. During it, Bond plays the role
of a master gambler, and the action and thrills emerge from the
simmering tension of a high-stake poker tournament (and, okay, a
few life-and-death experiences).

Clearly, once the plot relocates to Montenegro, the story shifts in a

new direction. In this case, the shift is triggered by Bond’s insight into
the villain’s plan (as well as Bond’s response to that insight). Notice
that Bond’s insight isn’t partial. Unlike the child protagonists of Harry
Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, at the midpoint, Bond has a full
picture of the villain’s intentions. He can’t (as Harry, Ron, and
Hermione do) continue his detective work during Act 2B.

Put another way, if your protagonist gathers all the pieces of the
puzzle by the midpoint (and interprets them correctly), in all
likelihood, to keep the plot going, you’ll have to come up with a game
changer of some sort by default.

Although Legally Blonde is a comedy, it uses a midpoint combination

similar to Casino Royale’s. First, Elle realizes that no matter how
hard she tries, her ex-boyfriend, Warner, will never consider her
good enough for him. (Incidentally, this is one of those rare cases
where insight into a love interest is best characterized as an
antagonist-aha fulcrum, rather than as a bond builder or a revelation
acceleration…but I digress.)

Back to the matter at hand: Elle’s insight into Warner’s character

catalyzes Elle to reprioritize and change her goal. She’s no longer
going to pursue Warner. Instead she’s going to pursue a prestigious
internship, and, as part of the internship, a not-guilty verdict for her
client. The switch—from pursuit of Warner to pursuit of professional
advancement—is the game changer.

As a matter of fact, this particular game changer falls under the

classic “want vs. need” category. At first, Elle chases after Warner
(and by extension his approval). She wants to build her self-esteem
on his love. But what she needs is to give him up, seek approval
from herself, and build her self-esteem on her own accomplishments
(in this case, the internship).

Traditionally, a protagonist in a want-vs.-need story forsakes his want

and pursues his need at the climax. Rejecting this path, Legally
Blonde advances the switch to the midpoint (which, you’ll note, is
similar to accelerating a reveal to the same location). As a result,
Elle’s need and her want are never really in direct competition, giving
the want-vs.-need paradigm a refreshing facelift.

While Legally Blonde manages to get the game-changer midpoint

right, so often, this will not be the case. Despite being simple in
principle, it’s difficult to implement; namely because the switch can
create the impression that you’ve started to tell a completely different
story than the one you promised audiences you’d deliver.

Depending on the nature of your protagonist’s post-midpoint goal, its

pursuit may alter your story’s genre or tone (or both). Audiences tend
to respond unfavorably to such alterations, which usually are
unpleasant and jarring for them to experience. Even if your game
changer doesn’t change the game as drastically as all that, you can
still run into a more subtle problem: underdevelopment.
See, by switching your protagonist’s goal halfway through your story,
you don’t have to explore the trials of accomplishing one goal in
depth, for the entirety of Act Two. Instead, you can just conduct two
superficial explorations, each of which is separated by the midpoint.
Consequently, audiences are liable to feel shortchanged.

A lot of times, writers build game-changer midpoints into their stories

by accident, simply because they shied away from the challenge of
developing their plot and taking it as far as it could go. But even if
that’s not the case, and you’re using a game changer deliberately, it
still might not be the wisest structural path to follow. (By the way,
we’ll revisit this topic in chapter 4.) In sum, you should tread very
carefully with this fulcrum.

***

Eight midpoint fulcrums.

Eight tempting ways to swing your story in a new direction.

Which one should you pick?

Well, of these eight, one of them is going to prove superior to the

others. One of them is going to help you unlock the middle of your
screenplay or novel.

You’ll get the full scoop on how to pick the perfect fulcrum in the next
chapter…

Notes for Chapter 1

1. Carson Reeves, “Amateur Friday – Pregnant Pals,” Scriptshadow

(blog), August 21, 2015, http://scriptshadow.net/amateur-friday-
pregnant-pals/.
 A FOOLPROOF SYSTEM TO MAP
OUT THE MIDDLE OF YOUR
STORY
- chapter two -

Now that you have an overview of the eight fulcrums, it’s time for the
fun part: picking the one that’s perfect for your story.

In all likelihood, your story premise lends itself to at least one

(probably more) of the midpoint fulcrums. All you have to do is
connect the dots—and this chapter will show you how.

This doesn’t mean that you absolutely must use the fulcrum
suggested by your story premise. This fulcrum doesn’t have to gain
automatic admittance into the final draft of your screenplay or novel.
But by figuring it out in advance, you’ll learn more about your story.
With your new knowledge, you can implement a different fulcrum if
you’d like.

Either way, you will have effortlessly mapped out a huge chunk of
your story middle. This will be an enormous confidence booster
when you write because you’ll know that you’re not going to hit a wall
of blank pages halfway through—not when you have a destination to
write toward. Plus, assuming you sidestep common pitfalls (see
chapter 4), your readers won’t get bored—not when you have a
monotony-busting fulcrum in place.

To access all of this magic, though, you must figure out what your
default options are and go from there. You can accomplish this very
easily by following a simple, foolproof system. I’m going to walk you
through it, step by step, using Divergent as an illustrative example.
To be clear, I’m working with the novel’s basic premise, one
character name (Tris), and a few ideas that I think a writer would
have uncovered in order to arrive at the premise. Some of the
fulcrums listed in this chapter may appear, in one form or another, in
the novel (or its film adaptation); they may not. It doesn’t matter. This
is just an intellectual exercise so you can see how the process might
look like when you apply it on your own.

Also, I should mention that this chapter assumes that you’re about to
write your screenplay or novel and want to have a sturdy fulcrum in
place before you begin. This chapter might not be as useful to you if
you’ve already written your story middle—unless it’s a mess. In that
case, to fix it, you’ll have to go back to the drawing board, and this
chapter should make your task more manageable.

Without further ado, let’s get started!

 The 2 Preparatory Steps That Will
Help You Instantly Get to the Heart of
Your Story
Before you pair your premise with a specific fulcrum, you need to
take two preparatory steps. The first is to summarize your story in
one sentence. (In screenwriting parlance, this is known as the
logline.)

Sticking to one sentence is difficult to do in general; it’s even more

so when you’re dealing with a futuristic concept like Divergent’s. For
this reason, we’ll give ourselves some leeway: two sentences, not
one.

While a logline is a helpful marketing tool, that’s not its purpose here.
Don’t worry if it’s awkward or clunky, or if it’s grammatically incorrect.
No one’s going to see it but you.

For this example, I’m also going to include parenthetical asides in my

logline. These would have to be eliminated in a final version. But for
now, they function as convenient shorthand, encapsulating my vision
for the story without getting overly wordy. So here it is, my logline for
Divergent:

Tris lives in a society where individuals are divided into factions; at

the end of high school, children decide whether to stay with their
parents, in the faction they were born into, or forsake this faction for
a new one (faction before blood). When Tris decides to leave behind
her staid faction for a more adventurous—but cutthroat—one, she
must survive their rigorous training…or become factionless (kind of
the equivalent of being shunned in an Amish community).

Working from the logline alone will definitely be sufficient to help you
match your premise to a midpoint fulcrum. But, in creating your
logline, you may’ve discovered more about your story. You can use
this knowledge too, if you want.

Just limit yourself to a thumbnail sketch. Too many details will cloud
your vision, preventing you from drawing connections between your
premise and potential fulcrums.

As part of my thumbnail sketch, I’m going to add a few more details,

which again, I think a writer would have uncovered while
worldbuilding and developing the story’s basic premise. Below are
the details:

The children take an aptitude test (like the SAT) to help them
determine which faction is right for them.
Tris demonstrates aptitude for multiple factions; this is known as
divergence.
Divergent individuals are harder to control. They threaten the
status quo. Because of this, they are clandestinely killed by the
government.
A mentor figure will guide Tris through her faction training. He
might be divergent too.

There, we’re done with the first preparatory step. With it completed,
we can move on to the second. Now, we must make a list of all the
characters that are stated in or implied by the logline (and, in this
case, our thumbnail sketch). This is what my list looks like:

Tris
Tris’s family in her original faction
members of Tris’s new faction (this includes longtime members
and newbies like herself)
someone who administers the aptitude test
someone who runs Tris’s new faction (this person would also
establish how faction recruits would be trained)
someone to guide Tris through the training process, i.e. a
mentor
 someone from the government who hunts down divergent
individuals, i.e. the villain (this might be the same person who
runs Tris’s new faction)
members of the factionless

With both preparatory steps completed, we’re ready to mine our

concept for potential midpoint fulcrums. First, we’ll go through
fulcrums that are instantly suggested by our concept. Then, we’ll
review the fulcrums that feel like more of a “stretch.” Finally, we’ll
discuss what to do with our list of fulcrum candidates, and how to
choose the most magical one to build our story middle around.

As a quick side note, if you’ve read Sizzling Story Outlines, this

process might look familiar to you because I covered the same
exercise there—only I used Mrs. Doubtfire to illustrate, not
Divergent.

Hopefully, this exercise, with Divergent, will reinforce what you’ve

already learned. And if you haven’t read Sizzling Story Outlines and
would like to review another midpoint-selection example (as well as
tips on creating a logline and outlining your plot), you can learn more
about that writing guide by visiting the link below:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/outline/

With that side note duly addressed, let’s dive into our first round of
midpoint matching. To begin, turn the page!
 Mining Your Premise for Midpoint
Fulcrums That Are Indicated by Your
Logline (Automatically or by
Extension)
To determine possible fulcrum candidates, first examine the contours
of your plot. What do I mean by that?

Well, with rare exception, your plot (as summarized by your logline)
should, like jigsaw puzzle pieces or a skeleton key and its lock,
automatically fit with at least one fulcrum. The connection between
them should be obvious.

In the case of Divergent, Tris is thrust from a demure faction into an

aggressive one. Logically, she’d initially have difficulties adapting to
her new life. This situation has tide turner written all over it.

At first, Tris could experience one setback after another, and her
prospects of surviving training would appear dim. After the midpoint,
the tides turn, and she’d start to succeed.

What could cause the tides to turn in Tris’s favor? It could be that the
instructions she’s received from her mentor are finally clicking into
place. Her success could also be due to a bond that she’s developed
with her mentor—or another character.

But I’ll save that discussion for the bond builder. For now, I want to
explore the other fulcrum that’s automatically suggested by the
contours of the plot: the passivity pivot. Tris’s goal is to survive
training. It’s inherently passive in tenor.

To change things up, the plot could pivot at the midpoint. Tris could
go on the offensive somehow. As one possibility, the building-
infiltration sequence traditionally associated with the on-the-run
passivity pivot could be adapted to suit this particular plot.

The location part is easy. Tris could infiltrate a place that’s guarded
by the government official hell-bent on killing divergent individuals.
As an alternative possibility, maybe she has to infiltrate the makeshift
headquarters of the factionless.

The tricky part is motivation. Why does Tris have to infiltrate this
location? Maybe…

She’s trying to acquire intel about the government official—how

he’s planning a coup (and thus poses a threat to society at
large).
He’s hidden some new technology that could be used to
instantly suss out divergent individuals (and thus poses an even
greater threat to Tris).
The official has hidden this intel (or technology) in factionless
headquarters, the last place anyone would look for it (the
sneaky devil!).

All of these seem like viable possibilities. Plus, they all share a
common thread. Did you catch it? They all arise out of a desire to
gain greater insight into the government official’s plans. In other
words, to provide sufficient motivation for the passivity pivot, the
antagonist-aha fulcrum will have to be brought in as well.

All right, we now have two fulcrums (the bond builder and the
antagonist aha) waiting in the wings. Let’s tackle the bond builder
first. It isn’t immediately suggested by the contours of the plot (the
way it would be if coerced coexistence drove the plot), but it is
suggested by extension.

As already mentioned, the bond builder could enable the tides to turn
in Tris’s favor. After building a romantic or platonic bond with her
mentor, her self-confidence could skyrocket. This, in turn, could help
her overcome the mental blocks that were preventing her from
succeeding during Act 2A. As another option, after forming a bond
with Tris, her mentor could share with her his knowledge as an
insider, which would give her a competitive edge.

Of course, Tris doesn’t have to bond with her mentor. She could form
a bond with someone else. To generate more possibilities, all we
have to do is review the list of characters stated in or implied by our
logline (and thumbnail sketch).

For instance, during Act 2A, Tris could be in a bitter rivalry with
another initiate like herself. But at the midpoint, maybe Tris helps this
rival instead of sacrificing him, and now he could become her friend.
After their friendship blossoms, they could work with one another
instead of against each other, which again, could lead to the tide-
turner fulcrum.

When I scan our list of possible characters, another option springs to

mind. Tris could form a bond (romantic or platonic) with a member of
the factionless. Before he was expelled, he could’ve been a member
of the faction she’s training to join. Hence, he is in possession of
insider knowledge that he could share with Tris…leading us once
more to the tide turner.

Although I’ve been focusing on connecting these bonds to the tide

turner, that’s not the only route to take. The bond builder works
nicely with the passivity pivot as well. Tris could infiltrate a high-
security location with the person she’s bonded with, whether that
person is (a) her mentor, (b) her rival-turned-ally, or (c) a member of
the factionless.

And that brings us back to the antagonist-aha fulcrum. In order to

trigger the passivity pivot, Tris must gain insight into the plans of the
government official, who, it seems, is going to be the main villain of
the piece. Partial insight, to be more specific. Someone (her mentor,
a member of the factionless, etc.) could discover a key detail of the
villain’s plan, and share it with Tris.
What could this detail be? Maybe it’s the date the villain plans to do
something horrible, but not the plan itself. (This, you’ll note, creates a
deadline—a key midpoint component, which we’ll talk about in the
next chapter.) Maybe it’s the accidental discovery of secret
technology. Tris would know that the villain plans to do something
horrible with the technology, but she doesn’t yet understand the full
scope of the villain’s plan. Maybe it’s both (date and technology).

Regardless, to uncover the full picture, Tris must go on the offensive

and infiltrate the villain’s headquarters—swinging the story in a new
direction.

Additionally, Tris could gain full insight into the villain’s plan at the
midpoint. This, too, would swing the story in a new direction, albeit
by defining Tris’s offensive maneuver in a different way. Instead of
infiltrating the villain’s headquarters to glean more knowledge, she’d
be infiltrating the headquarters in order to take down the villain.

While skimming through these possibilities, I noticed that the role of

the mentor and the member of the factionless overlap on more than
one occasion. This suggests the makings of the subplot that
everyone loves to hate—the love triangle. Tris could receive
guidance from her “visible” mentor in her new faction as well as from
her “secret” mentor who’s currently factionless. As a result, she
could become torn between them.

At the moment, I’m not sure how this subplot works within the larger
framework of the story. All the same, I’m glad I stumbled upon it.
See, when we started this exercise I didn’t have any plot twists up
my sleeve. Sometimes, you do—and that’s the whole reason you’re
excited to develop a particular premise. But in this case, I didn’t.

Until now.

One of Tris’s love interests in the love triangle could be in league

with the government official—a revelation that Tris would never see
coming. (Hopefully, audiences wouldn’t either.) Basically, by
examining possible midpoint fulcrums, I generated new raw material
that led me to another fulcrum: the revelation acceleration,
specifically the shocker variety.

That said, I’m not sure I want to use this twist. If I do, I don’t think I’d
actually deploy it at the midpoint (more on this topic later). Even so, it
feels good to have in my back pocket.

Okay. The shocker revelation acceleration is a possibility. What

about the dramatic-irony variation? Is that an option? Seems like it.
From the thumbnail sketch, we know that Tris is concealing a secret
—she’s divergent. This secret is known to Tris, to audiences—and,
let’s not forget—to the person who administered Tris’s aptitude test.

At the midpoint, this secret could be revealed to a new individual.

Again, by scanning our list of characters, several possibilities
become apparent. The secret could be revealed to one of Tris’s
rivals, who is, like her, vying for a spot in their new faction. This rival
could demand that Tris fail on purpose—enabling him to outrank her.
Otherwise, he’ll spill her secret…and it’s better to be factionless than
to be dead.

On that note, the secret could be revealed to a member of the

factionless. This person could trade this knowledge to gain entry
back into the faction he was expelled from. As another option, it
could be revealed to a longtime member of Tris’s new faction,
someone who’s tired of being relegated to the shadows. This person
could use Tris’s secret to begin a path of ascendancy, ousting the
current leaders of his faction.

And in yet another variation, Tris’s secret could be revealed to a

member of Tris’s original faction. If her family discovers the truth, it’s
probably not going to cause a problem. They’re unlikely to use her
secret against her…unless, that is, they really take the mantra
faction before blood to heart. Other members of Tris’s original faction
are candidates, too. They could betray her for their own reasons.

Speaking of, I’ve overlooked an obvious possibility: the person who

administered Tris’s aptitude test could spill the beans, perhaps to
save the life of someone he loves. By toying with this idea, we could
milk the power of dramatic irony during Act 2A.

That is to say, someone from the government could become

suspicious of Tris’s test results, start sniffing around the test
administrator, and eventually pressure the test administrator to
cough up the truth. The administrator would valiantly hold out, at
least until the midpoint.

The dramatic-irony variation of the revelation acceleration is bearing

a lot of good fruit, which raises a critical point. In this hypothetical
scenario, we knew Tris’s secret in advance. It was part of the
thumbnail sketch. But it’s equally feasible that when you conduct this
exercise on your own, you wouldn’t know it.

Maybe you’d discover it in the middle of outlining your story or

completing a first draft. Maybe you’d never discover it at all. Tris
would still endure all of the trials that her new faction throws at her,
but without the secret of divergence hovering over her head.

Whether you come up with the idea of divergence earlier, later, or

never—it doesn’t matter. Sure, you might not be able to use the title
Divergent anymore. In regard to the plot, though, you don’t need the
revelation-acceleration options produced by Tris’s secret to sustain it
and prevent the middle of the story from sagging. You have plenty of
other fulcrums to work with (which, incidentally, is a major benefit of
using this system).

Despite the volume of fulcrums we have at our immediate disposal,

our exploration is not yet over. We still have to look past the midpoint
fulcrums that are indicated (automatically or by extension) by the
logline. That’s what we’ll do in the next section, so keep reading!
 Mining Your Premise for Midpoint
Fulcrums That Aren’t Indicated by
Your Logline
Looking at midpoint fulcrums suggested by the logline yielded
several options. Nonetheless, there may be a few more to add to the
mix.

We must widen our gaze and see if we can make any of the
remaining fulcrums—the BFF breaker, the manifest midpoint, and
the game changer—work with our premise.

If we can’t see a way to connect these fulcrums to our premise, it’s

not a big deal. There’s no need to force it. Nevertheless, a casual
exploration is warranted…just in case it uncovers an amazing new
possibility.

To start, let’s look at the BFF breaker. My original inclination is to

reject it out of hand. On the surface, it doesn’t seem to fit within the
contours of the plot at all. Tris has to leave behind everyone from her
original faction. These relationships will be severed from the get-go.
Therefore, they can’t start to show cracks at the midpoint.

But then, just to see if I could make the BFF breaker work, I thought
about it a little more, and an idea came to me. What if someone from
Tris’s original faction also chose the same new faction?

During Act 2A, they could help each other cope, and their friendship
would hold despite the stress of training. But then Tris’s friend could
become resentful of the attention their mentor pays to Tris. The
cracks in their friendship could show at the midpoint, culminating in a
complete rift at the trough. Due to this rift, the friend could reveal
Tris’s divergent status in order to guarantee herself a spot in their
new faction.
Having investigated the BFF breaker (and getting pretty decent
results!), let’s move on to the manifest midpoint. While it could be
argued that Divergent is an arena story, I don’t think that argument
holds much water.

Either way, it’s not something to stress over because even non-
MOCHA-flavored stories can utilize the manifest midpoint. You just
have to come up with a suitable shadow version—and that’s where
we reach a bit of a stumbling block. As it stands, the plot revolves
around Tris’s training. She can’t train for training during Act 2A. That
doesn’t make much sense. The manifest midpoint looks like it’s out
of the running, at least for now.

This leaves us with the game changer. Is there any way to change
up the plot or change the game via another mechanism?

In theory, Tris’s training could end at the midpoint. Having completed

it successfully, she could begin life as a full-fledged member of her
new faction. Perhaps, as part of her new duties, she’s ordered to
conduct surveillance on her original faction. In following those
orders, she could discover how corrupt her new faction really is.

Although we were able to come up with a solid game changer for this
illustrative exercise, most of the time, this won’t be the case. It’s the
kind of thing that you discover as you build an outline or write a
rough draft.

As a matter of fact, in the actual novel (and its film adaptation), there
is a game-changing midpoint. During Act 2A, Tris’s training
emphasizes physical strength. But during Act 2B, her training
emphasizes mental strength. While both fall under the rubric of
survival, they’re clearly different, creating the impression that the
rules of the game have changed.

This change, in training focus, is something that author Veronica

Roth could’ve known from the very beginning, when she first started
to pen her novel to paper. But, if you were in her place, it’s also
something you could discover in the midst of writing, as you reflect
on the kind of tests Tris would have to endure as part of her training.
Noticing that your reflections comprise both physical and mental
tests of strength, you could purposefully segregate them in order to
create a game-changer fulcrum.

Essentially, in this hypothetical scenario, you’d be discovering a

game-changing midpoint along the way, having already built your
outline or draft around another fulcrum of your choosing. Which
brings us to the final section of this chapter…
 How to Choose the Best Fulcrum to
Build Your Story Middle Around
After you’ve mined your premise for midpoint fulcrums, it’s possible
that you may only come up with one midpoint. Possible, but unlikely.

In most cases, you’ll probably come up with at least two…or several

more, as we did here with Divergent. To quickly recap, our exercise
yielded the following options:

tide turner
passivity pivot (building infiltration or villain takedown)
bond builder (with mentor, rival, factionless)
antagonist aha
revelation acceleration (shocker—love-interest mentor is in
cahoots with villain)
revelation acceleration (dramatic irony—additional characters
learn of Tris’s divergence)
BFF breaker
game changer

That’s eight possibilities right there, plus their assorted variations.

Usually, you’d be staring at a bunch of blank pages. Now, with the
fulcrum system, you’re dealing with the opposite—you’ve got so
many ideas, your story middle can’t contain them all.

It’s a sweet little dilemma to have, kind of like asking yourself, What
should I buy first with my royalty checks? While I can’t help you out
with the royalty issue, I can give you some pointers on how to handle
your midpoint-fulcrum dilemma.

So. When faced with so many possibilities, what should you do?
Which one should you pick?
Did you notice that “one” was in italics? I did that on purpose to
stress a key point: even when multiple midpoints could work together
in your screenplay or novel, mentally designate one of them as your
fulcrum.

Yep, just one.

If you try to juggle more than one fulcrum at a time, it’s easy to get
overwhelmed. By zooming in on just one, you avoid this problem.

Plus, by focusing on one fulcrum, you’ll find that others will be taken
care of by default. And if they’re not, you can always go back and
incorporate them into the framework you’ve built around the midpoint
you initially designated as your fulcrum.

However, to get to that one fulcrum, you’ll have to do some

winnowing. The process looks something like this:

(1) Make your task more manageable.

If you only have two or three fulcrums to choose from, this step might
be unnecessary. But if you have several—like we do here—then it’s
helpful to eliminate some right off the bat.

Use any criteria you’d like to “disqualify” certain fulcrums. Below are
a few suggestions to get you started:

The fulcrum is more appropriate for a subplot. Although some

fulcrums will make excellent subplot material, they’re just not strong
enough to anchor the middle of your story. They won’t help you
unlock Acts 2A and 2B, and should be crossed off accordingly.

In our hypothetical Divergent example, the bond builder (with

anyone) and the BFF breaker both scream subplot. Likewise, the
mentor-love-triangle idea seems ideal subplot material.

Not only that, developing a romantic relationship on two separate

fronts can get complicated. It’s not clear if this love triangle will fit into
the eventual framework of the story (i.e. the main plot). Better to put
it (and the shocking revelation-acceleration fulcrum it yields) aside
for now, and return to it later on, when the central story framework
has been mostly set.

The fulcrum creates issues of credibility. In one variation of the

passivity pivot, Tris goes on the offensive by infiltrating the villain’s
headquarters in order to take down the villain. But Tris has only been
training in her new faction for Act 2A. She’s not ready (physically,
mentally, and emotionally) for such a grand undertaking.

It stretches credibility for her to take such a big step now. On the
other hand, after being trained during Acts 2A and 2B, it’s more
believable for Tris to engage in such an endeavor. In short, it’s prime
climax, not midpoint, material.

This is another reason to reject the shocker revelation acceleration.

During Act 2A, Tris will be torn between her two mentors; then, after
the bond builder, she’ll commit to one of them. But it’ll still take her
awhile to feel confident in her choice, to feel safe enough to confess
her secret to the guy she has chosen.

And she must confide her secret to him before he can betray her,
revealing he’s in league with the villain. In other words, in this
particular situation, because accelerating the reveal creates a
credibility issue, it’s wiser to position it toward the end of Act 2B, as
part of the trough.

Your initial gut response is to discard a fulcrum. Sometimes your

instincts will take a fulcrum out of contention. For instance, in theory,
Act Two could be split by a game-changer fulcrum. Before it, Tris
would train; after it, as part of her life in her new faction, she’d have
to conduct surveillance on her parents.

While this plot has potential, I’m not very keen on it. I can’t explain
why; it’s just my gut reaction. For me, that’s enough of a reason to
disqualify this fulcrum.
The fulcrum creates point-of-view (POV) problems. This criterion
should be applied only if you’re writing a novel. In many cases, to
take full advantage of any revelation-acceleration fulcrums involving
dramatic irony, you have to use third-person POV. You can’t use first
person.

If you’re 100% committed to using first-person POV, then any

fulcrums built on dramatic irony would likely have to be excluded. If
you’re absolutely certain you’re going to use third person, then these
fulcrums can remain on the table.

In this hypothetical Divergent scenario, let’s say you’re not sure.

Sometimes, you lean toward first person; sometimes, toward third
person. It’s totally up in the air.

It’d be kind of foolish to anchor the entire middle of your novel on a

fulcrum that—due to the eventual POV you choose—may no longer
be viable. In a nutshell: all the dramatic-irony possibilities should be
temporarily discarded until you know more about how you’re going to
write your story.

(2) Group the remaining fulcrums according to compatibility.

After you go through the disqualification process, your list of possible

fulcrums should shrink considerably. By my count, from our original
list, only three remain:

the tide turner

the passivity pivot (where Tris infiltrates a high-security location
to gain more insight)
the antagonist aha

Some fulcrums on your list can easily be combined together. They

work in conjunction with one another; they can be woven together
via cause and effect. Others can’t be easily combined; they work in
isolation.
Therefore, your next step is to sift through the remaining fulcrums on
your list and group them together according to compatibility. Make
sure to look for all possible combinations.

From our earlier analysis, you know that the antagonist-aha fulcrum
works in conjunction with both the tide turner and the passivity pivot.
Thus, by focusing on either of the latter two fulcrums, the antagonist
aha will be taken care of by default. In essence, our list of three
fulcrums has been reduced to two.

Pretend for a second that the bond builder was still in the running. As
mentioned before, the bond builder could trigger the antagonist aha,
which in turn, could trigger either the tide turner or the passivity pivot.
It’s easy to link the three fulcrums (bond builder + antagonist aha +
tide turner OR bond builder + antagonist aha + passivity pivot)
together.

In contrast, it’s not so easy to draw a connection between the tide

turner and the passivity pivot. Even though they’re not incompatible
outright, it’s wise to treat them as such, i.e. as fulcrums that work in
isolation.

By taking care of one, you’re unlikely to take care of the other.

Basically, you’re dealing with an “either…or” proposition. This means
that you have to choose between them. Unsurprisingly, this action
comprises step #3.

(3) Narrow down the field again.

From your current list of possibilities, which one is most interesting to

you? Which one will produce the strongest story? Which one will you
be most excited to write about?

That’s the fulcrum you should choose to build your story middle
around. In this instance, for me, the choice is obvious. I’d go with the
passivity pivot over the tide turner. I like the idea of Tris going on the
offensive a lot. Plus, by incorporating a pivot, I know I’m avoiding a
common midpoint pitfall. (After you read chapter 4, you’ll know
exactly what pitfall I’m talking about.)

When you do this activity on your own, the answer might not be so
clear-cut. In that situation, I recommend that you outline your story
using each fulcrum on your list. Then you can stack up your outlines
side by side, compare them, and figure out which one works best.

(4) Integrate your “secondary” fulcrums.

If you have created comparison outlines, then you should have a

solid idea of what your story middle looks like. If you haven’t, briefly
reflect on what needs to happen in order for your story to go (a) from
the end of Act One to the midpoint you have chosen, and (b) from
this midpoint to the end of Act Two. (In other words, think about the
circumstances that would logically lead to your midpoint as well as
the consequences that would naturally emerge from it.)

This should help you fill in several gaps. Now you can verify if you
have, by default, integrated compatible fulcrums into your story. If
you haven’t, then you can incorporate them now, filling in more gaps.

In our Divergent example, you’d want to make sure that you worked
in the antagonist-aha fulcrum as well as the bond builder. If more
than one variation was on the table, you’d have to commit to a
particular option.

For instance, you have to decide with whom Tris is going to build a
bond. Maybe a mentor only. Maybe a member of the factionless.
Maybe a rival from her new faction. Maybe all three!

Also, at this point, the framework of your story should be pretty clear
to you. You should be able to determine whether a subplot like the
mentor love triangle fits into this framework…or whether it will dangle
from your plot like gangly saddlebags.

(5) Revisit discarded fulcrums.

If you’ve followed all of these steps, you know more about your story
now than you did when you first began the winnowing process. With
this new knowledge, some fulcrums may warrant a second
examination.

You might not be so quick to eliminate them this time around.

Instead, you may use one of these (previously discarded) fulcrums in
addition to the ones you’ve already chosen or in lieu of them.

As a quick heads-up, the revelation acceleration and the manifest

midpoint excel at remedying escalation problems. If your story
doesn’t escalate with your current midpoint picks, consider swapping
one (or more) of them with the revelation acceleration or the
manifest midpoint, which you’d have on hand either because (a) you
discarded it before or (b) you created it just now, with the new
knowledge you’ve gained by initially designating a different fulcrum
as your midpoint.

To accomplish the swap, you may have to entirely rethink the way
you’re going to develop your premise and your story middle. If you’re
writing a novel, and, as part of the swap, you include a revelation
acceleration of the dramatic-irony variety, you might have to rethink
your POV too—switching from first person to third.

These alterations are pretty painless to incorporate if you’re working

from an outline. If you’re working from a rough draft, they’ll require
more effort. However, the investment of time is, generally speaking,
worth the gains you’ll make in escalation.

Finally, this is also a good opportunity to play musical chairs. While

some of the fulcrums you discarded might not be suitable for the
midpoint, they may become more effective when they are
repositioned.

Going back to Divergent, recall that taking down the villain (a

variation of the passivity pivot) poses credibility problems at the
midpoint. However, it’s perfectly logical to use as part of the climax.
Likewise, although betrayal by a mentor/love interest wouldn’t be
entirely credible at the midpoint, it wouldn’t create an issue at the
trough.

***

Picking the perfect midpoint fulcrum is a solid step toward creating a

story middle that doesn’t sag or drag. But it’s no guarantee.

The effectiveness and magical power of your fulcrum depend on how

well you implement it. The next two chapters are intended to help
you design a midpoint with finesse—and without flaws. In chapter 3,
you’ll learn about eight practical considerations to take into account
as you develop your midpoint, while chapter 4 discusses five
common pitfalls to avoid.

To continue your journey toward becoming a midpoint maestro, turn

the page!
 8 PRACTICAL CONSIDERATIONS
TO PONDER WHEN DEVELOPING
YOUR MIDPOINT
- chapter three -

Chapter 1 gave you an overview of the eight major midpoint

fulcrums. In chapter 2, you learned how to systematically match your
premise to one (or more) of the midpoint fulcrums.

Rather than being vague, your story middle is taking shape. With
clarity comes enthusiasm. You may be eager to outline or draft the
middle of your story (which is perhaps, a new—and welcome—
feeling).

But don’t jump in just yet.

Before you take the plunge, there are a few practical considerations
you need to ponder in order to extract the most “anti-sag” capability
from your midpoint. These considerations encompass a range of
topics—from genre to stakes, scope, and sequence.

That’s what this chapter is all about. Save for a couple, these
pointers haven’t been explicitly mentioned before. Either they haven’t
been discussed at all in the previous two chapters, or they’ve only
been implied.

But we can’t dance around or gloss over them any longer; it’s time to
spell them out—starting with practical consideration #1, span…
 Practical Consideration #1: Span
Despite its name, the midpoint doesn’t have to be a specific point.

Sometimes it is. That is to say, the midpoint is defined by a single

moment in your screenplay or novel.

Inception is a good example. Before minute 64, Cobb’s team was

preparing for the heist. After that, having entered Fischer’s mind,
they’re in the thick of it. Minute 64 is when the manifest-midpoint
fulcrum swings the story in a new direction.

In other cases, however, the midpoint can’t be isolated to a specific

moment. Rather, it’s a collection of scenes that form a sequence
(sometimes sequences). The sequence (or sequences)—as a whole
—swing your story in a new direction.

With the antagonist-aha fulcrum, for instance, the hero will often
learn information about his opponent in bits and pieces that are
doled out across the midpoint sequence.

In In the Line of Fire, Frank knows someone is after the president,

but he doesn’t know anything about the villain’s background. Around
the midpoint, Frank’s picture of the villain becomes clearer.

From the villain himself, Frank learns a clue (Minneapolis) that

will enable Frank to figure out the villain’s plan.
In a subsequent scene, Frank learns the villain’s name (it’s
Mitch).
Finally, rounding out his intel, Frank learns the true extent of the
villain’s “powers.” Mitch is not the average whacko; he’s an ex-
CIA assassin.
 Practical Consideration #2: Genre
The midpoint is a prime opportunity to fulfill genre expectations.

This isn’t the time for a solitary action stunt or comedy gag. This is
the time to deliver the genre goods in a big, memorable way.

That doesn’t mean that fulfillment of the genre goods must

encapsulate the fulcrum. Fulfillment may lead to, or emerge from, the
fulcrum itself.

As a generic example, in an action movie, the hero may glean more

insight into the villain’s plan in the midst of an extended fight
sequence. In this case, genre delivery occurs in tandem with the
fulcrum.

Alternatively, the hero may glean his insight during a quieter

moment, while reviewing events with a sidekick or mentor. Delivery
of the genre goods would emerge from the fulcrum, when the hero
launches a new plan of attack based on what he’s just concluded.

Likewise, the fulcrum may emerge from the midpoint genre

sequence. Look at The Pacifier and Bridesmaids, both of which have
memorably comedic midpoints. In the former, Shane fights off two
ninjas using toys from the playroom of the children he’s babysitting—
immobilizing one ninja with a pop-up play tunnel, and stuffing the
other into a play tent. In the latter, Annie grounds the flight the bridal
party was supposed to take to Las Vegas, thus bringing Lillian’s
bachelorette festivities to an abrupt halt.

As a result of these sequences, the protagonist’s relationship with

other characters shifts in a new direction. In The Pacifier, it builds a
bond between Shane and his babysitting charges, whose
resentment toward his micromanagement gives way to gratitude for
his protection.
In contrast, in Bridesmaids, the midpoint genre sequence leads to a
BFF-breaker fulcrum, as the first cracks in Annie and Lillian’s
friendship start to show. Out of loyalty to Annie, Lillian forgave
Annie’s missteps during Act 2A, but now the Las Vegas debacle has
exhausted Lillian’s store of patience, and she transfers Annie’s maid-
of-honor duties to Annie’s rival, Helen.
 Practical Consideration #3: Stakes
In most stories, the stakes are usually raised at the midpoint.

The negative consequences of failure will become worse for the

protagonist right around this time.

The protagonist has to achieve his goal—or else.

For instance, in Liar Liar, Fletcher has to play ball with his son, Max,
or else Max (and Fletcher’s ex-wife) will move to the opposite coast.
In Back to the Future, Marty needs to find a way to get his parents to
fall in love, or else he’ll cease to exist.

Oftentimes, this is also when a deadline is introduced. Before the

midpoint, it may seem like the protagonist has all the time in the
world to solve his problem. But at the midpoint, it becomes clear that
he doesn’t. (And if a deadline was introduced before the midpoint, it
will frequently become significantly narrower at the midpoint; e.g.
going from 3 days to 3 hours.)

In Battleship, for example, Hopper and his crew clearly don’t have all
summer to save the world from an alien attack. Even so, at first, their
deadline is vague. But a little past the midpoint, their deadline comes
into sharp focus. They don’t have a week, they don’t have 1 or 2
days. They just have 5 hours.

Once you start to look for deadlines at the midpoint, you’ll find them
everywhere. Their presence at this key structural junction isn’t
accidental. It isn’t arbitrary. They’re added by design.

Why?

By limiting your protagonist and putting his chances of success into

question, deadlines ratchet up the tension, heightening the power of
whatever stakes are in play—and ensuring that audiences remain
riveted by your story.
 Practical Consideration #4: Scope
Recall that the purpose of a midpoint fulcrum is to prevent Act Two
from feeling monotonous, i.e. to avoid the impression that it’s just
more of the same old, same old.

Another way to make Act 2B feel different from Act 2A, and thus
alleviate the impression of monotony, is to widen the scope of your
story at the midpoint.

Here’s a simple way to do this: make your protagonist’s problem

bigger than what it originally was. For instance, in a mystery novel,
the detectives could initially investigate a cold case. But at the
midpoint, their investigation turns into something far larger—the hunt
for a serial killer.

In this example, notice that widening the scope of the investigation

also raises the stakes. Should the detectives fail, they have more to
lose. The victim from the initial case will not receive justice, and, in
addition, more innocent people will die.

You can also widen the scope by making the antagonist forces
working against your protagonist “bigger” in some way.

Perhaps, you may add a new source of antagonism to the mix.

Around the midpoint of National Treasure, the FBI becomes
involved, which means that, in addition to the villain, Ben has to fend
off Special Agent Sadusky. In other words, during Act 2A, Ben had
one front to fight (against the villain); during Act 2B, he has two (the
villain and the feds).

In other stories, the net effect isn’t caused so much by an increase in

antagonist quantity, but rather, by an intensification of antagonist
influence. Here’s a generic example of what I mean: at first, the
protagonist, who’s investigating a murder, thinks the victim was killed
for personal or professional reasons—a jealous ex-lover, an
ambitious colleague.

But at the midpoint (likely of the antagonist-aha variety; as

mentioned in chapter 1, scope widening and the antagonist aha
often go hand in hand), the protagonist realizes that the victim’s
death is part of a bigger picture, a deeper web, perhaps one with
roots that go all the way to Washington, D.C.

This discovery swings the story in a new direction, as the protagonist

must face forces during Act 2B that are more powerful, more
experienced, and more ruthless than the ex-lovers and ambitious
colleagues he interrogated during Act 2A.

While increasing antagonistic forces (via quantity or influence) is a

sound method to escalate your story and jazz up its middle, it does
come with a warning. The introduction of new characters
(antagonists, in this instance) after the midpoint can make your story
feel episodic.

To sidestep this drawback, try one of these tactics:

During the first half of your story, hint at the impending arrival of
your post-midpoint antagonists.
Do more than hint; bring these antagonists into your story during
Act 2A…but keep them on the sidelines until Act 2B.
Don’t mention these antagonists at all prior to the midpoint, but
put them to good use throughout the latter half of your story. (If
they’re well integrated during Act 2B and the climax, then their
absence from Act 2A and Act One will be less conspicuous.)

Sometimes, the tradeoff won’t be worth it. In order to avoid the

episodic label, you may have to incorporate these antagonists into
your story pre-midpoint, and sacrifice this potential source of
escalation.
Practical Consideration #5: Necessity
The fulcrum is a means to an end: to prevent Act 2B from feeling the
same as Act 2A.

It’s a quick-and-easy monotony buster, sure—but it’s not the only

one. There are alternatives.

If, for whatever reason, the fulcrums are too restrictive for your
project, you can think in more general terms and combine together
some of the elements we recently discussed.

Basically, you can craft a fulcrum-free midpoint that’s nevertheless

effective, simply by:

fulfilling genre expectations

raising the stakes
introducing a deadline
widening the scope

Actually, you can achieve the same effect by focusing exclusively on

that last element and making your protagonist’s situation
progressively worse (i.e. things are sort of problematic for your
protagonist during Act 2A, but become really bad for him during Act
2B).

That said, when you pursue one of these alternative mechanisms,

you’ll probably discover that your fulcrum-free middle does, in fact,
contain a fulcrum (likely the antagonist aha, as it’s the most versatile
of the bunch).

Moreover, it’s to your advantage to include a fulcrum by design.

Doing so comes with additional benefits besides busting up
monotony. For starters, you’ll enjoy a higher success rate with the
fulcrum system. It’s just easier to use.
You’re much more likely to come up with a greater quantity of viable
ideas for your story middle by focusing on a specific fulcrum than
you are by focusing on the general principles of escalation or genre
fulfillment, for instance.

Not only that, a fulcrum gives you a destination to write toward. This,
in turn, breaks down your task (complete Act Two) into manageable
chunks. On the other hand, asking yourself, How can I introduce a
deadline? or How can I make my protagonist’s life worse? doesn’t
yield an equally helpful anchoring point.

Plus, with a midpoint fulcrum, each half of your story middle is more
likely to have structural unity—with one overarching principle
governing Act 2A and another governing Act 2B—therefore
increasing your story’s cohesion. Again, asking yourself, How can I
make my protagonist’s life worse? or How can I engineer a genre-
fulfilling sequence halfway through Act Two? isn’t likely to yield the
same result.

Finally, when implemented well, the inclusion of a fulcrum will

probably make the middle of your story more lively and dynamic. It’s
so advantageous that I encourage you to include more than one.
Which brings us to consideration #6…
 Practical Consideration #6:
Multiplicity
While you can craft a midpoint without a fulcrum, I urge you to do
quite the opposite: go the whole mile and braid together as many
fulcrums as you can.

Why is this a smart tactic to employ? It (along with the trough),

increases the odds that the middle of your story will contain enough
captivating events to prevent audience interest from evaporating.
Furthermore, multiple fulcrums will probably pop up in your story
naturally, even when you don’t consciously build them in.

For instance, if your story includes a romance or “bromance” that’s

developed either (a) as part of a subplot or (b) in conjunction with the
main plot, then you’ll probably include bond-builder fulcrum by
default. While it will take the romance or bromance in a new direction
at the middle of your story, as the examples below illustrate, another
fulcrum will underpin the main plot:

tide turner (The Replacements)

antagonist aha (Lethal Weapon)
manifest midpoint (The Mummy)
game changer (Divergent)
BFF breaker (hypothetical version of Pregnant Pals, as already
discussed)
 Practical Consideration #7: Timing
Despite its definition, the midpoint’s timing is flexible. It doesn’t have
to occur precisely 50% of the way through your story.

If it’s quite elaborate—composed of, let’s say, one lengthy genre

sequence and three fulcrums—as a matter of course, there will be
“spillover.”

Thus, your midpoint may begin before, and end after, the halfway
mark, spanning both Acts 2A and 2B. Alternatively, it may begin right
at the halfway mark, and hence, wrap up long after it.

Additionally, the midpoint can be offset by other structural elements.

A first act that runs a little long may delay the midpoint, so that it
begins after the 50% mark. A first act that runs a little short may
advance the midpoint, so that it occurs before the 50% mark.

Sometimes, the midpoint’s timing is thrown off because it’s merged

with the trough. This happens frequently in films with an extremely
lengthy climax (e.g. Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black
Pearl and Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves).

As long as the middle of your story entertains, the exact timing of the
midpoint doesn’t really matter. However, bear in mind that excessive
deviation from the halfway mark increases the odds that the overall
structure of your story will feel off balance.

For example, if the midpoint occurs well before the halfway mark,
then Act 2B may feel overly repetitious, hitting the same beat, while
in contrast, Act 2A may feel underdeveloped. (As a matter of fact,
this is a common pitfall, and we’ll talk about it in more depth in
chapter 4.)

Basically, if your midpoint timing is askew, missing the 50% mark by

a wide margin, closely scrutinize your reasoning.
Have you embraced this unconventional structure on purpose
because you believe it will entertain audiences? Or is your decision
haphazard, perhaps enabling you to avoid sufficiently developing Act
2A or Act 2B?
Practical Consideration #8: Sequence
Fulcrums aren’t limited to the midpoint. They can be used to good
effect at other key structural turning points within your story.
(Technically, when employed in places other than the midpoint, they
should probably be given new monikers, but that’s neither here nor
there.)

Case in point: the revelation acceleration. As you already know, this

fulcrum type involves a reveal that writers typically like to position at
the end of Act Two. In some cases, this reveal may be delayed until
the climax.

So, if your story’s just not working and no matter what you do, the
middle of it feels as limp as wilted arugula, try playing musical chairs
with your structural turning points.

Shift your midpoint fulcrum to the trough; use a different fulcrum in

lieu of your original midpoint. Advance your trough (whatever it is) to
the midpoint, and come up with a new trough. Move up your
midpoint to the first-act break, and devise a suitable midpoint
replacement.

Even if your story is coming together nicely, with nary a sign of

limpness or sagging, you may have to play musical chairs anyway.
Why?

To preserve a sense of escalation.

Say you’ve taken the advice from consideration #2 to heart. You’ve

developed your midpoint sequence so that it fulfills genre
expectations in a major way. Trouble is, it’s outshining your climax,
which, as a result, will feel anticlimactic to audiences.

Not a good note to end on.

In this situation, you could scale back your midpoint sequence so
that it no longer eclipses your climax. You could make your climax
more elaborate, too.

Or, as an additional alternative, you could switch their positions.

This, you’ll note, will usually require some deft re-plotting to ensure
that your protagonist’s actions remain logical.

***

Addressing the practical considerations discussed in this chapter will

go a long way toward crafting a solid midpoint. But for your story
middle to truly dazzle, you also need to learn how to circumvent or
mitigate common pitfalls.

As it happens, that’s the topic of the next chapter…

 5 COMMON MIDPOINT PITFALLS
(PLUS, EASY WAYS TO SIDESTEP
THEM)
- chapter four -

With a fulcrum in place, the middle of your story is coming into focus.
It’d be nice if you were totally out of the woods.

But that’s not exactly the case. Unfortunately, your story middle can
still sag and drag, or disappoint in other ways. How so?

Well, the fulcrums themselves aren’t foolproof. When you implement

them, you have to take other storytelling principles into account. Like
a hunter who stumbles across long-forgotten snares, undetectable
bog pits, and gnarled tree roots in an ancient forest, if you’re not
careful, you’ll encounter various pitfalls that commonly plague
screenplays and novels, detracting from their entertainment value.

Sometimes, the damage caused by these pitfalls is serious;

sometimes, less so. Regardless, it behooves you to understand what
these pitfalls are, and how to circumvent or mitigate them.

Fortunately, that’s the topic of chapter 4. To be more specific, we’re

going to discuss the following five pitfalls:

the lack of a passivity pivot

a story that’s a slow starter
a truncated or split Act 2A
a slow Act 2B
a game changer that’s ill-advised
To get the most out of this chapter, keep the following in mind:
identifying and addressing potential pitfalls ahead of time can help
you learn more about your story, eventually yielding a detailed
outline (which is great if you’re a “plotter” who outlines your story in
advance).

If you’re a “pantser” (who writes without an outline, by the seat of

your pants), after you’ve finished your draft, you can use this chapter
as a diagnostic tool to evaluate whether, despite your good
intentions, your story middle drags. (Happily, you’ll also be well
equipped to fix any problems you uncover.)

Finally, the second pitfall—the slow starter—crops up a lot in first

drafts. It’s also pretty damaging. In fact, it may be the very thing
that’s holding you back and preventing you from achieving the level
of success you’d like. So pay special attention to that one!

Off we go, starting with pitfall #1, the lack of a passivity pivot…
 Pitfall #1: No Passivity Pivot
As you may recall from chapter 1, some plots lend themselves to the
passivity pivot. To quickly recap, these include:

to escape
to survive
to guard or protect
to go on the run

If your story can be categorized by any of the above, double-check

whether its middle shows signs of a passivity pivot.

Oftentimes, writers will embrace a plot that is, on the whole, passive
in tenor—but, alas, not the pivot. As a result, their protagonist will be
on the defensive for the entirety of Act Two. In most cases, this
approach isn’t as effective as the alternative, i.e. implementing the
passivity pivot.

To illustrate, let’s examine Snow White & the Huntsman. Snow White
is on the run from Ravenna’s brother for all of Act Two. Besides
eluding capture, Snow has an additional goal: to reach Duke
Hammond’s.

But this goal doesn’t put Snow on the offensive. It doesn’t require her
to venture to a place where she’s most likely to get caught.
Consequently, the film’s second act drags a bit.

To the film’s credit, an exciting genre sequence with flaming arrows

occurs at the middle. Shortly thereafter, Snow encounters the
dwarves. The addition of the dwarves to the original pair of Snow
and Eric (the huntsman) makes Act 2B feel distinct from Act 2A.

In some cases, this combination (a genre-fulfilling sequence coupled

with the introduction of new allies), would suffice to prevent a
sagging middle. In other cases, it wouldn’t. Snow White is one of the
latter. The combo isn’t enough to compensate for the lack of a
passivity pivot.

If you disagree, imagine what the film would be like if Snow did go on
the offensive sometime around the midpoint. What if she pivoted the
way Kimble (The Fugitive) and Anderton (Minority Report) do and
infiltrated the fantasy equivalent of police headquarters?

She doesn’t have to go into full-on warrior mode yet, just become
less reactive in her endeavors. As food for thought, let me float a
couple of possibilities. The first involves the white hart, whose
inclusion in the film is rather random. Let’s start there, and reinvent
the hart’s background. He’s still a magical beast, but in our version,
it’s rumored that no person can be killed if he’s astride the hart.

Ever fearful of being dethroned, Ravenna has captured the hart so

that nobody could use the hart to attack her. Furthermore, she’s
sequestered him away in a remote—and heavily guarded—location.
That’s our equivalent to police headquarters. Thus, Snow (along with
her posse) must go on the offensive and infiltrate this location.

This way, Snow would secure a steed that will make her temporarily
invincible when it comes time to canter down the beach at the
beginning of the climax. Not only that, we have livened up the middle
of our story in a way that’s likely to entertain audiences and keep
them satisfied.

Not very keen on the hart mission? Fair enough. Here’s another
option: replace the hart with the dwarves. Let me elaborate. In the
film, Snow White is the only one who can undo the spell protecting
Ravenna, who is warned by her mother, “By fairest blood it is done…
by fairest blood, this spell can be undone.” In our version, this
knowledge won’t be imparted to Ravenna by her mother, but by a
prophecy…a prophecy, with a secret addendum, or codicil, attached
to it.

Most people in Snow’s kingdom don’t know about the codicil, but
happily for Snow, one of the women in the river-hut village (where
the flaming-arrow genre sequence takes place) does know of it. By
the end of this sequence, this woman imparts this knowledge to
Snow—setting up our passivity pivot.

See, the codicil would state that the dwarves will also be
instrumental in defeating Ravenna. Unsurprisingly, Ravenna has
locked them up in a prison, which is far away from her kingdom’s
dungeons (it’s too dangerous to keep them on-site). And voila! We
have an alternative location for Snow to infiltrate during Act 2B.

As an added bonus, Snow White would encounter the dwarves by

taking the initiative (whereas in the film, she stumbles across them—
well, to be more accurate, they stumble across her—when she’s
running away from Ravenna’s brother). To maintain the conflict and
keep things fun, perhaps we could also employ a reversal, in which
the dwarves are massively ungrateful for their jailbreak.

You might not be very enthused about either of these possibilities.

Totally cool. But admit it. Don’t they have more energy than simply
being on the run? Don’t they sound more exciting and lively than
what actually transpires during Act 2B in the film?

You might be wondering why I’m harping on Snow White. After all, it
was successful enough to launch a sequel. True enough. But other
factors (namely striking visuals, along with the novelty of seeing
Snow presented as a warrior) helped offset the absence of a pivot in
the film.

Most writers won’t be in that situation. They’ll have a passive plot

and no pivot—and other elements of their story won’t be powerful
enough to make up the difference.

To wrap up, if your protagonist’s goal is passive in tenor and the

middle of your story feels lackluster—but you can’t pinpoint why—try
putting your protagonist on the offensive around the midpoint. The
passivity-pivot fulcrum could be the perfect way to revitalize your
story middle and get it back on track.
 Pitfall #2: A Slow Starter
This pitfall is a biggie. To understand it, we have to revisit the
manifest midpoint. Specifically, its main benefit.

It’s difficult to develop a concept over three sectors of a story (Act

2A, Act 2B, and Act Three). Of these, generally speaking, Act 2B
gets the short shrift. Oftentimes, it’s the weakest part of an otherwise
decent tale.

The manifest midpoint alleviates this problem by delaying the

presentation of the hook until the midpoint. When implemented like
so, writers only have to develop the full manifestation of their
concepts over two sectors, versus three. This way, it’s much easier
to generate a plot that escalates, and hence, satisfies audiences.

Frequently, writers arrive at the same destination via alternative

means. They’ve found a workaround that appears to be as
successful—on the surface, at least. These writers develop the full
manifestation of their concepts over two sectors (Act 2B and Act
Three) of their stories, which escalate as if they had utilized the
manifest model.

But they haven’t. Their Act 2A doesn’t contain a shadow version of

their concept. Instead, it’s an extension of Act One. Essentially half
of their story is setup.

Just to make sure we’re on the same page, we’re not talking about
setup that’s paired with a payoff (e.g. the hero, who’s on the run from
a loan shark, hides a gun in his sister’s capacious handbag during
Act One; at the climax, she uses the gun to shoot the loan shark and
save her brother’s life).

We’re talking about setting up a story, i.e. establishing what the plot
is all about. The latter type, you’ll notice, is broader in scope. With
the manifest midpoint, this kind of setup is limited to Act One. With
the workaround, this setup extends past Act One into Act 2A.

To break it down using percentages, with the standard manifest

model:

Act One = 25%

Act 2A shadow = 25%
Act 2B substance = 25%
Act Three = 25%

With the workaround,

Act One = 50%

Act 2B = 25%
Act Three = 25%

Basically, writers who use the workaround believe their story is

swinging in a new direction halfway through their draft. But their story
isn’t swinging in a new direction. Their story is just getting started.

Put another way, while these writers think they have a midpoint
fulcrum, they have something else altogether: a slow starter.

In eliminating the escalation issue, they’ve inadvertently created a

new problem. Audiences tend to get antsy when stories take forever
to get off the ground. Accordingly, they’ll abandon such stories,
putting them down long before the action picks up during Act 2B.

Even if audiences do stick around to discover that the second half of

the story zips along (e.g. they’re paid to do that; they have a rule
about finishing every novel they start), they’re not going to be happy
about slogging through such a sluggish beginning. Such
unhappiness equates to a pass (for a screenplay) or a two-star
review—and that’s if you’re lucky—(for a novel).
To avoid such a response, your story should have a real midpoint—a
real fulcrum. This is where things get slightly tricky. It’s easy to
conflate first-act setup (where you’re establishing your concept) with
second-act shadow prep (where you’re developing it)—especially
because the two can overlap. Team assembly, for instance, can
function in either capacity.

To quickly recap, if you do conflate the two, then your story really
won’t have an Act 2A. Instead, it will have an overly long beginning.
Having spiraled out of control, it will consume 50% of your story…
making audiences feel like your screenplay or novel took forever to
get off the ground.

The key, then, is to distinguish between setup and shadow; between

stalling your story and developing it. As a general rule of thumb, Act
2A shadow prep works when it is paired with a sense of progress.
Even though you won’t fully deliver the hook you promised until the
midpoint (e.g. mummy mayhem, dream infiltration, arena combat,
etc.), it still feels like your story is advancing forward, like your
protagonist is taking steps toward accomplishing his goal.

Actually, this is something we’ve kind of glossed over, but now’s the
time to say it outright. Your protagonist’s goal will spring into action at
the first-act break, just like the way the hook traditionally does.
However, although you can delay your hook until the midpoint,
delaying your protagonist’s goal pursuit is rarely (if ever) successful.

So that you get a feel for what I mean by progress, let’s go through
some hypothetical variations of Fast Five. Recall from chapter 1 that
the film employs a variant of the manifest midpoint.

A simple structural breakdown would look like this:

Act One: set up the heist

Act 2A: consolidate the cash (shadow of a shadow)
Act 2B: prepare for the heist (shadow)
Act Three: execute the heist (substance/hook)
Let’s pause for a moment to zoom in on consolidating the cash.
Because it takes the protagonists closer to their overall goal of
pulling off the heist, it advances the plot forward. All the same, it’s
quite a flexible story beat. It can easily be shuffled around and
positioned in other story sectors. For instance, it could be
incorporated into the first act. In this case, it wouldn’t develop the
plot. Rather, it’d function as part of the overall story setup, which
would now alert audiences to the location of the heist (the police
station) much earlier.

Also, in this case, replacing the void left behind in Act 2A is a piece
of cake because it enables us to implement the standard manifest
model. During Act 2A, the protagonists would prepare for the heist.
At the midpoint, the heist would begin. Again, by preparing for the
heist, the protagonists are clearly taking steps toward their goal. The
story isn’t stalling; it’s taking off.

Let’s try another variation. This time we’re really going to stretch the
variant manifest model to the limit. Instead of consolidating the cash
during Act 2A, the protagonists are going to consolidate it during Act
2B. This sequence is going to be elaborate, leaving us less time to
show classic shadow prep scenes, which is fine. The real issue is
with Act 2A. If the protagonists aren’t going to consolidate the cash
until the midpoint, what could they do until then?

Here’s one possibility: in the film, the protagonists uncover a chip

that reveals the locations of the ten cash houses where the villain
has stashed his money. What if the data wasn’t completely
readable? The protagonists would have seven of the ten cash-house
locations…but as for the remaining three, they’re clueless. And they
can’t let the extra money go. (After all, we’re talking millions here;
plus, it’s much more rewarding to divvy up a larger pot than it is to
divvy up a smaller one.)

Thus, during Act 2A, the protagonists could conduct some old-
fashioned sleuthing to figure out the locations of the three remaining
cash houses. Only then do they begin the process of consolidation.
As for this sleuthing, is it setup or shadow?
If consolidating the cash is the preparatory step before classic
shadow prep, then old-fashioned sleuthing would be the preparatory
step before the preparatory step—which feels like we’re stalling
doesn’t it?

Nevertheless, the protagonists are, once more, taking action toward

their goal. Sleuthing contributes toward their progress, toward
advancing the plot. It’s development, not a stall tactic. In other
words, while we’ve changed the definition of how the protagonists
are initially going to pursue their goal (they’re not yet consolidating
the cash, but instead, detecting the remaining cash-house locations),
they’re still pursuing that goal.

At this point, you might be wondering if there’s any hypothetical

variation where the protagonists are engaged in an activity that
doesn’t take them closer toward their goal (i.e. where their actions
could be considered stalling).

Well, look at this scenario: the film opens with a brief action
sequence where two of the protagonists help break out a third from a
prison bus. Exciting stuff. Caught up in their own enthusiasm, writers
can run this sequence long. Way too long.

After the escape, these three protagonists, now fugitives, sneak into
Brazil. The film asks audiences to accept that, never depicting these
actions on-screen, leaving them undramatized. Theoretically, these
actions (which admittedly have genre potential) could be dramatized,
elongating the first act even further.

The beginning of the film also introduces a subplot involving an

outcast, who was ejected from the original thieving crew. Having
recently become a father, this outcast will die later on in the movie.
This is decent emotional material for an action flick. Again, pleased
with the way they’ve intertwined emotional beats with adrenaline-
pumping action, writers can dwell here, elaborating on how the
outcast managed to build a life for himself in Brazil.
Finally, there’s the chip itself. In the film, the data on it doesn’t
appear to be encrypted. But it could be—yielding a logical, credible
obstacle. Obstacles, writers are told, are critical to telling a
compelling story. Unfortunately, having taken this advice to heart,
writers can drag out this obstacle for too long, instead of replacing it
with a new one.

Lingering on these four elements (the escape from the prison bus,
the flight into Brazil, the tragic plight of the outcast, the decryption of
the chip) happens all too frequently in first drafts. As a result, details
about the heist target—the $100 million distributed across multiple
cash houses—get delayed, and delayed, and delayed…until the
midpoint, say page 55 (in a screenplay) or page 175 (in a novel).

This is when audiences learn about the cash. This is when the
protagonists start to go after it.

And that’s too late.

This pre-midpoint material isn’t boring, but it is, nonetheless, still

establishing some of the parameters of the heist ($100 million,
multiple cash houses). Contrast this with our hypothetical sleuthing
variation. There, the protagonists knew of the cash houses’
existence by the end of Act One, and are trying to determine the
houses’ exact locations during Act 2A. Whereas here, the
protagonists don’t even know the cash houses exist until the
midpoint. They’re discovering what their overall goal is going to be.
They’re not taking steps to achieve it.

This isn’t plot development; it’s a stall tactic.

While the characters are moving around, the plot isn’t moving
forward. This version of the story doesn’t have a real Act 2A…but a
bloated Act One. This circumstance doesn’t bode well for its future.

Audiences are liable to get impatient as they wait for the writer to put
all the pieces (what the goal is, who the villain is, etc.) in place. If a
writer is lucky, even though the story takes forever to get off the
ground, audiences might continue with it and eventually discover all
the fun heist stuff.

Alas, most writers won’t be that lucky. Fortunately, however, there

are two questions you can ask yourself to determine whether this
particular pitfall plagues your screenplay or novel. Although fairly
basic, they are enormously helpful when you’re having problems
regarding your story with objectivity.

The first question is: When does my hook go into play? (To answer
this question, notice that you must have a solid understanding of
your hook.)

If your hook shows up in full approximately 25% of the way through

your story (give or take), then you probably don’t have a slow starter
on your hands. If your hook shows up in full halfway through your
story (in rare cases, even later), it’s possible that you’re using the
manifest midpoint (good)…or that you’ve taken forever to get your
story off the ground (bad).

To figure this out, you must circle back toward the end of the first act
(again, approximately 25% of the way through your story), examine
the story events that follow, and ask yourself question #2: Are my
characters taking action that brings them closer to achieving their
goal…or am I still establishing what their goal is?

If your characters aren’t going after their goal by this point, then you
probably have a slow starter on your hands. You need to prune down
the beginning of your story.

If your characters are going after their goal, but your hook hasn’t
shown up yet (see your answer to question #1), then you probably
have the makings of a successful manifest midpoint. (Bear in mind,
your draft might require some refinement to be interesting enough to
get audiences to stick around for Act 2B, when your hook will
manifest in full.)
 Pitfall #3: A Truncated or Split Act 2A
From chapter 3, you know that the midpoint doesn’t have to occur
precisely halfway through your screenplay or novel. It’s okay to stray
from the 50% mark.

Even so, there are limits to how far you can deviate. In particular,
check whether you’ve advanced your midpoint so much that it occurs
approximately 35% of the way through your story. Notice that this
structure produces a truncated Act 2A and an extensive Act 2B.

This state of affairs isn’t always problematic. With the manifest

midpoint (standard or variant), a truncated Act 2A might not be
terribly disappointing to audiences. After all, it means that your hook
will kick in earlier than it would have without truncation. Typically,
audiences will get more substance and less shadow.

But in other cases, swinging your story in a new direction so

prematurely will feel awkward, almost as if it’s an oversight. Even if it
does feel intentional, it can still dissatisfy, usually because Act 2A will
feel underdeveloped.

Actually, the same outcome can occur via different circumstances. In

your studies of writing craft, you might have come across the
sequence model, where each sector of a story (Act One, Act 2A, Act
2B, Act Three) is composed of two sequences apiece. Act 2A,
therefore, would house sequences #3 and #4.

Although #3 and #4 are separate sequences, they should feel like

they’re both developing Act 2A. However, if the transition between
them is very “hard,” then it may feel like you’ve swung your story in a
new direction (i.e. you’ve advanced your midpoint forward)—even
though that wasn’t your intention. Indeed, you probably have a
midpoint just around the corner, at the end of sequence #4—only it’s
overshadowed by the hard split between sequences #3 and #4.
There’s no easy way to tell if your approach (truncating Act 2A or
using a hard split to break it into two sequences) is going to yield a
positive response or a negative one. Sometimes, you won’t figure it
out until you get feedback from a friend, editor, colleague, or beta-
reader.

But before you solicit feedback (and you think you may be dealing
with a truncated or split Act 2A, a.k.a. the 35% problem), at least do
some comparison testing on your own.

Is what you have better—or merely easier—than other structural

approaches?

What other approaches am I talking about? Namely, the following: if

your Act 2A is truncated, push your midpoint “down.” Add more plot
points to Act 2A so that your midpoint occurs closer to the 50%
mark.

If your Act 2A contains a hard split, then you’d be pushing down

sequence #4, and you’d have to come up with a new sequence to fill
the void it leaves behind. (To accommodate these changes, you may
also have to whittle down sequences #5 and #6 from Act 2B.)

There’s another alternative to consider, too. If your Act 2A is

truncated, you can advance your midpoint forward, so that it
becomes your new first-act break. Then you’d have to: (1) devise a
new midpoint to take its place, (2) transpose the material from your
original Act 2B so it becomes your Act 2A, (3) design a new Act 2B,
and (4) redistribute or eliminate the material from the original Act 2A.

If your Act 2A contains a hard split, then you’d advance the split
forward. Thus, Act 2A would begin with sequence #4. To
accommodate these changes, you’d have to create new sequences
or reposition or eliminate old ones, as appropriate.

If this pitfall is sounding too nebulous and theoretical to you, don’t

worry! We’re going to look at a concrete example, the teen comedy
John Tucker Must Die. Why is John Tucker so despised? He’s dating
three different girls (each from a different high-school clique) all at
the same time. Kate, the new girl at school (and currently an
outcast), initially makes this discovery. After John Tucker’s girlfriends
discover the truth, they vow to get revenge.

At first, they define revenge by making John Tucker “undateable.”

But when this plan fails, his girlfriends (technically now ex-girlfriends)
decide to devise another form of revenge. They’re going to break his
heart, the way he’s broken theirs. More specifically, they’re going to
manipulate him into falling for Kate, who’s then going to dump him.

This is a major change in strategy. It has the look and feel of a

game-changer midpoint. Yet, this shift doesn’t occur halfway through
the film, but about 35% of the way through it.

This structural choice is awkward. It makes the whole undateable

plan feel underdeveloped—and the entire second act, lopsided.

One easy fix would be to explore more ways to make John Tucker
undateable. Extending Act 2A, this approach would push the girls’
change in strategy closer to the halfway mark and even out the
middle.

But the alternative—to advance the broken-heart plan to the first-act

break—is probably the better option. Why? This plan is meaner,
more complex, and it really puts Kate, the heroine, front and center.

As a matter of fact, it also puts her in the hot seat. How so? I’ve
glossed over another element of the story: while Kate pursues John
Tucker in order for his ex-girlfriends to get their revenge, she shares
major chemistry with his brother. This is not only ironic (always a
plus), it also generates internal conflict. If Kate abandons her pursuit
of John Tucker so she can be with his brother, she’ll lose her
newfound friendship with John Tucker’s ex-girlfriends. (Remember
Kate was a social outcast before these girls took her under their
wings.)
While the film plays with this idea, it doesn’t do so to great degree.
However, if the broken-heart plan were advanced forward, toward
the first-act break (and the undateable plan is removed from Act
Two), then the film would have the room to explore this idea in more
depth—developing Kate’s burgeoning friendship with the ex-
girlfriends as well as with John Tucker’s brother…and more
important, pitting each relationship against the other.

If the girls’ change in strategy is advanced forward, would we have to

come up with a new midpoint from scratch? Not exactly. In one
scene, John Tucker exhibits genuine vulnerability while he and Kate
enjoy a romantic evening on a boat. Just like the girls’ change in
strategy, this scene could be advanced forward, serving as the
foundation of our midpoint sequence.

As for the undateable strategy, it doesn’t have to be eliminated

entirely. In fact, it could be integrated into the first act as the not-so-
devious Plan A that the girls first try out to wound John Tucker. When
it fails, they are forced to launch Plan B—the broken-heart scheme.
Of course, in revenge stories, revenge isn’t the answer (at least most
of the time), so this plan will also fail, hypothetically setting the stage
for Plan C, which could undergird the climax.
 Pitfall #4: A Slow Act 2B
While the bond-builder midpoint will swing your story in a new
direction (certainly a positive), in doing so, it can create an
unwelcome pitfall. Can you guess what it is?

This midpoint establishes tentative peace between the protagonists.

This situation is unlikely to cause trouble in action movies and
thrillers—any story with a bad guy. You can always count on the
villain to create a ruckus.

But in other genres (e.g. romance and comedy), after the midpoint,
without the clashes between the protagonists, Act 2B can be
noticeably devoid of conflict…turning your story into a snooze fest—
the very thing you’re trying to avoid by using a midpoint fulcrum in
the first place!

You can circumvent this pitfall by keeping Act 2B short (but not so
short that the whole second act feels underdeveloped). Even better,
bring in a subplot—perhaps waiting in the wings for this very reason
—to the forefront of your story. Let it temporarily take over, replacing
the conflict formerly provided by your clashing protagonists.

At the midpoint of About a Boy, Will begrudgingly accepts that

Marcus is going to be part of his life, while in Blades of Glory, Jimmy
and Chazz accept their unique skating partnership. Having vanished
(for the time being), the conflict between these protagonist duos
needs to be replaced.

To accomplish this, the films employ romantic subplots, albeit

implemented in different ways. In Boy, Will’s romance with Rachel—
from cute meet to breakup is crammed entirely within Act 2B.
Blades, in contrast, introduces Jimmy’s love interest much earlier on.
But, like Boy’s Rachel, she grows in importance during the latter half
of the second act.
Incidentally, Blades’s approach is far more common. The reason for
that goes back to something we covered in chapter 3, when we were
talking about widening the scope of your story. Bringing new
characters into your plot after the midpoint can make your story feel
episodic. To avoid this, try to introduce or foreshadow these
characters during the initial half of your story (Act One or Act 2A), or
alternatively, thoroughly integrate them into the latter half of your
story (Act 2B and Act Three).

Keep in mind, the less the subplot connects to the main story, the
more obvious its function—a distraction device—becomes. In
response, audiences could complain that you’re padding your story
with unnecessary filler.

Make sure there is some kind of connection, and furthermore (if it’s
not readily apparent), that you don’t dither for too long before
revealing it to audiences. You’ll note that in both Boy and Blades, the
romantic subplots are involved in the dissolution of the protagonists’
friendship at the end of Act 2B.

Although we’ve been focusing on the bond-builder midpoint, the

same pitfall can afflict other fulcrums. When the tides turn from
negative to positive, your protagonist will have less difficulty facing
the challenges of his new life. To avoid a sluggish Act 2B, you’ll have
to find a substitute to replace this source of conflict.

With the BFF-breaker fulcrum, it’s a little more complicated. Here,

the conflict between your protagonists certainly hasn’t vanished.
However, you can’t leap straight from the midpoint (where the cracks
in their relationship start to show) to the trough (where the
protagonists finally split apart).

If you do, then Act 2B will be underdeveloped and too short. At the
same time, if you focus exclusively on the impending rift, then Act 2B
will become one-note and repetitious. To avoid either outcome, you
need to devise some kind of audience distraction that will partially fill
up the gap between the midpoint and the trough.
To sum it up, whether you require a conflict substitute or an audience
distraction, you can utilize the same technique: plant subplot seeds
(romantic or otherwise) during Act One and Act 2A (mostly the latter)
—and make them sprout during Act 2B.
 Pitfall #5: An Ill-Advised Game
Changer
As a quick refresher from chapter 1: while the game changer can be
effective as a fulcrum, it comes with a big warning label.

By implementing it, you might not be swinging your story in a new

direction. Instead, you may be telling a new story altogether.

Sometimes, the latter strategy works; sometimes, it doesn’t. It can

backfire spectacularly, producing similar problems as a truncated Act
2A. (Indeed, these two pitfalls are similar in many respects, although
they are not quite the same.)

Because you’re so close to your material, you might not realize when
a game-changer midpoint is ill-advised. This is especially true when
(a) your game changer changes your protagonist’s goal, and thus
the plot of your story; and (b) the second goal is a logical outgrowth
of the first.

To show you what I mean, let’s examine Robin Hood (the version
starring Russell Crowe and directed by Ridley Scott). The film
doesn’t switch up plots on audiences one time. It does so twice! This
structure is unusual—and fortunately for us, very instructive.

There are several variations of the Robin Hood legend. In this one,
the character who eventually becomes a forest-dwelling outlaw is
named Robin Longstride. Toward the film’s beginning, he encounters
Robert Loxley, a nobleman—specifically a knight—from Nottingham.
When Loxley is fatally wounded, he asks Robin to go to Nottingham
to deliver Loxley’s sword to Walter, Loxley’s father. To facilitate his
passage back home, Robin assumes Loxley’s identity and garbs
himself in Loxley’s chainmail.

If this rigmarole is giving you a headache and sounds super-

confusing, don’t worry too much about it. The important point is that
Robin’s going to deliver a sword to Nottingham. That’s his goal, and
it undergirds Plot #1.

Approximately halfway through the film’s theatrical edition, Robin

accomplishes this goal. He reaches Nottingham and returns Loxley’s
sword to Walter. The story should end there, but it doesn’t. Why not?

In a classic game changer, Walter gives Robin a new goal: stay on in

Nottingham and pretend to be Robert Loxley, son of Walter and
husband to Marion. In exchange, Walter promises to tell Robin about
Robin’s past (which Robin doesn’t remember). This goal—to carry
out the ruse—becomes Plot #2.

Toward the end of Act 2B, Walter decides that Robin has fulfilled his
end of the bargain. Accordingly, Walter reveals Robin’s history: he is
the son of a visionary, who dreamed that all men would live under a
charter guaranteeing their liberty…and who was killed for daring to
defy the Crown.

Having accomplished his goal and secured the information he

wanted, Robin can now act on this information. He can honor his
father’s legacy by convincing King John to sign a charter like the one
Robin’s father envisioned. This creates a new goal, i.e. Plot #3.
Dominating the third act, this plot enables Robin to participate in a
massive climactic battle against the French, beneath the Cliffs of
Dover.

As you can see, all three goals (and all three plots) are connected to
one another. Goal #2 grows from the ashes of accomplishing Goal
#1, while Goal #3 grows from the ashes of accomplishing Goal #2.
Nevertheless, despite the logical connection between each plot, the
entire story feels extremely disjointed. As a result, audiences don’t
experience one plot, explored in depth. Instead, they get two
underdeveloped plots and lots of climactic action.

This is the kind of structure that crops up in first drafts, when writers
are still discovering what their stories are all about. (If you’re
wondering how this structure ended up in a produced film, let’s just
say Robin Hood’s path to production was bumpy, and this,
unfortunately, was reflected in the final product. Incidentally,
screenwriter Bill Martell wrote an interesting commentary on Robin
Hood’s production history. If you’re interested, see note no. 2 at the
end of this chapter for the link.)

How could we solve the problem? How could we restructure Robin

Hood so that it’s more satisfying?

My first inclination is to revert back to the structure of Nottingham,

the original spec script that was eventually turned into Robin Hood.
As implied by its title, Nottingham isn’t really about Robin Hood at all,
but about the infamous sheriff. By all accounts, it’s amazing. (If
you’re wondering how an amazing plot could be replaced with three
that are so-so, again, you’ll have to read Martell’s article!)

Admittedly, this answer is rather smart-alecky. If you ever confront

similarly awkward structure (i.e. three plots jammed together) in your
own rough draft, it isn’t going to be of much help to you. So, to
continue this discussion, let’s assume that reverting to Nottingham’s
structure is not an option. We can only work with the plots from the
produced film.

To start, let’s zoom in on the game-changing midpoint. It’s creating

the most trouble, enabling both Plot #1 (deliver the sword to
Nottingham) and Plot #2 (pretend to be Marion’s husband) to remain
woefully underdeveloped. If we eliminate the game changer, and
stay with one of these plots all the way through Act Two, then many
of our structural problems will be taken care of.

Which plot to pick? It’s not a hard decision. Frankly, delivering

Loxley’s sword to Nottingham isn’t a compelling goal. If we dig
deeper, we could probably make it more interesting. But let’s keep
things simple and knock it out of contention. Thus, Robin’s main goal
would be to pretend to be Marion’s husband whilst he’s in
Nottingham. It would now become Plot #1.
With this choice, delivering the sword would no longer be the plot
that drives Act 2A. It would become Act One setup that would
explain how Robin’s marital farce originated. Moreover, we don’t
have to dramatize the sword’s actual delivery. After Robert Loxley
makes his dying request, we can cut straight to Robin riding into
Nottingham. (This is handy to keep in mind when, due to your edits,
Act One runs too long.)

Once Robin is in Nottingham, the farce can begin. Robin can stay
on, pretending to be Marion’s husband, which puts a fresh spin on
this well-known romance. Therein lies the rub with the plot we’ve
chosen. It’s better suited for a romance. Despite having romantic
elements, Robin Hood is not a romance. It’s a historical epic. In
short, our plot doesn’t really jive with our genre.

Yet, this drawback isn’t insurmountable. There are plenty of

opportunities to braid action set pieces (e.g. brawls with the locals,
skirmishes with the sheriff, and of course, escapades of thievery)
into our farce-based plot, which would begin at the outset of Act Two
instead of at the midpoint. Due to this structural change, we can
explore the obstacles associated with it in depth, across Act 2A and
Act 2B—yielding not only a deeper audience experience, but also a
more cohesive one.

While our revamped Act Two is more cohesive, it could become

monotonous without a fulcrum. Since we’ve eliminated the ill-advised
game changer, we must come up with a new midpoint to use in lieu
of it. Happily, this is easy to do. Although Marion accepts the
pretense, she resents it. Because she and Robin are living in
coerced coexistence, the bond builder immediately leaps out as a
possible substitute.

Not only that, it can be paired with an action set piece—without any
undue contrivance on our part. As one option, Robin could go on a
thieving raid to secure the seed grain Marion needs to plant her
crops. Impressed by the risks he took, she softens toward him. And
voila, the bond blossoms.
Alternatively, weary of resisting their mutual attraction, Robin and
Marion could succumb to it at the midpoint. Afterward, however,
Marion could have regrets and question Robin’s loyalty to her. After
all, he’s not her real husband. He has no ties to the land. He could
just leave her in the lurch. In response, Robin demonstrates his
commitment to her by going on a thieving raid to secure her the seed
grain.

In essence, their bond can be the cause of the action set piece (the
thieving raid) or the effect of it. Either way, we’ll have a satisfactory
midpoint sequence that will swing our story in a new direction as
Robin and Marion work together to keep the ruse going and
convince everyone that Robin is, indeed, Marion’s husband.

By eliminating the game-changer midpoint, we’ll be able to do justice

to our pick for Plot #1. Explored across two sectors of our story (Act
2A and Act 2B), it’s no longer underdeveloped; it’s no longer getting
superficial treatment. Even so, if we explore it across three sectors
(Act 2A, Act 2B, and Act Three), it will be stretched too thin. We must
—as the film does—segue into a new plot (charter procurement) at
the end of Act Two.

To briefly recap: the film changes plots twice. We got rid of the
game-changer midpoint and only change plots once. This solution
may surprise you. If changing plots at the midpoint can do so much
damage, why is it acceptable to change plots at the end of Act Two?

It’s a good question. Here’s my answer. This strategy (exploring one

plot in depth during Act Two, but changing plots for Act Three) is
often effective when the protagonist’s individual struggle (i.e. Plot #1)
is framed within a larger context that undergirds Plot #2. This, you’ll
note, is the case in Robin Hood. Robin and Marion’s personal
struggle to survive echoes the struggles of all the English citizens,
who can’t meet the egregious demands of the Crown.

In such stories, Plot #2 amounts to a massive face-off, where the

protagonist tries to overthrow the antagonistic forces whose abuse of
power has perpetuated his personal struggle. Because Plot #2 is
perfect climax material, one story sector is just the right amount of
time to allocate to it. No one would accuse it of being
underdeveloped, even though it’s pretty much compressed into Act
Three.

While underdevelopment isn’t generally an issue, this structural

approach isn’t without weaknesses. If you decide to let Plot #2 take
over for Act Three, keep your eye on your story stakes.

The stakes that fueled the protagonist during Act Two may’ve gone
out of play by this point. In this case—unless you provide your
protagonist with suitable motivation—he’ll only be participating in the
climactic finale because that’s where you wanted to take the plot.
Such maneuvering will only undercut your story climax, and in the
process, alienate audiences.

By the way, if you’d like to learn more about how to use story stakes
to craft a real page-turner, check out my writing guide, Story Stakes!

***

By this point, you know all about the eight midpoint fulcrums. You
know how to pick the best one for your story. Plus, you know about
practicalities to ponder and pitfalls to circumvent (or mitigate) as you
design your midpoint.

But your knowledge won’t be complete without discussing an

essential plot point that’s closely tied to the midpoint: the fork in the
road.

Have no idea what the fork in the road is?

No worries. It’s the topic of the next two chapters, so keep reading!

Notes for Chapter 4

2. William C. Martell, “Robbing from the Poor (Writer),” Sex in a

Submarine (blog), May 14, 2010, http://sex-in-a-
sub.blogspot.com/2010/05/robbing-from-poor-writer.html.
 THE MIDPOINT-BOOSTING PLOT
POINT YOU’VE PROBABLY NEVER
HEARD OF (BUT WHICH YOU’LL
TOTALLY LOVE)
- chapter five -

Many years ago, when I was struggling to get a handle on

developing the middle of my stories, a few notions particularly
resonated with me.

One was the idea that the midpoint was a “point of no return” for the
protagonist. In other words, in some way, he escalates his
commitment to his goal. Later, I realized that this increase in
commitment often has the net effect of raising the stakes.

In How to Write a Movie in 21 Days, Viki King also linked the

midpoint to commitment. According to her, on page 60 of a script
(which would correspond to minute 60 of a film, the midpoint of a
120-minute movie), the hero affirms his commitment to his goal in a
line of dialogue.

As King writes, this is where your hero is “mad as hell and not going
to take this anymore”; this is where your hero says, “I’m going to do
this, don’t even think of getting in my way.”

Having become fascinated by King’s proposed connection between

commitment and the 60-minute mark, I looked for this story beat in
various movies. More often than not, I found something akin to what
she was describing, too.
But, I also noticed that an expression of commitment would
frequently occur close to minute 60, no matter the running time of the
film. That’s when I began to divorce the idea of commitment from the
midpoint and started to view the former as a separate entity that
reinforced, or boosted, the latter.

Over time, my observations coalesced into a plot point I’ve labeled

as the fork in the road. This is when a character (usually the
protagonist, but it doesn’t have to be) avows or escalates his
commitment to his goal (or to another person).

Some other distinguishing features of the fork:

The fork typically manifests in the form of a choice, where your

protagonist is at a crossroad. He can affirm his commitment—for all
the world to see—or he can hide it. He can escalate his commitment
to his goal, or renege upon it. Frequently, this dilemma will reflect
your story’s theme or your protagonist’s character arc.

Speaking of denial and desertion…they are on the opposite end of

the commitment spectrum. For this reason, I think of them as the
flipsides of the fork. Although they’re slanted toward the negative
direction, flipsides are equally effective as their positive counterparts
(avowal and escalation) in developing your story middle and
maintaining audience interest.

Finally, the timing of the fork is flexible. Frequently, it will occur

immediately after the midpoint fulcrum—a natural outgrowth as your
protagonist reacts to the new direction your story is headed toward.
Frequently, but not always.

Sometimes, the fork won’t occur immediately after the midpoint, but
long after it. Sometimes, it will precede the midpoint. In other cases,
the midpoint and the fork coincide—and trying to dissociate them is
an exercise in futility.

Nevertheless, I encourage you to separate the two in your mind and

treat the fork as a plot point in its own right. I’ll explain the benefits of
this mindset later on, in chapter 6. But before we get to that, it’s
helpful to first cement your understanding of the fork in the road by
discussing examples of it.

That’s what we’ll do next!

5 Ways to Express Your Protagonist’s
Commitment
After reading the introduction to this chapter, you have a general
sense of what the fork in the road is all about. Now, we’ll cover
specific examples.

I’ve found it helpful to break them down into the following five
categories:

assertion of loyalty
commitment to the cause
torn between two loyalties
commitment to the truth
Custer’s last stand

Each category is essentially a variation of the same basic idea: an

avowal or escalation of commitment by the protagonist (or another
character). Thus, the distinctions between each category are fine.
Honestly, they’re not terribly important.

But when you’re trying to figure out how to handle the fork in the
road in your own story, you’ll probably find it easier to generate ideas
by focusing on the particular slant embodied by each category rather
than on the general idea of commitment itself.

Without further ado, let’s dive into the examples!

Fork Type #1: Assertion of Loyalty

This is the most basic manifestation of the fork-in-the-road plot point.
Basically, a character avows his commitment to his goal or declares
his loyalty to another person.
Unsurprisingly, in the flipside version of this fork, characters
backtrack, reneging on their commitment, or perhaps, committing to
the “wrong” person or goal.

In a romance or women’s fiction novel, any of these might happen as

part of the fork:

After the intimacy shared during the bond-builder midpoint, the

hero avows his commitment to the heroine through a proposal of
marriage.
The wedding takes place. (While we’re on the topic, this
category of fork often has a ceremonial aspect.)
A spouse, parent, or sibling (who would typically remain silent
about his affection) feels compelled to say I love you aloud—
perhaps after a disruptive midpoint event.
In a love triangle, the hero rejects the heroine and chooses the
other woman.
Divorce papers are signed.

As a specific example, let’s look at Ghosts of Girlfriends Past. Paul is

about to get married. His older brother, Connor (who’s the film’s
protagonist), is the best man. When several members of the wedding
party criticize Connor, Paul, nevertheless, sticks up for his brother—
despite Connor’s overall unreliability and the legitimacy of
everyone’s complaints.

Notice that this assertion of loyalty is made by a supporting

character, not the protagonist. That’s one reason why I picked this
example. But it’s not the only one. Even though the film is a romantic
comedy, this fork isn’t romantic. That’s my second reason for picking
it: I wanted to emphasize that commitment can encompass all forms
of love—in this case, that between siblings.

In other situations, commitment may not involve love at all—but

money. Put another way, a character must demonstrate commitment
to an enterprise through significant financial investment. As the
expression goes, he must “put his money where his mouth is.”
Fork Type #2: Commitment to the Cause
The premise behind this fork is simple: the protagonist is offered a
way out of his predicament. It’s not going to be his problem anymore.

But, when given this golden opportunity, he declines the offer. He

commits to the cause.

If your protagonist was already gung-ho about finding solutions to his

problem, then this story beat can reinforce his likeability as well as
his heroic stature. If he has spent half of your story trying to wriggle
out of his situation (think of Morgan Freeman’s character in Seven),
then this plot point can illuminate his character growth.

Of course, there’s a flipside version, too. When offered a way out,

your protagonist may gladly grab ahold of it. In all likelihood, he will
redeem himself, returning later on to save the day. Similar to the
aforementioned wriggler, your protagonist’s departure and
reappearance can illustrate his character growth.

Oftentimes, when the character who accepts the way out is a co-
protagonist or a supporting player, his decision to return won’t just be
about redemption. Arriving in the nick of time, he can provide critical
assistance at the climax—when it seems like your protagonist is just
about to lose. In a nutshell, the departure of this character is a setup,
while his return is a payoff that makes your protagonist’s climactic
victory feel less contrived.

To see this fork type in action, let’s examine the 2010 remake of
Clash of the Titans. Right around minute 60 of the film, Perseus is
offered sanctuary in Olympus by his father, Zeus. However, Perseus
declines this offer, and instead, commits to winning his earthly battle
against Hades and the Kraken.

Observe how Perseus’s decision makes him look more heroic. Even
if he fails at his goal (even if actor Sam Worthington’s Australian
accent is slightly distracting in the scene), we must respect Perseus
for not fleeing—especially since prophetic witches have recently
informed Perseus that he will not survive his journey.

Not only that, Perseus’s heroism is reinforced through its

juxtaposition with a flipside. When made aware of the dangers that
lie ahead, two hunters—unlike Perseus—don’t stick around. No, they
go running for the hills. By virtue of comparison, Perseus appears all
the braver. (Note: Remaining unredeemed, these hunters do not
reappear at the end of the film.)

Let’s pause for a second to scrutinize Perseus’s decision more

closely. He has a way out, but doesn’t take it. Viewed in this light, his
decision can be thought of as a sacrifice.

Notice how this sacrifice interacts with the stakes: should Perseus
fail to stop Hades and the Kraken, then the city of Argos will not only
be destroyed. In addition, Perseus will have made his sacrifice in
vain. Knowledge of this prospect should make audiences even more
invested in the story’s outcome.

But, to heighten audiences’ emotional involvement, this fork (the

offer of the way out) has to be scripted in—a storytelling opportunity
many beginners fail to capitalize on.

Before you rush to implement this tactic, a word of caution: its

effectiveness depends on the resonance of the stakes already in
play.

This is an area where Clash, unfortunately, falls short. The wealthy

citizens of Argos are a greedy, despicable lot. The poorer citizens,
while more sympathetic, aren’t integrated into the story to a great
degree. In the little there is, they’re depicted as the followers of a
half-mad rabble-rouser, which doesn’t help matters. Due to these
factors, it’s hard to care whether Hades destroys Argos or not…
which takes the wind out of Perseus’s sacrificial sails.

Replace the citizens of Argos with more likeable or sympathetic

characters (think of the hobbits in Lord of the Rings or of the Scottish
villagers in Braveheart), and you’ll be better able to see the value of
this technique.

Before we proceed further, I should mention that the examples

discussed in this section assume that audiences want your
protagonist to decline the offer of escape. That’s not always the
case.

If he’s fallen in with bad company or into a downward spiral,

audiences will root for him to seize this “lifeline”—and will experience
quite the emotional roller-coaster ride when he doesn’t.

Recall that in The Devil Wears Prada, Miranda makes an impossible

demand involving a Harry Potter manuscript. Since there’s
seemingly no way to succeed at this task, Andy should just quit her
job (which doesn’t align with her career goals anyway)—a decision
which many audience members would support. She almost does.
But then help (in the form of a well-connected, ambitious reporter)
unexpectedly appears.

This is Andy’s fork in the road. She can reject his offer of help and
finally escape Miranda’s cutthroat world—or she can accept it, and
remain firmly entrenched within this world. Unhappily for Andy’s
friends, family—and soul—she opts for the latter. She commits to the
cause.

From chapter 1, you know that this commitment causes the tides to
turn in Andy’s favor, marking her professional ascent. See, what did I
tell ya? The fork in the road makes a great midpoint booster!

Fork Type #3: Torn Between 2 Loyalties

This fork is built around something I think of as a “war between the
stakes.”

As a generic example, the war goes something like this: if the

protagonist pursues a goal (with one set of stakes attached to it; we’ll
call this Stake A), then he can’t achieve a different goal (which has a
different set of stakes attached to it; we’ll call this Stake B).

In essence, the protagonist must choose between Stake A and

Stake B. (This choice, incidentally, usually reflects the story’s theme.)
To attain Stake B, he must give up Stake A. This is the cost he must
pay. In some cases, paying this cost (similar to declining a way out)
is a sacrifice that heightens audiences’ investment in the story.

Typically, while the protagonist will be internally torn between both

sets of stakes during Act 2A, outwardly, he’ll favor one set of stakes
over the other (in this hypothetical example, Stake A). But an event
(likely the midpoint) will galvanize the protagonist to change his
mind. Stake A loses its claim upon him; he’s willing to sacrifice it in
order to obtain Stake B.

Perhaps, he’ll remain steadfast in his decision. In all probability,

though, another event will cause him to reverse course. He’ll
(reluctantly) say good-bye to Stake B and return to Stake A, perhaps
having to repair the damage caused by temporarily favoring Stake B.
The protagonist’s conflicting desires won’t be truly resolved until the
climax, when he’ll finally find a way to reconcile Stake A and Stake B
together.

If that generic example seems slightly confusing, this concrete

example should help clarify. In the romantic sci-fi thriller The
Adjustment Bureau, David must choose between two stakes, each of
which encapsulates a different form of happiness. He can either
become the next president of the United States (Stake A), or…he
can be with Elise, the woman he loves (Stake B).

In simple terms: he must choose between career and love.

To truly understand his dilemma, a little background info is in order.

David’s future presidency isn’t theoretical. It’s a sure thing. The
eponymous bureau will make it happen—as long as David stays
away from Elise. Also, in this specific case, the lure of the presidency
didn’t prevent David from committing to Elise before. Interference
from the bureau kept David and Elise apart.

After the midpoint (a bond builder, unsurprisingly), David won’t

tolerate the bureau’s interference any longer. He’s going to be with
Elise, no matter what. This is when the bureau dangles the
presidency in front of him. Having lost his parents and his brother,
David places a premium on love. He chooses to be with Elise (i.e.
Stake B) and sacrifices his political ambition (Stake A).

One quick pointer for screenwriters: notice how, by choosing love

over ambition, David’s character becomes even more likeable than
he was already. It just so happens that in the film, David is played by
Matt Damon, generally recognized as one of the most likeable actors
in Hollywood.

Beginners often rely on casting an actor like Damon to get audiences

to fall in love with their characters. This is a mistake. The likeability of
your characters should be right there, on the page—through the use
of a fork or other mechanisms. Casting a likeable actor should
supplement your writing. It—the casting—is icing, not the cake.

Due to the machinations of the bureau, David will backtrack on his

decision (without diminishing in likeability). You’ll learn how the film
accomplishes this in the next chapter. But before we get to that,
we’ve got more fork types to cover!

Fork Type #4: Commitment to the Truth

You’ll often find this kind of fork in stories where the protagonist is
perpetrating a ruse. For example, in a romance, the hero may
pursue the heroine under false pretenses, usually in order to
accomplish a secret agenda.

At first, the hero may not suffer any qualms about lying to the
heroine. Or, if he does, he’s able to suppress them easily. However,
after the midpoint (likely of the bond-builder variety), the hero feels
like he can’t continue to treat the heroine as a mark. He commits to
telling her the truth, to laying everything out in the open.

To be clear, he might not actually end up telling her the truth. He may
have second thoughts. He may remain steadfast, but other
circumstances preclude him from acting upon his desire. It doesn’t
matter. Here, whether it’s abandoned or fulfilled, his intention to
come clean is what’s important.

A pretty standard beat. The flipside of it, on the other hand? Less so.

In the flipside version, the protagonist commits to a deception that

goes against the very grain of his character. (That’s what makes this
flipside so interesting.)

In Face/Off, FBI Agent Sean Archer has undergone a facial

transplant, taking on the visage of the criminal mastermind who killed
Archer’s son. Archer is pretty committed already, wouldn’t you say?

But then, a little more than halfway through the film, Archer escalates
his commitment, taking it to a whole new level. In order to take down
the criminal mastermind, Archer pairs up with the mastermind’s crew
of lowlifes. Not only that, to quell any suspicions about his identity,
Archer mocks the death of his own son.

For another example in the same vein, we can look to Collateral,

where Max must pretend he’s Vincent—the sociopathic hit man
whom Max is trying to escape. Moreover, as part of the act, Max
must confess to a dangerous thug that he royally messed up…and
lost his hit list. (By the way, this sequence begins right around minute
60!)

Imagine that—taking on the identity of the man who’s ruined your

life…knowing that if you don’t commit wholeheartedly to the
deception, if you hold back even a little, you could endanger yourself
and your family.

Now that’s commitment. Gripping cinema, too.

If you can orchestrate events so that such a decision seems organic
and not contrived (hint, hint: look to your story stakes), this type of
fork is a great little beat to use in an action movie or thriller.

Fork Type #5: Custer’s Last Stand

Forget about historical accuracy.

This fork gets its name from the romantic, idealized notions
associated with General Custer’s Last Stand, i.e. I’m going to go
down with guns blazing, even if it’s the last thing I do.

This is when, having uncovered new information, your protagonist

must commit to a drastic response, whose desperateness
distinguishes it from his previous problem-solving attempts. In short,
your protagonist’s decision at the fork leads directly to a last-ditch
attempt to gain victory.

Indeed, when the protagonist describes his plan, it seems like he (as
well as his team) has a shot at success. Even so, this plan will likely
culminate in an epic defeat (i.e. the trough). Think about it. If your
protagonist were successful, in most cases, your story would be
over, ending too early!

Mission: Impossible IV – Ghost Protocol is a good example. Ethan

Hunt wants to stop the villain from initiating a nuclear attack. As part
of his strategy, Ethan plans to give the villain fake nuclear codes.
But, to Ethan’s dismay, the villain’s henchman has arrived on-site
with a cryptographer who’ll immediately know that the codes are
counterfeit.

How does Ethan rally from this setback?

He plans to give the villain authentic nuclear codes. Yep, that’s right:
Ethan’s going to give the villain exactly what the villain needs to
destroy the world. The way Ethan sees it, that’s his only option. “We
lose Hendricks [the villain] today, he shows up somewhere else
tomorrow…he finds another way,” only by that time, Ethan and his
crew won’t be around to stop him.

On the surface, Ethan’s reasoning seems logical (this is a hallmark

of the last-stand fork type), but naturally, everything goes awry.
Although Ethan doggedly pursues the villain’s henchman through a
violent sandstorm, the henchman gets away—with the authentic
codes—setting the stage for the climax.

For a more comedic take on the last stand, let’s examine Forces of
Nature. Ben’s goal is to reach Savannah, Georgia in time for his
wedding day. Trouble is, he has no cash and no means of
transportation. Plus, he’s stuck with a kooky stranger, a force of
nature unto herself. She, needless to say, is driving him crazy.

On the bright side, she may’ve come up with a solution to their

problems: she’ll moonlight as a stripper at a bar for one night, which
should bring in enough cash for them to buy a used (and really
decrepit) car.

The wrench in the plan?

The bar she’s eyeing as their potential moneymaker turns out to be a

gay bar…so Ben must commit to their harebrained scheme and
perform the dance. Basically, his striptease is his last stand.

As a side note, in this story, Ben’s last stand doesn’t culminate in

epic defeat (not for him at any rate). For him, it ends in a false
victory, where he believes he has everything he needs, when, in
truth, he doesn’t.

***

At this stage, you may be thinking to yourself, The fork sounds like
an interesting little plot point…but why bother with it? What do I gain
by it?
These are good questions. Happily enough, their answers can be
found in the next chapter…
 A BAZILLION REASONS WHY
YOUR PROTAGONIST SHOULD
FACE A FORK IN THE ROAD (IN
ADDITION TO THE MIDPOINT)
- chapter six -

Must your story include a fork in the road?

No, not at all.

Unlike, let’s say…the climax, your screenplay or novel won’t fall

apart without a fork.

Thus, if your story doesn’t include one, you might not want to invest
the time to build one in, from scratch. And if you have included a fork
without consciously realizing it (this happens a lot), you may be
disinclined to accentuate and improve it.

With your midpoint all sorted, you probably want to move on to

shinier plot points (like the trough and the climax). You don’t want to
bother with the humble little fork in the road.

I’m hoping this chapter will convince you otherwise. I’ll admit its title
is a gross exaggeration. There aren’t a bazillion reasons why your
protagonist (or other characters) should face a fork in the road.

But this plot point still comes with plenty of advantages, which can
essentially be divided into two camps: (1) why investing time to
explore possibilities is a worthwhile endeavor, and (2) why it’s
beneficial to treat the fork in the road and the midpoint as separate
entities.
To see how the fork in the road can enhance and enrich your story,
keep reading!
 The Value of the Fork in the Road
Mayflies, caddisflies, and stoneflies. Besides being aquatic insects,
they all share a major commonality. Do you know what it is?

Their larvae function as indicator species—organisms whose

presence or absence signals that an ecosystem is healthy.

With the stonefly, for instance, “their presence is a reliable indicator

of a high-quality, minimally polluted stream.” Their absence, in
contrast, isn’t as indicative. It doesn’t “inherently mean that [a] water
body is polluted.” [3]

The fork in the road is kind of like that; this is one way it contributes
value to your story. Similar to stonefly larvae, its presence indicates
that the ecosystem of your story middle is healthy. And by healthy, I
mean it has enough stuff going on to keep audiences interested in it.

Either you’ve disrupted your protagonist’s life so much that he has to

reconfirm his commitment to his goal, or you’ve put him in a difficult
situation where he has to make a tough choice and escalate his
commitment (or both). Disruption, dilemmas—both are great ways to
weave a gripping tale.

With some indicator species, their absence signals that an

ecosystem is under great stress. That’s not the case with the
stonefly. And it’s not the case with the fork in the road, either. If your
screenplay or novel lacks a fork, it doesn’t automatically mean that
your story middle is on its last legs.

However, incorporating a fork (or more than one) into your draft will,
in all likelihood, greatly improve it, perhaps elevating your story
above its competition. In case you remain unconvinced, review the
list below. It summarizes the different ways the fork can add value to
your story:
 It can reinforce audiences’ perception that your hero is, indeed,
a hero (e.g. he reaffirms commitment to his goal after learning
that its pursuit entails complications he didn’t sign up for).
It can illustrate your protagonist’s character arc (e.g. he chooses
to proceed honestly, even though he’s been offered a dishonest
shortcut to victory).
It can slow down the pace (perhaps after a lengthy genre-
fulfilling midpoint sequence), while still maintaining audience
interest.
If your second act feels threadbare, the fork will help you to flesh
it out, through setup, sequence building, and riffs. (Note: We
haven’t discussed these yet, but we will by the end of this
chapter.)
Depending on how you develop it, the fork can function as a
likeability booster, keeping audiences emotionally invested in
your story.

Finally, the fork in the road is a plot point that pops up in produced
films—despite being absent from the original screenplay draft or
source material.

In other words, although a story might not have originally contained a

fork, by the time it’s released for public consumption, it will.

Remember that scene in Speed where the bus hurtles over a gap in
the freeway? It wasn’t in Graham Yost’s early script drafts.

According to Yost’s DVD commentary with producer Mark Gordon,

Yost added the scene at the request of director Jan de Bont, who
“wanted it to be like a brick wall…he wanted something that looked
like there was no way they could survive it.” (By the way, de Bont’s
brick-wall moment is an excellent example of using the fork to fulfill
genre expectations.)

In The Perfect Storm (which is based on a true story), the

protagonist fishermen have to make a choice: they can remain in
calm waters for a few days, which means that their catch (60,000
pounds of fish) will spoil…or they can brave the storm, and hopefully,
deposit their haul at the pier.

According to Captain Greenlaw (who was played by Mary Elizabeth

Mastrantonio in the movie), in real life, the fishermen aboard the
Andrea Gail didn’t face this dilemma. They were already headed for
home when the storm hit. [4] In essence, the filmmakers used their
artistic license to alter actual events in order to create a fork, and
hence, amplify the drama.

This last example, Poldark (2015), is from a television series, not a

film (but it still works). Poldark returns home to discover that his dad
is dead, his estate is in disrepair, he’s saddled with debt, and—most
galling of all—the woman he loves is betrothed to his cousin,
Francis.

Afraid that Poldark’s presence will ruin Francis’s marriage, Francis’s

father tempts Poldark with the chance to start afresh. If Poldark
agrees to leave, Francis’s father will give Poldark enough money to
build a new life in London or Oxford. In a flipside fork, Poldark
decides to accept the offer. (Don’t worry! He’ll reverse course by the
end of the episode.)

Interestingly, this series of events was fabricated for the TV

adaptation. It doesn’t occur in the novel on which the show is partly
based. Francis’s father never makes this offer; Poldark is never put
in a position to choose between home and London. Due to lameness
(from a war wound) and lack of funds, escape simply is not an option
—not in the novel, at least.

While the above examples reinforce the value of the fork as a

storytelling device (presumably, the filmmakers wouldn’t have taken
the trouble to incorporate it unless they believed its inclusion
improved the story), these examples also illustrate an additional
benefit for screenwriters.

By including a fork in your draft, your screenplay will be closer in

quality to produced material, which should make you and/or your
script more appealing an investment. Moreover, although this
particular benefit has been framed from a screenwriter’s point of
view, I don’t see why it couldn’t extend to novelists as well!
The Value of Treating the Fork and the
Midpoint as Separate Entities
The fork in the road is closely tied to the midpoint. In some cases,
they may be so intertwined that it’d be a futile endeavor to tease
them apart.

Despite their connection, however, I encourage you to view the

midpoint and fork as structurally distinct entities, at least initially—
especially if your story middles have a notorious reputation for
sagging.

As the following four reasons will demonstrate, doing so will enable

you to fully harness the benefits that come with the fork in the road…

(1) It makes it easier to develop the plot and the theme (as
opposed to neglecting one for the sake of the other).

As a general rule, a midpoint fulcrum ensures that you’re doing

something interesting with regard to the plot during the middle of
your story. The fork, on the other hand, ensures you’re doing
something interesting with regard to theme (or its close cousin,
character arc).

If you think of the midpoint and the fork as interchangeable, then

you’re liable to take care of one but neglect the other.

Thus, you might invest all your energy in developing the fork, but
overlook deficiencies in your plot. Or, you might invest all your
energy in swinging the plot in a new direction, but overlook
deficiencies in theme.

But if you view the midpoint and the fork in the road as separate
entities, then each should get their proper due…which means that
the plot and theme of your story will, too.
(2) It makes it easier to lay down the necessary groundwork.

For your midpoint and fork to make sense, logically, some of their
elements need to be set up beforehand.

If you lump the midpoint and fork together, it can be difficult to

determine the individual setup each one requires. Plus, it can be
overwhelming to figure out how to weave this setup into Act One and
Act 2A. Treat them as separate entities, and these problems vanish.

Think about L.A. Confidential. The cops apprehend local hoodlums

who are believed to be responsible for the Nite Owl murders. In a
reset-style antagonist-aha fulcrum, the protagonists (all cops)
become convinced that the hoodlums (now dead) were framed.

Even though the LAPD considers the case to be closed, each

protagonist commits to solving the case for real—a decision which
helps illustrate their individual character arcs. Exley, for instance,
demonstrates that he won’t always let his ambition impede the
pursuit of justice.

By treating the plot twist and the character arcs as separate entities,
it’s easier to figure out that (a) both false evidence implicating the
hoodlums and Exley’s overweening ambition need to be set up, and
(b) which scenes are required to accomplish this effectively.

(3) It makes it easier to elaborate upon each plot point.

One easy way to lengthen the middle of your story is to expand upon
the midpoint and the fork, taking your initial ideas and elaborating
upon them as much as possible.

When you do this—and you think of them as being one and the
same—you’re liable to get only one extended scene or sequence for
your efforts.

However, if you think of them as separate entities, you’ll probably

come up with two separate scenes or sequences, not just one.
Actually, this touches upon the next (and last) benefit…

(4) It makes it easier to develop the second act of your story.

The fork is a versatile plot point, lending itself to multiple variations (I

call these riffs). When you regard the fork as its own entity, separate
from the midpoint, it’s easier to take advantage of its versatility and
generate a constellation of riffs.

If you’re having trouble developing the middle of your screenplay or

novel, generating such constellations may help you overcome your
difficulties. Indeed, this is a great (some might even say magical)
way to fill in any lingering gaps in Act 2B. If it hasn’t already, it may
start writing itself!

Below are some suggestions to get you started:

You could create a riff by pairing a fork type with its flipside. Your
protagonist commits to a cause, while another character abandons it.
(We’ve seen an example of this already, in Clash of the Titans.)

Your protagonist could face a fork in the road, and then, shortly
thereafter, must confront a different permutation of the same
dilemma. To illustrate, let’s return to The Adjustment Bureau. As a
quick refresher, David has chosen to be with Elise over becoming
the next American president.

But then the diabolical bureau presents David with another choice,
whose inclusion not only extends the middle of the story, but also
makes it more interesting: he and Elise can be together…or she can
become a world-renowned ballerina. Observe that this choice is
similar to the one David faced moments prior, only this time his
professional aspirations have been replaced with hers.

Also, notice that David’s options have been designed to create a

gripping dilemma. If David had to choose between their love and her
life, that isn’t really a choice—not if his love for Elise is genuine
(which it is). Then his decision would be a foregone conclusion (save
her life, duh!) and wouldn’t contain any dramatic tension at all.

Finally, you could go wild with riffs and run through a gamut of fork
types, perhaps throwing in a few flipsides for good measure. Look at
the first film in the Mighty Ducks franchise. Gordon is stuck coaching
a peewee hockey team (which eventually becomes known as the
Ducks). More than anything, he wants out.

During Act 2A, he comes to terms with his situation, growing into his
role as the team’s leader. However, during Act 2B, his commitment
and loyalty to the team are severely tested, as is the children’s own
commitment.

Take a look:

Commitment to the cause, flipside: Due to a

misunderstanding, a few of the kids believe Gordon isn’t loyal to
them, but to their biggest rival, the Hawks. They walk out right
before a match.
Commitment to the cause, standard & flipside: Gordon gives
the remaining players a choice—to join him on the ice…or not.
Everyone save for two players abandons Gordon, and the
Ducks have to forfeit the game.
Commitment to the cause, flipside: After this brouhaha,
Gordon concludes it’s better for the Ducks if he isn’t their coach.
He cedes his responsibilities to a parent of two of the players.
Assertion of loyalty: At school, the kids get into an argument
that culminates with them quacking at their principal—an action
that demonstrates they still identify as Ducks.
Assertion of loyalty: When Gordon’s boss arranges some kind
of backdoor deal (the particulars aren’t important), Gordon vows
not to let the kids down.
Torn between two loyalties: In response to Gordon’s avowal,
Gordon’s boss makes Gordon choose between his law career
and his loyalty to the hockey team. Gordon chooses the team.
 Notice how this choice (a) makes Gordon likeable, and (b)
illustrates his character arc.
Commitment to the cause: Gordon tells the kids (now in
detention) that he wants to be their coach again. They accept
his decision.
Torn between two loyalties: A talented player named Adam
Banks should be playing for the Ducks this year. Due to an
oversight, he’s been playing for the Hawks. Now that the
oversight has been discovered, he can either not play hockey at
all, or play for the Ducks. He chooses to join the Ducks.
Custer’s last stand: To win a pre-playoff match, the team takes
to the ice without a goalie, which enables them to put an extra
player (Fulton) on the ice. Fulton’s teammates trust him to score
the winning goal—even though his average success rate is one
out of five. (Note: Atypically for the last stand, this maneuver
ends well because the Ducks make it to the playoffs.)

The Mighty Ducks might not be considered the most sophisticated

entertainment, but as far as forks in the road go, let it inspire you to
fully explore the flexibility of this plot point and really put it through its
paces.

If you spend time reflecting on all the different ways a protagonist’s

commitment can be tested…and then reflect on how to apply some
of these permutations to your other characters as well, it’ll go a long
way toward filling the void that often crops up in Act 2B.

***

As you can see from this chapter, the fork in the road can take your
story up a notch (or two!), perhaps elevating it above its competition.
This is why its exploration is such a worthy investment of your time.

To extract maximum value from the fork, it’s initially beneficial to view
it as a separate entity from the midpoint. Eventually, however, you’ll
have to weave both of them together—all while juggling the practical
considerations discussed in chapter 3.
To learn how pros have successfully handled this challenge,
continue on to chapter 7!

Notes for Chapter 6

3. Maine Department of Environmental Protection: Water, “Stonefly

Larvae (Plecoptera),”
http://www.maine.gov/dep/water/monitoring/biomonitoring/sampling/b
ugs/stoneflies.htm.

4. Terry Weber, “What Really Happened to the Andrea Gail?”

Gloucester Times, October 29, 2011,
http://www.offsoundings.com/WEB%20PDF/PERFECT_STORM_20
TH_ANNIVERSARY.pdf.
 CRAFTING AN EPICALLY
AWESOME MIDPOINT
- chapter seven -

Eight ways to swing your story in a new direction. Five ways to

express your protagonist’s commitment.

It can be exciting, heady even, to work with so many fulcrums and

forks. When you treat them as separate entities, you’ll probably see
possibilities for your story middle that you didn’t before.

Eventually, of course, you’ll have to use your fulcrums and forks in

tandem, while taking care of practical considerations, and hopefully,
avoiding common pitfalls.

That’s a lot to juggle. Along with feeling excited, you may also be
feeling apprehensive. How to coordinate all of these moving parts
into one epically awesome midpoint?

The best way to learn is to study how pros have successfully

handled this same task. That’s what we’re going to cover in this
chapter, which is composed of two case studies.

In the first, we’ll look at how two New York Times bestselling authors
wove together the midpoint of their novel. In the second, we’ll
change media, and see how a classic blockbuster approached this
structural turning point.

Epically awesome midpoints, here we come!

 Case Study #1: A Novel Written by 2
New York Times Bestselling Authors
The first example we’re going to look at in this chapter is The Chase,
a novel written by New York Times bestselling authors Janet
Evanovich and Lee Goldberg. (Goldberg, by the way, is also a
successful television writer.)

I picked this example because it confidently braids together multiple

midpoint components, including various forks in the road. We’ll run
through them according to their chronological order (more or less) in
the book so you can see how these novelists skillfully segued from
one component to the next.

But first, a little background information: clearly inspired by the

television series White Collar, this novel is part of the authors’ Fox
and O’Hare series. Kate O’Hare is an FBI agent who has teamed up
with con artist Nick Fox in order to catch major crooks. Lighthearted
in tone, the novel’s genre is best described as an action-comedy
caper.

In this installment, a valuable Chinese artifact (specifically a bronze

rooster head), which is currently on display at the Smithsonian, is
going to be returned to the Chinese government. Trouble is, the
artifact on display is a fake—the authentic artifact has been stolen. In
order to avert a diplomatic crisis, Nick and Kate must recover “the
real rooster and switch it with the fake one before we give it back to
the Chinese.”

The real rooster has been stashed away in a luxurious mansion

owned by Carter Grove, the villain of the piece. To infiltrate the
mansion, Nick and Kate pose as producers who are interested in
featuring it in an episode of their TV show, The Most Spectacular
Homes on Earth. Their ploy works. Halfway through Act 2A,
unbeknownst to Carter, they acquire the rooster while the TV crew is
filming.

However, Nick and Kate’s job is not complete, not until the real
rooster is handed over to Stanley Fu, a Chinese businessman who
will ultimately deliver the rooster to the Chinese government.
Unfortunately, Fu landed in the United States 2 days early, and a
Smithsonian employee (unaware of the authentic rooster’s theft from
the museum) has already given Fu the fake rooster on display.

To ensure that Fu delivers the real rooster to China, Nick and Kate
stow away on Fu’s plane. They plan to crack open Fu’s safe while en
route to China, and, as dictated by their original assignment, replace
the fake rooster with the real one.

We’ll return to Nick and Kate’s stowaway hijinks later. For now,
though, let’s return to their reality TV ruse. This enables them to
steal the rooster from Carter without him being immediately aware
that a theft has taken place. Furthermore, because of Nick and
Kate’s assumed identities, the ruse enables them to steal the rooster
without Carter knowing who they truly are.

This situation paves the way for a variation of the revelation

acceleration that we haven’t discussed before. Usually, the villain
knows exactly who’s after him, but the protagonist is unaware of the
villain’s true identity—at least until the midpoint (or later). In this
variation, it’s the other way around.

Audiences (as well as Nick and Kate) are in on the scam from the
get-go, putting them in a superior position to Carter, who discovers
the truth in a progressive sequence of reveals. As you’ll see, each
reveal enables Carter to torture Nick and Kate in new ways, and
enables the authors to keep on entertaining audiences.

In the first reveal (of three), Carter realizes that the rooster has been
stolen and that it’s aboard Fu’s plane. This occurs fairly early on,
about a third of the way through the novel. But its effect isn’t truly felt
until 20 pages later, when the female assassin whom Carter planted
on Fu’s plane plots her strategy:

“She had more than fourteen hours to see if there were any thieves
on board. She’d wait until the big meeting began, and once most of
the passengers were behind those closed doors, she’d see if anyone
tried to pay a visit to the safe in the cargo hold. And if someone did,
he would find her there waiting for him with the stiletto that she called
her ‘conversation starter.’ She’d found that people were a lot more
forthcoming with her when she was slowly pulling their skin off.”

This is where the story really starts to swing in a new direction.

Although the rooster isn’t completely out of the picture, the plot,
nevertheless, is changing gears. It’s become less about the
successful delivery of the rooster and more about dealing with the
consequences of stealing it from the villain.

Also, notice that the presence of the female assassin generates a

new source of dramatic irony. Readers know she’s aboard the plane
—and headed for the cargo hold. They also know that Nick and Kate
are hiding in the cargo hold.

Thus, readers anticipate when these characters will cross paths.

They don’t enjoy this anticipation for very long—Kate and the female
assassin engage in hand-to-hand combat 3 pages later—but it’s
sufficient to make the eventual encounter, when it occurs, more
satisfying. Indeed, despite its brevity, the effect on readers is strong,
strong enough to make a case for maximizing multiple POVs when
writing a thriller.

As for the fight itself, it nicely fulfills genre expectations. The moves
are well choreographed, and described in a way that makes them
easy for readers to visualize.

This pattern (using a reveal to deliver the genre goods) will be

repeated for the second reveal in the sequence. Only this time, the
authors go a step further, using the reveal to deliver two doses of
genre, not just one.
In the first, thugs hired by Carter attack the home of a retired thief
with a missile-bearing Apache helicopter. The thugs take the thief
captive. He knows what they want—the name of the con man who
stole the rooster—and he knows that eventually, he’ll give it to them,
too.

This is how Carter becomes apprised of Nick Fox’s involvement

(remember, before, Carter was in the dark; Nick wasn’t Nick to him,
but a TV producer). Now that Carter knows Nick’s identity, he can
torture Nick—and torture him, he does.

How? Alerting the Chinese police to Nick’s entry into China, Carter
claims that Nick intends to steal the rooster aboard Fu’s plane. Enter
Police Inspector Zhaoji Li. To a degree, Zhaoji’s arrival widens the
scope of the story the way Special Agent Sadusky’s arrival does in
National Treasure. Nick and Kate don’t just have Carter (and his
operatives) on their backs. They must contend with a new antagonist
—Chinese law enforcement.

Before we proceed further, I should mention that before Zhaoji

boards Fu’s plane (and before the retired thief spills the beans about
Nick’s identity), Nick and Kate successfully switch the fake rooster
inside of Fu’s safe with the real one. Since they’ve accomplished the
task assigned to them, this goal is out of play. In order for the plot to
keep going, it must be replaced with a new one—heralding a game-
changer fulcrum. Instead of discussing this game changer here, we’ll
delay until the end of this section, and continue with our analysis of
Zhaoji.

In addition to widening the story’s scope, Zhaoji’s presence leads to

another dose of genre. To explain, we must first delve into the
particulars of how Nick and Kate stowed away aboard Fu’s plane.
See, Fu didn’t only pick up the rooster when he was in the United
States. He also purchased a rare car, a ’69 Dodge Charger Daytona
to be exact.

This is how Nick and Kate became stowaways. They hid themselves
in the trunk of the car, which was rolled right into the cargo hold—
where lo and behold, the safe containing the fake rooster is also
located.

Realizing Zhaoji is about to inspect the cargo hold, Kate hides in the
trunk of the Charger. Nick, meanwhile, hides underneath the
backseat…and, at the proper moment, creeps into the driver’s
seat…

“He sat up, turned the ignition key, depressed the clutch, jammed the
car into reverse, and flattened the gas pedal.

“The Charger’s loud, guttural roar startled everyone in the cargo

hold. They were even more surprised when they saw the car speed
backward down the ramp and smack onto the wet tarmac, setting off
sparks and scattering the ground crew.

“Fu ran after the car, waving his hands, yelling for the driver to stop.
Zhaoji scrambled off the boat, issuing orders to secure the hold. And
Kate held her breath and braced herself.

“Nick executed a perfect half-spin as he hit the tarmac, turning the

car around so it faced away from the plane and directly toward the
chain-link fence that separated the airfield from the road. The
Charger shot forward, a blur of red streaking over the asphalt, its 426
Hemi engine powering it through the fence and onto a side street
that led into a warren of warehouses. He sped south, straight into the
oncoming traffic, dodging head-on collisions with taxis, trucks, and
buses.”

…thus initiating a high-speed chase on the Chinese freeway. This

sequence is visual. It’s memorable as well, something I remembered
long after I had finished the book. In short, it’s a solid set piece.

As defined by Billy Mernit, a set piece:

“…is not a one-shot deal…it’s…an extended scene or sequence that

exploits the setting or ‘world’ of the movie to build from one joke or
thrill to a series of same, climaxing in a satisfyingly big payoff
topper…When the movie exec asks of a script, Where are the set
pieces?, he’s echoing the uber-query of the music exec when faced
with a new album release: Where are the hit singles?” [5]

This is actually another reason why I chose to use The Chase as an

example. Although traditionally associated with movies, set pieces
can boost the quality of novels as well. However, while strong
examples can be found in almost any produced film (in the action,
thriller, horror, romance, comedy, or sci-fi & fantasy genres), it’s more
difficult to find one in novel form.

This is a good one to study (if you do, make sure to read the
sequence in full, not just the excerpt above). That said, despite its
memorability, this midpoint chase sequence doesn’t eclipse the
climax—another strong set piece where snipers, grenades, missiles,
rocket launchers, and an oil rig coalesce into one explosive (and
zany) action fest.

At the end of the high-speed chase, Nick and Kate split up, leaving
her to fend for herself. She must convince Zhaoji that she has gone
rogue, and went after Nick without the authority of her supervisors—
or else she’ll go to prison.

To accomplish this, Kate, as she says, “played the victim card.” She
was tracking Nick, didn’t realize he was working with an accomplice,
and was caught unawares. They locked her up in the trunk of the
Charger (which is how Zhaoji found her).

Strong and competent, Kate is not the victim type. This fabrication
goes against the grain of her character, and while not as dramatic as
the ones in Face/Off and Collateral, it can be considered as a flipside
of the commitment-to-the-truth fork in the road.

It does the trick. Zhaoji lets Kate go. She is free to leave the country.
Before she does, she meets up with Nick. While snuggled up in bed,
they sip champagne, tease each other, and fill each other in on their
misadventures. There’s even an assertion-of-loyalty style of fork,
where they use matrimonial language to describe their commitment
to their unconventional professional pairing:

“‘Wow, that’s harsh. I thought we were a team. Until death do us

part,’ [Nick said].

“‘That’s a marriage vow. We aren’t married.’

“‘We took a vow in a monastery.’

“‘We made an agreement in a cave!’ Kate said. ‘We committed to

work together on covert missions for the FBI.’”

The scene has the vibe of a bond-builder midpoint. On the surface, it

echoes the bond-building bedroom scene in The Proposal. But
unlike Andrew and Margaret, Nick and Kate are not truly being
vulnerable with one another. Therefore, while this scene has the
outward trappings of the bond builder, it lacks its characteristic
intimacy.

Despite its strength in other areas, the midpoint is weak here. In fact,
this is a weakness of the novel as a whole. It sticks to superficial
spheres. A review from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel observes
that the authors “have made charm their most important weapon.”

I agree. The novel is heavy on charm, which is why it’s fun to read.
Unfortunately, it’s light on heart.

In this respect, it’d be wiser to emulate the novel’s TV inspiration,

White Collar. The television show shares the same lighthearted tone,
the same fun-filled capers. Yet, by exploring the surrogate-father
relationship between Neal and Peter, it mines deeper emotional
territory. Such depth is usually critical in maintaining the longevity of
a series.

The pseudo bond builder in The Chase is followed by a series of

riffs, as well as the last reveal in the revelation-acceleration
sequence. We’ll get to those shortly, but before we do, I want to ask
you something. Did you notice anything unusual about the list of
fulcrums described so far? An omission from it?

There’s no manifest midpoint.

The hook is watching Nick and Kate pull off a heist (specifically,
stealing the rooster from Carter Grove), and the novel delivers on
that hook with little delay. It doesn’t wait until the midpoint. By the
time readers reach the middle of the novel, that particular heist is
over and done with.

I bring this up to reinforce a point mentioned in an earlier chapter:

just because your story is MOCHA-flavored doesn’t mean that you
have to employ the manifest midpoint. It’s not a de facto option—
although it’s always worthy of consideration, especially if you’re
having escalation problems.

All right, we’re done with that little tangent. Let’s move on to the next
midpoint component: the last reveal of the revelation-acceleration
progressive sequence. After receiving intel on what transpired in
China, Carter learns that Special Agent Kate O’Hare was there, too.
By the end of the scene, the pieces fall into place. He knows she
was one half of the TV production duo that robbed him. This
discovery enables him to torture Kate with a major power play.

Before that power play is related to readers, the novel makes a

detour to show Nick going to the hospital to visit the retired thief,
whose limbs were broken by Carter’s thugs. The retired thief
apologizes to Nick for ratting him out. Despite the duress he was put
under, the retired thief says he shouldn’t have done it. “It’s the thief’s
code. You never betray your crew.”

His comments can be construed as an assertion-of-loyalty fork,

where he avows his commitment to his brotherhood of thieves. His
stance not only adds a little extra flavor to the scene, but also
explains, in part, why Nick is plotting an elaborate scam to take down
Carter.
Readers get the barest mention of it here—“I have the beginnings of
a plan, but I need some information”—hinting that a scheme with all
the markings of Custer’s last stand is in the offing. This is confirmed
15 pages later when Nick shares the details. “We have to pull off the
most daring and lucrative museum heist in Canadian history. And it
has to be done in Montreal on July first in broad daylight.”

Three recruits commit to help Nick pull off this second heist. (Two of
them participated in the original rooster heist; one of them is
introduced now, for the first time.) Kate is part of this Custer coterie,
too. As a matter of fact, her commitment is borne out of a torn-loyalty
fork.

While all of these forks enrich the novel’s middle, the torn-loyalty one
is the most valuable to the plot (and hence the best one to study). So
let’s take a closer look at it. Carter issues Kate an ultimatum: either
she delivers Nick Fox over to him, or he’ll hurt her family. “It wouldn’t
be the first time someone’s brakes have failed on that steep hill your
sister and her children live on. It could happen to one of them too.”

Thus, two stakes are pitted against each other: Nick’s safety vs. the
safety of Kate’s family. It’s an intriguing dilemma for Kate to face.
Even though it involves no action whatsoever, it’s interesting to read
about. That’s one of the major benefits of the fork in the road
(especially of the torn-loyalty variety): it enables you to slow down
the pace of your story without losing audience interest. (Incidentally,
as a novelist, your task is even easier because you can dramatize
your characters’ internal debate using interior monologue.)

Notice, though, that this fork is only possible because Carter has
become clued into the truth through the reveals associated with the
revelation acceleration. If he were still in the dark about Kate’s true
identity, then he wouldn’t be able to threaten Kate’s family.

This raises another critical point: Carter’s threat wouldn’t be half as

effective if readers never met Kate’s family at all. Fortunately, Kate’s
family is introduced to readers beforehand. To zoom in on Kate’s
sister, readers become acquainted with her in one scene at the
novel’s beginning, and in another immediately preceding Carter’s
threat.

Without these scenes (as minor and brief as they are), Carter’s
threat would lose its bite. This is exactly the kind of setup you might
have to go out of your way to include in order to orchestrate a
successful fork. On that note, this fork would be even more effective
if Nick and Kate’s relationship felt like it was more than skin deep—
and their bond-building scene, more genuine.

Readers don’t have to wait very long to learn what Kate’s decision
will be. About 8 pages later, she commits to Nick’s harebrained
Montreal heist, which is part of a larger plan to take down Carter
Grove. This is why Kate commits to the scheme, even though it’s
risky, outrageous, and completely unsanctioned. It’s her best shot to
save Nick and her family.

It’s also why audiences understand her decision and are willing to go
along for the ride. Without the stakes, Kate’s decision wouldn’t make
sense at all. It would be contrived, and her character sacrificed
purely to keep the plot going.

Observe, too, that these stakes are not of the same quality as the
ones that fueled the first half of the story. Then, Kate and Nick
participated in the rooster heist in order to avoid an embarrassing
international incident. Now, they’re about to participate in the
Montreal heist in order to save Kate’s family and Nick from Carter.

These stakes are more personal. They’re higher. They have been
raised. Not only that, they come with a deadline. Kate has 2 weeks
to hand over Nick to Carter—or else.

Recall that Nick and Kate successfully replaced the fake rooster in
Fu’s safe with the real one. (Let’s call this Goal A.) Goal A
accomplished, the story should stop there—unless the protagonists
are supplied with a new goal. As you already know, they are: it’s to
pull off the Montreal heist and take down Carter for good. (This is
Goal B.)
Therefore, raising the stakes achieves another objective. The higher
stakes enable the story to transition between goals, which keeps the
plot going (again, without feeling contrived)…and means that it’s
time to revisit the game-changer fulcrum (which was briefly
mentioned in passing earlier on).

Accomplishing Goal B involves action, comedy, more cons, and

another heist. In other words, changing goals doesn’t change the
genre of the story. Nor does it change its tone, which remains light.
But it does leave open the possibility that one (or both) goals are
underdeveloped.

To see what I mean, let’s entertain the idea of molding the game-
changer fulcrum into something else. Kate and Nick would have only
one goal, which remember, consists of two parts: (1) to acquire the
real rooster, and (2) to replace the fake one with it. Instead of having
this goal go out of play at the midpoint, the plot would transition
between its two constituent parts instead.

To spell it out, in the actual novel, Act One and Act 2A are about
acquiring and delivering the real rooster, while Act 2B and Act Three
are about pulling off the Montreal heist and taking down Carter. In
our hypothetical version, Act One and Act 2A would be about
acquiring the real rooster, while Act 2B and Act Three would be
about safely delivering it to the Chinese government.

To go about this, we’d have to introduce new complications to the

story. Below are some possibilities:

At the beginning of the novel, it’s mentioned that Nick has had
some dealings with a drug cartel. Realizing Nick is swindling
them, their members could track him down to Florida (where
Carter’s mansion is located) and jeopardize the reality TV show
ruse.
Fu could catch Nick and Kate in the act of switching the
roosters. They explain everything to him, and he believes their
story. But instead of letting them off the hook, he blackmails
 them. He’ll make sure that the Chinese government receives the
real rooster—but only if Nick and Kate steal a heavily-guarded
item, which, for whatever reason, Fu’s billions can’t buy.
Fu might catch Nick and Kate in the act, or not. Regardless,
when his plane lands, it’s robbed by a gang of Chinese
criminals, who take off with the real rooster. Now Nick and Kate
must recover the rooster from them.

With the second or third options, we could integrate Zhaoji more into
the story. Right now, after he lets Kate go, he never appears again,
which makes the plot feel rather episodic. We could fix that by
turning him into something I like to call the third-wheel nemesis, i.e.
someone who pursues the hero (in this case Nick), making it ten
times more difficult for the hero to deal with the villain.

On the surface, these may seem like great ideas. But they’re not
without their drawbacks. If our hypothetical version involves the
Chinese gang, the real rooster is going to be passed between
multiple thieves like a ping-pong ball. It’s possible audiences could
become wearied by the repetition.

Also, with this new plot structure, Carter’s role in the villain hierarchy
becomes unclear. This impacts the story in several ways. With
antagonist forces spread across multiple characters, the story may
lose its one “big baddie,” which tends to ruin the climax.

Additionally, since Carter’s role is up in the air, I’m not sure if and
how the stakes could be raised at the midpoint as well as how
exactly Zhaoji becomes initially embroiled in the plot (which means
that the awesome set piece with the Charger on the Chinese
freeway may no longer be an option).

Perhaps, there are ways to stay with Goal A all the way through the
novel, and, at the same time, fix all of these issues. Perhaps not.

I’m not privy to the authors’ plotting process, but in theory, they could
have implemented the game-changer fulcrum the way they did
precisely to circumvent these very problems. In sum, it’s not easy to
render a verdict on this game changer. While its effectiveness is up
for debate, it’s fair to say that it’s not as ill-advised as the game
changer in Robin Hood.

Okay. That’s it. We’ve covered all the fulcrums and forks in The
Chase. Now it’s time to wrap up and recap. As you can see, the
midpoint in The Chase is most definitely not a point. It consumes a
massive swath of pages (approximately 100 by my count), straddling
both Act 2A and Act 2B. If you’re into the sequence approach, you
could say it spans sequences #4 and #5.

By incorporating a bevy of fulcrums and forks into the middle of your

story, you can create a midpoint of epic length just like the authors of
this novel did. (In particular, note that they got maximum mileage out
of the revelation acceleration.)

For your convenience, the list below quickly recaps all the midpoint
components we discussed in this case study (they follow the
chronology in the novel exactly):

revelation-acceleration reveal #1 (of three): Carter discovers

the theft and places a female assassin aboard Fu’s plane
fulfilling genre via hand-to-hand combat between Kate and the
female assassin
game-changer fulcrum: with the rooster mission accomplished,
the story needs a new goal to replace it
fulfilling genre via helicopter attack
revelation-acceleration reveal #2: Carter discovers Nick’s true
identity
widening the scope via the addition of Inspector Zhaoji
fulfilling genre via the high-speed chase on the Chinese
freeway
commitment to the truth, flipside: Kate plays the victim card
bond-builder fulcrum: Nick and Kate swap tales while
snuggled up in bed
assertion of loyalty: Nick and Kate discuss their commitment
to their professional pairing using matrimonial language
 revelation-acceleration reveal #3: Carter discovers Kate’s true
identity
assertion of loyalty: the retired thief avows commitment to the
thief’s code
Custer’s last stand (hint): Nick has an outrageous plan up his
sleeve
torn between two loyalties: Kate must choose between saving
Nick from Carter or saving her family
stakes are raised: Carter’s threat makes the stakes more
personal and takes them to the level of life and death
deadline is introduced: Kate has 2 weeks to deliver Nick to
Carter
Custer’s last stand: readers get the full details on Nick’s plan
to rob a Montreal museum; Kate commits to the heist
Custer’s last stand: a tech expert commits to the Montreal
heist
Custer’s last stand: the getaway driver commits to the
Montreal heist
Custer’s last stand: an actor commits to the Montreal heist

With our analysis of The Chase complete, it’s time to change formats
and see what an epically awesome midpoint looks like in a produced
film. More specifically, we’re going to study the classic blockbuster
Jaws.

What’re you waiting for? It’s safe to dive in…

 Case Study #2: A Blockbuster Film
That Grossed over $200 Million
(Domestic)
The classic blockbuster Jaws is the second case study we’re going
to cover in this chapter. Directed by Steven Spielberg and written by
Carl Gottlieb and Peter Benchley (who was adapting his own novel),
Jaws was a massive hit, becoming the top-grossing film of all time
(until it was unseated by Star Wars).

Obviously, a lot of factors contributed to Jaws’s success. I count its

solid structure—including its midpoint—among them. Each midpoint
component is connected in a tight chain of cause and effect. This is
why it’s such a good example to study. However, while Jaws has
multiple components, it doesn’t have as many as The Chase.

This makes sense. Everything is more condensed in a film.

Compared to a novel, it has fewer pages for you to work with, fewer
characters too. Basically, with a screenplay, you can get away with
less material and still produce a compelling midpoint. Let’s see how
Jaws accomplishes that. As with our analysis of The Chase, we’ll
(more or less) run through each midpoint component as they occur
chronologically in the blockbuster film.

It starts to swing in a new direction when Hooper, the guy from the
oceanographic institute, concludes that Amity Island is dealing with a
great white shark. His conclusion functions like an antagonist-aha
fulcrum. It might not feel like one on the surface, but it does give
Police Chief Brody insight into the identity of his antagonist, and
hence, the true depth of danger he must contend with.

This fulcrum widens the scope of the story in a couple of ways. The
first way is analogous to something we discussed in chapter 3 that
pertains to scope: while protagonist detectives believe they’re
dealing with an isolated incident, at the midpoint, they discover
they’re dealing with a serial killer.

The antagonist-aha fulcrum in Jaws is like that (although, admittedly,

Brody has dealt with two incidents so far—not one). Now, with
Hooper’s assessment, Brody knows these weren’t one-off attacks.
The deaths won’t stop there. Great whites are territorial, and the one
plaguing Amity will attack relentlessly, until his food supply runs out.
This, in turn, widens the scope of the story. Brody’s problem is
bigger. As he himself acknowledges, he must not only secure the
beaches, he must also find a way to kill the shark.

This is how the story widens in scope yet again, this time
geographically. For Brody to kill the shark, the plot must abandon the
shores of Amity for the open waters of the Atlantic. We’ll return to
this change in setting later, but for now, let’s move on to the next
midpoint component.

Brody and Hooper share all of their conclusions with the mayor.
Unfortunately, the mayor is preoccupied with earning maximum
“summer dollars.” These are the stakes that concern him. Thus,
despite the threat of the great white, he remains firm in his decision
not to close the beaches during the Fourth of July weekend—and his
obstinacy paves the way for a terrific set piece. Some classify Jaws
as a horror film, while others regard it as a thriller. No matter how
you slice and dice it, though, this sequence delivers.

It’s a beautiful Fourth of July. Due to the mayor’s decree, the

beaches are open—and boy, are they crowded. Upset that no one is
in the water, the mayor orders a town councilman to go in. Once this
councilman and his family take the plunge, several others follow suit.
Brody, nonetheless, remains uneasy. For his own peace of mind, he
asks his son, Michael, to play with his boat in the pond that’s “for old
ladies.”

Everyone’s having a blast in the water—until a shark is spotted. A

lifeguard whistles to signal the shark’s arrival; everyone is ordered to
leave the water. Panicked, the swimmers race back to the sandy
shore in a frenzy. A dorsal fin appears. It cruises closer and closer…
revealing itself to be a false alarm. As Hooper relays to Brody, “It’s
just a hoax. There are two kids with a cardboard fin.”

But then a woman cries out a warning. This time, it’s no hoax. This
time, the danger is real. A great white is headed toward the shallow
pond. (Incidentally, notice that the effect of the real shark
approaching is more intense because audiences are lulled into a
false sense of security after the hoax.)

When the shark is in the pond, its rows of pointy teeth are shown for
the first time. When you think about it, this is a pretty neat hat trick
(similar to putting no boxing matches in the middle of Rocky). The
shark has haunted Amity (and audiences) for half of the film. Yet, no
one has seen it. It hasn’t been depicted on-screen…until now. In
other words, the manifest midpoint is partially springing into action.

Oddly enough, this aspect of the manifest midpoint happened due to

a quirk of fate. The mechanical sharks made by the art department
weren’t working properly during production. (Indeed, they caused all
manner of trouble.) As a result, a significant portion of the script was
rewritten on the fly to accommodate the absent “star.”

Because the shark doesn’t appear until halfway through the film, the
film escalates very nicely—much better than most. Actually, although
the delay in manifestation occurred by accident, Jaws is probably
one of the best advertisements for implementing the manifest
midpoint. Happily, you can reap the same benefits by incorporating it
into the middle of your story on purpose.

Bear in mind, however, that the manifest midpoint only partially

springs into action here. That’s because the hook of the film isn’t just
about seeing the shark. The hook is also about seeing the
protagonists go after the shark. This occurs at the tail end of the
midpoint, and we’ll get to it in due course. But first, we’ve got to
backtrack a little.
Remember, when the great white enters the pond, Brody’s son,
Michael, is there. He’s on his boat, playing with his friends. The
shark is headed in his direction. Paralyzed by shock, Michael doesn’t
swim away. The shark attacks—killing a guy in a rowboat. Michael,
fortunately, is unharmed (shock notwithstanding).

This incident raises the stakes in a major way. Now, stopping the
shark isn’t just about protecting the general public. It’s more personal
than that for Brody. Also, stopping the shark isn’t about bringing in
tourist dollars. It’s brought home the reality: this is a matter of life and
death. The stakes are so high, they trigger both a character-based
and a plot-based passivity pivot.

Let’s begin with the character-based pivot. After the events at the
pond, it’s like a switch has been flipped inside of Brody. Before,
because he was new to the job—new to Amity—Brody deferred to
the mayor. Against his better judgment, Brody backed down when
the mayor told him to.

But now that his son’s life was threatened, Brody won’t let himself be
manipulated by the mayor any longer. He won’t let the mayor call the
shots. Going into full aggressive mode, Brody demands that the
mayor pay Quint $10,000 to kill the shark. “You’re going to sign this
and we’re going to pay that guy what he wants.”

And the mayor ponies up, which represents a torn-loyalty fork for
him. So far, two stakes have been pitted against each other: the
need to keep the beaches open and preserve this source of summer
dollars (Stake A) vs. the need to close the beaches and protect the
citizens of Amity from the shark (Stake B). Before the incident at the
pond, the mayor always chose in favor of Stake A. But now that the
shark attacks have affected him personally (“my kids were on that
beach too”), the mayor finally commits to Stake B.

A few observations about this fork: in theory, this is when Quint’s

character could be introduced to audiences for the first time. Opting
for another—more effective—tack, the film introduces Quint earlier
on, during Act One. At a meeting of the town council, Quint says the
$3,000 reward offered by Mrs. Kintner to kill the shark isn’t enough to
risk his life for. But he’ll do it for $10,000. Here, the mayor says the
council will take Quint’s offer “under advisement.”

If this introductory scene were removed, Quint’s appearance later on

wouldn’t make the plot feel episodic. That’s because Quint is
thoroughly integrated into the second half of the film. But Quint’s
earlier introduction does make the mayor’s decision feel more
momentous. Without that prior setup, this decision wouldn’t feel as
meaningful.

Also notice that Quint’s demand for greater payment, coupled with
the mayor’s hesitance to pay it until the disastrous events at the
pond—and followed by Quint’s eventual death—speak to the evil of
greed. This is a good example of using the fork plot point to illustrate
a theme.

Finally, observe how the town leadership’s response to Quint’s offer

was left open-ended…but is resolved at minute 66—which is right
around the 60-minute mark we talked about in chapter 5.

So. We covered why Quint’s addition to the shark-hunting expedition

feels meaningful. What about the others, i.e. Hooper and Brody?
Let’s look at Hooper first. When Hooper and Brody inform the mayor
that they’re dealing with a great white, the mayor tells them the
beaches must remain open, but Brody should “do whatever you have
to, to make them safe.”

A flurry of preparations ensue. In the midst of them, Hooper

mentions that he’s not going to go to Brisbane, “when I have a great
white shark right here.” (From an earlier line of dialogue, it’s clear
that going to Brisbane is part of an 18-month research expedition
aboard the Aurora.) Rejecting the Aurora research trip can be
considered a fork of the commitment-to-the-cause variety. Instead of
taking a way out, Hooper’s going to stay behind in Amity and hunt
the great white.
At the climax, when he dives into the ocean in an anti-shark cage
and appears to have died, his (implied) death should feel more
poignant due to his earlier sacrifice, i.e. if he had taken his way out,
he could’ve been alive on the Aurora instead of dead at the bottom
of the ocean. However, because his decision gets lost in a shuffle of
overlapping phone conversations, this fork doesn’t have much
impact.

As for Brody, by this point, it’s been well established that he’s afraid
of the water. Now he must venture deep into the ocean in order to kill
the shark. One need only reimagine the film with him as a seafaring
adventurer or a water-sport enthusiast to see how this irony enriches
the story. Here, when he’s committing to the task ahead of him by
boarding Quint’s boat, it’s used to reinforce his status as a hero.
Despite his fear of the shark, despite his fear of the water, Brody’s
going to proceed anyway.

Furthermore, this expedition results in a plot-based passivity pivot.

Brody isn’t going to wait for the shark to attack Amity shores again—
which, you’ll observe, is a defensive position. Instead (along with
Hooper and Quint), he’s going on the offensive. He’s going to seek
out the shark—and kill it.

As already mentioned, this, geographically speaking, widens the

scope of the story. Heretofore, its plot and characters have been
limited to the land and shores of Amity. But now that the three men
are venturing into open waters, the story is expanding beyond
previous boundaries.

Actually (similar to the change in location from the Bahamas to

Montenegro in Casino Royale), this transition from land to open
waters contains shades of the game-changer fulcrum. Notice that
this game changer doesn’t change the film’s genre or tone. Nor does
it change the plot, which remains the same at the middle of Act Two
as it was at its beginning: to stop the shark.

More important, venturing into open waters fulfills the hook of seeing
the three protagonists wage war against the shark. The manifest
midpoint now manifests in full. It also begs the question: How did the
film satisfy audiences until then?

Jaws’s solution can be summarized in two words: surrogate sharks.

During Act 2A, audiences experience different shark encounters.
Although none of them feature the great white emphasized in the
movie trailers, they yield a satisfying shadow version, nevertheless.

Take a look:

Photos of sharks (and the injuries they’ve inflicted on

humans). To learn more about his antagonist, Brody studies
sharks in marine-biology textbooks. The photos in these books
enable the film to suggest the harm Amity is facing, and thus
make audiences afraid on the town’s behalf—without depicting
that harm itself.
The tiger shark. Eager to win Mrs. Kintner’s reward, fishermen
take to the waters to kill the shark that killed her boy. Apparently
successful, a group of them return to Amity proudly bearing the
body of a dead shark. But as Hooper says, they caught “a shark,
not the shark.”
The hoax shark. (We already discussed this one.)

Together with top-notch genre delivery (where the shark attacks are
depicted although the shark itself is kept invisible), these visible
surrogate-shark encounters produced enough shadow to satisfy
audiences, who could enjoy the slow build toward the substance,
when they’d experience the actual shark hunt promised to them.
Perhaps, reflecting on this surrogate strategy will help you develop a
suitable Act 2A shadow for your own story.

In the course of hunting the shark, the three men become aware of
the magnitude of the beast they’re dealing with. It’s 25-feet long and
weighs 3 tons. As Brody says to Quint, “You’re gonna need a bigger
boat.” It’s a classic line that not only has become part of the cultural
lexicon but also embodies the last-stand fork in the road. The men
should turn back and get a bigger boat. But they don’t. Despite the
overwhelming odds against them, they desperately forge ahead. (As
a side note, on the DVD edition of the film, Quint’s climactic
encounter with the shark is given the title “Quint’s Last Stand.”)

There you have it. The midpoint of Jaws. Similar to The Chase, it
straddles both Acts 2A and 2B, beginning at minute 50 and (if you
include forks in the road), ending around minute 82.

But its length isn’t as important as its content. In particular, pay close
attention to the way raising the stakes triggered all manner of effects
as well as how the manifest midpoint affected the film’s ability to
escalate.

For your convenience, the list below quickly recaps all the midpoint
components we discussed in this case study (they follow the
chronology of the film exactly):

antagonist-aha fulcrum: Amity is dealing with a great white

shark
widening the scope by making Brody’s problem bigger, i.e. he
has to keep the beaches safe and find a way to kill the shark
commitment to the cause: Hooper decides to stay behind to
hunt the great white instead of going on a research trip aboard
the Aurora
fulfilling genre via the hoax shark attack and the real shark
attack
manifest midpoint: the shark is seen for the first time
(specifically its jaws)
stakes are raised: the attack in the pond makes things personal
for Brody; also, for the town, stopping the shark is more about
protecting lives than summer dollars
passivity pivot (character based): Brody gets assertive with the
mayor
torn between two loyalties: the mayor commits to paying Quint
$10,000 to catch and kill the shark
avowal of commitment (via action, not dialogue): reinforcing
his status as a hero, Brody boards Quint’s boat despite his fear
 of the water
passivity pivot (plot based): instead of waiting for the shark to
attack Amity, the three men are going on the offensive, hunting it
down
manifest midpoint: as promised to them in the trailers,
audiences witness Brody, Quint, and Hooper hunting down a
great white
game-changer fulcrum: the plot leaves the shores of Amity for
the open waters
widening the scope via setting (see above)
Custer’s last stand: the men proceed onward instead of getting
a bigger boat

***

Let’s talk numbers for a second. The Chase has approximately 20

midpoint components; Jaws 14. Inspiring, but intimidating too.
Remember, quality is what matters—not quantity.

That said, most writers don’t flex their midpoint-building muscles

enough. They settle for two or three midpoint components and call it
a day. More often than not, they don’t fully exploit all the potential
hidden within the middle of their story, and accordingly, get mediocre
results.

That’s why I encourage you to always go a step further. Whether

studying the midpoints of successful stories, or working on your own
epically awesome midpoint, challenge yourself.

Analyze a novel, screenplay, or film like we did in this chapter. When

you’re done, see if you can weave an additional fulcrum or fork into
their story fabric. Built an epic midpoint out of three, four, or five
fulcrums in your work in progress? See if you can add one more.

Another activity that makes for great practice: write down all the
fulcrums and fork types onto slips of paper, put them in a hat, and
pick one at random. Whichever one you pick, find a way to
incorporate it into the novel or film you’re studying or into the draft
you’re working on. (If it’s already there, then either pick again, or try
to include an additional variation of it.)

At first, this exercise might not bear the most promising fruit. Sure,
you got that extra fulcrum or fork in there. But to do it, you had to
contort a story in all manner of ways or take it down a laborious
tangent. Hence, your addition isn’t viable.

Over time, however, your success rate will improve. Your midpoint-
building muscles will become as impressive as those belonging to
the dudes in 300.

Crafting an epically awesome midpoint will no longer be drudge

work. It will become second nature—and developing the middle of
your story will fill you not with dread, but delight.

Notes for Chapter 7

5. Billy Mernit, “Set Piece: A Tenth Anniversary Re-Post: May, 2006,”

Living the Romantic Comedy (blog), June 19, 2015,
http://livingromcom.typepad.com/my_weblog/2015/06/set-piece.html.
 IT’S NOT BRAIN SURGERY
- chapter eight -

Writing a story isn’t brain surgery.

No, it certainly isn’t.

It’s harder.

Many writers wouldn’t agree with the above statement, but hear me
out.

When neurosurgeons operate, they’re working with physical matter.

Not only that, they have a fixed boundary—the skull—to work within.
Plus, the list of acceptable tools and materials they can use is
limited.

That’s not the case with storytelling.

Although they may come in physical form (a hardcover, printed draft,

DVD, etc.), stories themselves are intangible. They’re nebulous.

While practical considerations govern their length, their boundaries

are more flexible than that of the human skull.

And storytellers can fill up the pages of a story with anything their
imagination can conceive of (which, frankly, often doesn’t pass
muster).

Due to these qualities, there are so many opportunities to go astray

—making it difficult to produce a story that’s consistently good.

Unfortunately, as a screenwriter or novelist, that’s not the only bar

you have to clear.
For a story to become a breakout success, it has to be more than
consistently good.

It has to escalate and become progressively better.

Not the easiest of tasks.

Nowhere is this more evident than at the middle of your story, which
has to be interesting enough to make good on the premise that
initially hooked audiences. (Otherwise, feeling that you’ve pulled a
bait and switch on them, they’ll put down your story in the midst of
reading it.)

At the same time, the middle can’t be so amazing that it eclipses the
grand finale that follows. (Then your story will be saddled with the
anticlimactic label, and no one will want to read the other stuff you’ve
written.)

The same doesn’t apply to neurosurgeons. They don’t have to be

afraid that by unleashing tremendous skill in the middle of an
operation, they’ll ruin it.

They don’t have to end their surgeries with the most advanced
technique known to MDs.

They don’t have to worry about escalation.

They just have to get the job done.

For screenwriters and novelists, it’s different. For you, being

consistently good isn’t good enough.

You have to top yourself.

That’s why I claim that writing a story is harder than brain surgery
(and, for that matter, rocket science).

It’s my sincere hope that the tips in this writing guide will help you
unleash the magical power of the midpoint…so that your stories will
have maximum escalation and minimal “sag.”

I wish you much success on your storytelling journey.

 Want More?
You’ve mastered the midpoint…but what about the end of Act
Two?

Now you know how to braid together fulcrums and forks into an
epically awesome midpoint. But that’s only part of the equation.

To prevent your story middle from sagging, you must also end Act
Two with a bang. Learn how with my writing guide, Trough of Hell.

In it, I’ll show you how to combine pain, emotion, and paradox into a
powerful Act Two ending. Specifically, we’ll cover:

how to use 4 different pain types to inflict maximum damage to

your hero (and why you should)
3 methods to make the trough of hell more emotionally intense
—without altering a single beat of the “all is lost” moment
how a hero can seem to be the furthest away from his goal,
when you and I both know victory is just around the corner
7 common ways to end Act Two and how to overcome the
unique challenges each presents
how to enchant audiences by combining multiple trough types

To read a free preview on Amazon.com, click on the link below:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HYNDMVA/

International readers, please visit my website for a convenient list of

links that will take you to a preview of Trough of Hell on your
country’s Amazon store:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/amazon-international-structure-series/
Do you want to transform readers into raving fans of your
screenplay or novel?

Master story stakes and you can. Easily.

They’re the secret to giving readers a super-intense emotional

experience—and that’s what makes them recommend your story to
everyone they know.

With my writing guide, Story Stakes, you’ll learn about:

11 types of story stakes which increase tension and reader

engagement
8 modulating factors you can use to elicit extra emotion from
your readers
how to use stakes to craft a premise with more commercial
appeal
specific strategies to raise the stakes—even when they’re
already high to begin with!

To read a free preview on Amazon.com, click on the link below:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MU9JQOA/

International readers, please visit my website for a convenient list of

links that will take you to a preview of Story Stakes on your country’s
Amazon store:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/amazon-international-stakes/

Reviews are like promotions…

…highly prized and difficult to get—unless you ask.

If this book helped you, would you take a second to write a brief
review on Amazon.com?
For your convenience, clicking on the link below will take you straight
to the Amazon.com page for this book:

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International readers, again, please visit my website for a convenient

link that will take you to your country’s Amazon page for this book,
where you can easily leave your review.

http://scribemeetsworld.com/amazon-international-structure-series/

Merci, fellow scribe. Merci!

 Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
8 SPECIFIC WAYS TO SWING YOUR STORY IN A NEW
DIRECTION
Midpoint Fulcrum #1: The Bond Builder
Midpoint Fulcrum #2: The BFF Breaker
Midpoint Fulcrum #3: The Tide Turner
Midpoint Fulcrum #4: The Passivity Pivot
Midpoint Fulcrum #5: The Antagonist Aha
Midpoint Fulcrum #6: The Revelation Acceleration
5 Reasons Why You Should Move Up Your Big Plot
Twist to the Middle of Your Story
Midpoint Fulcrum #7: The Manifest Midpoint
5 Story Concepts Where It Actually Pays to Bury Your
Hook
Stretching the Manifest Midpoint to the Limit
Midpoint Fulcrum #8: The Game Changer
A FOOLPROOF SYSTEM TO MAP OUT THE MIDDLE OF YOUR
STORY
The 2 Preparatory Steps That Will Help You Instantly Get to the
Heart of Your Story
Mining Your Premise for Midpoint Fulcrums That Are Indicated
by Your Logline (Automatically or by Extension)
Mining Your Premise for Midpoint Fulcrums That Aren’t
Indicated by Your Logline
How to Choose the Best Fulcrum to Build Your Story Middle
Around
8 PRACTICAL CONSIDERATIONS TO PONDER WHEN
DEVELOPING YOUR MIDPOINT
Practical Consideration #1: Span
Practical Consideration #2: Genre
Practical Consideration #3: Stakes
Practical Consideration #4: Scope
Practical Consideration #5: Necessity
 Practical Consideration #6: Multiplicity
Practical Consideration #7: Timing
Practical Consideration #8: Sequence
5 COMMON MIDPOINT PITFALLS (PLUS, EASY WAYS TO
SIDESTEP THEM)
Pitfall #1: No Passivity Pivot
Pitfall #2: A Slow Starter
Pitfall #3: A Truncated or Split Act 2A
Pitfall #4: A Slow Act 2B
Pitfall #5: An Ill-Advised Game Changer
THE MIDPOINT-BOOSTING PLOT POINT YOU’VE PROBABLY
NEVER HEARD OF (BUT WHICH YOU’LL TOTALLY LOVE)
5 Ways to Express Your Protagonist’s Commitment
Fork Type #1: Assertion of Loyalty
Fork Type #2: Commitment to the Cause
Fork Type #3: Torn Between 2 Loyalties
Fork Type #4: Commitment to the Truth
Fork Type #5: Custer’s Last Stand
A BAZILLION REASONS WHY YOUR PROTAGONIST SHOULD
FACE A FORK IN THE ROAD (IN ADDITION TO THE
MIDPOINT)
The Value of the Fork in the Road
The Value of Treating the Fork and the Midpoint as Separate
Entities
CRAFTING AN EPICALLY AWESOME MIDPOINT
Case Study #1: A Novel Written by 2 New York Times
Bestselling Authors
Case Study #2: A Blockbuster Film That Grossed over $200
Million (Domestic)
IT’S NOT BRAIN SURGERY
Want More?