The Three Strands of Storytelling
If you’re a prolific reader, like I am, you probably know what it’s like to pick up a constant stream of books, finish each one and think, well, that was ok. Maybe even good. But to find a book that really sits with you, that you exclaim over to everyone you know, that you want to reread periodically…that’s hard to find.
Why? Because most stories usually only do one or two things well. Most literary fiction majors in character and theme, but falls flat on plot. Most genre/ commercial fiction excels in plot. Some of the better ones also feature well-crafted characters. But brilliant storytelling will always do all three of these things well:
Plot + Character + Theme
Every part of a story – every scene even – should contribute to the advancement of the plot, the growth (or decline) of your character(s) and the examination of your theme. Since I’m a writer, and simply because I love understanding good quality literature, I make it my business to grow in all of these things. Sounds obvious, right? Except that it’s much easier said than done. Then where do we start? That’s what we’re going to dig into.
I started writing this post and quickly realized that there’s too much to talk about in one entry. Instead, we’re going to look at this in three parts, one for each of our storytelling components. Today we’ll look at plot. In the next two weeks we’ll examine character and theme.
Plotting or Pantsing?
Plot is probably the easiest of the three strands to understand. And it’s the one about which we find the greatest number of resources. Countless books and websites are devoted to plot structure and timing. Whether we like it or not, whether we’re a plotter, a pantser, or something in-between, the pacing of our stories needs to ebb and flow in a way that resonates with readers.
I once read a quote by someone who basically said that it’s extremely rare for a book to disregard the rules of plot structure and still be successful. And your book won’t be that book.
I have to agree.
Even lifelong, devoted pantsers like Stephen King follow the rules of structure. Take a look at his books. He uses all of the plot points, at roughly the pacing that the plotting guides recommend. And yet, he speaks scornfully of plotting as if it would ruin his craft of writing.
How can that be? How does he manage to have well-structured books and still eschew any intentional plotting?
Well, there are only two options. Either he uses his pantsing methodology for the first draft and then fits the story into the structure on a subsequent draft. Or – and I suspect this is the truth in his case, given what he has said about the subject – he has an innate understanding of structure so that his stories automatically fall out with a sound structure intact.
If you’re a pantser, you can do either of these. But if you don’t have that innate ability to write in a structured way (don’t feel bad; I certainly don’t), you’ll have to edit the structure in your second or third draft. Because whatever you do, you have to get that story’s bones in place. Otherwise, it’ll wobble and collapse. Trust me on this.
I used to think of myself as a consummate plotter. And then I observed myself in practice and gave my technique some more thought. Now I know that I’m actually something of a pantser-plotter-pantser-plotter. Something in-between both extremes.
I start with a story idea. It’s probably incomplete in some ways, but overall, I have allowed it to gestate in my mind to the point at which I have the overall story relatively intact. Then, somewhere around the eight-to-nine-month point, metaphorically, I take it out of my mind and put it on paper. I clean it up. I make sure that all of the structure is in place. I build in all kinds of nuance or simply clarify the shadowy nuance that’s already in my mind. Then I write a first draft. Then during the rewriting process, I go back and analyze each scene-sequel sequence for structural soundness. Then I write a second draft…etc.
It’s an ebb-and-flow, a back-and-forth between that loose ability to create and a critical eye for structure.
I’ve found this to be phenomenally freeing. I still have the ability to create freely without limiting the story. And yet, a knowledge of structure and how to fit that story into a framework actually gives me more of a sense of limitless storytelling. Rather than stifling me, it helps me to fill in the gaps, to diagnose what isn’t working in the story, and to produce a book that’s a powerful and satisfying tale.
All that to say, if you’re a pantser, don’t let structure scare you. It’ll actually give you more guidance and help than you expect. And, if you’re a natural plotter, don’t forget to allow your characters room to breathe and to show you the heart of your story.
If you’re looking for more resources about structure, K.M. Weiland is one of, if not the best, resource out there today. I’d recommend starting here:
Her website is incredibly comprehensive and helpful, especially when it comes to understanding and building story structure.
The Goal
But first, you have to know what your character wants. It sounds insulting to even say that. But I’ve learned from myself that it’s very easy to approach writing thinking that I know exactly what the character wants, when what I really know is some stuff that will happen. Meaning: I know where the character is going. I know lots about the scenes that will occur. I even know the ending to the story. But I don’t always know the concrete goal that the character has.
I cannot begin to tell you how much harder that makes the entire process of writing. And in the end, you’ll stand back and find that your character is either more of an observer, or is simply an accidental participant in the action. Instead of driving the action itself.
Our characters have to drive the action. They have to act and react based on what they want.
I’ve heard that for years, and yet I didn’t know how much I didn’t know about crafting character desires until I attended a writing conference led by a well-published author. She and I were discussing the book I was working on and she asked me what my character wants. I felt very confident in my response and told her that it’s two-fold:
- He wants to be a great violinist in Vienna (this story is set in the mid-1800s), and
- He wants his father to respect him
I thought that those were concrete goals. The kinds of goals that would drive my storytelling, and yet I was having some significant problems writing the story.
She taught me that what your character wants should never come in the form of a “to be.” Why? Because it’s too vague. It doesn’t give you any direction. And it doesn’t create conflict. And she was right. So right! I’ll show you why.
First, what defines a person as “a great violinist?” Is this simply a level of contentment within him? Meaning: how will he know when he has reached it? Will he just feel that he’s great?
Second, how does this goal drive his actions? Sure, he’ll study the violin, but to what end? What is he shooting for? Is this just a book about a twenty- or forty- or sixty-year series of violin lessons? (And how boring would that be?)
And third, how does this goal naturally result in conflict? Is there any natural conflict in taking music lessons?
She was right. My goal was too vague to be any help to me. After that point, I refined the goal to be something very specific. He wants the Vienna Conservatory to recognize and appoint him as the lead violinist. From that point on, all kinds of [positive] things happened. All of a sudden, I had more concrete direction. Clearly, the character is going to spend the entire book attempting to gain that position and there are lots of ways that he can and will try to do so. Ways that go beyond simply taking music lessons.
At the same time, I can think of a lot of conflict that will prevent him from doing so, which will show us more about who he really is. It’s not going to be easy. There’s already a lead violinist. His idol. But there are also other very gifted young men.
And his family, who will also get in the way, which we’ll get to next.
Conflicting Goals
You may have noticed that I had a second goal for this character: to gain his father’s respect. Did you think I’d leave you hanging with that one? Nope. In my character’s case, his father appreciates the arts – or, to be more accurate, what he really wants is to be seen as one who appreciates the arts. In reality, he views all performers as existing for his entertainment. He doesn’t respect them at all.
What that means is that my character can’t be the lead violinist and gain his father’s respect. He will either accomplish one of them or neither. It will be impossible to have both. Something will have to give.
This naturally creates conflict. Lots of conflict. And having this sort of natural conflict makes it very easy for you, as a writer, to set up situations in which the character will have to choose between the two, or will find himself sorely disappointed because his efforts to gain one of the two will naturally create a chasm between him and his desire for the other goal.
And that’s the point. We want conflict, because it makes the story interesting. But, most importantly, we want conflict because it forces the essence of the character into the light.
We’ll talk more about why that’s the case and what that looks like in the next part.
But, for now, note that it is extremely important to give your character conflicting desires. Desires that stem from different core values he holds. Find a way to pit these values/desires/goals against one another and you’re going to be able to generate an incredible plot full of shifting conflict and escalating odds.
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