Category Archives: Story Structure

Setting: How to Write like a Cinematic Genius.

Masterful settings in Anna Karenina
Masterful settings in Anna Karenina

How important is the setting you choose for your story and characters? The short answer? Critical!

In cinema where locations come alive, as much as in novels, your choice of setting is a potent tool in supercharging your storytelling. To illustrate this, let’s draw inspiration from the brilliant location choices of Anna Karenina, All the Pretty Horses, and The Last Voyage of the Demeter as proof of how choosing the right setting can make or break your story.

Anna Karenina: Russia’s Snowy Embrace as a Character

In Anna Karenina, the brilliant Leo Tolstoy turns snowy Russia into a character as compelling as any protagonist. In this classic tale, a snowstorm isn’t just a backdrop. It is a dynamic force that shapes the characters’ choices and actions. The sensation of being inside this world, adds depth and realism to the story. As writers, we should learn to do no less.

All the Pretty Horses: The Southwestern Borderlands as a Plot Driver

In Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses, the Southwestern borderlands setting is far from coincidental. It reflects the pivotal conflict of the story, where the disappearing cowboy way of life forces the protagonist on a journey into Mexico. The arid and desolate Southwest is not just a backdrop but a character in its own right, emphasising the intimate connection between setting and plot. As storytellers, we must recognise that the place we choose can be as crucial as any character in our narrative.

The Last Voyage of the Demeter: Tempests and Confined spaces

The Last Voyage of the Demeter is a tale that emerges out of the intricate threads of Count Dracula’s legend. The story’s significance lies not only in the eerie confines of the doomed ship but also in the relentless force of the storm that envelopes it. As the Demeter sails from Varna to Whitby, the tempest mirrors the mounting dread of the crew, accentuating the horror that lurks in the cargo hold below. The setting, a claustrophobic ship with dwindling resources on a tempestuous sea, becomes a pressure cooker of dread and paranoia. The link between setting and weather in this tale showcases how, when skillfully exploited, a surrounding can become a character in itself, breathing life into the story, shaping the characters‘ actions and emotions, and influencing the tone.

“Respect the setting and weather as you do the characters in your story. Your tales will be the more vivid for it!”

As writers, we should always ask which setting(s) will have the most impact on our story. If the answer is: “I’m not sure”, or, “very little”, it is be time to reassess. The characters in Anna Karenina, All the Pretty Horses, and The Last Voyage of the Demeter, don’t merely exist in their surroundings, they are an organic part of them.

Summary

Setting and weather are not just backdrops; they are active participants in the story. Embrace both, let them shape your characters and plot, and watch as your stories roar to life.

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Four keys to writing epic characters

Dent’s Secrets in The Dark Knight
Dent’s Secrets in The Dark Knight

Vivid, unforgettable characters lie at the heart of any great story. Here are the four keys to unlocking them.


1: Powerful Desires/Goals/Needs

Giving your characters, especially your protagonists, powerful desires, goals, and needs will drive any story forward. One of the best examples of this is found in the iconic movie The Shawshank Redemption. Andy Dufresne’s relentless and persistent desire to escape from the Shawshank Prison drives the entire plot, keeping us engaged from start to finish.

We see this at work in countless of novels, too. In Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennet’s desire for love and independence in a society that pressures women into marriage motivates the entire story.

2: Secrets

Secrets add depth and intrigue to your characters, making readers and viewers eager to discover the truth. In the film The Dark Knight Harvey Dent’s character harbours a hidden darkness which transforms him into Two-Face, with dramatic consequences.

And who can forget, George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire, a series in which Jon Snow is a character with a mysterious lineage that sustains speculation and curiosity throughout the story.

3. Contradictions:

Giving your characters contradictions, introduces complexity and conflict into their psychology, which renders them more interesting and relatable. In Fight Club, the narrator appears as an office worker by day and a rebellious anarchist by night, embodying the complex duality within all of us.

“Use the four keys to help you write great characters that endure.”

In the novel To Kill a Mockingbird, Atticus Finch showcases a deep contradiction—fighting tooth and nail as a lawyer for justice in a deeply prejudiced, divided society while simultaneously finding the space and resources to be a loving father. His integrity and vulnerability make him one of the most beloved literary characters of all time.

4: Vulnerabilities

The final characteristic is vulnerability. A character’s vulnerability allows us to connect with him or her on a deep, emotional level. In Inside Out, Joy learns that it’s okay to show vulnerability by feeling sadness. This vulnerability is a crucial moment in her development as a person.

In the Harry Potter books, Harry’s vulnerability stems from his fear of rejection after years of mistreatment by the Dursleys. This helps not only make him a hero but a relatable and endearing character, too.

Use these traits in film and literature to breathe life and fire into your characters.

Summary

The four keys to writing epic characters are: Powerful goals and desires, secrets, contradictions, and vulnerabilities.

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How to use the five senses in stories

The five senses
Chris Lombardi on the five senses

In chapter 5 of Writing Fiction, the Practical Guide from New York’s Acclaimed Creative Writing School, Chris Lombardi offers us sage advice on how to catapult our readers and audiences into our fictional worlds through the evocation of the five senses.


Lombardi explains that we read and write with our brains, but we live life through our bodies. We therefore need to convey the experience of our fictional worlds through our five senses. Yes, our running to catch the bus consists of a series of internal events such as irritation at having to catch a bus in the first place, and the worry that we’ll miss it, but these internal states are motivated by the senses—the feel and sound of shoes striking the pavement, the sucking in of breath, the sight of the retreating bus, the smell of its exhaust and the roar of its engine. Experience of the world, in other words, is fed to us through our sense faculties. Our stories should do no less.

Lombardi presses the point: “To bring a reader into your fictional world, you need to offer data for all the senses. You want to make your readers see the rain’s shadow, taste the bitterness of bad soup, feel the roughness of unshaved skin, smell the spoiled pizza after an all-night party, hear the tires screech during the accident. Note that I’ve referred to all five senses. Don’t be tempted to focus only on sight, as many beginning writers do. It may be the sound after the party that your character really remembers. You may find that the feel of the fabric of a character’s dress tells more about her upbringing than her hairstyle does.”

“The skillful use of the five senses is one of the hallmarks of a good writer.”

The following passage from Amy Tan’s novel, “Rules of the Game” is a great example of the senses at work:

“We lived on Waverly Place, in a warm, clean, two-bedroom flat that sat above a small Chinese bakery, specializing in steamed pastries and dim sum. In the early morning, when the alley was still quiet, I could smell fragrant red beans as they were cooked down to a pasty sweetness. By daybreak, our flat was heavy with the odor of fried sesame balls and sweet curried chicken crescents. From my bed, I would listen as my father got ready for work, then locked the door behind him, one-two-three clicks.”

We see, hear, smell, feel, and even taste this world. It’s almost as if we are physically there.

But could we use a sense other than sight and hearing in a screenplay, too? Indeed we could, if a little more indirectly: We could write into the screenplay’s action block a character wrinkling her nose at the sight of some unsightly food on a plate with steam rising from it, we could have a character’s hand stroking the fur of a cat, a horse, a velvet dress,  we could describe a closeup shot of a child grimacing at the taste of a spoon brimming over with cod liver oil pressed into his mouth. 

You get the idea.

As an exercise write about a character on a dare from his friends to find a perfumed handkerchief hidden somewhere in a spooky, abandoned house. The character is blindfolded and has only a cane to help him/her navigate the interior. Write the scene for a novel or screenplay using only the sensory description of hearing, smell, touch, and taste. Omit any description of sight to force you to concentrate on the remaining senses.

Summary

Use the five senses in writing novels and screenplays to catapult your readers into the physical world of your story.

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Symbols – your secret power

Symbols in The Joker
Symbols in The Joker

What are symbols, and how can we use them to prolong longevity, add resonance and depth to our stories?

In his book, Man and his Symbols the renowned psychologist, Carl Gustav Jung wrote: ‘What we call a symbol is a term, a name, or even a picture that may be familiar in daily life, yet that possesses specific connotations in addition to its conventional and obvious meaning. It implies something vague, unknown, or hidden from us. A word or image stripped of its connotative aspect is a mere sign—it denotes or points to an object or event that has no added significance than its function—such as a chair, a table, and the like.” 

The strength of symbols, especially symbols that emerge from the unconscious to manifest as Archetypes, is that they endure. To put it in another way, as primordial remnants bubble up from the human unconscious, they are expressed by the conscious mind as universally applicable archetypal symbols. They do so by cleaving to specific actions, events and objects in myths and stories.

“Symbols, when rendered adroitly, promote the longevity of any story.”

To generate symbols in your own tales, start with story and character: 1. Ask, what is the genre of your story? 2. What is the key idea, theme, and moral premise of your story? 3. What goals and struggles are your characters engaged in?

The answers to these questions will direct you to the sorts of symbols you need to use. A note of caution here. Your symbols shouldn’t attract attention to themselves—they shouldn’t be too obvious. They need to grow on us as vessels of meaning. They also need to be specific and to generate emotion. The key here is to work out how they relate to the characters and to each other: Are these symbols actual objects that would feature effortlessly in the characters’ everyday lives? Again, subtlety is key.

Here’s how Todd Phillip uses character symbols in his film, The Joker:

The film opens with Arthur Fleck applying his clown make-up. We don’t immediately ascribe symbolic significance to this. Arthur is merely preparing to do his job as a clown. But as the story progresses the clown imagery deepens in meaning, driven by story questions: Why is it that after Arthur loses his job, he continues to wear his clown make-up? Is it that it offers him an escape from his dreary reality? Does it have deeper psychological connotations—indicate his rejecting his identity due to some past trauma that makes him wish that he was someone else?

“Well crafted symbols are universal and eternal.”

The figure of the clown now comes to symbolise the breakdown of social structures in Gotham—the conflict between the rulers and the ruled. The mob dons clown dress and rises up against the authorities, with the Joker, as inspiration.  A clown suit and mask are no longer symbols of fun and laughter—the Joker has become the symbol of something dark and dangerous—the symbol of chaos.

Symbolism can also emerge from setting, providing context, atmosphere and bolstering the theme. In The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, Mordor, as opposed to the idyllic life of the Shire, is shown to be a place of hellfire and horror—the entire landscape is symbolic of the evil represented by Sauron. 

And of course, the rings themselves are highly symbolic, with the last ring being especially significant. Having been forged by Sauron on Mount Doom it represents pure evil. But the ring also symbolises desire and greed. We see this clearly in Bilbo and Gollum’s desire to posses it.

The ring also symbolises temptation. Even honourable characters such as Gandalf and Boromir are tempted by its beguiling power. This temptation gains in resonance by reminding us of the original temptation in the garden of Eden, where Adam and Eve disobeyed God and ate from the apple of good and evil.

When deploying symbols remember to show rather than tell, to point them towards your key ideas and themes, to select symbols that give rise to emotion, and to avoid being heavy-handed in their use.

Summary

Use symbols to add resonance, meaning and depth to your stories.

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Action-reaction: How to write air-tight scenes.

Action-reaction in Traffic.
Action-reaction in Traffic.

A sure fire way to create momentum in your story is by linking scenes together, and to do it often. Specifically, to end a scene with a hook of some sort—say with an action, question, or expectation that is fully, or partially fulfilled in the next.

In Advanced Screenwriting, Linda Seger labels this linking mechanism between scenes as action-reaction. She provides the following examples:

In the film, Traffic, Salazar asks Francisco to provide information about the men who present a threat. The scene ends with Francisco writing down a list of names. The very next scene shows Javier and Manolo getting to the men on the list. The link between those two narrative blocks is airtight and preserves momentum.

In a later scene Javier promises Anna that he’ll find her husband. In the very next scene, he does. And yet later, Francisco is shot, though he doesn’t know who shot him. In the next scene we see an unfamiliar man packing up a rifle. The implication is that he is the one who shot Francisco.

“Action-reaction scenes are airtight. They preserve story pressure.”

Here is an example from the same film where the flow is interrupted because a scene ends on a static note rather than one which links it to the next scene. In this scene Robert’s wife and daughter congratulate him on his being chosen as the new drug czar. His daughter says: “It’s great daddy. It’s just amazing, that’s all.” The scene ends on a statement, rather than a question, intention or demand, which interrupts the momentum.

Transitions can also be a little tricky, especially when an expected ending to an episode is omitted. At one point Gordon says: We have a warrant to search your house, Mrs. Ayala.” The scene ends on the expectation of a search and perhaps the finding of incriminating evidence. Instead, there is a hard break to the story in Mexico. Seger suggests that although the writer need not have necessarily followed up with a scene showing the search of the house, a follow-up scene of some sort that dealt with the warrant more directly ought to have been included. Although the scene in Mexico is a consequence, it feels a little dramatically disconnected—we are left with the sense of a missing reaction scene.

Summary

Action-reaction scenes avoid a slackening in momentum, especially in story beats where large changes in narrative time and space occur.

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Show Don’t Tell – in a Nutshell

Show don’t tell. What do you see?
Show don’t tell. What do you see?

Most stories comprise of both telling and showing. If telling explains, simplifies and summarises by compressing time and space, showing reveals and dramatises, allowing readers or audiences to piece things together for themselves. Let’s look at five ways, with examples, of how to show not tell:

1. Narration

Sometimes a writer compresses actions and events through narration to speed up a story. Even so, catapulting the reader into the scene by showing rather than telling, even in narration, can increase reader involvement.

Telling: The boy felt terror when he heard his uncle, cane in hand no doubt, approaching his room. He always came to his room with his cane. The boy’s tiny stomach contracted into an even tighter knot and his fear grew.

Showing: The boy heard his uncle’s footsteps grow louder. He squeezed his eyes shut. The cane swooshed through the air, each practice stroke sounding closer. He pressed his palms against his ears, and, shivering, counted back from ten.

2. Dialogue

Dialogue, especially subtext dialogue, can reveal a layer beneath the literal meaning of the words.

Telling: “You thought I wouldn’t notice, Tommy? The number of coins in the orange pot on the top shelf? The pot I thought you couldn’t reach? You think I’m stupid? You thieving, ungrateful brat.”

Showing: “Get a load of this, Tommy. Ferguson caught his nephew stealing from his wallet. Thrashed him real bad. Should’ve cut his hand off, I says. Boys shouldn’t steal. Anyways, fetch that orange pot from the kitchen cupboard, will you? On the top shelf. The one with the money you pretend not to know is there.”

3. Setting

A setting that uses vivid sensory details can help the writer to show not tell by having the characters, hence the reader, experience the environment through the senses more directly.

Telling: The angry, ominous Arcus clouds were full of lightning. A terrifying storm was brewing. He had never feared storms before. But he feared this one. He feared he would not survive—unless he could tie the loose sails back on the mast before the storm hit.

Showing: The boat bucked under his feet and lightning lit up the Arcus clouds. Loose sails hissed and flapped savagely above him like wounded behemoths. He’d have to secure them to the mast immediately or die trying.

“Show don’t tell is the indispensable technique of accomplished writing.”

4. Use Details – but not to many

Don’t be too ornate or over-descriptive. Less is more.

Too ornate: He was heavy-set, with thick eyebrows and the forehead of a Neanderthal, muscles bulging with the threat of deadly violence, and a voice as gruff as a wheel-less barrow grating on cold grey concrete.

More apt (especially for a screenplay): He looked and sounded like a concrete truck churning over a full load.

5. Showing by describing action

Telling slows your story down. Yet, you still need to introduce characters, environments, and provide background information. So how to do it? Through action that shows while characterising or creating tension.

If you need to introduce a character who has to get from A to B on a train, instead of having him while away the time by describing the passengers and the thoughts this triggers, build tension by having him notice someone bothering another passenger through small actions—sniffing her hair, whispering in her ear, squeezing up against her, and the like. The scene will get you from A to B in no time while maintaining momentum.

Summary

Although telling is necessary in order to cover the large narrative terrain of a story, showing involves the reader or audience in a more direct way.

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What is the meaning of your story?

300: Courage and self-sacrifice of the few ultimately leads to the survival of the many.
300: The courage and self-sacrifice of the few leads to the survival of the many.

How do we inject meaning into our stories? Do we even care about meaning, over and above writing a rollicking good tale? We should. There is a specific meaning to every story, whether we intend it or not. Let me explain.

If we have a theme or moral premise in mind—such as greed leads to unhappiness, or unfettered technology leads to the destruction of the natural world, then we can point our story in that direction through the actions of our characters and their consequences. But even if we haven’t thought about the theme at all, choosing instead to concentrate on the surface layer of the tale—its plot, meaning will nevertheless arise in the story by virtue of what happens to the characters who hold certain views.

“The winner of the conflict between the protagonist and antagonist ‘proves’ the theme or moral premise, which in turn provides the meaning of the tale.”

If, say, our protagonist espouses self-sacrifice and nobility as virtues and he defeats the antagonist who espouses selfishness and vengeance, then you as a writer are saying that self-sacrifice and nobility trumps selfishness and vengeance. If the antagonist defeats the protagonist then your claim is that selfishness and vengeance defeats self-sacrifice and nobility. You are saying that the world is a place where the ruthless and self-serving win—a Godless world devoid of transcendent values.

If that’s what you mean to say, well and good—it’s your story after all. But if you haven’t thought about the ending of your story as the place where the final clash occurs— where one character who represents one set of values defeats another who represents contrary values, then you risk saying something you never intended. Like a ship without a radder your story could end up on the rocks.

Summary
The meaning of a story is coiled up inside its theme or moral premise. It manifests through who wins or loses in the story.

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Turning point versus twist — what’s the difference?

The twist in The Sixth Sense
The twist in The Sixth Sense

Stories depend on twists and turns to deliver their content in an engaging way. But what’s the difference between a turning point and a twist? Let’s look into it.

In her book Advanced Screenwriting Linda Seeger gives us six attributes that define a turning point: 1. Turns the action in a new direction. 2. Ushers us into a new arena and a new focus for the action. 3. The protagonist makes a new decision or commitment . 4. Raises the central question again. 5. Ups the stakes. 6. Propels the story into the next act.

Seger states that the turning point is not a surprise although how it is executed may be. That’s because the turning point has been prepared for—through the inciting incident for example, or other foreshadowing elements.

In Dead Poet’s Society the boys going to the cave has been prepared for by earlier scenes: The boys discover John Keating’s Year Book and ask him about it. Keating mentions that the cave was where the dead poet’s society used to meet. This sets up the context for Act II and the resulting conflict between creativity versus conformity, the theme of the story, that is to be unleashed. The cave scene, then, leads the story in a new but not unexpected direction.

“A turning point steers the story in a new direction, usually prepared for earlier. A twists uncovers a gut-wrenching emotion through exposing a secret that has the penny drop.”

The twist by contrast differs from the turning point in these ways: Twists are almost always rooted in secrets. Specifically, the twist is an action or event which reveals that things are not what everyone thought them to be. It is the moment when the penny drops—the moment in The Sixth Sense, when Malcolm Crowe realises that he is dead, the moment when a puzzle is suddenly solved as in Chinatown when Evelyn Mulvaney gives up of her shameful secret that Katherine Cross is both her daughter and her sister as a result of her father’s incestuous acts with her. Her shocking revelation explains Evelyn’s obfuscating behaviour, her seeming lies, her stutter upon the mention of the word ‘father’, and the like.

Here’s what you need to know about writing secrets and have them drive your twists: 1. What is the purpose of the secret? 2. Whose secret is it? 3. Who is unaware of the secret? 4. When should the secret be revealed? 5. To whom is the secret first revealed, and why?

Typically, then, the twist may occur near a turning point in a story, but it’s most important differentiation from the turning point is that it delivers a gut-wrenching emotion, couched in past secrets, that sheds light upon hitherto unexplained action.

Summary

Turning points steer the action in new directions prepared for earlier. Twists expose secrets and create powerful emotions through surprise.

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Why have our stories grown stale?

Banish the stale! Follow Chinatown’s example.
Banish the stale. Follow Chinatown’s example.

Much of our viewing consumption, whether at the cinema or through streaming services, has grown stale. There is a repetitiveness to the story structure, genre, theme, and the subliminal messaging. Superhero stories predominate, and what’s worse, the sequel-generating machine has diminished the spark that may have existed in the original. The disconnected and visually numbing Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania, is a case in point.

What’s the reason for this? I’d venture a lack of originality and character authenticity which the presence of the brand alone can’t compensate for. Then there’s the easy access to tons of tv series and films on streaming services which has educated audiences about the tricks that go into a story. Formulas are exposed for being just that—formulas. Add the avalanche of cardboard characters and limp story lines and you get the picture.

So, what’s the remedy? My instinct is to go back to creating strong, authentic characters driven by credible goals, hopes and ambitions—characters who harbour wounds and secrets, and who are immersed in situations, albeit fantastical on occasion, that we find believable. 

“We should banish what is stale in our stories by getting back to the basics, by concentrating on originality and verisimilitude.”

One of the things that makes Chinatown a great story is the power of the wounds and secrets that Evelyn Malwray harbours. These drive the entire story—wounds and secrets whose consequences affect the characters, generate subtext, and create story questions. And what a staggering reveal late in the story when Evelyn finally comes clean to Jake Gittes!

Citizen Kane too is an enduring classic in no small part because Kane has a painful secret that the audience is dying to know. Indeed the whole film is predicated upon unraveling the meaning of the word ‘Rosebud’ uttered by Kane on his deathbed. The theme that is encoded in that word—that the value of family outweighs material wealth and fame, also lends the story a transcendent meaning that elevates it and keeps it resonant and fresh. If only we could inject such verisimilitude into the current parade of stories.

Summary

Many stories have fallen prey to stale, repetitive formulas, plots, and shallow characters swimming in the sludge of endless franchises of dubious worth.

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Story beats and archetypes in the Hero’s Journey

During one of my lecturers on the Hero’s Journey based on Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey, a student asked me about the nature of the relationship that exists between the eight archetypes and the twelve beats that comprise a tale of this sort. Before answering the question let me remind everyone of the Archetypes and story beats.


The Archetypes are: 1. Hero, 2. Mentor, 3. Threshold Guardian, 4. Herald, 5. Shapeshifter, 6. Shadow, 7. Ally, 8. Trickster.

The story beats are: 1. The Ordinary World, 2. The Call to Adventure, 3. Refusal of the call, 4. Meeting with the Mentor, 5. Crossing of the First Threshold, 6. Tests, Enemies and Allies, 7. Approach to the inmost Cave, 8. The Ordeal, 9. The Reward, 10. The Road Back, 11. The Resurrection, 12. Return with the Elixir.

“Story beats and archetypal characters are two sides of the same story coin .”

One of the most essential relationships between story beats and archetypes is their proximity to each other—archetypal characters tend to be evoked at specific points in the story: The introduction to the Ordinary World, for example, entails that we meet the Hero in the context of his or her world. The Call to Adventure demands that we throw the Herald into the mix. The Meeting with the Mentor means that the mentor has to persuade the hero, who has previously Refused the Call, to take it on. The Crossing of the First Threshold necessitates that the Threshold Guardian makes an appearance to defend his threshold. Tests, Allies and Enemies means that these characters interact with the hero (and to us), to aid or block his path towards his quest.

The point is that the archetypal characters are embedded in the hero’s journey—they are two sides of the same coin. Together, they tell of how a character, the hero, rises to the challenge to subdue outer threats, which necessitates integrating the warring energies within himself or herself represented by the very archetypes.

Summary

Archetypal characters appear at specific points in the hero’s journey, so much so that several of these story beats contain their very name.

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