This week’s video compares
two movie adaptations of The Scarlet Pimpernel to discover how we can best convey our characters’ backstories.
Video Transcript:
In other recent posts, we’ve discussed the value of backstory, even to the
point of writing your backstory as
your story when it’s the more interesting of the two. But, generally speaking,
that’s going to be the exception to the rule. Backstory is actually at its most
powerful when we don’t tell it—or rather when we don’t show it. The strength of
backstory is its looming shadow. Readers know it’s there, they see it’s having
an effect upon the characters, but they don’t always need to know the
nitty-gritty details.
As a case in point, consider the two movie adaptations of The Scarlet Pimpernel—the one made in 1934 with Leslie Howard and the one made in 1982 with Anthony Andrews. The
films are very similar in their telling of this classic story, with the
exception that the much longer 1982 version includes almost a full hour
detailing Sir Percival Blakeney’s courtship, marriage, and subsequent discovery
of his wife’s apparent treachery against a doomed family of French nobles. In
the 1934 version, these events comprise the backstory and are related only in
bits and pieces throughout the body of the film. And, in my opinion, the
earlier film is the stronger of the two because of this very thing.
Aside from the fact that allowing backstory to function as backstory streamlines your book to
much a greater degree, doing so also allows you more leeway to bring the readers
in as partners in your storytelling. If we can involve their imagination in
helping us tell the story and fill in the blanks, half our battle in engaging their
interest and emotion is won. The ballast provided by backstory gives our
stories greater depth and meaning and opens up the potential for
interpretation. If we turn too much of our backstory into the story or illustrate too much of it via detailed
flashbacks, we rob our readers of the sense of weight given by the 9/10ths of
the iceberg floating under the water of our stories.
Tell me your opinion: Do you think there’s such a thing as revealing too much backstory?
Related Posts: When Your Backstory Becomes Your Story
The first quarter of your story hinges upon two important
and irreversible moments: the inciting event and the key event. I’ve saved our
discussion of inciting and key events until this late into the series because these events can take place at any number of the structure
points we’ve already discussed. Now that we’ve got a sense of the hook, the
first act, and the first major plot point, we can see more clearly how and
where the inciting and key events affect these moments.
_________________
Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Wordplay podcast in iTunes).
Sometimes the key and inciting events are the same event (the
Great Sebastian’s arrival in The Greatest Show on Earth); sometimes they happen one right after the other (the children
arriving in Narnia through the painting and their subsequent joining up with Caspian in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader); sometimes the entirety of the first act separates
them (the arrival of the prisoners in the camp and the digging of the first tunnel
in The Great Escape), and sometimes one
or the other occurs before the story proper even begins (the war in The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood).
Most authors are familiar with the idea of the inciting event as being the moment
when the story “officially” begins and the character’s life is forever changed.
However, we find a lot of misconceptions floating around about the inciting
event, and many of them result from the simple fact that the “key event” is often
forgotten altogether.
 |
| Image by AurelianGogonea |
What are the key and
inciting events?
In the words of Syd Field in his legendary book Screenplay, “the inciting incident… sets the
story in motion … [while] the key incident [is]
what the story is about, and draws
the main character into the story line.” If we were to envision our story as a
row of dominos, the inciting event would be the first domino. When we tip over
this particular domino, we set the whole line in motion. Generally, the
inciting event isn’t difficult to find. It’s the moment that changes everything
for the main character and puts him on the path he will tread for the rest of the
story. No need to get too specific about this. Obviously, every event in life is
connected to an event that preceded it. If the character hadn’t been born (and if
his parents hadn’t met, and if their
parents hadn’t met), he would most certainly not be going on his current adventure. But unless you’re writing
the next David Copperfield, his birth or his grandparents’ marriage isn’t likely to be your inciting event. Look nearer to home for the event that directly
influences the plot.
Although the inciting event and the key event can sometimes be
the same thing, they’re usually distinct. The key event is the moment when the character becomes engaged by the inciting event. For example,
in most detective stories, the inciting event (the crime) takes place apart
from the main character, who doesn’t become involved with it until the key event,
when he takes on the case. The key event is the glue that sticks the character
to the impetus of the inciting event.
Where do the key and
inciting events belong?
Generally, we find two schools of thought on the proper
location for the inciting event. Either it’s supposed to be found in the hook in the
first chapter, no exceptions, or it’s supposed to be the first plot point at
the 25% mark, no exceptions. I’ve ascribed to both these philosophies at one
point or another in my career, and now believe them both to be far too
dogmatic. The hook and the first plot point belong at their given spots, no
matter where the inciting event ends up. Often the inciting event is the hook;
often it’s the first plot point; and often it’s somewhere in between. What’s important isn’t so much nailing down your inciting event to a specific place in the
story, as it is presenting the inciting event at the optimal moment. Sometimes that
means throwing the inciting event at the reader right away, and sometimes that means holding
off to give them the biggest bang for their buck at the quarter mark.
The key event almost always takes place after the inciting event, since its job
is to build upon the inciting event and make it impossible for the main character to
turn away from it. The earlier in the story you place your inciting event, the
more time you’ll have to work in your key event. But if the inciting event doesn’t
occur until the latest point (the first major plot point at the quarter mark),
then the key event needs to occur promptly afterwards.
Examples from film
and literature
The best way to get a sense for the differences between the
inciting event and key event, as well as the proper placement of both in relation to each
other, is to study them in action in the works of the pros. Let’s examine our
chosen books and films.
Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen (1813): The arrival of the
Bingleys and Darcy in Meryton is the inciting event that starts the chain
of events moving irreversibly. But the main character, Lizzy, doesn’t become involved with the inciting event until
she meets and is rejected by Darcy at the Meryton assembly dance. This is the key
event.
It’s a Wonderful Life directed by Frank Capra (1947): This classic
movie uses the entirety of its first act to leisurely introduce and build its
characters. Its inciting event doesn’t occur until the first major plot point
when George’s father dies of a stroke. This is the moment that forever changes
George’s life and sets the subsequent plot points in motion. But until George
made the decision to take his father’s place as Executive Secretary of the
Bailey Brothers’ Building and Loan, he could have walked away at any point. His
decision to stay in Bedford Falls constitutes the key event because it
officially engages him in the plot.
Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card (1977): The inciting
event that starts the plot rolling in this science fiction classic is
the invasion of the Formic aliens eighty years earlier. Without this invasion,
Ender (as a third child) would never even have been allowed to have been born. This
event takes place long before the beginning of the book and is discussed only in
retrospect. The key event that draws Ender irrevocably into the battle is his brutally
efficient response to the bully Stilson, which prompts Col. Graff and the
International Fleet Selective Service to requisition Ender as a Battle School
student.
Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World directed by Peter
Weir (2004): Again, here we find the inciting event taking place before
the film opens. After the opening credits, the
viewers are informed that the British Admiralty has instructed Captain Jack Aubrey to intercept the “French privateer Acheron en route to
Pacific intent on carrying the war into those waters… Sink, burn, or take her
as a prize.” But not until the key event when the Acheron attacks the HMS Surprise during the opening sequence do
the characters become inextricably entangled in the events of the plot.
Takeaway value
In studying the placement, use, and relation of the inciting
and key events in our examples, what can we learn about integrating these
important story moments into our own books?
1. The inciting and
key events need to take place within the first quarter of the book, probably
either in the beginning chapter or at the first major plot point, but we’re
free to choose the moment best suited to our stories.
2. The inciting
event sets the line of plot dominos in motion.
3. The key event pulls the main
character into that plot.
4. The key event almost
always follows the inciting event.
5. Sometimes the
inciting event can take place prior to the beginning chapter, but, for maximum
effect, the key event should take place within the story proper, so the reader can
experience it.
The integral relationship between the inciting event and the
key event will power your entire story. Don’t settle for anything less than the
most powerful and memorable combination you can come up with. Place them
strategically within the first quarter of the story and use them to engage your
reader just as irretrievably as you do your main character.
Stay tuned: Next week, we’ll talk about the First Half of the Second Act.
Tell me your opinion: Can you pick out the inciting and key events in your work-in-progress?
Related Posts: The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 1: Why Should Authors Care?
The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 2: The Hook
The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 3: The First Act
The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 4: The First Plot Point
Tell me your opinion: Can you pick out the inciting and key events in your work-in-progress?
Related Posts: The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 1: Why Should Authors Care?
The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 2: The Hook
The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 3: The First Act
The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 4: The First Plot Point
_________________
Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Wordplay podcast in iTunes).
- March 25, 2012
34 Comments
- K.M. Weiland
- Posted in beginnings , Feature , inciting event , key event , secrets of story structure , story structure , SYN
This week, I’m pleased to present a post by multi-pubbed author Sanjida O’Connell, author of the newly released historical Sugar Island. Today, she broaches the controversial question of whether or not authors need to travel to complete their research.
***
Stef Penney, bestselling author of The Tenderness of Wolves, is
famously agoraphobic. To research her novel, set in the Canadian wilderness,
she barely made it to the British Library. At least she had an excuse. Two
authors of books recently published on Haiti and China have both said they did
not feel the need to travel to their chosen countries.
I find this hard to understand. I have always traveled
for my novels: for Theory of Mind, set in a zoo in the Midlands, I lived in one for nine months. Angel Bird is based in Northern Ireland where I
spent part of my childhood, yet I still returned for a research trip. The Naked Name of Love is set in Bristol, where I live, and
Outer Mongolia: I traveled across the country for three weeks (sadly my
clothes, apart from the ones I had on, remained in Russia). For Sugar Island, I visited the real St. Simons
Island, off the coast of Savannah, Georgia.
Then I had a baby and went into a complete tailspin. How
was I ever going to travel ever again for my work? Aside from being overly
melodramatic, I’m now in the situation in which many writers find themselves. If
you are not lucky enough to have an advance from a publishing company, how can
you afford to travel? Should you take your family and blow the annual
vacation budget on your research trip? Never mind the money, can you afford the
time you’ll need to take off work?
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| Image by bowie15. |
Can you research your novel without traveling to where
it is set?
And, more importantly, should you stay at home? We are lucky enough
to live in a time with a huge amount of information on many places in
the world, including Google Earth and its eerie pictures of our abodes. We are
blessed with brilliant libraries, academic journals accessible online, and that
great literary leveler: Amazon. Documentaries can help too, though these are not
always easy to get hold of. Clearly, in three weeks I couldn’t see much of
Mongolia, and, as my novel was set in 1859, I relied heavily on a diary written
by a priest, which I was able to access through an interlibrary loan without
leaving my desk.
Another advantage of remaining at home is that you create
your vision of a place in a particular time period, without being swayed by
reality. I was recently toying with setting a novel in Marrakech in the 1600s
and was shocked, after I visited, to discover that the image in my mind did not
match up to the modern city with Zara and J Crew on the high street (how dare
those Moroccans want a lifestyle like mine?).
You need every resource possible to write a
decent book.
However, I firmly believe that no amount of research on its own
can help you understand the feel of a place. Smell, in particular, is
hard to grasp. Endless reading or watching travel programmes could never have
told me what it would be like to stand under Outer Mongolia’s limitless blue
skies or to know that the steppes would be scented with a wild herb, redolent
of thyme, sage, and lamb stew. Or that Sugar Island would smell like, “rotting fresh seawater,
seaweed, fish on the edge of decomposition.
Putting together my research and travel (ER, walking
round the city I live in) led to this odiferous passage from The Naked Name of Love:
Men were stacking the dark, sticky cones of sugar ready to ship them to Gloucester. The air was thick with syrup and sulphur, harsh with the stench of flayed animals and preservatives from the tanneries. The river was bloated on sewage, blood, fat from the soap factory; the body of a pig drifted past, its corpse swollen, its snout misshapen where fish had eaten away its nostrils.
My advice, if you can’t travel, would be to set your
novel somewhere you know intimately already, or where you live now. Or create a
new world. If you really want to write about a lost world in Papua New Guinea
you’ll need to spend a lot longer on research to achieve the same
level of authenticity. My solution for my own situation has been to rewrite a
novel I’d already done the travel for pre-baby. But then, I didn’t write, The Tenderness of Wolves.
About the Author: Dr. Sanjida O’Connell is a writer based in Bristol in the UK. She’s had four
works of non-fiction and four novels published. Her latest novel, Sugar Island (John Murray), is now out in paperback. Contact her on Twitter and Facebook.
What’s your opinion: Do you travel for research?
Related Post: Write What You Know (and What You Don’t)
This week’s video talks about
how authors must magically combine inevitability and unexpectedness to give
readers a satisfying finale.
Video Transcript:
Whether your story is a tragedy, a comedy, a “happily ever after” jaunt, or any
variety and combination thereof, the one thing you want it to be is resonant.
You want readers to close the book with a feeling of satisfaction. Whether they’re
laughing, crying, or just thoughtful, you want them to be able to give their
heads a little nod and say, “Yep, that’s exactly how it should have ended.”
However, the great dichotomy of a good ending is the fact that you also want to
them to say, “Wow, where did that come
from?”
Inevitability and unexpectedness are the two ingredients
necessary in every perfect ending. And yet they’re completely incompatible. How
do you give readers the ending they’re expecting while still keeping it from
being predictable? It’s very easy to play it safe and end up with a story
that’s predictable from beginning to end. And, depending on your genre and your
audience, you might be able to get away with this. It’s also relatively easy to
throw your readers a left hook that comes out of nowhere and leaves them
stunned with its unexpectedness. However, you’re less likely to be able to get
away this. Readers expect us to play fair and that means any so-called
unexpected elements have to make sense within the context of the story and have
to be built of existing story elements.
The trick to successfully combining inevitability and
unexpectedness lies primarily in two different factors: foreshadowing and
complications. If we can foreshadow our resolution, the readers will feel the
ending was inevitable upon closing the book. When we combine that subtle
foreshadowing with enough logical plot complications to distract our readers,
we can present them with the possibility of so many potential outcomes that
they’ll never be able to completely predict the one we finally give them. It’s
a delicate balance, but getting it right can make all the difference in the
success of your story.
Tell me your opinion: Is your ending both unexpected and inevitable?
Related Posts: Are Happy Endings a Must?
- March 21, 2012
20 Comments
- K.M. Weiland
- Posted in endings , Feature , foreshadowing
Stories are a series of scenes. Some of those scenes are expected, some of them are even purposefully repetitious for the sake of emphasis. But some scenes change everything. These game changers are the plot points. They introduce significant elements and events that alter the subsequent course of the story. Your story can have any number of plot points, some relatively minor, some shockingly huge. Plot points are what keep your story moving forward. They mix things up, keep the conflict fresh, and propel your character far away from any possibility of stagnancy.
The first major plot point (which occurs around the 25% mark in your story) is a bit of a misnomer, since your story may have any number of plot points within the first quarter of the story. For example, in the film Changeling, we have several cataclysmic plot points (including the kidnapping of the heroine’s son, the return of the wrong boy, and the police department’s insistence that she accept the child anyway) before her decision, at the quarter mark, to fight back against the corrupt police department. Following, we’ll take a look at what differentiates the 25%-mark plot point from any that preceded it.
What is the first plot point?
The first major plot point changes everything. This is the point of no return for your characters. Often, this plot point will be the inciting event; if not, it will be the key event (next week, we’ll talk about the differences between these two events). The first plot point is the moment when the setup ends, and your character crosses his personal Rubicon. But this isn’t just an event that happens to him (such as the kidnapping of the heroine’s son in Changeling). This is an event that either incorporates or is directly followed by the character’s reacting in a strong and irrevocable way (for example, Changeling’s heroine’s decision to fight back against the police). We’ll be discussing the reaction in more detail in a future post.
Where does the first plot point belong?
The first plot point marks the finish of the first act, and the character’s reaction to it marks the beginning of the second. In a sense, the first plot point is the climax of the first act, and, as such, it should be placed approximately around the 20-25% mark. Generally, the exact placement of plot points in a novel allows more flexibility than what we find in a film. If you pay attention while watching a movie, you can time the major plot points down to the minute (which makes film an especially valuable medium for studying structure, since we can view the entire story structure in one sitting and identify the plot points with precision by dividing the total running time into fourths).
So what’s the reason for this seemingly arbitrary placement of the first plot point? Why the 25% mark and not the 10% or 40%? Simply, because this is the point at which a reader’s innately human story sense tells him something big is supposed to happen. If you’ve ever watched or read a poorly plotted story that skipped or postponed the first plot point, you probably instinctively sensed the story was dragging. Likely, you grew bored and got up to do something else without finishing the story. No first plot point means no turning point means the first act drags on too long—or, conversely, if the first plot point takes place too early, the second act drags on.
Examples from film and literature
As one of the most dynamic moments in any story, the first plot point is both one of easiest to spot and one of the most exciting to study. So let’s take a peek at what happens roundabout the 25% mark in our four example stories.
Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen (1813): After the ball at Netherfield Park, Darcy and Caroline Bingley convince Bingley to return to London and forget all about his growing affection for Jane. Much has happened in the story up to this point. Lydia and Kitty have become enamored of the militia. Wickham has turned Lizzy against Darcy. Jane and Lizzy have stayed over at Netherfield during Jane’s convalescence. And Mr. Collins has proposed to Lizzy. But everything changes at the 25% mark when Darcy and the Bingleys leave. This is the event that breaks Jane’s heart and infuriates Lizzy against Darcy. Character motivations and reactions aside, it also changes the landscape of the story, since several prominent characters are no longer in the neighborhood for the Bennets to interact with as they did throughout the first quarter of the book.
It’s a Wonderful Life directed by Frank Capra (1947): Throughout the first quarter of the story, George Bailey’s plans for his life have progressed uninterrupted. Despite his various misadventures in Bedford Falls, he’s on the fast track to a European vacation and a college education. Then the first plot point hits, and his life is forever changed. When his father dies of a stroke, George’s plans are dashed. As in Pride & Prejudice, the standards that have already been established in the story are dramatically altered. This is no longer a story about a carefree young man freewheeling around town. From here on out, this is a story about a man forced to take responsibility by working at the Bailey Brothers’ Building & Loan.
Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card (1977): The quarter mark of Ender’s Game finds Ender graduating from his launch group to Salamander Army after a victorious confrontation with the bully Bernard. Aside from Ender’s personal assertion of brains, tenacity, and leadership qualities, with which he claims his spot at Battle School and makes it clear to himself, the other children, and the watching instructors that he will do whatever he has to do to survive, this first major plot point also changes the game (no pun intended!) by once again moving Ender to new surroundings. As a member of Salamander Army, he’s dropped into a new place, a new social stratum, and a new set of challenges.
Master & Commander: The Far Side of the World directed by Peter Weir (2004): After refitting the Surprise and heading back out to sea to look for their opponent, the French privateer Acheron, Captain Jack Aubrey is confident everything will go according to his plans. But he (and the viewers) are thrown for a loop by the first major plot point. Instead of the Surprise finding the Acheron, the captain abruptly wakes to discover the enemy bearing down on his much smaller ship. Suddenly, he’s not only not assured of an easy victory—or any victory at all, for that matter—he and his crew are also in dire danger of being captured. They scramble to escape, and the game of cat-and-mouse that will comprise the rest of the film begins in earnest.
Takeaway value
So what do the masterful plot points in these books and films teach us?
1. The first major plot point occurs almost on the dot at the 25% mark (Pride & Prejudice is the only one that was late and even then it was only by a few pages).
2. The first plot point is an event that changes everything and becomes a personal turning point for the main character.
3. The first major plot point almost always changes the story so irrevocably that even the character’s surroundings (either the physical setting or the cast of supporting characters) alters.
4. The first major plot point is something to which the main character must be able to react strongly and irretrievably.
The first major plot point is one of the most exciting moments in any story. Milk yours for all it’s worth! Choose a strong, cataclysmic event to which your character has no choice but to react with everything he’s got. Hit readers so hard at the end of the first act that they won’t even think about closing the book.
Stay tuned: Next week, we’ll talk about the Inciting Event and the Key Event.
Tell me your opinion: What happens at your first major plot point?
Related Posts: The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 1: Why Should Authors Care?
The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 2: The Hook
The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 3: The First Act
_________________
Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Wordplay podcast in iTunes).
The first major plot point (which occurs around the 25% mark in your story) is a bit of a misnomer, since your story may have any number of plot points within the first quarter of the story. For example, in the film Changeling, we have several cataclysmic plot points (including the kidnapping of the heroine’s son, the return of the wrong boy, and the police department’s insistence that she accept the child anyway) before her decision, at the quarter mark, to fight back against the corrupt police department. Following, we’ll take a look at what differentiates the 25%-mark plot point from any that preceded it.
What is the first plot point?
The first major plot point changes everything. This is the point of no return for your characters. Often, this plot point will be the inciting event; if not, it will be the key event (next week, we’ll talk about the differences between these two events). The first plot point is the moment when the setup ends, and your character crosses his personal Rubicon. But this isn’t just an event that happens to him (such as the kidnapping of the heroine’s son in Changeling). This is an event that either incorporates or is directly followed by the character’s reacting in a strong and irrevocable way (for example, Changeling’s heroine’s decision to fight back against the police). We’ll be discussing the reaction in more detail in a future post.
Where does the first plot point belong?
The first plot point marks the finish of the first act, and the character’s reaction to it marks the beginning of the second. In a sense, the first plot point is the climax of the first act, and, as such, it should be placed approximately around the 20-25% mark. Generally, the exact placement of plot points in a novel allows more flexibility than what we find in a film. If you pay attention while watching a movie, you can time the major plot points down to the minute (which makes film an especially valuable medium for studying structure, since we can view the entire story structure in one sitting and identify the plot points with precision by dividing the total running time into fourths).
So what’s the reason for this seemingly arbitrary placement of the first plot point? Why the 25% mark and not the 10% or 40%? Simply, because this is the point at which a reader’s innately human story sense tells him something big is supposed to happen. If you’ve ever watched or read a poorly plotted story that skipped or postponed the first plot point, you probably instinctively sensed the story was dragging. Likely, you grew bored and got up to do something else without finishing the story. No first plot point means no turning point means the first act drags on too long—or, conversely, if the first plot point takes place too early, the second act drags on.
Examples from film and literature
As one of the most dynamic moments in any story, the first plot point is both one of easiest to spot and one of the most exciting to study. So let’s take a peek at what happens roundabout the 25% mark in our four example stories.
Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen (1813): After the ball at Netherfield Park, Darcy and Caroline Bingley convince Bingley to return to London and forget all about his growing affection for Jane. Much has happened in the story up to this point. Lydia and Kitty have become enamored of the militia. Wickham has turned Lizzy against Darcy. Jane and Lizzy have stayed over at Netherfield during Jane’s convalescence. And Mr. Collins has proposed to Lizzy. But everything changes at the 25% mark when Darcy and the Bingleys leave. This is the event that breaks Jane’s heart and infuriates Lizzy against Darcy. Character motivations and reactions aside, it also changes the landscape of the story, since several prominent characters are no longer in the neighborhood for the Bennets to interact with as they did throughout the first quarter of the book.
It’s a Wonderful Life directed by Frank Capra (1947): Throughout the first quarter of the story, George Bailey’s plans for his life have progressed uninterrupted. Despite his various misadventures in Bedford Falls, he’s on the fast track to a European vacation and a college education. Then the first plot point hits, and his life is forever changed. When his father dies of a stroke, George’s plans are dashed. As in Pride & Prejudice, the standards that have already been established in the story are dramatically altered. This is no longer a story about a carefree young man freewheeling around town. From here on out, this is a story about a man forced to take responsibility by working at the Bailey Brothers’ Building & Loan.
Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card (1977): The quarter mark of Ender’s Game finds Ender graduating from his launch group to Salamander Army after a victorious confrontation with the bully Bernard. Aside from Ender’s personal assertion of brains, tenacity, and leadership qualities, with which he claims his spot at Battle School and makes it clear to himself, the other children, and the watching instructors that he will do whatever he has to do to survive, this first major plot point also changes the game (no pun intended!) by once again moving Ender to new surroundings. As a member of Salamander Army, he’s dropped into a new place, a new social stratum, and a new set of challenges.
Master & Commander: The Far Side of the World directed by Peter Weir (2004): After refitting the Surprise and heading back out to sea to look for their opponent, the French privateer Acheron, Captain Jack Aubrey is confident everything will go according to his plans. But he (and the viewers) are thrown for a loop by the first major plot point. Instead of the Surprise finding the Acheron, the captain abruptly wakes to discover the enemy bearing down on his much smaller ship. Suddenly, he’s not only not assured of an easy victory—or any victory at all, for that matter—he and his crew are also in dire danger of being captured. They scramble to escape, and the game of cat-and-mouse that will comprise the rest of the film begins in earnest.
Takeaway value
So what do the masterful plot points in these books and films teach us?
1. The first major plot point occurs almost on the dot at the 25% mark (Pride & Prejudice is the only one that was late and even then it was only by a few pages).
2. The first plot point is an event that changes everything and becomes a personal turning point for the main character.
3. The first major plot point almost always changes the story so irrevocably that even the character’s surroundings (either the physical setting or the cast of supporting characters) alters.
4. The first major plot point is something to which the main character must be able to react strongly and irretrievably.
The first major plot point is one of the most exciting moments in any story. Milk yours for all it’s worth! Choose a strong, cataclysmic event to which your character has no choice but to react with everything he’s got. Hit readers so hard at the end of the first act that they won’t even think about closing the book.
Stay tuned: Next week, we’ll talk about the Inciting Event and the Key Event.
Tell me your opinion: What happens at your first major plot point?
Related Posts: The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 1: Why Should Authors Care?
The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 2: The Hook
The Secrets of Story Structure, Pt. 3: The First Act
_________________
Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Wordplay podcast in iTunes).
- March 18, 2012
32 Comments
- K.M. Weiland
- Posted in Feature , first plot point , inciting event , plot points , secrets of story structure , story structure , SYN
This week I’m pleased to present a post by
Adrienne Giordano, part of the “faculty” of Romance University, which along
with Wordplay was one of 2012’s Top 10 Blogs for Writers. Today, she talks
about why writers sometimes have to slaughter their favorite parts of their
stories.
***
As writers, we often face deleting our
beloved words. Words we spend an excruciating amount of time crafting, and
sweating over.
Yes, we have to kill our darlings or they’ll destroy
the pace of the story.
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| Image by Lepro. |
I like to think I write a fairly lean book,
but my editor for my upcoming romantic suspense novella recently taught me a
lesson on pacing. First, (in my own defense!) let me say I’m not a fan of
backstory. If I have to use it, I sprinkle it into places where it’s relevant.
Otherwise, I nix it. So, I’m not necessarily talking about backstory when I’m
talking about killing my darlings.
When I received my revision letter for Negotiating Point, a story about a hostage
negotiator trying to free his wife’s boss from kidnappers, my editor suggested the
pacing in the opening chapter needed work.
She asked me to amp up the stakes and invest
the reader by focusing on the kidnapping rather than the hero’s internal
narrative. She wanted me to focus on the danger and how my hero and heroine
were going to free the hostage. She suggested I take a look at the sample pages
of Catherine Coulter’s The Maze
, Cynthia
Eden’s Deadly Heat
, and Laura
Griffin’s Untraceable
. All
three books have varying writing styles, but the authors did a wonderful job of
creating a fast-paced opening.
, Cynthia
Eden’s Deadly Heat, and Laura
Griffin’s Untraceable. All
three books have varying writing styles, but the authors did a wonderful job of
creating a fast-paced opening.
Catherine Coulter gave me glimpses of her characters
without offering too much information. She kept me turning the pages. With
Laura Griffin’s book I noticed plenty of white space and short sentences that
upped the tension. Same with Cynthia Eden’s book.
After reading these openings, I set out to
kill my darlings. Painful? Yes, but it needed to be done. I didn’t just kill my
darlings, I massacred them. And I’m happy to share the results. Following is
the original version of my story’s opening page showing what I changed/deleted
in blue. A brief explanation of why I made the change
is in blue italics.
Original
He checked his watch. Yep. 10:20. Stabbing pin pricks crawled up his neck. (I moved this visceral
response below to create more tension.)
As a former FBI hostage
negotiator with a master’s degree in psychology, he knew how to actively listen
and study people’s habits and quirks and file them in the vault known as his
brain. All without judgment. That’s what good negotiators did, they watched,
they listened, they stayed calm.
In the six months Gavin had
worked at Taylor Security, he’d nailed his boss’s rituals. The first being that Mike’s office was always
neat. Neat in a way that made OCD sufferers sigh with envy. The second ritual
was Mike never rolled up his sleeves until after five o’clock. The third? Here
lay the kicker. (Deleted so the reader could focus on the kidnapping
rather than Gavin’s internal narrative. Plus, at this point, the reader doesn’t
necessarily need to know Gavin worked for the FBI or has a master's degree in
psychology.) The man’s appearance, typically as neat as his
office, would never be skimped on. His hair
sticking up, in Mike’s normal OCD world, would be rectified in a brutally
expeditious manner. (Tightened for pacing.) Brutally. Expeditious.
Manner.
The sudden change of habit
meant
(Deleted for
pacing.) whatever Gavin had been summoned for had to be a disaster.
He shifted his gaze left. Vic Andrews, Taylor Security’s executive vice
president, leaned against the windowsill, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed and
a general I’m-ticked-off-at-the-world
aura.
Gavin
stepped forward. “What’s up?”
Mike held his hands prayer-like in front of
him, mashing his fingers together until the veins in
his hands (Deleted
for pacing.) popped.
Vic boosted off the window sill. “Roxann has
been kidnapped.”
Bam! Just like that. (Deleted for pacing.) Forget the
warm-up. Gavin threw his shoulders back, the shock
of the words leaving him wondering if he’d heard right. (Deleted.)
He shifted to Mike. “Your Roxann?”
Mike nodded and
in that instant, Gavin knew the task his boss would level on him could be the
assignment of his career. He kept his gaze
steady on Mike and ignored Vic, who had moved to the side of the desk. (Internal narrative. Deleted so the reader
could focus on the kidnapping.)
“Have they made contact? Ransom?”
***
After all those deletions, here’s the revised
opening. Notice the shorter sentences and white space.
Revised
At 10:20 a.m. Gavin stepped into Mike
Taylor’s office and found his boss sitting at his pristine, glass-topped desk,
his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his dark hair sticking up in the back.
He checked his watch. Yep. 10:20.
The man’s appearance was typically as neat as
his office. His hair sticking up? This early? In Mike’s OCD world?
Unacceptable.
Whatever Gavin had been summoned for had to
be a disaster. Stabbing pin pricks crawled up his neck. He shifted his gaze
left. Vic Andrews, Taylor Security’s executive vice president, leaned against
the window sill with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed and a general I’m-ticked-off-at-the-world aura.
Gavin
stepped forward. “What’s up?”
Mike held his hands prayer-like in front of
him, his fingers mashed together until his veins popped.
Vic boosted off the window sill. “Roxann has
been kidnapped.”
Bam!
Forget the warm-up. Gavin threw his shoulders back and those pin pricks turned
to dagger stabs. Had he heard right? He shifted to Mike. “Your Roxann?”
Mike nodded.
“Have they made contact? Ransom?”
***
Like I said, it was a massacre. I took 349
words down to 181. And I didn’t stop with the first page. Chapter One went from
4,110 words to 3,308. Most of what I deleted was internal narrative or brief
backstory. One of my critique partners asked me if I was able to use some of
what I deleted somewhere within the story. The answer is yes. All but two
hundred of the deleted words were sprinkled into later chapters. It was all
relevant information, but the reader didn’t necessarily need that info in
chapter one.
My lesson learned in this pacing exercise? Give
the reader only what they need to establish immediate stakes and get them
invested in the story with action, dialogue, or narrative that is high tension.
All the rest can come later. As writers, we need to get the readers asking
questions so they’ll turn the pages faster and faster until they get those
questions answered.
Tell me your opinion: Do you think you can kill some of your darlings?
- March 16, 2012
22 Comments
- K.M. Weiland
- Posted in Editing , Feature , killing darlings , pacing
This week’s video cautions
against the potential pitfall of having readers grow frustrated with one POV as
the result of liking another much better.
Video Transcript:
An author’s choice about which and how many characters to feature as
point-of-view narrators is crucial to the story. The narrating characters will
control the tone and flow of the story, and, in large part, decide whether or
not the book works. There’s a lot to be said for multiple-narrator books. Not
only do they allow us to delve into the heads and personalities of multiple
people, they can also present a more rounded view of the story and give readers
a look at scenes that would otherwise be off-limits.
However, for every benefit, we also have to avoid a
potential pitfall. The pitfall I want to talk about today is the simple
possibility of ending up with readers liking one POV dramatically more than
they like the other. It’s understandable that readers aren’t likely to fall
equally in love with all of our characters. Even as authors, we always have
some characters we like better than others. This isn’t necessarily a problem except when this imbalance occurs
between POV characters who are given equal amounts of time on the page.
As readers, we can probably all attest that what happens in
this situation is that, as soon as we have to leave the POV of the character we
like, in order to enter the POV of the character we don’t like so much, we grow
restless and frustrated and maybe we even start skipping pages to get back to
our favored POV. So as you’re selecting POVs for your story, consider how
they’re going to affect readers. You will never be able to perfectly foretell
reader reactions. But keep in mind that readers are going to favor your main
character. After that, they’re going to favor amusing or interesting minor
characters. Bad guys usually come last. With that in mind, weigh the costs
before implementing a POV that will force readers to spend long chunks of time
away from their favorite characters.
Tell me your opinion: How many POVs does your story feature?
Related Posts: The #1 Factor to Consider When Choosing POV Characters
