By Larry Brooks

Somewhere out there in Kill Zone reader land is a new writer with a wrinkled forehead going, “say what?”

It’s irony, of course. Simple word play. My little attempt at a clever hook. Novels usually don’t have a table of anything, context or content… so what the hell?

But it’s an honest, straight-forward question, as well.

How is the contextual state, the flow, of your novel?

This is one of those issues of craft that can hike you up the learning curve quickly. Like, on steroids kind of quickly. It is something experienced professionals know and practice—even if they don’t associate it with the word context, or (in some cases) without even realizing it—and thus, it remains one of the less politically-proper but nonetheless powerful nuances of craft that is almost always evident in a good novel.

It has to do with story structure. 

The context of story structure. Allow me to break it down for you.

You’ve heard of three-act structure. You may not like it, but in genre fiction by a professional it’s almost always there. Don’t mess with it. It is far more fundamental than it is optional.

But that term—three-act- structure—can become vague when you sit down to try it. There is actually more to it than three parts, each of which has its own infrastructure and unique criteria.

I’ve seen story structure broken down into as many as nine parts. All of them aligned with, as sub-sets, the same three-act structure model. Virtually all story structure models have something to offer… as opposed to a denial of story structure, which offers only frustration.

Because the second of those three “acts” is rarely broken down all that succinctly in terms of a functional mission (other than the presence of the all-important mid-point story milestone) beyond the word “confrontation,” I’ve taken a swing at it within my own work (beginning with my book, Story Engineering) in a way that I believe is more useful.

Act II (of three-act structure) actually consists of two roughly equal-length sequences of scenes (quartiles), separated by the all-important mid-point milestone. In fact, it is the way in which that mid-point milestone changes the mission of the quartiles before and after that becomes… context.

Different contexts.

Each of the four quartiles within a novel has its own unique context.

This doesn’t replace or trump three-act structure (okay, it does, because it provides more guidance than simply, “now write Act II”). It simply clarifies it while empowering it.

Let’s define context in this… well, in this context.

Think of a college student pursuing a specific major, in quest of a career to which it will apply. Each of the four years of that requisite curriculum is different. It has its own content, its own context, all of it feeding and building toward the big picture of the major—the whole story—itself.

The freshman is doing something that is orders of magnitude different—in purpose, in content if not form… in context—than is the junior or senior with the same major.

While perhaps simplistic at a glance, consider the challenge of writing a novel without understanding this. Which is actually the sad state of affairs out there, and at all levels. In fact, this helps explain why such a small sliver of novels actually get published, or succeed when they do.

Because, if nothing else, this is a qualitative principle.

Better to know than to guess, or to rely on your current state of story sense (which is, in fact, the degree to which you truly grasp the nuances of all this, no matter what you choose to call it, and no matter what your writing process).

Four parts to your story, each with its own contextual mission.

Each with its own unique narrative contribution to the story. Each with its own unique criteria. If, for example, you’re still doing the work of the first quartile setup (which means, you need to know what that work is… do you?) when you’re solidly into the second quartile hero’s response context, with a first plot point core dramatic arc launch in play (which it wasn’t, back in that first quartile), the novel isn’t working right.

This sequence of evolving contexts is what creates story setup, escalating pace, increasingly compelling dramatic tension, character arc, confrontation and ultimate resolution… all of it in the right places, at the right times, with optimum effectiveness.

All of it, hopefully, in context to a conceptually-fueled premise that gives the story chops in the first place.

Or you can just wing it. Hey, there are only about 112 different moving parts and nuances within a novel, you don’t need no stinking principles, right? This is art, after all. Suffering isn’t optional.

Actually, it is.

If you aren’t aware of this contextual facet of storytelling craft, winging it is your only choice. Wing it wrong, or wing it poorly, chances are your story won’t work, or at least not as well as it could or should work.

That guy who tells you that story trumps structure? It does… for him, and those at his level. Probably not for you. Because you probably don’t know what that guy knows… because he knows all about this contextual sequence of four parts. When a story pours willy-nilly out of his head, this is how it spills onto the page. Not remotely nilly-willy at all.

Not remotely nilly-willy at all.

For newer writers trying to do the same… well, that’s why The Kill Zone is here. To put your storytelling muscles on steroids through the injection of principles into your process.

Once you own them… go ahead, tell everyone you just sit down and write, from your gut, from your instinct, from the seat of your brilliant pants.

Stuffed into those pants will be a big old bulging package of craft and principle… and nobody has to know.

Here’s the rundown of the four sequential parts of a novel, in any genre, roughly defined by quartile:

1. SETUP Quartile

The goal here is to build empathy for the forthcoming hero’s quest through foreshadowing, backstory, a life-before-the-drama-explodes into it, and the teeing up of the full launch of the core dramatic arc to come… just not quite yet.

That turn comes with the all important “first plot point,” is a story milestone that moves the story from the Part 1 setup quartile into the Part 2…

2. RESPONSE Quartile

… in which the hero responds to the FFP’s launch of the core dramatic arc, via the expositional contribution of that first plot moment story turn, followed by…

… the midpoint story turn, where the context shifts again, based on new awareness and motivation (stakes) on the part of the hero… into the…

3. ATTACK Quartile

… wherein the hero leverages everything she/he has learned and seen and the way in which the midpoint changes the context of the story, now with more direct confrontation and proactive attack on the goal (instead of reacting and running, they step into the pursuit of what is needed to resolve the story), the problem and the antagonist that stands in their way…

… leading toward a second major plot turn, in which the story changes yet again in a way that thrusts the hero (and possibly the antagonist) toward an irrevocable date with destiny via a final battle of wits and strength, using courage and cleverness and strategy (rather than anything close to luck or a  dreaded deus ex machina), all of which is the stuff of the…

4. RESOLUTION Quartile

… in which the scenes build toward a brilliant, dramatic and emotionally-powerful culmination, and from there, launching the hero back into a life that is different (because the hero is, in fact, different) than before.

Four parts.  Four contexts of narrative exposition.

The opportunity in this is significant.

This guides you toward writing the right scenes and putting them in the right places, thus optimizing pace and keeping the story soundly on track. Instead of (here comes a menu of risk and rookie mistakes): a lagging open, changing lanes, diversion and non-relevance, thematic preaching, too much backstory (because, really, the Part 1 setup is the only real place for much substantive character backstory), waning pace, lack of character arc or proactive action, and most of all, a too-vague unspooling sense of dramatic tension.

Dramatic tension itself is a context. Foreshadowing is a context. Exposition is a context that must be managed. A virtual banquet of context to serve up the meal of your story.

Which is why I ask… what is the state of your table of context?

Now you have a tool, a model, for doing that, in all these contextual realms.

Critics of this rail against it as formulaic. When I claim the story probably won’t work well without it, as I do in my writing books (and by the way, my brother-in-arms James Scott Bells agrees on that count)—cynics and old school resistors claim that’s just me blubbering heresy in the form of formula… as if there are other options.

But guess what: genre fiction is inherently formulaic. Success resides in the creative power with which you harness the formula (hey, I don’t like that word either… so let’s call it a structural principle and get on with it), rather than trying to invent your story form of storytelling.

Those “other options” may appeal to you early in the story (a form of siren song calling to you), but when you get the feedback that the story isn’t working, often for specific reasons, the “fix” to that is, almost invariably, to move the story back closer to this four-part, contextually true form after all.

And then—if you continue to deny what just happened—it’ll be your ability to revise, rather than the principle saving your creative butt. A principle that was there all along, waiting to empower your first draft (once you truly have wrapped your head around it, as, say, Stephen King has… yes, the King of All Pantsers knows this, it is precisely why his pantsing process works him) as much as it will empower your revision draft.

When writing gurus tell you to just write, to use your first draft to find your story… know that with these principles in your head, you’ll find it faster, and better.

It has nothing to do with process, in terms of planning versus pantsing. Rather, it has everything do with knowing how a story should unfold… what goes where, and why.

What a story is.

If this is new to you—and especially if you doubt it—I recommend you test this revelation.

Grab a bestseller, read it analytically… and behold the four contexts of the four quartiles unfolding before you like a curtain parting to reveal the author’s machinations and the power of these principles before your eyes.

It’s the way story works, at a professional level. It’s empowered story sense. Versus the rather clueless one we all began with, back when all we brought to the party was our experience as a reader, all before an immersion into craft changed everything.

*****

As a side note… I just published a non-fiction side project, called CHASING BLISS: A Layman’s Guide to Love, Fulfillment, Damage Control, Repair and Resurrection.

This, too, is driven by context-informed principles. And like writing, it can take a lifetime to understand if you try to make it all up as you go along.

I’ll write more about this in two weeks. For now, only the Kindle is online at Amazon; the paperback will be available there in about 6 days, once the self-publishing machine works its wondrous, laborious ways. (It’s already in the Createspace bookstore.)

You’ve heard of William Goldman, right? If not, you really should have by now (being a writer working in the real world, and all)…

… two Best Screenplay Oscars (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and All The President’s Men), a little novel with a pretty good film (which he also wrote) called The Princess Bride… another (same double home run writing credit) called Marathon Man…

… and one of the best writing books ever written, Adventures in the Screen Trade, which should be mandatory reading for novelists, as well. Even if you haven’t heard of him.

While his salad days began in the late 60s, he’s still ranked in the 100 authors in five Amazon categories (Classics, Historical Fiction, Teens, Action Adventure, and Genre Fiction Historical; that last one isn’t a typo, either, he’s #51 in Historical Fiction, and #76 in Genre Fiction Historical… go figure).

And he’s still writing, too. Better than most.

Despite the fact that two of his novels become two of the most iconic films of the past 50 years (never mind he wrote those screenplays, as well), his accomplishments as a novelist go under-appreciated. Maybe because he’s still busy in Hollywood as the #1 script rewrite guy, billing out at—this one isn’t a typo, either—one million dollars per week.

Yeah, that guy.

It’s a lesser known fact that he wrote a 1984 novel entitled, The Color of Light.

Out of 17 Amazon reviews— face it, most of the people reviewing novels were in rest homes by the time Amazon came along—16 gave it 5-stars, several stating it is one of their favorite novels, ever. One guy gave it 1-star… this, too, falling into the category writing wisdom… for every great book written, there’s a schlub or two who just didn’t get it, or gets off slinging mud at the stuff everyone else does.

The Color of Light is about a once successful writer who loses his stuff and disappears into anonymity. There may or may not be some truth to the rumor he is now blogging for The Kill Zone, but that has not been confirmed.

He has a little brother who, like all little brothers, wants to impress and gain the respect of his big brother. And so, when the little brother finishes a novel, he nervously shows it to big brother, who responds—each and every time—with the words… “on to the next.”

And that’s the great advice for us today, to hold close for all our days as writers.

May they be as plentiful as Goldman’s.

There is very little we can completely control in this business, even with the advent of self-publishing. Which, while handing back control over such things as lead times, titles and the look of our covers (none of which we had a lick of input to in the past), remains a fact when it comes to what happens to our books once we kick them out of the crib and onto the street.

We control our stories. And for the most part, that’s about it.

And so, we need to find our bliss accordingly. Sanity may reside in that understanding.

On to the next is the surest bet on reaching our goals as anything out there. And on that proposition, I’m sure William Goldman would agree.

by Larry Brooks

These four nasty little traps would still be weaknesses if they appeared in the novels of more experienced professional writers. But for the most part, those writers don’t commit these mistakes. Which defines the window of opportunity for newer writers – to understand what they’re doing and how they do it.

And how that differs from where your story is, at any given moment. Especially when you believe you are done.

It is important to remember that when you read a novel from a proven professional, you’re reading a polished, pounded upon, tested and fortified final draft. The story may have been riddled with problems in the early stages, draft after draft, so don’t assume these pitfalls are unique to the newer writer.

Established authors have agents and editors for this purpose, newer writers don’t. And they bring their 10,000 hours of apprenticeship to the task, which probably exceeds your resume by orders of magnitude.

A few workshops won’t get you there. Those 10,000 hours, along with the criteria-driven, modeled craft held up as the target, just might.

If I wanted to read fully realized, polished stories all day long, I’d be a book reviewer instead.

I do read a lot of work from folks who are terrific writers… if the composition of sentences and paragraphs is the benchmark for that description.

But the thing is, it isn’t.

Where writing novels is concerned, a terrific writer is judged by the story more than the prose. And because they are two different skill sets, one doesn’t necessarily beget the other.

A story is so much more than a sequence of paragraphs composed of sentences. In the same way that a house is composed of so much more than a bunch of wood planks nailed together. Really strong, beautiful two-by-fours do not a functional, aesthetically-pleasing house make. There is more to is than the wood itself, and much of it isn’t visible to the eye, because it resides in the infrastructure of the building.

Such is the story sensibility the new writer often lacks.

Allow me to summarize what too often comes up short:

One: The writer doesn’t understand what a premise is.They confuse it with other story essences, like concept and theme and backstory.

The project I worked on this morning answered the question, What is your premise? with this:

Here is my copy for the back cover of the paperback for my story.

A red flag, this. The author has the back cover copy done, but the novel itself is still in the incubator.

Rarely is what we read on the back cover a premise. It’s marketing copy.

In the name of offering a solution today, here is the definition of premise, which becomes a sort of checklist for the entire story itself:

A protagonist/hero whose current life (which we get a glimpse of, and perhaps a bit of background for) is interrupted, disrupted or leads into… a specific problem, need or opportunity… launching a hero’s quest with a mission and a specific desired outcome, beginning with a response to the need or problem… for reasons (stakes) that compel the character to respond… in the presence of opposition from an antagonistic force or person(s) with opposing goals and their own motivations… calling for higher and stronger responses and course of action, often with those stakes evolving into something darker or more urgent… leading toward brilliant and courageous resolution resulting from the Hero’s decisions and actions… leading toward a specific outcome, returning the hero to a life that is contextually different than where the story began.

Two: While the story is deeply rooted in genre, the writer is more focused – too focused – on characterization and theme and backstory than the forward-facing dramatic arc and tropes of that genre.

In other words, the story is either episodic or completely void of a hero’s quest/mission, undertaken because of what is at stake and a sense of urgency. It links to genre only by virtue of setting and context, rather than actionable drama and stakes.

In yet more other words… there is no compelling plot. A dramatic question in play. Which is what the premise, when done properly, describes.

“Finding his true self,” or “forgiving the past” are both really bad, really lame hero’s quests. Those are character arc goals and outcomes, but they are not the raw grist of a story. Because in genre, a story is about more than the arc of the character. Rather, it is about what the hero does to reach those goals, decisions and actions and confrontations that are dramatic and full of risk and conflict.

This is the stuff of premise. The meat and potatoes of narrative.

From a dramatic standpoint (rather than thematic), was The Hunger Games about Katniss finding true love? No. It was about getting out of that arena without someone planting an ax  blade in her skull.

In genre fiction, story lives and dies by its drama, driven by conflict. Leave the thematic analysis and character depth to the reviewers, all of that is an outcome of how the character responds to the drama into which you’ve dropped them. It’s your job to make it work, that’s true, but without a compelling dramatic arc in play, all of itwill be lost on your reader.

If you are writing in a genre – thriller, mystery, romance, fantasy, including mash-ups between them – the need for plot is non-negotiable. And a plot is subject to certain expectations and criteria – an author doesn’t get to redefine what the word “plot” means – which is what the new writer too often misses.

A newer writer’s story might play as “the adventures of…” which doesn’t work in genre. Michael Connelly’s novels are not the adventures of Harry Bosch. Rather, there is a case to solve, a single pursuit of a perp and of justice, complicated by other pressuring layers of subplot and subtext, including an antagonist/villain.

All of it defining character, by giving your hero something to do.

The life story of a fictional character may work in literary fiction, but not here.

Three: There isn’t sufficient emotional resonance that gives the reader something to root for.

I read a time travel story recently (when I say story, I mean a narrative plan submitted to me for analysis) in which two girls go back in time (never mind how) to… wait for it… ogle men wearing kilts. That’s it. That’s all there is to it.

This was a romance, which the author argued licensed any lack of thematic weight. I disagreed. The difference is like an episode of Ray Donovan versus an episode of The Housewives of New Jersey.

The dramatic stakes were fine – one of the girls goes missing back in time – and it seemed like everybody was falling in lustful love with everyone else as they looked for her. The hero sister trying to find her lost sibling was really more interested in the butt of the plantation owner’s son.

The question remained unclear, and unanswered: Why? Who cares? Especially when, after one sister finds the other, they both decide to remain stuck in 16^th century Scotland. Because those guys in kilts, they’re freaking hot.

Not something a more experienced writer would have chosen.

Four: The story lacks a compelling conceptual core.

The key word here is compelling.

The story idea is flat. The premise seems to be searching for something compelling, hoping to land there – as if the writer, when alerted to the fact that the story is flat, would say, “But when I write it you’ll see, it’ll all come alive when you read it on the page” – rather than stemming from something compelling. Like a killer story arena, or a character we’ve never seen before.

I just finished coaching a story that basically read like this: a normal guy lives in an ancient town, next to another ancient town full of bad people. The bad people want to attack his town because they are located closer to the water, which provides access to trade and sustenance. That’s the setup. So our guy, the hero, organizes a militia of other every day guys, and when the bad people attack, he leads them to victory, battle after battle after… many more battles. Meanwhile, there is a magic stone that only he can understand, which turns him into a great warrior. After the victory, they name him as their king, and everyone lives happily ever after.

I told him it doesn’t really work, at least at the pitch level. There isn’t an agent in the business that would say to this, “Dude, I’ve been waiting all year for a story like this, you’ve got to send it to me!” More likely they’d say, “I’ve seen twelve of these this week alone. Nothing special here, this is generic. Been there, read that, didn’t like then, either.”

It doesn’t glow in the dark. There’s nothing conceptual. Nothing that makes a reader say, “Holy cow, this is the type of story I’ve been waiting for, I can’t wait to read this!”

Which is one of the benchmarks of a great concept, and a premise built from it.

The story idea isn’t strong enough. At least not yet. The writer has committed to it too soon, perhaps without fully understanding what does make a story idea glow in the dark.

The whole point — the difference between the newer writer and the successful more experienced one — is story sense. The ability to recognize what works and what doesn’t, based on criteria that never change.

Don’t depend on your writing to make it glow in the dark. Because chances are, while you’re really good and your sentences make your Aunt Mabel rave about your emails, that talent is a dime-a-dozen in the universe of writers who are trying to do what you’re trying to do.

Make no mistake, such stories can work. But when they do, there is more going on than the thin shell of a story that this example describes.

Game of Thrones is compelling because of the characters and the setting. Which on paper, is rarely enough. Which renders it an exception, not the thing you should set out to emulate. It’s like telling young athletes to be like Mike. Do what Mike does.

Michael Jordan, that is.

In the story described, there is nothing conceptual about that guy in the town with the magic stone, or anyone else in the cast (swap out compelling for conceptual, which will help clarify). No Mother of Dragons. No White Walkers. No John Snow. No ruthless, seductive Queen. Nothing with the vividly drawn landscape of Westeros. No sex. No violence. No OMG! moments. Nothing like the other 45 characters that leap off the G.O.T. pages and scream, I am conceptual and you will learn to love me, even if you hate me!

Writing a saga is tough work, advanced work. Harry Potter was not a saga, it was a series, which is different. Newer writers not only need to understand the difference, but also the depth of craft and structure required to make such a story work.

There is a line you cross, somewhere among those 10,000 hours, when you know you’re no longer a newer writer.

That you’re in the game for real, and that you have a real shot, because you understand the game itself in a way that you didn’t before.

It’s all there, in that definition of premise. When you own it, completely and thoroughly, including what resides between those lines, it will propel you to the finish line. Because owning it doesn’t mean simply executing on it, but doing so with power and flair, with dramatic weight, conceptual appeal and thematic substance.

All beginning with a truly killer story idea. Which will look different to you – the bar will be higher – once you’ve crossed that line.

By Larry Brooks

Adam and Brent (who go by A and B, respectively here in analogy-land). Both have a novel in their heads. Both have big dreams for their books. Both can write sentences that would make the ghosts of Hemingway and John Updike exchange high fives.

Which is why they became writers in the first place.  The reason many of us took up that sword.

Adam

Adam’s book is about a guy who loves a woman who doesn’t love him back. That’s all he knows about it when he sits down to write. It’ll come to him. He trusts his gut and the creative process, which is isn’t sure how to explain, because someone told him it is not describable. He’s not really sure why he trusts his gut, but he does.

He’s never read a craft book (other than that damn Story Engineering, which suggests there is actually a wrong way and a better way to structure a story, based on the forces of story that always apply, for better or worse, so screw that…) or been to a writing workshop. But he’s hung out on online forums full of writers who have, who sound like they know what’s up, none of whom have sold anything but are self-published because, as if they could be if they wanted to be, quoting all kinds of folks who say publishing is dead anyhow. These same folks have all read On Writing and hey, if Stephen King can write a novel out of the right side of his head, so can they. And him. Besides, he once saw a DVD based on a Nicholas Sparks novel and he;s pretty sure he can do better.

Adam believes that if you just write, no matter what you write, everything will turn out fine.

What could go wrong?

Brent

Brent’s novel is about a wounded ex-Navy Seal who must step away from his MMA career to single-handedly rescue the widow of his Seal Team Six buddy killed by an IED in Iraq. She has been kidnapped by vengeful terrorists who have taken her in an act of jihad, with plans to post her beheading on YouTube if the US does not confess to being the Great Satan that it is. He must act alone because a coalition of CIA, FBI and military decision-makers, including the White House, refuses to acknowledge the incident that resulted in the terrorists’ thirst for revenge in the first place, in which the nephew of a Saudi oil baron, now an ISIS fighter recruited for his trust fund, was KIA.

Brent has studied the best craft books, including Story Engineering and Plot and Structure and the Snowflake Method. He’s been to workshops, had his work analyzed by professionals, subscribes to the best blogs and generally understands the breadth of things that an enlightened novelist needs to know.

He’s made his own decision on these counts, as we all must.  In his case, applying the discipline and focus he learned from his military training.  He’s studied and vetted with an open mind and seen the proof of his decision in the bestsellers he reads.

Two writers. Two stories. Two journeys of preparation and a resultant and divergent breadth of knowledge about the craft of storytelling

Cut to a year later.

Adam has his book up on Kindle. Bought a cool cover from a guy on Fiverr. The manuscript was 168 pages long, but nobody can tell that on Kindle, so he’s safe from judgment. After six months pimping it on social media and taking out pay-for-click ads on Amazon after a withdrawal from his IRA. After twenty-two four and five-star Amazon reviews from other writers with whom he’s made I’ll-review-your-book-if-you-review mine agreements, and a two-star from a guy who said the writing was fine but the story was sophomoric, he’s sold 122 copies and is hard at work on his next novel. Which is about a guy who goes back in time to meet Annie Oakley, because he’s had a thing for her since grade school. At night he washes down 10 milligrams of zolpidem with a jolt of ZZZ-Quill, because for some reason he doesn’t understand he doesn’t sleep well.

He has absolutely no idea how his path has differed from the growing body of self-published authors who reportedly are making massive money. He thinks it is unfair, and that his time will come.

Brent was turned down by nine agents before he met one at a major conference who invited him to submit a partial. The agent was blown away – “not only do you write sentences that would make the ghosts of Hemingway and John Updike bump fists, but your story moved me to tears while shining a light on the hidden agenda of our middle East military involvement, putting me right in the middle of it all alongside a hero that embodies the best of us, making it easy to root for a guy who will honor his promise to a dying fellow soldier to watch over his wife and kid” – and, within a week, had scored a two-book deal with Penguin and is getting inquiries from Will Smith’s production company.

Adam thinks Brent got lucky, too. Right time, right place.

He never thought to add: right story.

Brent has never heard of Adam. Nobody has. Except those guys online who proudly say “I don’t plan for plot, I just write from my heart, because doing it any other way takes the creative fun out of it, and hell, you end up changing everything anyway,” as if they know this to be true for all. Adam commiserates with them regularly.

Two writers, one with a well-developed sense of story, the other… not so much.  

An investigative journalist, if anybody cared, could dig into a comparative study of these two journeys, which exemplify two ends of the writing process continuum, and expose certain enlightenments and potholes that will serve any writer willing to let go of tired old belief paradigms and allow the truth of the writing craft, the principles that drive it, into their heads and process, or it will sink them like a book thrown into a canal.

Neither writes cops to being either or a planner or a pantser. After his study of craft, Brent realized it doesn’t matter, because the very same criteria for story excellence apply to both.

Other than knowing readers need to like his hero, Adam has no ability to recite that criteria. James Patterson didn’t tell him in his Master Class, Stephen King didn’t tell him in his book, either. Just write, they told him. Go out there and find your story.

Not every writer will choose the right path. Both end of the continuum will believe they’ve chosen the right path for them. Until, based on results, they no longer believe.

Craft will be waiting for them if that happens.

Such an investigative report would conclude that compelling, functional stories require two things:

• a writer who understands all the nuances and realms of a novel, including the forces of story that cause readers to engage, such as emotional resonance, vicarious experience and dramatic tension rendered powerful because of stakes, empathetic motivations and the vividness of the reading experience; and

• a story idea which has, at its very core, the raw grist, the open-ended potential, the intrinsic commercial appeal, to push our emotional buttons, wrest our attention away from the real world for a few hours, invite us into a vicarious story world full of drama and colliding philosophies and the promise of the unexpected and the delivery of ultimate resolution that rocks the reader’s world.

Just that. Easy peasy. Just open a vent in the right side of your head and let it all pour out, just like Stephen King and the army of advocates for leaning on nothing other than the seat of your pants, which will grow numb and weary for all the years spent planted in a chair in pursuit of the fruits of such a process. Which some will reap, and many others will continue to read about, and believe.

Or… you can dive in. Learn the substance and nuance of craft.

Own the principles of structure, rather than fight them off. Master the realms of story forces and the list of requisite core principles. Own the essence of structure, rather than fighting it off with a mistaken belief that it will restrict you. Master the realms of story forces and the list of essential core competencies, instead of trying to convince yourself that you either possess that mastery, or they aren’t important. Seek out multiple points of view from a short list of credible writing teachers, noticing how they are saying the same things using different models and approaches, not all of which are bestselling authors in their own right, because that is not the measure of a teacher any more than a .355 career batting average is the criteria for a successful major league manager.

And when you have all those principles lodged in your writer’s head, when you know them well enough to recognize them when you see them in play, go out and look for them in the novels you read. Test what you think you know. Let the real world of fiction convince you of the realities of the principals involved.

Come to understand that your story idea matters, every bit as much as your sentences and your ability to craft scenes. When your story sensibilities advance to a place where you can apply those criteria at that level, even before you write a word, then you’re not only in the game, you’re already ahead of a large percentage of authors who have chosen otherwise… because it was hard.

Which type of writer are you?

Are you Adam, with your fancy sentences and your refusal to buy into the cult of craft, believing the Great Lie that says you can get there without it, if you just write, writing the stories you want to write, the way you want to write them, in the naïve belief that just writing will somehow allow your number to be called?

Or are you Brent, with a killer story idea people will pay for, if done rigtht, and the depth of mastery of craft to pull it off?

You never know if your story idea is good enough. But if you just write with a base of craft in your quiver and a criteria-meeting, conceptually-driven story idea in mind, that story might just have a shot.

by Larry Brooks

First off… it’s not a secret at all.

It’s just something that isn’t often talked about. It is rarely hit head-on in the vast oeuvre of fiction craft, where there exists a tacit assumption that anything you choose to write about is okay… that it’s how you write a story, rather than what your story might be in a conceptual, dramatic context.

This gets tricky, perhaps confusing, because that is half true.

Nobody will suggest your story idea isn’t strong enough. Even when they should. At least, not before you write it. No, they’ll wait until you’ve spent a year gushing 100,000 bloody words onto the page from the open wound of your best intentions…

… and then they’ll tell you: meh, I’ve read this before… or… well, it’s okay, good even, but we have enough good out there, give us something great, something that stops my heart.

The true half: how you write your story absolutely matters.

Because a killer idea, poorly written, will tank every bit as fast as a mediocre idea written really well.

There exists a list of qualitative criteria (what I call the six realms of story physics), applied to another list of six story elements and skills (what I refer to as the six core competencies) that you must do well. As in, really well.

As in, you need to go six-for-six.

That’s always been true. It’s truer than ever today, in a market that is orders of magnitude more crowded with titles vying for the same finite readership, and glutted with stories and authors that are good, but not quite great.

Great is reachable. But you have to find a special story, told in an especially competent way. The sum of those two high bars is… rare.  I can tell you, as a story coach who has read many hundreds of story summaries over the past few years, “rare” is the softest word I can come with here.  Unremarkable – even when it’s just fine — is everywhere.

That other half… determined by your choice of concept and premise (which are different things) is less emphasized in the writing conversation. Frankly, it is where the writing community has lost its balls. More polite conversation and acceptable workshop narrative steps right over the need for premises that are conceptually compelling and dramatically rich, rich enough to allow a well-drawn character to shine.

So let’s all wake up to this truth.

Often, perhaps as much as half the time, stories are either rejected or perform poorly, in spite of the author really writing the heck of out it, because the story isn’t amazing at its core conceit level. Writing the heck out of a vanilla, too-familiar idea will get you precisely… nowhere.

Or at least, wherever it takes you, it will be slow going.

Take a closer look at the stories that break-out.  At the bestsellers.

A huge percentage of them are from the same familiar names, the ones you’ve been seeing there for years. I just checked: of the current top-20 New York Times best sellers, thirteen come from writers you’ve heard of, who have been there before (one of whom created the TV hit Fargo, which disqualifies him from being a newbie). One is from an author you’ve heard of because her current title is the runaway breakout hit of the last two years (Paula Hawkins slid into that spot when Gone Girl faded a bit)…

… and the others are less known.

So how did they get there?  It’s not just because they can really write.  It’s because the premises they’ve written from are on fire with upside.

I promise you, as well, that it wasn’t because they tweeted and Facebooked and pimped themselves onto the list. It’s because of word-of-mouth, which is more often the outcome of reviews than it is from social media. It’s because of quality storytelling, sure, but it’s more because of… wait for it…

… amazing, fresh, conceptual rich story premises.

Among that list, from those seven new names, consider these concepts:

– A woman defies her controlling husband’s retirement plans for the both of them. (What woman doesn’t want to defy a controlling husband?)

– A spectacularly wealthy and dysfunctional family implodes, murder ensues. (A train wreck we cannot look away from.)

– Viruses bent on wiping out humanity are vanquished… and then they return. (Some concepts never go away, they simply recycle.)

– Young girl comes to New York to make her way in the big bad city, and meets a “devastatingly handsome” bad-boy bartender. (Those two words – devastatingly handsome – will sell a million copies by themselves, in the right hands.)

Notice these aren’t end-of-the-world Hollywood blockbuster type concepts.  “High concepts” as they are know.  Rather — and this is a subtlety that will serve you, once you get it — it is because these concepts, and those like them, play into the dramatic evocation of emotional resonance from readers.

These concepts intrigue. They are vicarious, they suck us in, they push our buttons. They pose frightening, intriguing questions. They work before you know about the author or the characters, because they are conceptual.

If you need the premise itself to get someone excited, chances are you haven’t tapped into the full potential of something conceptual yet. Wife fakes her own death to avenge her crappy marriage to a man she loathes… that’s not a premise yet (no hero, no plot, no villain, no stakes… no premise), but it is a concept that will make an agent, editor or a reader sit up and take notice.

All of these books are on the list because, primarily, at least as much because the writer is really good, because they are well conceived.

The opportunity is right there: in the conceptual.  

Narrative skill is actually more an ante-in than it is a deal-maker these days. It is a commodity. Truth be told, there are people sitting in every writing conference you attend who can give those A-list brand name authors a run for their significant money.

We can take a page from Hollywood in this regard. Most of the movies we pay to see that aren’t based on novels come from the minds of producers, directors, and even actors. Those are the people with the story ideas — some of which they get from writers they quickly pay off to go away — at least the ones the industry will pay attention to.  After which they hire-out the writing itself, where anonymous craft brings those story ideas to life.

That’s not the business we are in as novelists. But don’t miss the gold in that model.

As authors, we need to function as producer, director, actor and writer of our stories. ANd we need to realize that we are selling an idea as much as we are selling our narrative skill, via a manuscript. Unless you are writing in literary fiction, the conceptual idea itself needs to glow in the dark, to show up in a dark sky chock-full of exquisitely well written mediocrity.

And then, of course, you need to write the hell out of it.

An example to show how obvious this is, once you look for it.

Let’s look at the romance/women’s fiction genre. One of those names on the NY Times list is Jo Jo Moyes, whose title After You is (at this writing) #5 on that list.

Now look closer. After You is the sequel to her bestseller, Me Before You, which in addition to selling five million copies, is currently a front-line motion picture tear-jerker, receiving good if not great reviews. This explains the sequel’s presence on the bestseller list: because a quality sequel to a legitimate bestseller — film or no film — will always be, at least for fifteen minutes, another bestseller.

Because a sequel to a bestseller IS the concept being sold.

Now let’s look deeper. Let’s look at the earlier novel (which came after ten previous Moyes titles, all successful, but none to this degree), Me Before You.

And therein we find the proof of the concept/premise pudding.

At a glance, Me Before You is a commodity tear-jerker. A doomed love story. A life-is-unfair, let’s-make-the-most-of-the-time-we-have vicarious ride through glorious, courageous heartbreak and the triumph of love itself.

Always a good bet. There have been, quite literally, thousands of such novels written.

So what made this one work?  Other than the quality of Jo Jo’s writing and storytelling?

It’s because something that resides at the core of the story idea itself. Something that is highly conceptual. Not earth-shakingly original, per se… no, that’s not always required (though it certainly can help). What made this particular love story work is the fact that the novel, in the words of Miami Herald reviewer Connie Ogle, has some bite to it. A “juicy, ripe red apple of a romance with a razor blade embedded under its skin.”

That razor blade is the concept.  The love story that covers it is the premise.

The bite of that novel is something conceptual that separates it from the crowd.

Here it is: What if the hero/protagonist, whom we love (because she’s from a working class family, and she deserves to be happy, damn it!) falls in love with a handsome, wealthy, yet bitter young man…

… so far, this is as familiar as a bagel for breakfast…

… a young man who is… wait for it… a quadriplegic.

Damn.  Didn’t see that coming, did you.

But here’s where Moyes demonstrates her conceptual chops. Instead of a trite HEA ending to an otherwise production line premise, she flips that on its dramatic ear and gives us… wait for it…

… a stunning, heart-wrenching didn’t-see-that-coming, take out her heart and stomp on it ending. A razor blade of a concept, hiding there under the skin, all along.

Concept is a framework for a story, within which premise is explored.  That framework, in Me Before You, is how it is all destined to end.

All of this, by the way, was solidly in her head before she sat down to actually write the manuscript (this I know, because Moyes is an avid if not completely confident outliner, she doesn’t move to the draft stage until she has the story nailed… a lesson there for us all). This is a highly conceptual story idea, because it grabs us even before we encounter the story.  Even before we meet these characters.

But that Jo Jo… she’s a clever one, indeed. In giving us that ending, she doubles down on the conceptual appeal of the story. Ever since Erich Segal broke our hearts in Love Story, readers have lined up to pay good money to have their emotions put through a wringer and then driven over by a funeral motorcade. Moyes actually one-ups Segal in that regard, never flinching at the ending she knew would work…

… and not backing down when Hollywood suggested she lighten up the ending of the film version. Moyes actually wrote the script for that, too, and in sticking to her original ending, the movie is doing big business precisely because of the Machiavellian manner in which it toys with our emotions before destroying them.

And now, she has the sequel on the Times bestseller list. All because of concept colliding with narrative talent. Separate those two parts of the craft puzzle, and these two home run novels don’t happen.

Dan Brown did it in The Davinci Code, and again in Inferno (the film of that novel hits theaters this summer). Gillian Flynn did it in Gone Girl. Paula Hawkins did it in The Girl On The Train. The list goes on and on in this regard.

Big ideas, delivered with big concepts, fueling big premises.

And then, written with stellar craft.

The latter, standing alone as your sole strategy, is a long and crowded road that rarely takes us where, in the quiet of our dreams, we truly want to be.

Look closely at what what’s in the literary news.  

Chances are, if there isn’t a famous author name on the cover, there’s an astoundingly conceptual idea at the heart of the story. If nothing else, than by virtue of the emotional buttons it pushes.

All that stuff… the learning, the principles, the examples of great technical execution across six realms of story physics and six realms of writing core competencies… they’re all as valuable and necessary as they’ve ever been.

But despite what you don’t often read or hear out here in craft-land all that much, they aren’t all that is needed to blast your career to another level, via a story that makes your bones in a graveyard full of well-crafted skeletons.

Don’t rush your story into being.  Nurse it at the conceptual level, ask more of it. Go deep into the dark and swirling well of human emotion and empathy to give us something that grabs us and won’t let go… even before we’ve read a word of it.

What is conceptual about your premise?  What will make someone say, “Wow, now THAT is a story I want to read,” even before you hit them with the premise itself.

Answer that one, and answer it well… and you may find you’ve dealt yourself a hand worth doubling down on, as well.

by Larry Brooks

We’ve all read a novel that changes our lives.  That makes us either want to become a writer, or glad we are already chasing the dream.

And a little sad, because in our heart we know we will never be quite that good.

Most of us have several of those, stories that are personal to us because it feels like we discovered them.  We remember them like love affairs that have left us different, enriched, even a little broken-hearted, if nothing else than because there can never be another first time.

And yet, every time we come back, it just gets better and better.

When such a novel resurfaces as a movie  — in this case 20 years later — we approach with caution.  And yet, with itchy excitement, because we get to immerse in that world again, live it through the eyes of a director with the same response to the novel that we had… this is a story that deserves to live on.

Just maybe it will live up to the book.

Last week I caught a trailer for a new film release that got my attention.  

Not because I recognized it as an adaptation of a novel that blew me away, but because the story being teased touched those old nerves in the same way.

And then it hit me.

The film is called Manhattan Night. 

The novel that blew my mind in 1996, written by Colin Harrison, was/is entitled Manhattan Nocturne.

Perfect.  Hollywood dumbs down the title, taking the je ne sais quoi right out of it, but keeps the tonality and plot intrigue of its core… this could not be a coincidence.

Some dreams do come true.

That novel, the one that set the bar high, is about to be released as a movie that promises to do the same thing.

What you need to know about that novel, and the movie they’ve finally made from it, is delivered in two short blurbs… one about the story, the other about the author:

When a seductive stranger asks tabloid writer Porter Wren to dig into the unsolved murder of her filmmaker husband, he is drawn into a very nasty case of sexual obsession and blackmail – one that threatens his job, his marriage, and his life.

Sexy old school noir thriller with brains, anyone?

Colin Harrison was the emerging pulp literati superstar of new millennium.  He was referred to by a reviewer as the poet laureate of American thriller authors, and has a resume that reads as if it were the wet dream of a newly minted MFA graduate with commercial sensibilities (which he was, in 1986, from the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop).

Manhattan Nocturne was his second novel.  His third novel, Afterburn, became a highly touted New York Times Bestseller, and the second best book of 2000, right after Zadie Smith’s White Teeth.

Even his wife was/is a bestselling novelist (Kathryn Harrison, with an intimidating Wiki of her own).

What could go wrong?  Well, a 20-year wait to get the film made, that’s what.

The guy’s prose is… stunning.

Not in a lit prof you’ll-never-see-me-holding-a-paperback-on-the-train sort of way, but in a Dashiel Hammett meets Mickey Spillane channeling Raymond Chandler sort of way, but with the swagger of a White House speechwriter.  Often in workshops, when I get to the part where we talk about — and try to understand how to craft — stellar writing voice, I simply read the first page of Harrison’s Manhattan Nocturne aloud, which contains all of three adjectives yet reads like the breathless musing of a mad genius reporter teetering on the abyss of The Best Scoop Ever, searching for killer lead.

Universally, the writing audience silently mouths a chorus of “oh my…”

He writes our kind of prose.  The poetry of thrillers and mysteries set on fire with passion and tension and the promise of shocking betrayals.  Narrative that kills.

So there you go.  A great read and a movie ticket for you, to light your writer’s brain on fire.

Read the Wikipedia on the novel HERE.

Then click on the movie poster above (not the book cover) to see the trailer.

That bar… it just keeps getting higher and higher.

by Larry Brooks

I’ve always suspected that we remain totally alone with our stories. 

Which means we live and die by what we know and believe to be true (which are different things) about storytelling, too often either shutting out or not comprehending any incoming feedback that smacks of being to the contrary.

As a story coach, I’ve tried to disprove this – that we aren’t alone with our stories, because craft is always there to help us, and when we get it, we join a huge community of the enlightened – by offering input and solutions to stories in need of patching up, hoping the author will see and believe what craft tells us when it is put in front of them.

But alas, this remains an uphill battle.  Writing effective stories is hard, always has been.  But sometimes writers make it harder.

Today’s take away: don’t be that writer.

On the flip side, some of my clients do just that.  They see it and they recognize it as The Truth. It’s not me, it is craft triumphing over bad input, old tapes and blank spaces in understanding.

These are the wins, and they are few and far between.  And totally worth the work.

Many writers, though, when they ask for help with their stories, are actually seeking affirmation.  They’ll talk for hours about their characters and why it all actually works, even though it doesn’t.  We write what we write for reasons that seem solid at the time, so when challenged, that reasoning demands to be heard.

Fair enough.  But you can’t defend a sow’s ear, if it is truly a sow’s ear in a silk purse endeavor.

That’s the thing about craft, once you get it, it shifts our standard of reasoning.  It raises the bar on what we choose for, and within, our stories.

I’d say half my clients fall into that category, one that recognizes a better path when it is shown to them.  The other half, while perhaps open, aren’t yet fluent in the nuances of storytelling craft, which means they actually need to step away from the project and immerse themselves in that learning.

It’s really hard to coach an unenlightened writer.

Trying to understand story craft as you implement it is like a doctor trying to save a patient with a scalpel in one hand and a copy of Grey’s Anatomy in the other.  Better to go into the lab and work on a cadaver until you truly get it.

Nobody wants to write a cadaver.  That’s why writing a novel without a solid grasp of craft rarely – as in, almost never – works. Even then, when the feedback comes (and it will), one needs to understand what the feedback even means.

Don’t be that writer.

Sure, most writers are open to hearing about possible here-and-there tweaks, but when the story is flawed at the most deeply fundamental levels of dramatic theory and rationale – which it so often is in the story coaching game; consider that 990 out of every 1000 manuscript submissions get rejected… it’s not because the writer can’t write a decent sentence, it’s because the story isn’t working – they shut down.

They don’t want to hear it.  Or they can’t hear it, because they don’t understand it.

“Wait, let me explain further.”  Then, when that doesn’t work…

“It’s my story, nobody can tell me it doesn’t work.”

Ultimately, agents, editors and readers will tell you just that.

Don’t be that writer.

That further explanation – which is actually a defense – in the hands of a less-than-enlightened author, is how what should be a three sentence premise becomes a 1000-word plea for mercy.  The clinging to dysfunction (because they’ve been sold this very thing, that you can write anything you want, any way you want)… that’s the very definition of – if you will allow me to mangle a word here – unenlightenment.

Unenlightened writers are everywhere, in packs and droves.  They fill the halls of writing conferences and clog the servers of the best writing blogs.

Don’t be one of them.  Go deeper.  Really strive to get it.  Because there are certainly very specific things you need to get.  Principles of storytelling physics that are as consistent and non-negotiable as… well, as gravity.

And you know what happens when you mess with gravity.

An effective story has criteria. 

There are bases that must be touched.  Qualitative standards and aesthetic decisions that spring from an evolved story sensibility, rather than, simply, the original idea.  Which, by the way, to be worth anything at all, needs to be original, or a new twist on something familiar.

Let me say it again: don’t be that writer.  Learn the criteria.  Understand those bases.  Own those qualitative standards… and then, mix, stir, repeat… until your story sense hikes up the learning curve.

It can take years.  And while you’re on the path… listen for the truth.  It’s out there.  Along with a bunch of truly toxic old school truisms that have outlived their veracity, and complete nonsense from people who should not be talking about writing – they should be listening – in the first place.

The reason this happens is that the writer doesn’t recognize the principles of craft with which they have heretofore played loose.  They haven’t absorbed and integrated the fundamentals of craft, leaving them open to the fatal attraction of writing an un-vetted idea, while trying (unknowingly, certainly, but this is what it is) to narratively imitate what they read from their favorite authors, making it all up as they go, without truly understanding how those authors do what they do.

There has to be a better way.

The notion that all first drafts must fail miserably… that’s just not true.  And yet, you hear this from some of the biggest names in the game… because their first drafts fail miserably.

That’s not conventional wisdom, that’s just the consequences of one’s chosen process. The difference is huge, and toxic if not fully understood.  The initial goal of the storytelling process is to find the best available story from an initial spark on inspiration. \

If you develop a weak idea (in other words, hit all the narrative bases with it), it will still be a weak idea.

Some writers require a draft to find their best story… they’ll just sit down and actually begin writing about that idea… and yes, even if they know a lot about craft, it’ll probably suck.

Chances are a new writer may not know the criteria for a story that works in the first place, no matter how they go about finding it.

But that’s not the only strategic approach.  The more you know about craft, the more of it will be applied to an idea (this knowledge becomes the vetting tool), even in a first draft, but certainly before that draft is written, resulting in a better outcome.

Too often the writing conversation is about process. 

And yet, all processes subordinate to the nature and specifics of narrative and structural craft, every time.  The very same criteria apply.

You can back into a great story, or you can build one from the ground up.  Both can work.  But usually, only in the hands of an enlightened writer.

So there’s your first, next and best goal: to become an enlightened writer, one who knows what to do with a killer story idea — how to make it into one — and understands that there are certain things that must be done to it before it will work.

What are those basic fundamentals?

Here are a few that you can never rationalize away.  There is more – much more – to learn, but these are the most common sins of the newer writer who doesn’t get it.

This is so entry-level it is seldom discussed.  It’s like pro athletes working on their strength and footwork and eye-hand coordination in pre-season… the pros do it, but the news doesn’t cover it.  Same here, we don’t talk about what we need to talk about, at least often enough.  Even in terrific blogs like this one, where we assume the readers understand these basics… too often they don’t.

So this is me, the story coach coming in from the cold to shine a light on these entry-level truths what are absolutely essential to a story.  I hope you warm up to them quickly.

1. Too often your story idea isn’t strong enough. Nobody tells you that, so you keep pounding on a too familiar, too thin idea.  Half the reason for all the rejections out there stem from this.  Stories that have been done to death.  Premises that simply define a genre (“detective is given a tough murder case to solve…” really, I’ve seen that one submitted as a premise… ).  Ideas that make too little sense.

 In so many cases it’s not the writing that holds a story back, it’s the idea that      becomes the premise that tanks the project.

2. In genre fiction, everything hangs off your core dramatic thread. Story world, characterization, all the great scenes… they are all literally narrative, forward-propelling expressions of an unspooling core dramatic thread.  Some of you reading this don’t know what that means… go find out (there’s a full post, even a book, in that issue alone).

It’s simply defined: what does your hero want or need in the story, and how do they go about getting it, and against what odds, with what stakes in play?

In other words… what is the plot?  Plot drives commercial genre fiction (the hallmark of which is story world/arena, which is a different thing than plot), no matter what your MFA friends tell you.

You’d be shocked, if you were a story coach or an agent, how many writers mess this up.  That aren’t clear on their core dramatic thread, or what that even means. Stories that have several dramatic threads, without one of them emerging as the defining essence of the story.  Stories with thin dramatic tension.  Stories with no stakes, that are by intention slice-of-life narratives and episodic character studies (which never work in genre fiction).

3. Logic and credibility trump your idea. No more 15-year old heroes who can do what the FBI, CIA and Superman himself cannot do.  Like, hack into the NSA database to find out the truth.  Like, out-smart and out-fight a gang of ruthless killer drug dealers.  Like, the hero bolting upright in the middle of a third act night to remembers something that turns it all around.  Like, massive coincidences piled on necessary further coincidences that conspire to create impossible situations.  That can out-wit a crime lord.

 Stories may be about situations, but it’s how the hero credibly navigates the situation   that is the stuff of a good story  Know the difference, and do it credibly within the  physics of your story world.

4. Soft hero’s goals aren’t as compelling as specific hero’s goals.  Don’t confuse goal vs. action required to reach that goal.  Don’t pitch your hero’s journey as, “The hero must reunite his family so everyone can be happy.”  That’s an outcome.  A trite, non-specific outcome, by the way, that will bore an agent to tears.  Rather, pitch what your hero must do to achieve a stated goal… your story is about that, far more than it is about the goal itself.

 When both the goal and the journey toward it are compelling and fresh and logical  and dramatic and character-testing, now you’ve got something to work.

5. It’s about what your hero does, illustrating who they are in the process. Rather than just showing us who the character is.  Oldest rule in the book, right?  Show, don’t tell.  And yet, this remains one of the most common fumbles… a story that is all about who a character is, drenched in backstory, without giving the character something compelling to do.

 Carve this into your forehead: Story isn’t just about something (a character, a theme,  a time or place, a culture)… but rather… a story is about something happening.

If you can burn this alone into your story sensibility, italics included, you will vault into the top ten percent of new authors working today.

6. In a good story, structure drives the narrative. The notion that “story trumps structure” is complete hogwash… that’s like saying “chemistry trumps medicine” or “strength trumps motion.”  Huh?  That assertion is really more about process than it is story, and becomes an example of the toxic nature of some corners of the writing conversation.

Structure isn’t something you make up.  You make up a plot that unfolds across a universally proven and omnipresent structure.  You can’t really find a successful commercial story – book or movie – that departs from that structure to any significant degree, so it’s folly to think that yours can and will.

Story and character setup… 2) hero compelled into response… 3) hero attacking the problem… 4) hero resolving the problem.  That’s the four-part essence of story structure (with much mission-driven enhancement required, including the critical transition story points, hero’s arc, stakes, antagonism, final conflict, etc.)… every time, every story.  Your plot won’t work until it aligns with that sequence, in roughly equal proportions.

Don’t know that universal structure?  It’s out there.  There are different names and pieces for it, which is exactly like different languages delivering the same message… the IRS code in English or French or Aramaic is still the IRS Code.  Violate it, and trouble happens.

These are pre-requisites of a professional-level story. 

The 101 of the trade.

Don’t be the writer that pursues the craft outside of an awareness of, and integration of, these and other core principles.

Don’t be the writer operating below the 101 level of story sensibility.

You’re here, reading the Kill Zone, so you’re on the path.  Everything you read here, and on my site and the sites of our authors, is in context to these basic tenets of craft.

I’m tired of writers defending their stories when they are already dead.  It breaks my heart more than it pisses me off, which it does, because they insult the craft itself by believing it is unnecessary.  Maybe you hear them in your critique groups.  Or if you’re a story coach or editor, maybe you hear them every day.

I’m hungry for writers who get it, who are on the path toward a higher understanding of craft, which can be expressed and explored in so many ways, always leading toward an evolved story sensibility.

So are publishers.  So are readers hungry for the next great story.

I hope you can be that writer.

You have to be, if you want to find readers and a career as a storyteller.

Concept and Premise are two of the most common terms used to describe a story, often within a pitch or a review, less often within the lexicon of story development.

That’s a shame, too.  Because understanding the difference between them, and harnessing that difference to raise the conceptual essence of a premise, is a powerful storytelling tool.  One that differentiates a story within its genre, whatever the genre might be.

And perhaps even more exciting, this single thing can be the difference between a mid-shelf book and a bestseller.  Or between published and unpublished.  Because agents and writers are looking for home runs, and there is no quicker way around the bases than a high concept story, a story with a premise that is fueled by concept.

Here’s a quick example, with more right around the corner:

Two people fall in love in Florida.  This is premise that is as flat and almost completely void of concept.  The only thing about it is if you find the notion of a story set in Florida compelling.  If you don’t, and you’re an agent or an editor, you are already bored.

Two people fall in love in Florida, after they find out they are brother and sister torn apart in their infancy.  Ouch.  A button has already been pushed from this alone.  Because this is highly conceptual, it lends a more specific thematic arena to the story… even before we hear about the story itself.

Pay attention to that last line, because that is one of the criteria for a compelling premise: it doesn’t require a hero and a plot to be compelling.  It stands alone as a good idea.

Too many writers begin with the vagueness of the former, too often never landing on something compelling at all, telling just another love story that doesn’t stand out.

Thrillers are inherently conceptual.  

It is the unique story proposition that attracts us, unless we are talking about an established series hero (Jack Reacher, Alex Cross, James Bond, etc.), which becomes the drawing card first and foremost.  Most of us don’t have that kind of brand equity, leaving a conceptual story proposition as our most powerful story enrichment too.

And yet, “conceptual” is always a matter of degree and personal taste.  That’s where writing in a genre serves us, we already know the general direction of the tastes of prospective readers.  With thrillers, the more conceptual the better.

Relative to story development, concept, as it relates to premise, is the contextual framework for a story.  A notion that infuses the premise with compelling energy.  A proposition.  Any of which becomes the aforementioned contextual framework for the unfolding of a premise.

Too often editors and agents don’t really grasp or acknowledge the difference between concept and premise, with little lost to that truth.  And yet, concept and premise are the first things agents and editors look for in a story, over and above characterizations and writing voice.

Which means that when we, as writers, don’t grasp that difference, we are stepping over a potential gold mine, even if a premise alone can still get the attention you seek.  Better to have both story levels working for you, even if the agent never knows what hit her/him.

Not every story needs to be high concept.  Unless, once again, you are writing a thriller.  In our genre, the higher the better.  There’s not really such a thing as a cozy thriller. 

More examples of concepts… that are not yet a premise.

These coming from the real world of published novels and produced movies.

Before succinctly defining concept and premise, let’s look at some real-world examples, all taken from stories you might recognize.  Notice how, in each of these, there is no hero yet, no plot… nothing other than the conceptual framework itself.

 “Snakes on a plane.” (bad movie, but a great example of a concept… in this case, a proposition.  Nonetheless, a deal was made for the script on this 4-word pitch alone, solely on the compelling nature of the concept)

“The world will end in three days.” (a situation)

“Two morticians fall in love.” (an arena)

“What if you could go back in time and reinvent your life?” (a proposition)

“What if the world’s largest spiritual belief system is based upon a lie, one that its church has been protecting for 2000 years?” (a speculative proposition)

“What if a child is sent to earth from another planet, is raised by human parents and grows up with extraordinary super powers?” (a proposition)

“What if a jealous lover returned from the dead to prevent his surviving lover from moving on with her life?” (a situation)

“What if a paranormally gifted child is sent to a secret school for children just like him?” (a paranormal proposition)

“A story set in Germany as the wall falls.” (a historical landscape)

“A story set in the deep South in the sixties focusing on racial tensions and norms.”  (a cultural arena)

As we move into definitions and criteria, remember: concept is not premise.  Rather, it is the reason why your premise will compel readers.  Because it is compelling.  Fascinating.  Intellectually engaging.  Emotionally rich.  Imbued with dramatic potential.  It infuses the premise with something contextually rich, even before you add characters and a plot.

The Definition of Concept

Go back and apply these facets of definition to the examples provided, this will help solidify your understanding of the difference between concept and premise.

Concept is the presence of something conceptual at the heart of the story’s essence.

A concept is a central idea or notion that creates context for a story – often for a number of stories, not just your story – built from it.  Take Superman, for example.  Ten films, four television series, hundreds of graphic novels.  All inspired by one concept.  Each film, each episode and each edition all delivering different and unique premises.

A concept becomes a contextual framework for a story, without defining the story itself.  The notion of Superman, for example, becomes the framework within which each of those unique premises is built.  Same for any series story, each installment is driven by the same concept.  Ask Harry Potter where he came from… it is always the same origin framework.

It is an arena, a landscape, a stage upon which a story will unfold.  Every medical and legal thriller comes an example of this, the concept is the arena, a place dripping with inherent drama and theme.

It can be a proposition, a notion, a situation or a condition.  The Davinci Code is the poster child of a proposition… one that sold 82 million hardcovers and counting.

It can be a time or place, or a culture or a speculative imagining.  Historical fiction, anyone?  Science fiction?  Time travel?  Ghosts, vampires, spies, serial killers… all of these are speculations within a conceptual framework.

And none of them have stories yet.  Which means the premise is not yet on the page.

The Criteria for Concept

It is inherently, before character or plot, interesting, fascinating, provocative, challenging, engaging, even terrifying.

High concepts depart from the norm, they exist at the extreme edge of imagination and possibility.

Concepts promise a vicarious ride for the reader.  Taking them somewhere, or placing them into situations, that are not possible, realistic or even something they would choose in real life.

A concept can define the story world itself, create its rules and boundaries and physics, thus becoming a story landscape. (Example: a story set on the moon… that’s conceptual in it’s own right.)

In short, a concept is simply the compelling contextual heart of the story built from it.  It imbues the story atmosphere with a given presence.

It does not include a hero… unless the hero is, by definition, a conceptual creation (like  Superman; Clark Kent is not a concept, he is a character).  A story is built around the conceptual nature of its hero is leveraging the the compelling energy of that conceptual proposition.

When we read that agents and editors are looking for something fresh and new, concept is what they mean.  When a concept is familiar and proven – which is the case in romance and mystery genres especially – then fresh and new becomes the job of premise and character, as well as voice and narrative strategy.

Concept is often genre-driven. 

Literary fiction and some romance and mysteries aren’t necessarily driven by concept, yet they are totally dependent on a premise that gives their hero’s something to do.  Which can and should be conceptual in nature.

However, the sub-genres of romance – paranormal, historical, time travel, erotica, etc. – are totally concept-dependent.  Other genres, such as fantasy and science fiction and historical, are almost totally driven by and dependent upon concept.

If your concept is weak or too familiar within these genres, you have substantially handicapped your story already.

The Definition of Premise

Premise is NOT concept.  But it can be fueled by whatever is conceptual about the story (stated separately within a pitch as the story’s concept).  Premise is the summarized description of a story.  And when that story is considered fresh and powerful, premise  emerges from a conceptual landscape.

Concept is to premise as size, strength, speed and agility are to an athlete.  Without it, the story remains undistinguished, relying almost solely on its narrative to win or lose the day.

Premise is:

A protagonist/hero whose life is interrupted, disrupted or leads toward… a specific problem, need or opportunity… launching a quest with a mission and a desired outcome, beginning with a response to the need or problem… for reasons (stakes) that compel the character to respond, then resolve the issue… in the face of opposition from an antagonistic force or person(s) with opposing goals and their own motivations… calling for higher and stronger responses and course of action… leading toward brilliant and courageous resolution resulting from the Hero’s decisions and actions… leading toward a specific outcome, returning the hero to a life that is contextually different than where the story began.

A great story almost always has both concept and premise going for it.  Armed with this higher understanding, our emerging ideas and story visions are empowered to reach for a higher bar.

Ask any agent or editor, or reader, for that matter.  Outside of literary fiction and cozy mysteries, the more conceptual our stories, which arise from our premises, the better.

Being a new writer is a good thing. We all wore that name tag when we began our writing journey.

The goal, however, is to hide that fact as we write stories we intend to submit and publish. Anything that exposes inexperience is a bad thing, sometimes leading to rejection, or if not that, to harsh judgment from readers and reviewers. If your story is on the bubble, this can be the thing that pushes it over the edge… in the wrong direction.

There are lots of ways to screw up a novel, not all of them unique to rookies and well-intentioned sophomore authors. But perhaps the most fertile ground to find evidence of one’s newbie status is within how we write and present dialogue.

Let’s be clear, dialogue is easy to write. But it’s extremely hard to write it really well. 

When that happens, careers can explode. Dialogue is a place to shine, to stylize narrative in a way that would put non-dialogue sentences over the top into a universe shaded with hues of purple and riddled with bleeding adjectives and screaming adverbs.

Okay, that sentence came close to just that. Not an accident. I wanted you to notice before you winced.

On the other hand, bad dialogue, the kind that sounds like it came from a bad elementary school play, the kind punctuated by someone who never met a comma, can tank your story altogether.

Within the vast minefield of dialogue there are a handful of common mistakes that scream “rookie writer… run!”  Over the past few years there have been more than a few terrific Kill Zone posts on the subject, my favorite being coverage of the tricky task of attribution. I won’t rehash all the ways this can make you look bad – use the Search function for some good stuff on this topic – but there is another pesky tendency that is most commonly evidenced by newer writers especially.

Which is why this is a case of principle trumping evidence to the contrary, in the form of this mistake occasionally appearing within traditionally-published novels, which employ professionals editors who are paid to – but not always successful at catching – eradicated before warming up the printing presses.

This, too, involves the use of character names.

Not as attribution, but rather, within dialogue itself in the form on one character addressing and acknowledging the other. It is best defined with an example. See if this is like any conversation you’ve ever heard in real life, and then ask yourself if you’ve ever written something just like it.

“Hey Dave, good to see you, man!”

“Steve, you old dog, you look terrific.”

“You know Dave, I’m feeling okay. Especially after… well, you know how it goes, right Dave?”

“I sure do, Steve. Been there, survived that.”

“Just shoot me if you ever hear about me having to do that again, okay Dave?”

“Will do, Steve. Count on it.”

“Thanks Dave. You’re a prince.”

“No problems, Steve. You’d do the same for me.”

Okay, I know, that was painful to read. And not just because of this demonstration of how all those names within the exchange create a totally false, less-than-authentic cadence while lending a corny, fifties-television vibe to it all.

But this happens all the time in manuscripts written by newer writers. And occasionally in novels written by authors and edited by editors who should know better.

In every workshop there is one guy who throws up a hand right about here in this discussion, so allow me to address that one next.

Certainly, there are instances in real life when the use of the name of the recipient of your words is called for. Like passing someone on the street who doesn’t see you, so you call out their name to get their attention. Or if you’re a supervisor chewing out a rascal employee (even then, only once is enough).

That said, listen closely to the real world in which you live. Chances are you can go months without hearing this. Which should reinforce the fact that you should go decades without having one your characters talk this way to another one of your characters.

Two weeks ago I posted the first part of this 2-parter, exploring five of the myths promised in the title. Feel free to check them out first, or last, doesn’t really matter because these aren’t presented as a hierarchy of potential disaster.

Any one of them can sink you.

Here, then, are the other five.  

Fair warning, some of these will challenge your belief systems about how stories are developed and what makes them work… which is the point.  Not everyone likes to be challenged, and not every writer will make a shift when called out on something that isn’t working, defending with this: “This is my process, I can’t do it any other way,” or, “Well, that’s not what Stephen King says.”

Fair enough. Very little about the writing process is precise. And not everything we hear from famous writers is valid for you, or for most, for that matter. That said, the criteria and benchmarks of what makes a story work are usually very precise.

That, too, is the point.

*****

Coincidentally (because this was written before I saw what I am about to point out), and happily, PJ Parrish posted on this next myth last Tuesday (March 29). We aren’t conspiring, but we are retrospectively agreeing. That dream that awakened you a few nights ago, leaving you certain the universe had just rewarded you with the Next Big Novel idea… we recommend you park it for a while and see how it survives the shelf time, not to mention, in the meantime, boning up on the criteria for what makes an idea viable, or not.

Myth #6: You can make a good novel out of just about any idea.

Too often the most important element of a story gets the least airtime within the writing conversation.  And that is our Big Idea for a story. The seed from which your story must spring forth.

The Big Idea can arrive in several forms. It can be a character, suddenly so vivid in your mind you can smell their morning coffee. But that’s not enough. Because if a character is all you have, it’s not a story yet.

It can arrive as a speculative notion, a compelling what if? proposition. What if the Devil came to you in the form of your divorce attorney after your wife cheated on you? But that’s not enough, either. It’s not a story yet.

It can be a theme that you believe to be important. A novel about making love last. A novel about prejudice in the justice system or racial bias in a certain Southern town in the sixties. A historical novel with revisionist intentions. But that, again, is not enough. It’s not a story yet.

A storyline can unfold in an instant in your mind’s eye. You know how it opens, what happens, and how it ends. But that’s may not be enough, either. Because a story is more than beginning-middle-and-end, so it may not be a viable story… yet.

So what is a story?

Answer: A story is the narrative fulfillment of a complete and compelling premise. Which is the sum of all these things. Which means, to get it right, you need to understand what a premise actually is, and what it isn’t, the latter often in one of the forms just mentioned.

Incomplete, less-than-compelling premises trump great writing every time (unless you are a famous author already, then the bar actually lowers when it comes to premise; which is not to say famous authors actually reach lower, most don’t… but some do). If the idea is tame, vanilla, less than compelling and/or too familiar, you’re toast before the agent or editor reads a word of it.

Of course, who is to say what is and isn’t compelling where your premise is concerned? Great question. The answer depends on who is talking, and how familiar they are with the criteria for a functioning premise in the first place.

A compelling premise is not just about something, it is about something happening.

Emphasis on the italics there.

It all boils down to the degree of compelling energy, and if/how the premise hits all of the requisite component parts. Those parts are what cause a story to work, because they are all conjoined with the context of an unfolding narrative.

Ultimately, after the agent and the editor have had their say – which makes this myth critical for self-published authors – it is the marketplace that decides what is compelling. But at first it is only you. The whole ballgame hinges on how aligned your idea aligns with what the market feels is compelling.

Nobody will tell you to not write your novel because your idea isn’t good enough. That’s just not done out there. But perhaps it should be. Meanwhile, you are alone with this judgment. Is your idea worth a year of your life writing the initial drafts of your novel, after which someone else likely will tell you if the Big Idea was good enough, or not, after all?

We all roll that dice. But don’t kid yourself… not all ideas are worthy of a novel, because the very nature of it may minimize the things that make a novel work: dramatic tension leading to reader empathy in the form of emotional involvement.

That’s the formula, if you will, right there. And you get to decide.

There’s a reason the story of what you did on your summer vacation may not be the raw grist of the great American novel.

Unless you got kidnapped or were seduced by a mysterious billionaire prince. Then you might just have a shot.

Myth #7: Concept and Premise are the same thing.

So, after all that, what does constitute a good idea? There is an answer to that. An answer that builds on the supposition – the truth – that concept and premise are not the same thing.

All novels that work end up building upon a premise (see #6 above). But it is entirely possible to serve up a premise that is flat as the paper it will be printed on, and yet still checks off all the elemental boxes.

That’s because at the end of the day is a crap shoot, a matter of personal preference.

Concept is the central framework for the elements of the story. It is what causes someone to say, “Wow, now that sounds intriguing…” even before they actually read the novel itself.

Or better, even before you actually write it. If your concept has people begging to the see the story, pre-premise, then you’re on to something.

A love story set on the loading dock of a grocery store… hmmm. Chances are you need more.

But a love story set on the loading dock of a nuclear storage facility – a place we’ve never been, a place with inherent curiosity and potential for drama – that’s conceptual.

That’s all concept is: something that is conceptual about your premise. A target of intrigue or curiosity or rewarding vicarious experience. A notion or a setting or something specific about a character that is fresh and compelling and rich with dramatic appeal (think Superman or James Bond or even Stephanie Plum), even before you actually turn it into an unfolding, dramatically-vibrant story thread.

Myth #8: A first draft will always suck.

Everybody says this. They scream it out. To an extent that nobody challenges it.

But what if it’s not completely or always true?

If you’re someone who seeks to discover and flesh out their story using a series of drafts, then sure, your first draft will likely need a lot of work. Which is fine, that’s how you work. Those drafts are no different than the story planner who goes through a crate of three-by-five cards, it’s all just a means of searching for the story.

But if you’re someone that can visualize a story fully without needing to write a draft – and if you’re thinking “that can’t be done,” you need to amend that thought; it can’t be done by you, perhaps, but there are plenty of writers who absolutely can envision the bones of a story, front to back, totally in their head), and with some pondering and a pile of yellow sticky notes can construct a narrative front to back, then your first draft will live or die by the depth and sensibility of that vision.

Get that right, and your first draft can materialize as something that is a polish away from submittable. It happens all the time.

A first draft will always require further work. True enough. To fix typos, if nothing else. But the depth and nature of that work is a function of two things: your process, and your story sensibilities.

Here’s a non-myth you can count on: a draft won’t work until you have an ending in mind for it. Which, when you do have an ending in mind, is not to say you won’t or should alter that ending mid-stream. That works, too.

But if your draft starts with no ending in mind… then yes, your first draft won’t work.

Because you can’t foreshadow and optimize pace and build toward an ending that isn’t on your radar. And a novel won’t work until and unless those things happen on the page.

Myth #9: Your writing process is better than those of other writers.

This is just flat-out wrong. It may be better or worse for you, but there are infinite variations and gradations of the writing process, and rarely are any two exactly alike.

Here is where famous writers like to take a stand. In interviews and in keynotes they talk about what works for them, with the assumptive implication that this is the best process. Or perhaps more toxic, the only process.

Or you’ll hear writers with no more claim to effectiveness than you making statements like this: I can’t outline, it robs the process of joy and creativity… I can’t make up my story as I go along, that never works… when I outline I fall out of love with my story… and other variations on this theme.

The veracity of such comments, no matter who says them, begins and ends with them.

Once again, this is a case of writers stating what works in their own experience. When they position it as anything other than their truth, as if it is the truth about process… run.

The best process is what works for you.

Not based on what you’ve heard, but based on what you know. Not just about your story, but about the craft-defining elements and essences that go into any and all stories that work.

Sometimes your process actually doesn’t work, which seems to render the above sub-head inaccurate. But if it brings you closer to the truth about stories, if not storytelling, then for better or worse it’s actually working.

The key will be to recognize what you’ve learned, not only relative to your story, but to why something works, or not.

Myth #10: The bar is lower for self-published novels than it is for traditionally-published novels.

If getting your novel out there is the primary and even solitary goal, then this may be true. If for no other reason than no initial vetting process stands in your way.

But if earning a readership and building a career is the goal, then this is a destructive myth that will sabotage your dream. Certainly some worthy novels are rejected by traditional publishers, and just as certainly some worthy writers skip traditional publishing altogether in quest of shorter to-market timelines, rights issues and larger royalty percentages.

So what’s the harm of lowering the bar?

Because it will prioritize getting it out there over getting it right. It will seduce you into believing that craft is less important that completion, and that completion isn’t driven by how your novel stacks up to a very powerful and proven roster of criteria and benchmarks.

Too often self-publishing is settling. Trouble is, there is no way to be certain… was I rejected because it’s not good enough, or because of timing or other factors? Will the marketplace respond to my story in a way that agents and editors didn’t?

Therein resides the crazy-making paradox of self-publishing. There’s no way to know, until you try. The risk is that your very worth self-published novel may only sell 200 copies, regardless of how well you followed the script for making Amazon love you.

Either way, when you choose, you’ll always have the nagging question of what could have been. Either way, though, the highest possible rendering of craft will serve you, every time.

And that’s a choice, too.