Be a Story Weaver -not a Story Mechanic!

Too many writers fall into the trap of making Structure their Story God. There's no denying
that structure is important, but paying too much attention to structure can destroy your story.

We have all seen movies and read novels that feel like "paint by numbers" creations. Sure,
they hit all the marks and cover all the expected relationships, but they seem stilted,
uninspired, contrived, and lifeless.

The authors of such pedestrian fare are Story Mechanics. A Story Mechanic is a writer who
constructs a story as if it were a machine. Starting with a blueprint, the writer gathers the
necessary dramatic components, assembles the gears and pulleys, tightens all the structural
nuts and bolts, and then tries to make the story interesting with a fancy paint job.

But there is another kind of writer who creates a different kind of story. These Story Weavers
begin with subjects or concepts about which they are passionate and let the structure suggest
itself from the material. They see their players as people before they consider them as
characters. Events are happenings before they become plot. Values precede theme and the
story develops a world before it develops a genre.

A book or movie written by a Story Weaver is involving, riveting, and compelling. It captures
the fullness of human emotion, and captivates the mind.

Although some writers are natural born StoryWeavers, there is still hope for the rest of us. In
fact, you can become a StoryWeaver just by practicing a few select techniques until they
become second nature.

First, clear your mind of any thoughts about characters, plot, theme, and genre. Avoid any
consideration of character arc, hero's journey, acts, scenes, sequences, beats, messages,
premises, settings, atmosphere, and formulas. In short - don't give structure a second thought.

Now work to create a world in which people live and interact, things happen, meaning can be
found and the environment is intriguing. To do this, we'll progress through four different
stages of story creation: Inspiration, Development, Exposition, and Storytelling.

Stage One - Inspiration

Inspiration can come from many sources: a conversation overheard at a coffee shop, a
newspaper article, or a personal experience to name a few. And, inspiration can also take
many forms: a snippet of dialogue, a bit of action, a clever concept, and so on.

If you can't think of a story idea to save your life, there are a few things you can do to goose
the Muse.

First of all, consider your creative time. Some people consistently find inspiration in the
morning, others in the afternoon, evening or even in the dead of night. Some people are more
creative in the summer and can't write worth a darn in the other three seasons. There are
authors who work in cycles and those who come up with ideas in spurts. The key to using
your creative time is to keep a log of your most fertile moments and then plan ahead to keep
that kind of time open for further inspirations.

And don't neglect your creative space either. There are authors who go off to a mountain
cabin to write. Some like lots of noise or babble, like a city street below their open window or
an all-news station on the radio as background. There are writers who prefer a cluttered room
because it engenders chaos, which leads to serendipity. Others can't think a lick unless
everything is orderly, neat and in its place. Creative space includes the clothes you wear
while writing. There are those who wear hats when developing characters and others who
pantomime action sequences to get in the feel of it.

Open yourself to different writing media. If you only use a desktop computer, try a laptop, a
palm organizer with a folding keyboard, long hand on a pad, or a digital voice recorder. And
don't be afraid to switch around any of these from time to time and mood to mood.

If you still can't come up with an idea, try the Synthesis Technique. In brief, you want to
subject yourself to two disparate sources of information. For example, put a talk radio
program on while reading a magazine or watching television and let the odd juxtaposition
spur your notions.

Finally, if all else fails, try using Nonsense Words. Just jot down three random words, such as
"Red Ground Rover." Then, write as many different explanations as you can for what that
phrase might mean. For example, Red Ground Rover might be:

1. A red dog named rover whose legs are so short his belly rubs the ground.

2. The Martian Rover space vehicle on the red planet's surface.

3. Fresh hamburger made from dog

Your list might go on and on. Now most of these potential meanings might be pure rubbish,
but occasionally a good idea can surface. If the first three words don't work, try three
different ones. And, in the end, even if you don't find an idea directly from your explanations
of each phrase, you'll have so stocked the creative spirit that you will find yourself far more
prone to inspiration than before you started the exercise.

Use these inspiration techniques to come up with a log line for your story. A log line is
simply a one- or two-sentence description of what your story is about in general. They are the
same kind of short descriptions you find in TV Guide or in your cable or satellite TV guide.

A sample log line might be, "The marshal in an old western town struggles to stop a gang that
is bleeding the town dry."

Stage Two - Development

Once you've been inspired enough to create a log line, you can move into the second stage of
Story Weaving: Development. Here is where you take your basic concept and flesh it out
with lots more detail.
In Development you'll begin to populate your story with people you might like to write about,
work out some of the things that will happen in your story, and establish the world or
environment in which it takes place. These efforts will ultimately result in your characters,
plot, theme, and genre.

There are many Story Weaving techniques for the Development stage, but one of the most
powerful is to project your world beyond what is specifically stated in the log line.

As an example, let's use the log line from above: "The marshal in an old western town
struggles to stop a gang that is bleeding the town dry." Now let's see how we can expand that
world to create a whole group of people who grow out of the story, some of whom will
ultimately become our characters.

The only specifically called-for characters are the marshal and the gang. But, you'd expect the
gang to have a leader and the town to have a mayor. The marshal might have a deputy. And,
if the town is being bled dry, then some businessmen and shopkeepers would be in order as
well.

Range a little wider now and list some characters that aren't necessarily expected, but
wouldn't seem particularly out of place in such a story.

Example: A saloon girl, a bartender, blacksmith, rancher, preacher, schoolteacher, etc.

Now, let yourself go a bit and list a number of characters that would seem somewhat out of
place but still explainable in such a story.

Example: A troupe of traveling acrobats, Ulysses S. Grant, a Prussian Duke, a bird watcher.

Finally, pull out all the stops and list some completely inappropriate characters that would
take a heap of explaining to your reader/audience if they showed up in your story.

Example: Richard Nixon, Martians, the Ghost of Julius Caesar

Although you'll likely discard these characters, just the process of coming up with them can
lead to new ideas and directions for your story.

For example, the town marshal might become more interesting if he was a history buff,
specifically reading about the Roman Empire. In his first run-in with the gang, he is knocked
out cold with a concussion. For the rest of the story, he keeps imagining the Ghost of Julius
Caesar giving him unwanted advice.

This same kind of approach can be applied to your log line to generate the events that will
happen in your story, the values you will explore, and the nature of your story's world (which
will become your genre).

Stage Three - Exposition

The third stage of Story Weaving is to lay out an Exposition Plan for your story. By the time
you complete the Development Stage, you will probably have a pretty good idea what your
story is about. But your audience knows nothing of it - not yet - not until you write down
what you know.

Of course, you could just write, "My story's goal is to rid the town of the gang that is
bleeding it dry. The marshal is the protagonist, and he ultimately succeeds, but at great
personal cost."

Sure, it's a story, but not a very interesting one. If you were to unfold your story in this
perfunctory style, you'd have a complete story that felt just like that "paint by numbers"
picture we encountered earlier.

Part of what gives a story life is the manner in which story points are revealed, revisited
throughout the story, played against each other and blended together, much as a master
painter will blend colors, edges, shapes and shadows.

As an example, let's create an Exposition Plan to reveal a story's goal. Sometimes a goal is
spelled out right at the beginning, such as a meeting in which a general tells a special strike
unit that terrorists have kidnapped a senator’s daughter and they must rescue her.

Other times, the goal is hidden behind an apparent goal. So, if your story had used the scene
described above, it might turn out that it was really just a cover story and, in fact, the
supposed "daughter" was actually an agent who was assigned to identify and kill a double
agent working on the strike team.

Goals may also be revealed slowly, such as in The Godfather, where it takes the entire film to
realize that the goal is to keep the family alive by replacing the aging Don with a younger
member of the family.

Further, in The Godfather, as in many Alfred Hitchcock films, the goal is not nearly as
important as the chase or the inside information or the thematic atmosphere. So don't feel
obligated to elevate every story point to the same level.

Let your imagination run wild. Jot down as many instances as come to mind in which the
particular story point comes into play. Such events, moments or scenarios enrich a story and
add passion to a perfunctory telling of the tale.

One of the best ways to do this is to consider how each story point might affect other story
points. For example, each character sees the overall goal as a step in helping them accomplish
their personal goals. So, why not create a scenario where a character wistfully describes his
personal goal to another character while sitting around a campfire? He can explain how
achievement of the overall story goal will help him get what he personally wants.

An example of this is in the John Wayne classic movie, The Searchers. John Wayne's
character asks an old, mentally slow friend to help search for the missing girl. Finding the girl
is the overall goal. The friend has a personal goal: he tells Wayne that he just wants a roof
over his head and a rocking chair by the fire. This character sees his participation in the effort
to achieve the goal as the means of obtaining something for which he has personally longed.

Stage Four - Storytelling

By the time you've created an Exposition Plan for each story point you worked on in the
Development phase, you'll have assembled a huge number of events, moments, and
scenarios. There's only one thing left to do: tell your story!

Storytelling is a multi-faceted endeavor. It incorporates style, timing, blending of several

story points into full-bodied scenes, sentence structure, grammar, vocabulary, and good old-
fashioned charisma.

Later in this book we’ll explore a number of different storytelling techniques in great detail.
But in this introduction to StoryWeaving I want to address the primary storytelling problem
writers encounter – a passionless presentation of what would otherwise be an intriguing story.

Story Mechanics often get stuck at this point in story development. They are so taken with
the "perfect" structure they have created, they tend to anguish over the opening sentence
when finally sitting down to write the story. Eventually, after writing with the problem for far
too long, they write one great line and then become so intimidated by its grandeur they are
afraid to write anything else lest it not measure up to that initial quality!

Fact is, you're only as good as your own talent - GET OVER IT! Don't grieve over every
phrase to try and make yourself look better than you are. Just spew out the words and get the
story told. Something not up to snuff? That's what re-writes are for!

Another common problem is the inability to let loose, emotionally. Each of us is born a
passionate human being. But we quickly learn that the world does not appreciate all our
emotional expressions. In no time, we develop a whole bag of behaviors that don't truly
reflect who we really are. But, they do help us get by.

Problem is, these false presentations of our selves appear to be our real selves to everyone
else. They cause others to give us presents we don't really want, drive us to make friendships
with people we don't really like, and even marry people we don't really love!

This false life we develop is a mask, but by no means is it always a well-fitting one. In fact, it
chafes against the real "us." The emotional irritation could be eliminated if we removed the
mask, but then we might lose our jobs, friends, and lovers because they might find the actual
people we are to be total strangers and not someone they like.

So instead, we just tighten the mask down so hard it becomes an exoskeleton, part of what we
call "ourselves." In fact, after a time, we forget we are even wearing a mask. We come to
believe that this is who we really are.

Now, try getting in touch with your passions through that! The mask dampens any emotional
energy we have and our writing dribbles out like pabulum. Even the most riveting story
becomes dulled by such storytelling.

Want to really be passionate in your storytelling? Then try this: Lock the doors, take the
phone off the hook, search for hidden video cameras, and then sit down to write. For just one
page, write about the one thing about yourself you are most afraid that anyone would ever
find out.
By writing about your most shameful or embarrassing trait or action you will tap right
through that mask into your most powerful feelings, and a gusher of passion will burst out of
the hole.

Once you know where to find the oil field of your soul, you can drill down into it any time
you like. Of course, every time you draw from that well you put more cracks in the mask.
Eventually, the darn thing might shatter altogether, leaving you unable to be anyone but
yourself with your boss, your friends, and your lover. Downside risk: you might lose them
all. But, you'll be a far better writer!

And finally, go for broke. Exaggerate and carry everything you do to the extreme. It is far
easier to go overboard and then temper it back in a re-write than to underplay your work and
have to try and beef it up.

Remember, there is only one cardinal sin in Story Weaving, and that is boring your audience!

Having outlined all four stages of StoryWeaving, we’re now ready to explore specific tips,
tricks, and techniques that you can employ to instantly improve your writing, break away
from the mechanics, and become a true StoryWeaver

What is Story Structure?

Now, most writers are not story theorists, and don’t want to be. Still, an understanding of the
way stories work can help support a writer’s instincts to make sure a flawed structure won’t
get in the way of the creativity.

If you own the Dramatica software, you’ve probably noticed it comes with chart that looks
something like a Rubik’s Cube on steroids, or a super-complex 3-D chess board. If you don’t
have the software, you can see a representation of it at
storymind.com/mental_relativity/model.htm

That chart is a map of the elements that make up stories. If you were to twist it and turn it like
a Rubik’s Cube, you would be "winding up" the dramatic tension of your story.

The Story Engine at the heart of the Dramatica software tracks all of those elements to make
sure no dramatic "rules" are broken. What’s a Dramatic Rule? As an analogy, you can twist
and turn a Rubik’s Cube, but you can’t pluck one of the little cubes out of it and swap it’s
position with another little cube. In other words, you can create all kinds of patterns, but you
can’t break structure. Similarly in stories, you can create all kinds of dramatic patterns, but
you can’t just drop story elements wherever you want - they have to MOVE into place.

When you answer questions in Dramatica, you are expressing your dramatic intent - the
dramatic pattern you want to create for your audience. That says something about the final
arrangement you want with some of the "colors" in the Rubik’s Cube of your story.

Every time you make a choice, you are saying, "I want my story to look like this, as opposed
to that." You are choosing just as much what you DON’T want in your story as what you do.
The choices are cumulative - they pile up. The more you make, the more Dramatica’s Story
Engine winds up. Your future choices start to become limited, not by arbitrary and rigid rules,
but because you can’t do everything at one time in one place. Some choices or combination
of choices simply prevent other options from being possible in that particular story.

Imagine - what would happen if you put anything you wanted into a story? Then anything
goes. That means there is no good structure or bad structure, in fact there would be no
structure at all.

What is structure? Structure is nothing more than making a point, either logistically or
emotionally or both. Many stories don’t need structure because they are not about making a
larger point or having a message, but are designed to be experiences without specific overall
meaning.

That, in fact, is the difference between a Tale and Story. A Tale relates a series of
experiences, a Story brings those experiences together to create an overall meaning. In other
words, each experience is part of an overall pattern that becomes clear by the time the story is
over.

There is nothing better or worse about a Tale compared to a Story, but authors of Stories take
upon themselves a more demanding rigor. When your purpose is to have the sum of the parts
amount to a greater meaning, the Structural Chart and the Story Engine can ensure that
meaning is consistent and does not contradict itself.

What is Story Structure?

Now, most writers are not story theorists, and don’t want to be. Still, an understanding of the
way stories work can help support a writer’s instincts to make sure a flawed structure won’t
get in the way of the creativity.

If you own the Dramatica software, you’ve probably noticed it comes with chart that looks
something like a Rubik’s Cube on steroids, or a super-complex 3-D chess board. If you don’t
have the software, you can see a representation of it at
storymind.com/mental_relativity/model.htm

That chart is a map of the elements that make up stories. If you were to twist it and turn it like
a Rubik’s Cube, you would be "winding up" the dramatic tension of your story.

The Story Engine at the heart of the Dramatica software tracks all of those elements to make
sure no dramatic "rules" are broken. What’s a Dramatic Rule? As an analogy, you can twist
and turn a Rubik’s Cube, but you can’t pluck one of the little cubes out of it and swap it’s
position with another little cube. In other words, you can create all kinds of patterns, but you
can’t break structure. Similarly in stories, you can create all kinds of dramatic patterns, but
you can’t just drop story elements wherever you want - they have to MOVE into place.

When you answer questions in Dramatica, you are expressing your dramatic intent - the
dramatic pattern you want to create for your audience. That says something about the final
arrangement you want with some of the "colors" in the Rubik’s Cube of your story.
Every time you make a choice, you are saying, "I want my story to look like this, as opposed
to that." You are choosing just as much what you DON’T want in your story as what you do.

The choices are cumulative - they pile up. The more you make, the more Dramatica’s Story
Engine winds up. Your future choices start to become limited, not by arbitrary and rigid rules,
but because you can’t do everything at one time in one place. Some choices or combination
of choices simply prevent other options from being possible in that particular story.

Imagine - what would happen if you put anything you wanted into a story? Then anything
goes. That means there is no good structure or bad structure, in fact there would be no
structure at all.

What is structure? Structure is nothing more than making a point, either logistically or
emotionally or both. Many stories don’t need structure because they are not about making a
larger point or having a message, but are designed to be experiences without specific overall
meaning.

That, in fact, is the difference between a Tale and Story. A Tale relates a series of
experiences, a Story brings those experiences together to create an overall meaning. In other
words, each experience is part of an overall pattern that becomes clear by the time the story is
over.

There is nothing better or worse about a Tale compared to a Story, but authors of Stories take
upon themselves a more demanding rigor. When your purpose is to have the sum of the parts
amount to a greater meaning, the Structural Chart and the Story Engine can ensure that
meaning is consistent and does not contradict itself.

The Story Mind

by Melanie Anne Phillips
creator StoryWeaver, co-creator Dramatica

Scroll down for a streaming video on this topic

What is the Story Mind? Dramatica says that "Every complete story is an
analogy to a single mind trying to deal with an inequity." Now that's very
scientific, but what does it really mean? It means that characters, theme,
plot and genre are not just people with value standards doing things in an
overall setting - rather, character, theme, plot and genre are different
families of thought that go on in our own minds, mad tangible, incarnate
as character, thematic arguments and plot points.

So a story is as if an author took the mechanism of our minds, made it

tangible and put it out there for us to look at so we could examine the
problem solving process. Rather than having to be involved in it
subjectively, we are told by the author that he or she has the benefit of
insight or experience, and that even though it may feel one way to us on
the inside, there is a more objective understanding of how we should
proceed.

In fact, the Main Character represents the reader/audience position in the

story. It represents our own position in our own heads. We know who
we are at any given time. In regard to any given issue, we know where
we stand.

In essence then, the Story Mind concepts says, "Think of a story as if it

were a person." There's only one Main Character in a story because
there's only one "I" in our own minds. Further, we all have the same
emotional and logical considerations, and each of these must appear as
characters in a story for it to feel complete as well. If any parts are
missing, the story's argument will feel incomplete.

Dramatica also says that this Story Mind system came into being as a
natural by-product of the process of communication. If you want to state
that the approach you are promoting in your story is either the best or
worst of all that might be tried, that you have to actually show all the
other approaches that might reasonably be taken and illustrate why they
aren't as powerful as yours.

When you create a story argument that has no holes, then you have
included all the ways a human mind might consider to solve a problem.
In effect, you have created a model of the mind's problem solving process
- a Story Mind.

No one set out to build this model directly. But through centuries of trial
and error in storytelling, conventions were developed that worked
because they built an analogy to the psychology of the mind.

Every once in a while, stand back from your story. It is so easy for an
author to get so lost in the details of making all the parts work that he or
she loses sight of the big picture - the overall impact of the story as a
whole.

Take time to examine whether your story has a sound psychology that
makes it feel like a functional person, that there are no wanky
inconsistencies, and that the personality of the story itself is both human
and interesting as well.

Origins of a Story
Imagine the very first storytellers. Actually, what they told would certainly not be considered
a story by today's standards. Rather, they probably began with simple communications with
but a single meaning at a time.
Even animals recognize a cry of pain or a coo of love from another creature, even across
species. So it is not a great leap to imagine that rather than just crying out in immediate
response, early man might have come to intentionally make sounds to indicate his physical
and emotional conditions. Ask any cat or dog owner if their pets don't speak with them!

Nevertheless, a grunt, coo, scream or growl does not a story make. First we need to ratchet
things up a bit and take one small step away from simple sounds that have direct physical or
emotional meanings.

For example, if you are hungry you might make a "longing" sound and point at your belly
with a wistful pointing motion. As simple and silly as this seems, it is actually quite a leap in
communication. No longer are we tied to single symbols or single experiences; not we can
string them together to create more complex meanings.

What about jumping up another level and stringing a few complex meanings together? Well,
before you know it, early humans were chatting in non-verbal sentences, describing journeys,
experiences, and even warnings.

And, of course, language would evolve as more and more people had more and more to say
and discovered the benefits of a common vocabulary.

Now such a sophisticated communication is still not a story. But it is a tale. A tale is simply a
statement that starting from a particular place and state of mid, if you follow a particular path,
you'll end up at a particular destination.

That's what fairy tales are all about. Paraphrased, they all basically say, "If you find yourself
in a given situation, you should (or should not) follow this given path because it will lead to
something good (or bad).

As long as the physical and emotional journey is credible, the statement is sound. Now, your
audience may simply disagree with your conclusion as author of the tale, but if your
statement is sound, at least they can't argue with your logic.

Of course, the very first tales were probably true stories about someone's encounter with a
bear or directions to find the berry bush that makes everything look funny when you eat
them. But it wouldn't take long or our early storytellers to realize that they could create
fictions that summed up the value of their experience in a single, message-oriented tale.

But beyond this, a clever storyteller with an agenda might realize that he could influence
people to take (or avoid taking) particular actions in specific cases. No longer were tales just
descriptions of real events, means of imparting the value of experience, or entertaining
fictions. Suddenly then became a tool with which to manipulate others.

To do this, there must be no gaps, no missed beats, no emotional inconsistencies. And in

addition, the tale must be captivating enough to grab and hold the intended audience - to pull
them in and involve them so deeply that they are changed by the experience.

And yet, despite all its power, the tale has limitations. Primary among these is that the tale
speaks only to a single specific situation and a single specific course of action. So, as a
storyteller, you'd need to fashion a whole new tale for each specific path you wished to
"prove" was a good one or a bad one.

But wouldn't it be far more powerful to prove not only that a path was good or bad but that of
all the alternative paths that might have been taken, the one is question is the best or worst?

Now, the simplest way to do this is to simply say so. You write a tale about just one course
taken from a given situation, and then state at the end that it is the best or worst. So, rather
than being a simple statement, this new kind of tale has become a blanket statement.

If your tale is being told just to your own village, to the people you grew up with, then there
is a good chance they will accept such a blanket statement since your tale probably reflects a
local truism - some "given" that is already accepted by your audience as true. The tale simply
serves to reinforce existing beliefs, and at the end everyone nods their heads in agreement
with the outcome.

But what happens when the tale is told in another village. What if their givens are not the
same. There may be one or two in the crowd who question the storyteller and ask, "I can see
why that path is good, but why would it be better than xxxxxx?"

When confronted with an alternative approach, the storyteller might then briefly describe
how the suggested path might unfold, and why is it not as good (or bad) as the one presented
in the tale itself.

Again, being among friends (or at least among those who share a similar if not identical
world-view) they will likely be easily convinced. And, it is also likely that due to that similar
outlook, only a few alternative paths might be suggested, and all rather easily dismissed.

The development of story structure probably languished in this form for centuries, as nothing
more advanced or sophisticated was really needed.

Enter that advent of mass media. As soon as books began to circulate across micro-cultural
boundaries, ad soon as plays were performed in traveling road shows, to important things
happened that forced the further development of the tale into what has ultimately become the
structure of story.

First, the audiences became wide, varied and was no longer drawn from a homogeneous pool
of consensus. Rather, they cam from many walks of life, with a variety of beliefs and
agendas. And so, as the tale traveled, blanket statements were not nearly as easily accepted.
Many more alternative approaches would be suggested or considered individually by
audience members. So, such a tale would be considered heavy-handed propaganda and
discounted unceremoniously.

And second, due to the mass distribution of the tale, the original storyteller would not be
present to defend his work. Whatever other paths might occur to the audience would not be
addressed, robbing the work of its previous ability to be revised on the spot as part of the
performance.
In response to this reception, many authors no doubt retreated from the blanket statement
form of the tale to the simple statement, thereby avoiding ridicule and strengthening the
power of the tale. After all, is it not better to make a smaller impact than no impact at all?

And yet, there were some authors who took another tack. They tried to anticipate the
alternative approaches that other audiences might suggest, and took the radical step of
including and disposing of those other paths in the tale itself. A brilliant move, really. Now,
even when the storyteller wasn't physically present, he could still counter rebuttals to his
blanket statement.

Of course, the key to the success of this approach is to make sure you cover all the bases. If
even one reasonable alternative is left un-addressed, then at least part of your audience won't
buy the message.

As mass-distribution moved tales farther a field from the point of cultural origin, more and
more alternatives we required. By the coming of the age of recorded media, a tale might
reach such a wide audience and cross such boundaries that every reasonable alternative
would come up sometime, somewhere.

Eventually, the tale had been forced to grow from a simple statement, to a blanket statement,
to a complete argument incorporating all the ways anyone might look at an issue. This
effectively created a new and distinct form of communication that we recognize as the story
structure we know today.

By definition then, a tale is a statement and a story is an argument. And in making that
argument, the structure of a story must include all they ways anyone might look at an issue.
Therefore, it certainly includes all the ways a single mind might reasonably look at an issue.
And, effectively, the structure of a story becomes a map of the mind's problem solving
processes.

No one ever intended it. But as a byproduct of the development of communication from
simple tale to complex story, the underlying structure of a story has evolved into a model of
the mind itself.

Story Structure for Passionate Writers

We all know that a story needs a sound structure. But no one reads a book or goes to a movie
to enjoy a good structure. And no author writes because he or she is driven to create a great
structure. Rather, audiences and authors come to opposite sides of a story because of their
passions - the author driven to express his or hers, and the audience hoping to ignite its own.

What draws us to a story in the first place is our attraction to the subject matter and the style.
As an audience, we might be intrigued by the potential applications of a new discovery of
science, the exploration of a newly rediscovered ancient city, or the life of a celebrity. We
might love a taut mystery, a fulfilling romance, or a chilling horror story.

As authors what inspires us to write a story may be a bit of dialog we heard in a restaurant, a
notion for a character, a setting, time period, or a clever twist of plot we'd like to explore. Or,
we might have a deep-seated need to express a childhood experience, work out an irrational
fear, or make a public statement about a social injustice.

No matter what our attraction as audience or author, our passions trigger our imaginations. So
why should an author worry about structure? Because passion rides on structure, and if the
structure is flawed or even broken, then the passionate expression from author to audience
will fail.

Structure, when created properly, is invisible, serving only as the carrier wave that delivers
the passion to the audience. But when structure is flawed, it adds static to the flow of
emotion, breaking up and possibly scrambling the passion so badly that the audience does not
"hear" the author's message.

The attempt to ensure a sound structure is an intellectual pursuit. Questions such as "Who is
my Protagonist?" "Where should my story begin?" "What happens in Act Two?" or "What is
my message?" force an author to turn away from his or her passion and embrace logistics
instead.

As a result, authors often becomes mired in the nuts and bolts of storytelling, staring at a
blank page not because of a lack of inspiration, but because they can't figure out how to make
their passions make sense.

Worse, the re-writing process is often grueling and frustrating, forcing the author to accept
unwanted changes in the flow of emotion for the sake of logic. So what is an author to do? Is
there any way out of this dilemma?

Absolutely! In fact, there are quite a number of techniques that can accommodate the
demands of structure without hobbling the Muse. In my StoryWeaving seminar the entire
focus is on the different approaches that can be used to develop a sound story without
undermining our creative drive. But of all of these, there is one that stands above the rest.

Tricking the Muse: The Creativity Two-Step

The concept behind this method is quite simple, really: It is easier to come up with many
ideas than it is to come up with one idea.

Now that may sound counter-intuitive, but consider this... When you are working on a
particular story and you run into a specific structural problem, you are looking for a creative
inspiration in a very narrow area. But creativity isn't something you can control like a power
tool or channel onto a task. Rather, it is random, and applies itself to whatever it wants.

Yet creative inspiration is always running at full tilt within us, coming up with new ideas,
thinking new thoughts - just not the thoughts we are looking for. So if we sit and wait for the
Muse to shine its light on the exact structural problem we're stuck on, it might be days before
lightning strikes that very spot.

Fortunately, we can trick Creativity into working on our problem by making it think it is
being random. As an example, consider this log line for a story: A Marshall in an Old West
border town struggles with a cutthroat gang that is bleeding the town dry.
Step One: Asking Questions

Now if you had the assignment to sit down and turn this into a full-blown, interesting, one-of-
a-kind story, you might be a bit stuck for what to do next. So, try this. First ask some
questions:

1. How old is the Marshall?

2. How much experience does he have?

3. Is he a good shot?

4. How many men has he killed (if any)

5. How many people are in the gang?

6. Does it have a single leader?

7. Is the gang tight-knit?

8. What are they taking from the town?

9. How long have they been doing this?

You could probably go on and on and easily come up with a hundred questions based on that
single log line. It might not seem at first that this will help you expand your story, but look at
what's really happened. You have tricked your Muse into coming up with a detailed list of
what needs to be developed! And it didn't even hurt. In fact, it was actually fun.

Step Two: Answering Questions

But that's just the first step. Next, take each of these questions and come up with as many
different answers as you can think of. Let your Muse run wild through your mind. You'll
probably find you get some ordinary answers and some really outlandish ones, but you'll
absolutely get a load of them!

For example:

a) How old is the Marshall?

a. 28

b. 56

c. 86

d. 17

e. 07
f. 35

Some of these potential ages are ridiculous - or are they? Every ordinary story based on such
a log line would have the Marshall be 28 or 35. Just another dull story, grinding through the
mill.

Step One Revisited

But what if your Marshall was 86 or 7 years old? Let's switch back to Step One and ask some
questions about his age.

For example:

c. 86

1. How would an 86 year old become a Marshall?

2. Can he still see okay?

3. What physical maladies plague him?

4. Is he married?

5. What kind of gun does he use?

6. Does he have the respect of the town?

And on and on…

Return to Step Two

As you might expect, now we switch back to Step Two again and answer each question as
many different ways as you can.

Example:

5. What kind of gun does he use?

a) He uses an ancient musket, can barely lift it, but is a crack shot and miraculously hits
whatever he aims at.

b) He uses an ancient musket and can't hit the broad side of a barn. But somehow, his oddball
shots ricochet off so many things, he gets the job done anyway, just not as he planned.

c) He used a Gattling gun attached to his walker.

d) He doesn't use a gun at all. In 63 years with the Texas Rangers, he never needed one and
doesn't need one now.

e) He uses a sawed off shotgun, but needs his deputy to pull the trigger for him as he aims.
f) He uses a whip.

g) He uses a knife, but can't throw it past 5 feet anymore.

And on and on again...

Methinks you begin to get the idea. First you ask questions, which trick the Muse into finding
fault with your work - an easy thing to do that your Creative Spirit already does on its own -
often to your dismay.

Next, you turn the Muse loose to come up with as many answers for each question as you
possibly can.

Then, you switch back to question mode and ask as many as you can about each of your
answers.

And then you come up with as many answers as possible for those questions.

You can carry this process out for as many generations as you like, but the bulk of story
material you develop will grow so quickly, you'll likely not want to go much further than we
went in our example.

Imagine, if you just asked 10 questions about the original log line and responded to each of
them with 10 potential answers, you'd have 100 story points to consider.

Then, if you went as far as we just did for each one, you'd ask 10 questions of each answer
and end up with 1,000 potential story points. And the final step of 10 answers for each of
these would yield 10,000 story points!

Now in the real world, you probably won't bother answering each question - just those that
intrigue you. And, you won't trouble yourself to ask questions about every answer - just the
ones that suggest they have more development to offer and seem to lead in a direction you
might like to go with your story.

The key point is that rather than staring at a blank page trying to find that one structural
solution that will fill a gap or connect two points, use the Creativity Two-Step to trick your
Muse into spewing out the wealth of ideas it naturally wants to provide.

Elements of Structure -Art of Storytelling

The Dramatica Theory Book begins:

"Part of what makes a story great is its underlying dramatic structure and
part is the manner in which that structure is related to an audience, often
called "storytelling". Therefore, this book is divided into two principal
sections: The Elements of Structure and The Art of Storytelling."

When I wrote that paragraph, I thought it was pretty self explanatory. But
over the years I've been surprised by how many people, though they
agree with the concept in principal, don't really understand the difference
between those two facts of a story.

Part of the problem is that people lump all aspects of a story other than
the words they use to tell it into a single glop they think of as the
structure. This means they see a characters name, its job, age, gender
and so on as structure. They see the setting, time frame and genre as
structure. They all the events that happen and all the moralizing as part
of the structure. Yet none of these are structural elements at all. They
are, in fact, part of the storytelling.

Why is it important to differentiate the two? Because structure can only

be solidly built if you see it for what it really is - the framework that holds
up the story.

In this tip, I'd like to spend a little time illustrating the nature of and
differences between story structure and storytelling, and provide some
techniques for using this clear view of both to enhance the soundness of
your story and your creative experience as well.

What we're going to do is break a completed story into four parts, rather
than just structure and storytelling. To do this, we'll use an analogy.

Think of a story as a body. There's the skeleton, the soft tissue, the
clothes and lastly the haircut, jewelry, make-up, facial hair, cologne and
so on.

The skeleton is the structure, the soft tissue is the encoding (I'll define
this in a moment), the clothes is the exposition and the finishing touches
are the storytelling.

Structure then is the fixed framework that defines the basic shape and
function of the thing. For example one story might have a goal of
Obtaining a particular item. Another story might have a goal of Becoming
a different kind of person. Obtaining a thing is completely different from
Becoming a new person, so those two structures would be completely
different.

Now on to the soft tissue of story, the Encoding. Using the above
example, in the Obtaining story the goal might be to obtain a treasure, a
diploma, someone's love or the answer to a riddle. Clearly each of these
stories would seem completely different, even though they are all
Obtaining stories and, therefore, structurally identical.

In the other story example, "Becoming" might be becoming more honest,

becoming more self-sufficient, becoming more passionate or becoming
more considerate. Again, each of these would seem like a different story,
even though, structurally, they are all about Becoming something.

Just as the same skeleton can belong to a fat person or a thin one, a
healthy one or a sick one, a strong one or a weak one, so too a single
structure can manifest itself in many different ways.

So we have a pretty good grip on a very fundamental understanding of

the first two parts of a story, the structure and the encoding. Now we
consider the clothing, which is the equivalent of Exposition.

In stories, as in clothing, exposition is the way the thing is revealed. How

much do you show up front? How long does it take to see more? What do
you see in what order? And when do you get to see it all?

Authors need to remember that while they know their entire story from
beginning to end and everything in between, their audience or readers
don't. So the job of exposition is two-fold. One, to make sure you find a
place in the unfolding of your story to convey everything you want the
audience/readers to know. Two, to consider how best to unveil the details
of your story like a striptease artist, teasing your audience/readers to
instill in them the greatest possible interest.

Finally, we come to the actual storytelling - the fancy dancy primps and
preens that give the whole package pizazz. Now consider that though you
have completed the first three stages in developing your story (built a
structure, determined the encoding, and worked out the exposition, you
haven't actually written a word! So this last stage, Storytelling, is
(surprisingly enough) where you actually tell your story!

The structure determines what it is, the encoding determines what it

means, the exposition determines how it comes across, and storytelling
determines how it feels. In other words, in four steps you've moved clear
across from a fully logistic approach to the elements of structure to a
purely passionate experience in the art of storytelling.

Now, I promised to describe why this is useful to a writer. First of all, we

shouldn't think about the four stages when we are creating - it just moves
us into an analytical frame of mind and smothers our Muse. But once we
are done with inspiration for a bit, then we need to look at our story more
objectively - to examine it analytically to make sure we haven't missed a
beat, gone off track, failed to communicate or lost the passion.

A completed section of your story may mask problems in one of the four
aspects by something really cool in another. This doesn't solve the
problem, it just hides it behind some flash. In the end, it might wow, but
it won't sustain. Conversely, the best balance meal of a story might be
bland to the point of being impossible to swallow, yet seems quite
complete to an author. By separating the four stages, you can see where
your storytelling might not have enough oomph and needs to jiggle its
booty a bit more to entice.

By putting structural considerations out of your mind while you creatively

write, it frees your Muse to pursue any creative path that appeals to her.
By putting creativity out of your mind while you analyze, you can see
clearly where the problems are and how to go about fixing them.

In the end, you'll be more productive and have a more pleasant creative
experience. And all by being truly aware of the difference between the
elements of structure, the art of storytelling and all the points between.

Work Stories vs. Dilemma Stories

Problems

Without a problem, a story is at rest or Neutral. All of the dramatic pieces are balanced and
no potential exists. But when a problem is introduced, that equilibrium becomes unbalanced.
We call that imbalance an Inequity. An inequity provides the impetus to drive the story
forward and causes the Story Mind to start the problem solving process.

Work Stories and Dilemma Stories

It is important to differentiate between solvable and unsolvable problems. The solvable

problem is, simply, a problem, whereas an unsolvable problem is called a Dilemma. In
stories, as in life, we cannot tell at the beginning whether a problem is solvable or not
because we cannot know the future. Only by going through the process of problem solving
can we discover if the problem can be solved at all.

If the problem CAN be solved, though the effort may be difficult or dangerous, and in the end
we DO succeed by working at it, we have a Work Story. But if the Problem CAN'T be
solved, in the case of a Dilemma, once everything possible has been tried and the Problem
still remains, we have a Dilemma Story.

Mind and Universe

At the most basic level, all problems are the result of inequities between Mind (ourselves)
and Universe (the environment). When Mind and Universe are in balance, they are in Equity
and there is neither a problem nor a story. When the Mind and Universe are out of balance,
and Inequity exists between them, there is a problem and a story to be told about solving that
problem.

Example: Jane wants a new leather jacket that costs $300.00. She does not have $300.00 to
buy the jacket. We can see the Inequity by comparing the state of Jane's Mind (her desire for
the new jacket) to the state of the Universe (not having the jacket).
Note that the problem is not caused solely by Jane's desire for a jacket, nor by the physical
situation of not having one, but only because Mind and Universe are unbalanced. In truth, the
problem is not with one or the other, but between the two.

There are two ways to remove the Inequity and resolve the problem. If we change Jane's
Mind and remove her desire for the new jacket -- no more problem. If we change the
Universe and supply Jane with the new jacket by either giving her the jacket or the money to
buy it -- no more problem. Both solutions balance the Inequity.

Subjective and Objective Views

From an outside or objective point of view, one solution is as good as another. Objectively, it
doesn't matter if Jane changes her Mind or the Universe changes its configuration so long as
the inequity is removed.

However, from an inside or subjective point of view, it may matter a great deal to Jane if she
has to change her Mind or the Universe around her to remove the Inequity. Therefore, the
subjective point of view differs from the objective point of view in that personal biases affect
the evaluation of the problem and the solution. Though objectively the solutions have equal
weight, subjectively one solution may appear to be better than another.

Stories are useful to us as an audience because they provide both the Subjective view of the
problem and the Objective view of the solution that we cannot see in real life. It is this
Objective view that shows us important information outside our own limited perspective,
providing a sense of the big picture and thereby helping us to learn how to handle similar
problems in our own lives.

If the Subjective view is seen as the perspective of the soldier in the trenches, the Objective
view would be the perspective of the General watching the engagement from a hill above the
field of battle. When we see things Objectively, we are looking at the Characters as various
people doing various things. When we are watching the story Subjectively, we actually stand
in the shoes of a Character as if the story were happening to us.

A story provides both of these views interwoven throughout its unfolding. This is
accomplished by having a cast of Objective Characters, and also special Subjective
Characters. The Objective Characters serve as metaphors for specific methods of dealing with
problems. The Subjective Characters serve as metaphors for THE specific method of dealing
with problems that is crucial to the particular problem of that story

Bad Story Structure is No Joke

Scroll down for a streaming video on this topic

You probably know someone who can take a bad joke and tell it so well
that you are rolling on the floor. And you probably know someone who
can't tell a joke to save their life, even if the joke itself is hilarious.

If you start with a joke that just isn't funny, even the best delivery in the
world won't improve the humor of the punch line, but getting there may
have been a hoot. Conversely, if the joke is outstanding, a terrible
delivery will rob the experience of its levity even though you still see what
was supposed to be funny.

Stories work the same way. Even a perfect structure will lay there dead if
poorly told. But a good storyteller will keep a reader/audience riveted,
even if they clearly see how flawed the structure really is.

Point being, structure is not the Story God. It is a means to an end. It is

far better to break structure and go with your Muse than to shackle
yourself to the nuts and bolts of story mechanics at the expense of
inspired storytelling.

Naturally, the best stories are those that have sound structure and
passionate storytelling. But if you find the two diverge, it is always better
to err to the side of passion.

Remember the cardinal rule of storytelling - Never bore your audience.

Story Perspective
All meaning comes from perspective - putting things in context. Perspective is created by the
combination of what you are looking at, and where you are looking from. Change the object
of your intention and perspective is altered. Shift your point of view and perspective shifts as
well.

The Dramatica story structure chart is a map of a story's perspective that describes how your
readers or audience will be positioned in regard to the issues you wish to explore.

The chart is divided into four different sections, each one representing a different kind of
topic. The first section deals with stories about fixed situations, such as being stuck in a
collapsed mine or struggling with a disability. The second area is for stories about activities
like trying to win a race or the effort to discover a lost civilization. The third covers stories
about fixed attitudes, mindsets, fixations or prejudices. And the final part deals with
changing attitudes, manners of thinking, and emotional progressions such as slipping into a
depression.

Each of these topic categories is called a "class" of topics, and each has a name. The area that
covers situations is called the "Universe Class" because it centers on a fixed external state of
things. The part dealing with activities is called the "Physics Class" because it is about
external processes. The third section of topics is the "Mind Class" because it is about fixed
internal states. The final realm is the "Psychology Class" since it focuses on internal
processes.

Simply put, there are two external classes and two internal classes. Similarly, two of the
classes deal with states and two with processes. As you can see, the Dramatica chart maps
virtually every kind of consideration you might want to explore in a story, for there isn't any
story issue that doesn't fall into a category as either an external or internal state or process.
But, what we wish to talk about in our story - what we are looking at - is only half of what
creates the perspective that contains meaning. To complete the structure of our story we need
to add points of view to the topics under consideration.

Just as there are four classes of topics, there are also four points of view. They are the
Objective, Subjective, Main Character, and Obstacle Character. The Objective view explores
your story's topics as would a general on a hill watching a battle in the valley down below.
Though he cares about the conflict below him, he is not directly participating and also sees a
bird's eye view of the broad strategies involved. Essentially, the Objective view encompasses
the "Big Picture" of the grand schemes in your story - from the outside looking in.

But what about the personal view - what things look like from the inside looking out. For
that, we have to imagine that we zoom down from the hill into the shoes of one of the soldiers
on the field of batter. We experience what he experiences, we feel what he feels, we see
things through his eyes. This is the most personal point of view in a story, and it is that of the
Main Character - the character with home the reader/audience most identifies - the one whom
the passion of the story seems to be about or to revolve around.

The third point of view is from the inside looking in - much like one soldier encountering
another in the midst of all the dramatic explosions. This represents the way we all look
within ourselves to consider our options, other outlooks we might adopt, whether or not we
should change our point of view. So this is the view of the Main Character looking at the
Obstacle Character - representing that alternative paradigm we might change to embrace.

Finally, there is the Subjective view of the argument we make with ourselves about the pros
and cons of sticking to our guns or changing our minds. This is represented by the personal
skirmish between the Main and Obstacle characters in the midst of the overall battle as seen
by the general from the Objective view.

In essence, the four points of view are equivalent to I, You, We and They - the four angles we
have on ourselves and our fellow human beings. Main Character is "I" - our sense of self or
identity in our own minds. Obstacle Character is "You" - perhaps the future "I" - another
way for being we might become. Subjective is "We" - our examination of the relationship of
our now and futures selves - the difference between who we are and who we might become.
Objective is "They" - all the other aspects of ourselves that are not under pressure of possibly
changing, represented by all the characters in our story other than Main and Obstacle.

Now that we have outlined the four topic categories and the four points of view, what
remains is to combine them to create your story's perspectives. In fact, all four topic
categories must be explored in your story for it to feel complete. What sets one story apart
from another begins by the author's decision as to which point of view will be used to explore
which topic category.

When the points of view are matched to a corresponding topic realm, four principal
perspectives are created for your story. And each perspective is a different angle on the truth
at the heart of your story - a different approach to discovering and solving the problem issue
that creates all the difficulties in your story. This match of angle and object is called a
"Domain." So, your story will have four Domains of perspective - the Objective Domain,
Subjective Domain, Main Character Domain, and Obstacle Character Domain.
Within each domain we'll need to dig deeper and to see in greater detail in order to uncover
the true heart of your story's problems. To this end, each domain is divided into smaller and
smaller parts - wheels within wheels in the mechanics of your story's structure. For example,
in "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens, Scrooge is a "Mind Domain" character because
he is driven by a fixed attitude of selfishness. The ghosts are "Universe Domain" character
because they are stuck in a fixed situation - their own ethereal condition that cannot directly
effect the world of men.

One magnitude of detail deeper in the Dramatica chart we find that the overall Class of
Universe is sub-divided into four smaller aspects: Past, Present, Future, and Progress. And
how appropriate (or predictive) that the ghosts of "A Christmas Carol" are Past, Present, and
Future. And what about "Progress"? Why it is the ghost of Marley who argues to Scrooge
that he forges his chain link by link, extending it day by day with every selfish act. His
message is one of Progress which is why it makes the collective argument of all four ghosts
feel complete.

In conclusion, one must establish perspective in order to create meaning and therefore
message. The Dramatica chart provides a map of topic categories to which we can apply the
four essential points of view and thereby full develop our story perspectives.

What Is Dramatica?
Dramatica is a new theory describing how stories work. It is also the name of a line of
software products that help authors use the theory to design flawless dramatic structures for
their stories.

The more you know about the theory, the more useful the software becomes. This book
describes all the key concepts in the Dramatica theory and how to use them with the software.

Can you give a quick description of the theory?

Everything in Dramatica is built around a single central concept called "The Story Mind."
The Story Mind concept states that stories are more than a number of characters doing things
in the plot with thematic values in a particular genre. Specifically, Dramatica sees every story
as a model of the problem solving processes of the human mind. Characters, plot, theme, and
genre are different families of thought that go on in the mind, made tangible, so the audience
can watch the inner workings of their own minds to learn how best to solve different kinds of
problems.

Characters are the motivations of the Story Mind. Plot represents the methods the Story Mind
uses to try and solve the problem, driven by its motivations. Theme illustrates the Story
Mind’s conflicting value standards as it tries to determine the best way to evaluate potential
solutions to the problem. Genre describes the Story Mind’s overall personality: what kind of
a mind is it, that is trying to solve this problem?

How can learning about the Story Mind help me write better stories?
For a story to feel complete to an audience, the story’s problem and possible solutions must
be fully explored. If some point of view on the issues or some approach is not tried, then it
will feel as if there is a hole in the plot or that there are inconsistent characters.

Dramatica theory has created a map of all the essential points of view and approaches. Each
one needs to show up in order for the story to feel complete. So, by learning about the
Dramatica theory, one learns how to create a dramatic structure without holes or
inconsistencies.

Doesn’t this lead to a "formula" approach to story structure?

It would if Dramatica was just a checklist of points of view and approaches, but it is much
more than that! Story structure is actually made up of Story Points. Each Story Point is made
up of a point of view on a particular approach. The approach is what the audience is looking
at. The point of view positions the audience in relationship to that issue. Together, they create
perspectives, each of which is a different Story Point.

Just as in real life, there is more than one way to look at an issue, so too each point of view
might be matched to any one of a number of different approaches. When you consider all the
different kinds of perspectives (Story Points) that can be created, it is easy to see how
Dramatica does not lead to formula stories. In fact, the Dramatica software can create 32,768
completely different dramatic structures, based on the number of Story Points it currently
tracks.

Is Dramatica hard to learn?

The concepts aren’t hard, but there are quite a lot of them. This is because Dramatica
describes all kinds of stories in great depth. Still, each concept you learn will be immediately
useful even by itself in improving your stories. The more concepts you learn, the more you
will begin to see how the underlying forces that drive stories actually work. For those who
have the patience, you will eventually reach a point where all the concepts blend together in
an intuitive understanding of stories that will help you channel your creative inspirations into
meaningful directions.

Sounds like a lot of "New Age" mumbo jumbo. Is it?

Not at all. Since Dramatica deals with a model of the human mind and emotions, it is not
surprising that it may seem at times almost philosophical. But the theory takes a more precise
approach to its subject than philosophy. As an example, the Story Engine in the software that
keeps track of the relationships among Story Points is so precise and revolutionary that it
received a patent from the United States Government.

Dramatica is the first successful attempt to describe the relationship between what goes on in
story structure, and what goes on in the mind. It offers insight into what needs to be in a story
and why it needs to be there. By studying the theory and using the software you will learn to
improve the structural foundation of your passionate expression as an author.