Table of Contents

Title Page

Introduction: Plot versus Character Do You Need This Book?

Plot First, Write Later. Or Not

Dramatic Writing

What is Plotting?

What Makes a Great Story?

What’s the Difference Between Story and Plot? What is a Story?

What is a Plot?

Plot versus Character

What About Genre?

What Does a Plot Look Like? You Must Be Joking!

The ‘Rule of Three’

Once Upon a Time There Were Three Bears...

Quarters Four Quarters

The Love Story

Murder Mystery

The Thriller

The Action / Adventure

The Flawed Hero

What’s the Worst Thing That Could Happen?

What Use is Any of This?

Does This Sound Right to You?

The Eight Sequences: An Introduction The Eight Sequences: A Summary

What Goes in Each Sequence?

Act I: Setting Up and Setting in Motion Promises, Promises

Fight, Fight, Fight!

The Beginning, Middle, and End of the Beginning

The Major Dramatic Question

Begin at the Beginning

Sequence 1: Set-up, Foreshadowing & Challenge 1. Vivid Opening Image or Paragraph

The Hook: Grab Me or Seduce Me

3. The Opening Scene: Action or Slow-Build?

4. Choosing the Right Type of Opening Scene Prologue

Flash-Forward

True Beginning

Montage

Narration

5. Genre

6. Setting

7. Introduce the Hero First Impressions

How to Make People Like You

8. Theme

9. The Hero’s Internal Problem or ‘Lack’

10. Foreshadowing – Coming Soon: Conflict!

11. Opposition: The Antagonist Creating Antipathy for the Villain

Empathy with the Devil: The Antagonist’s Redeeming Features

12. The Challenge or Inciting Incident

Sequence 2: Responding to the Challenge 1. Initial Reaction to the Challenge

2. The Hero’s Greatest Fear? Secret Wish – Want versus Need

The Hero’s Lack and the Challenge

3. Refusal of the Call – The Reluctant Hero

4. Backstory

5. Subplots – The B-story and Other Secondary Plotlines How Many Subplots?

Subplot Structure

6. Consequences of the Refusal – The Villain Gains an Advantage

7. Pressure to Accept the Challenge

8. Lock-in – Why Doesn’t the Hero Run Away?

9. Introduce Other Major Characters The Ally

The Romance

The Mentor

The Villain’s Henchman

10. Stakes – A Potential Disaster

11. Motivation – The Hero’s Point of View

12. Decision – Accepting the Challenge

13. The Hero’s Goal

14. The Major Dramatic Question

15. Crossing the Threshold

16. Major Turning Point What is a Turning Point?

Act II: The Middle The Functions of Act II

Sequence 3: Responding to the ‘Strange New World’ 1. First Test – The Threshold
Guardian

2. First Impressions of the ‘New World’

3. Initial (Emotional) Reaction

4. The Hero as an Outsider

5. Mistakes and Transgressions

6. Tests

7. Learning

8. Allies and Enemies

9. Recruiting

10. Beginning of the B-story Relationship

11. First Actions Towards the Goal

12. Planning the First Attempt, or, How to Be A Success

13. Pinch Point I – ‘Page 45’

14. First Action of the First Attempt

Sequence 4: First Attempt, First Failure & Consequences 1. The First Attempt

2. First Failure

3. The Antagonist Counter-Attacks

4. Consequences of the Failure

5. Co-protagonist and/or Team Confront Hero Over Failure

6. The Hero Denies There is a Problem

The Midpoint (i) What the Hero Learns About the Story Situation

(ii) The Wrong Goal or a Change of Goal

(iii) Conflict with the Antagonist and the Thematic Argument

(iv) The Hero’s Personal Growth

(v) The Relationship or B-Story

Sequence 5: Reacting to the Midpoint & Raising the Stakes 1. Emotional Reaction to
the Midpoint

2. Reluctance to Go On

3. Decision and New Commitment

4. Hero Tries to Prove Himself

5. Hero Redeems Himself

6. Active Hero

7. Active Antagonist

8. Planning the Second Attempt

9. Pinch Point II – ‘Page 75’

10. Hero Tries to Convince Ally, Lover or Team to Give Him a Second Chance

11. Hero and Co-protagonist Bonding and Increased Intimacy

12. Hero and Co-protagonist Unite Against the Villain

Sequence 6: The Second Attempt, The Fall, & The Crisis The Experience of Change in
the Hero’s Quest

(i) Preparation for the Ordeal

(ii) Opposition

(iii) The ‘Underworld’ or Villain’s Lair

(iv) The Supreme Ordeal

Act III: The End – Climax & Resolution

Sequence 7: The Climax (1) Reacting to the Crisis – A Decision or Dilemma

(2) Action by the Antagonist Forcing a Response from the Hero

(3) A Discovery or Revelation

(4) Highest Stakes

(5) The Reader Learns of an Increased Threat

(6) Thematic Argument – Points of View Restated

(7) The Final Battle

(8) The Battle Begins Badly for the Hero

(9) The Hero Learns of the Increased Threat

(10) Hero Discovers a Way to Fight Back – An Act of Self-Sacrifice

(11) Outcome of the Battle Types of Ending

Linear and Circular Endings

Building a Climax

How Big Should the Climax Be?

How Do You Surprise the Reader?

Twist Endings

Subplots

How to Get Endings Wrong

Sequence 8: Resolution and Denouement (1) Reaction to the Climactic Events

(2) Resolution

(3) Validation and Closure

(4) New Equilibrium

(5) Denouement

(6) Final Image or Paragraph

The Series Novel or Screenplay

Symmetry and Plot Cohesion

Sources & Bibliography

About the Author

PLOT BASICS

PLOT YOUR NOVEL OR SCREENPLAY IN EIGHT SEQUENCES

PAUL TOMLINSON

Copyright © 2017 by Paul Tomlinson

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or transmitted, in whole or in
part, or used in any manner whatsoever, without the express permission of the
copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in the context of a book
review.

First published September 2017

Publisher: Paul Tomlinson

Cover image and design © 2017 by Paul Tomlinson

For more writing guides and advice visit:

www.paultomlinson.org/how-to

Introduction: Plot versus Character

This is a book about plot. The clue is in the title. When you are writing a novel
or a screenplay, you don’t need characters, but you do need plot. All those
children’s stories, fairy tales, myths, legends, and folktales that we grew up with
didn’t concern themselves with ‘character growth.’ They just got on and told us a
story. Characters just get in the way of a good story. You know what they’re like,
always chattering away: Where’s my backstory? What’s the nature of my psychic
wound? I need a development arc! Me, me, me. And before you know it, you’ve lost
sight of your plot and you’re wondering why the middle of your story is sagging.

I’m only half-kidding here. I do think that if we get too caught-up in thinking
about character, we risk forgetting how important it is to get plot right.

Plot is the most important thing in a story. You can have characters fresh out of
Flatland, and dialogue straight out of the poorest daytime soap opera, and readers
will still enjoy your story – as long as you have a strong plot. Check out the
novels that have made it on to the bestseller lists over the years, and you’ll find
many that have cardboard people spouting ‘on the nose’ dialogue – but millions of
readers still bought them. Because they had an attractive premise that was explored
via an effective plot. Of course, some bestseller writers create three-dimensional
characters to people their plots, but the bestseller that features characters
without a plot is so rare as to be almost non-existent.

The same with movies, though it’s easier to see the importance of plot when films
fail. A film can have great actors, special effects, locations, and snappy
dialogue, but fail to engage an audience because there is no real plot as such. No
one really cares why the characters are doing what they’re doing and saying what
they’re saying. Readers and movie-goers like strong plots.

Plot matters. Yes, you will want to have three-dimensional characters and sparkling
dialogue. And deep themes and fully-realised settings. But none of these will sell
your story if it doesn’t have a fully-functioning plot.

Do You Need This Book?

Do you really want another book on writing? And if you do, do you need this one?
Let me tell you what I’m going to include in the following pages, and then you can
decide.

My aim is to give you an ‘aerial view’ of plot structure, of the very basics, so
that you can see what should go where and how the different parts fit together.
We’ll start with a long shot, and then zoom in closer to examine the parts in more
detail.

I’m going to show you how you can break your story into manageable chunks, using a
‘three-act, eight-sequence’ model that was developed for screenwriting. Why would
you use a screenplay model for writing novels? Plotting for screenplays has been
studied and developed continuously since the early days of cinema and has been
refined to the point where you can find a complete, simple model for constructing
an effective plot. There hasn’t been a similar development of a theory for plotting
novels. I don’t believe that there is a great deal of difference between plots for
films and those for novels, since both developed from dramatic theories originally
developed for theatre. I don’t intend to spend any time covering the historical
development of plot theory because I want to concentrate on practical tools.

I am not going to tell you that the eight-sequence model is the way to plot a
story, but it is one way. It is a tool that I think you will find useful. And it is
flexible enough that you can use it in conjunction which any other theories of
storytelling that you find helpful, whether it’s the ‘hero’s journey,’ or Plotto or
whatever.

By showing ‘what goes where’ this model for plotting also tells you what you need
to have in place in order to write an effective story. The raw ingredients that you
will need. This should enable you to look at your initial story idea, and evaluate
it to see whether it has everything necessary to create a successful plot for a
novel or screenplay. And it will give you some pointers of what you need to add or
develop if your story comes up short after this first analysis.

I should make it clear from the outset that I am only covering plots for long-form
stories here: novels and feature-length screenplays. It can probably be adapted for
full-length theatrical plays as well, but that is not an area where I have any
experience. Short stories, television episodes, sitcoms, and one-act plays require
a different approach and are beyond the scope of this book.

Plot First, Write Later. Or Not

You should write down your basic plot before you begin writing. I can almost hear
the wailing and gnashing of teeth from certain quarters. From those who claim that
working out the plot beforehand ‘stifles my creativity,’ and from those who proudly
declare ‘I am a pantser!’ Please give me another 30 seconds of your time before you
reach for the remote and flip channels.

By ‘plotting your story,’ I do not mean writing a twenty-page outline that sets
down every detail of your story from beginning to end. If you’re writing a novel or
the first draft of a screenplay, that level of outlining can stifle your enthusiasm
for a project: Who wants to write a story they’ve already told?

No. What I am talking about is a couple of pages or so where you set down the main
plot points of your story – that is the six major turning points plus the climax.
That’s all you need. And it is actually pretty easy to figure these things out,
based on a plot pattern that almost all popular stories share.

I am not saying that there is a formula. There is no magic recipe for creating a
novel or a screenplay. But popular stories do share some common features – an
overall pattern or shape. This is something that many successful writers pick up
subconsciously from their own reading. And it is something that readers expect,
without even being aware of it. There are other story patterns, but this one is
easy to understand and easy to explain.

Still not convinced? How about if I told you that a few hours spent preparing your
underlying plot would enable you to sit down and write your novel or screenplay
more quickly? Or if I told you that it almost guarantees that you’ll never suffer
from writer’s block, because you will always know what comes next and why? And that
it means your first draft will be structurally sound, and only need minor edits
before you do your final polish? And that it will help you figure out what to do if
things go wrong? And that it can make your writing time more rewarding and
enjoyable because if you feel that you know what you’re doing, it’s bound to be
more fun? Unless you enjoy feeling lost and confused and inadequate to the task.

There’s none so pure as a reformed whore, or so they say. I’m probably only semi-
reformed. I used to hate plotting. Before I started using this plotting technique,
it would take me a year or eighteen months to complete the first draft of a novel-
length story. And I’d end up with something that I wasn’t entirely happy with. In
my gut, I’d know that this poorly formed thing didn’t really work, but I was never
sure why. And I would start many, many projects that I could never finish. Novels
and screenplays that would just fizzle out because I didn’t know how to complete
them. I had notebooks full of great ideas that I did not know how to develop into
finished stories.

In 2015, as an experiment, I used the eight-sequence plot model to write a 1930s

murder mystery. It was a genre I enjoyed but had never thought about writing. I
knew it was probably the most plot-centred genre of story, based on the unravelling
of an intellectual puzzle, rather than on the emotional interaction of characters,
so I thought it was an ideal way of testing out my newly-acquired plotting skills.
I wrote 65,000 words in three months – from initial idea to final edit. And I did
this while working full-time, out of the house for ten hours a day. I self-
published it on Amazon and made some money from it. Not a lot, but some. It’s
called The Sword in the Stone-Dead.

In theory, then, you can use this method to write two or three or four novels (or
screenplays) a year. Maybe more if you are writing full-time. And the more you
write, and successfully complete, the better writer you’ll become.

There will probably still be times when I decide to sit down with a blank page and
no plan, and just write as it comes. But if I end up with a misshapen lump of a
story, I can use the eight-sequence model to take it apart and restructure it. And
if it fizzles out before I finish it, I can use the eight-sequences to figure out
what went wrong with it, and maybe get the story back on track. And if writing ‘by
the seat of your pants’ is the only way that you can do it, you too can use this
book when you come to edit your first draft or to try and fix a failed draft.

Plotting your novel or screenplay in this way is quick and easy. A handful of plot
points placed in the correct order, and you’re done. And four of those plot points
will carry you through that awfully long middle section of your story, lifting it
up out of the dirt and stopping it sagging.

Plotting is easy. I’m laying it out in a short book. You can read it in a single
evening. Read on – you’ve almost nothing to lose, and lots to gain.

Dramatic Writing

I regard both novels and screenplays to be examples of dramatic writing. ‘Drama’

was originally a Greek word meaning action, and is derived from a verb meaning to
do or to act. I’m not interested in stories where characters sit around thinking
about doing things, I want to see them make a decision and then go out and take
action to bring about whatever they have decided to achieve. For that reason, I’m
going to be concentrating on plotting the external and visible action in a story,
rather than the internal aspects of character.

In the following pages, I don’t make much distinction between movies and novels,
and some of the ideas I talk about come from texts on writing stage plays. As far
as plot structure is concerned, I don’t believe there is a great deal of
difference. A story is a story.

What is Plotting?

Plotting means putting the events of your story in the order that will create the
most dramatic effect. And by ‘dramatic effect,’ I mean something that creates a
strong response in the reader. Plot is what causes a reader to respond
intellectually, emotionally, and/or physically to your story. It appeals to the
head, heart, or gut. Ideally, it will appeal on all of these levels. The more
levels of appeal a story has, the more potential buyers you have for it.

Ask people why they read fiction or watch movies, and most will tell you that they
want to escape from their everyday lives while being entertained. People talk about
being ‘lost’ in a book as they sit in an airport lounge or during their daily
commute to work. If they go to the movies, they are transported to another world
for a couple of hours. Stories provide people with an experience that allows them
to get away from the real world for a while.

Plot is the basic underlying structure of a story. It is what gives a story form,
and helps you deliver the experience viewers and readers crave. Certain things have
to appear in a particular sequence, and at particular points in a story. That is
what plotting is about.

There is no such thing as an original plot, so you aren’t required to come up with
something new and clever for the structure of your story. What you do have to do is
come up with your own story events to fulfil the purpose required by each major
plot point in the structure. This book is about how to do that.

What Makes a Great Story?

We want a beginning that hooks or intrigues the reader, making them want to read on
and find out what happens next. A middle that builds – in terms of action and
tension and emotion – keeping the reader turning the pages, and increasing their
desire to find out how the story will end. And we need a big finish. Something
dramatic and surprising, yet which satisfies the reader’s expectations as they were
set-up at the beginning of the story.

And afterwards, we want a feeling that the story was actually about something
important. It wasn’t just a series of interesting events, but rather it was
something where the outcome had a significant impact on the lives of the characters
– something that causes the reader to think about the implications of what they
have just witnessed, in relation to their own lives.

Plot contributes towards this, and it is the most significant contributor. But we
should also acknowledge that other things go towards making the most successful
stories: a cast of larger-than-life characters; high stakes; a ‘high concept’
premise; a situation that is ‘the same only different,’ that successfully meets
genre expectations; dialogue that reveals character and moves the plot along, yet
seems fresh and realistic; a meaningful theme; setting and social milieu... a whole
host of secondary features that you need to get right. But none of these matter if
your plot sucks.

What’s the Difference Between Story and Plot?

What is a Story?

Stories are a way of communicating something. They do not communicate factual

information on an intellectual level, we have non-fiction for that, instead they
provide an emotional experience. They make the reader feel something. The better
the story, the stronger our reaction to it. Some people will disagree with that,
and argue that manipulating the reader to bring about an emotional response is what
cheap, sensationalist fiction does: ‘proper’ fiction does something much more
subtle. This may be true, but I’m not interested in writing proper fiction. I want
to write stories that people enjoy reading. Stories that give them an emotional
experience. I do want to manipulate the reader and make them feel something – but I
want to do it in a way that they don’t realise they’re being manipulated. Because
that’s what I want to happen when I read a story.

Life is complex. Every day we’re faced with dozens of difficult situations –
relationships with family, friends, and colleagues; issues at work; financial
pressures; health worries – and we never get time to focus on just one thing and
sort it out properly. We are always performing a kind of juggling act, trying to
keep our overlapping web of problems from overwhelming us completely. And for many
of life’s problems, there is no answer.

Stories, on the other hand, are simple: they concentrate on only one or two issues
in a character’s life; they let us see the character concentrate their efforts on
fixing one problem, and they let us see that most problems actually do have a
solution. And while things in real life happen at random, without any apparent
logic or reason, everything in a story has a purpose. Everything happens for a
reason.
Stories, however lifelike they might appear, offer a simpler, more structured, and
therefore reassuring, view of life. Their relative simplicity is part of their
appeal.

I’m going to offer two definitions of what a story is, to help us in our
explorations of story and plot. Here’s the first one:

A story is an account of how an individual responds to change in his or her life.

Often you will see a story defined as being how a character deals with a problem in
their life. But the situation a character faces doesn’t have to be a problem. They
can just as easily be faced with a positive opportunity for change. People go for
the ‘problem’ definition because a problem implies struggle and conflict, and we
have all been told that a good story requires conflict. But I’m going to stick with
the slightly broader definition, because it includes ‘problem’ stories and other
types.

The second definition is:

A story is a series of causally-linked events designed to convey meaning.

In real life, events occur at random, leaving us to try and make whatever sense we
can of things. In a story, everything happens for a reason. Something happens. In
response to this, a person decides to perform a particular action. That action has
consequences, which in turn act as a new stimulus that causes this person – or
another person – to respond by choosing an action. The first event in a story might
be random, an accident, or a coincidence, but after that every event is a response
to something that has gone before. Everything that happens – every decision and
every action – happens for a reason. There is a chain reaction of cause and effect,
sparked off by that first event. Because events in a story are all causally-
related, we can see meaning in what happens – we can understand why particular
situations arise, and how characters attempt to deal with them. We find stories
reassuring because in a story everything makes sense.

Stories also give us characters who make decisions and take action based on those
decisions. We see someone who tries to determine the course of his own life, and
this encourages us to believe that we can choose the direction that our own lives
take, that our fate is not pre-determined and unalterable. This is why we like to
see stories about decisive characters who set out to do something. For this reason,
what I am covering here is the sort of plot that works well in a genre or ‘popular’
novel, but tends to be anathema to those who want to write ‘proper’ mainstream
fiction, where characters tend to spend a lot of their time navel-gazing and not
taking action.

What is a Plot?

Words in English often have more than one meaning. You may think this is a bad
thing, especially if you hate bad puns, but great poetry, prose, and humour all
make use of the fact that we can have one word that means different things, and
different words for the same thing, so we shouldn’t complain too loudly.

‘Plot’ has a number of meanings that have their origins in Old English and Old
French, or so my dictionary says. It means a small piece of land to be used for a
building or garden. Or for burying a body. You dig? It means a secret plan to do
something wrong or illegal. And it means to mark a route on a map or a position on
a graph. All of these, in some way, relate to the meaning that we are interested
in: the ‘main sequence of events in a play, novel, or film.’

‘Story’ is one of those awkward terms. We tend to think that a novel, or a movie,
or a play, or whatever is a story. But that is not, strictly speaking, true. These
things tell a story, and they use a plot to do it. There are two key differences
between story and plot: one relates to the order in which events happen, and the
other relates to the reasons why things happen.

Story is what happens – the sequence of events in its chronological sequence.

Plot is those events placed in a sequence by the storyteller to achieve a desired

dramatic effect.

This sequence will usually be different from their chronological sequence, and some
events may be missed out or skimmed over. Alfred Hitchcock said that drama was
‘life with the dull bits cut out.’ In theory, the same events could be placed in a
different order to achieve a different dramatic effect. Writers do not have to set
down events in the order in which they happen. We can begin in the middle of the
action – in medias res – and then go back and show what led up to, what caused, the
current action to take place. We can use flashback to reveal events that happened
before our story takes place, but which have an impact on what is currently
happening. We can begin a story at the end, and then reveal what happened to bring
about this ending. A whodunit typically has two sequences: a story going forward in
time which shows the detective investigating the murder, and the gradual piecing
together of an earlier series of events that culminated in a murder.

We are going to concentrate on how to construct a good plot so that we can tell a
great story.

Plot versus Character

We are often told that there are two types of story: the plot-based story and the
character-based story. Mainstream – or ‘proper’ or ‘high-brow’ or ‘art-house’ –
stories are usually character-based. Exploration of character is regarded by
critics and academics as being ‘better’ or ‘classier’ than the exploration of
events in a plot. Genre fiction is all plot-based. By definition, it is based on
‘generic’ plot situations and characters who perform functions within those
situations. Genre fiction is usually looked down upon by critics. And regarded as a
guilty pleasure by academics. Being ‘plot-based’ means that genre stories don’t
feature much in the way of character development. And this is because they don’t
need to because it is not relevant to the emotional response the story is seeking
to evoke. Some people believe that a film without character development is a bad
film, but a look at the most popular – and even award-winning – films of all time
quickly dispels that myth. Plot-centred genre stories aren’t better or worse than
flawed-hero stories – they’re just stories of a different type. Pretty much the
same is true of novels.

‘Which is more important, plot or character?’ seems to be a question that has been
around at least since the days of Ancient Greece. For the record, the Greek
philosopher Aristotle said that plot is more important than character, though he
was writing about a particular type of drama performed in a particular setting at a
particular point in history, so we shouldn’t necessarily take his word as gospel,
or quote him out of context. But I think, on balance, that he was right. Plot has
to come first.

Even though good plots sell movies and novels, most story theorists (or ‘gurus’ if
you prefer) tell you how to write character-based stories. The best screenplays
ever written, they say, feature flawed heroes. They will list them for you
Casablanca, Rocky, Jerry Maguire, Rain Man, Tootsie, As Good as it Gets, Good Will
Hunting, Dead Poets Society... All of these movies feature in my top 100 movies,
but the ‘flawed hero’ is not the only genre of story I like. I enjoy whodunits and
crime thrillers; horror, fantasy, and science fiction; caper stories, and a bunch
of other sub-genres. And most of them are not character-based stories. These are
the kinds of stories I wanted to write, but when I went looking for a book on how
to create this type of plot, I couldn’t find what I was looking for. Probably
because what I was looking for was the secret formula for a best-selling novel or a
blockbuster movie.

Putting this book together, I tried to include only material that was directly
relevant to plot. Separating this stuff out wasn’t easy, and some people would
argue that it was a fool’s errand, because you can’t separate plot from the other
two key aspects of story, character and theme. To some extent they are right: you
do need an understanding of character and theme to write an effective story. But
you need to have an understanding of plot first, and that’s what we’re about here.

What About Genre?

I’ve mentioned genre fiction a few times already and said that a lot of popular
fiction is genre fiction. And that most genre fiction is plot-based rather than
character-based. Popular movies too are often genre movies. If you want to write a
romance, or a whodunit, or a thriller, or whatever, you might be wondering how you
go about plotting one of those. What use is a book on general plot structure going
to be to you if you want to write in a specific genre? The answer to that is: All
genre stories are variations on the general plot structure that we’re going to
explore in this book. Each of the eight sections or sequences that we’ll cover
exists in every story of every type. Within individual genres, the specific kinds
of incidents that will occur in those sections, and the specific types of
characters who appear in them, will be different. But at the fundamental level of
plot, all stories are the same.

How can I be sure of that? Genre fiction as we know it is a relatively recent

occurrence. It began during the Victorian era, developing out of Gothic fiction and
melodrama, but only really became defined when American movies and pulp fiction
magazines began to target specific audiences. If all genres evolved from a single
point – the genre-less novel, that came from the genre-less play, that came from
the genre-less poem – then suggesting that there is a single meta-plot isn’t such a
mad idea.

Virtually all genre stories – and a significant proportion of non-genre stories –

feature a main character who is trying to achieve something. They want to do
something. As mentioned above, often they are trying to solve a problem or deal
with an opportunity. They are trying to get something; or rescue or regain or
retrieve something; they are trying to make something happen, or prevent something
happening. Or they are trying to return a situation to the way it was. They are
trying to create something or destroy something. They are trying to get to a place,
escape from a place, or stay in a place. They are trying to catch someone, or avoid
being caught. They are trying to uncover a mystery or a secret, or protect it from
those who would uncover it. There are dozens of variations, but they all feature
someone who is trying to do something. To successfully complete some action. The
thing they are trying to achieve may be physical – to get a bag of gold coins – or
it may be something less tangible: to get someone to fall in love with them; to
remedy a particular injustice, or to prove that they as an individual are not a
failure.

What all these stories have in common is that they show a character who is dealing
with change in their life: trying to adapt to it, make it happen, reverse it, or
avoid it.

Joseph Campbell in his Hero with a Thousand Faces argued that virtually all
mythical stories from all of the different religions and cultures in the world were
based on a single structure, which he termed the ‘monomyth.’ Campbell presented his
monomyth as a 12-stage ‘hero’s journey’ or quest. And Christopher Vogler adapted
this for modern writers in his book The Writer’s Journey.

The quest model is a useful one, but I find it a little confusing at times. It’s
easy to see how you can apply it to a literal quest, like Star Wars – George Lucas
was a big Campbell fan – but it is harder to see how to use it for, say, a romantic
comedy like When Harry Met Sally. The ‘hero’s journey’ still applies, but you have
to approach it as a metaphor, and that just adds a level of complexity that can
cause confusion. I have nothing against the ’hero’s journey’ – I used it in my
fantasy novel, Slayer of Dragons – but I do think that a sequence of 12 major plot
points is too much to try and accommodate in a movie or novel.

I’m in favour of keeping things simple, but I will refer to some elements of the
hero’s journey, so you can see where the model I am describing fits with what you
might already know from that model.

I’m not going to write in any detail about individual genres, as that would be a
subject for a book on its own, and possibly several. I am going to cover the basics
of plot without spending time on the differences between, say, the detective
thriller, the romance, and the Western. The basics we cover here can be applied to,
and adapted for, any of the popular genres or subgenres of plot-based story. I’m
going to talk about plot pure and simple, because once you have the basics of plot
nailed down, you can go ahead and add all of that additional character development
arc and genre iconography stuff you want, knowing that you are building your
screenplay or novel on a firm foundation, or using a robust framework, or whatever
you want to call it.

First, catch your plot.

What Does a Plot Look Like?

This line is your story (it’s a storyline):

One-hundred-and-twenty minutes of screen time or 300 pages of a novel, or whatever.

Your task, should you choose to accept it, is to plot your story along this line
for maximum dramatic effect. You need to figure out what should go where in order
to keep your reader turning the pages. We know that the first part of the story is
going to be the beginning. We know the last part is going to be the end. And all
the rest is middle.

People say that the Greek philosopher Aristotle came up with the theory of three-
act structure and that it was used in all those great Ancient Greek plays that we
know and love. Not true. The Poetics, written about 335BC, is the oldest surviving
work on dramatic theory, and the ideas Aristotle set down in it form the basis of
much of modern dramatic theory. Aristotle was the first – that we know of – to
write about dramatic structure. He did not say that a play should have three acts.
All he said was that a story should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. They
are not acts; they are just bits of the plot that serve particular functions.
Having said that, most people refer to them as the three acts, so we’re stuck with
this terminology, so we may as well use it. But in our hearts we will know: They
are not really acts!

You Must Be Joking!

An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman walk into a bar, and the barman says:
What is this, some kind of joke?

You’ve heard that before. It’s an old joke, but in just 22 words it demonstrates
the classic structure of a joke: Setup, rising tension, climax.

If you wanted to plot the shape of a joke on a graph, it would look something like
this:

The horizontal axis represents time, and the vertical one represents the dramatic
or emotional intensity. This ‘inverted check-mark’ can also be used to represent
other types of story. I first saw it in Janet Burroway’s Writing Fiction: A Guide
to Narrative Craft. This, in essence, is what your plot should look like. Your
story increases in dramatic impact, has a climax, and then a brief ‘tailing off,’
so that your reader or audience doesn’t have time to be bored or let down by a long
anticlimax.

In The Megahit Movies, Joseph Michaels Stefanik studied the film Jaws and drew a
graph of his own perceived emotional level at each point in the movie’s running
time. He came up with a spiky, up and down graph that looks like a sound wave
visualised by an MP3 player or an oscilloscope, but it does – broadly speaking –
have an underlying trend that looks like our inverted check-mark. The most
significant difference is that the story begins with heightened emotion: there is
the first shark-attack, a prologue that is a ‘hook’ that grabs the attention of the
audience and pulls them into the story. Something like this:

The ‘Rule of Three’

There are a couple of other things to note about the joke above that will come up
later when we look at the plots for novels and screenplays. First of all, there is
the ‘rule of three.’ Englishman, Irishman, Scotsman. There are longer jokes that
feature these three, or three other nationalities, or maybe a priest, a rabbi, and
a duck. But there is always three of them. In fairy stories, too, there are the
three little pigs; and Cinderella and her two aesthetically-challenged sisters
vying for the hand of the prince. Why? Call it economy or elegance. ‘Elegance’ in
the context of achieving the maximum effect with the minimum expenditure of effort
or fuss. Three is the minimum number of times you can repeat something to establish
a pattern or rhythm, and anything more than three is overkill. Two could just be a
coincidence, three is a pattern. Four just becomes tedious.

I remember sitting in a cinema watching the movie Vantage Point, which retells the
same events from different viewpoints. It’s an interesting idea. But when the movie
flashed back to the events for the fourth time, the audience around me groaned out
loud. Not just a few people – lots of them. And those that didn’t groan, nodded in
agreement with those who did. The rule of three.

The last thing I want to say about that specific joke above is that it relies on
the listener being familiar with the pattern of Englishman, Irishman, Scotsman
jokes. We’ve all heard so many of them that we almost groan out loud when we hear
someone open a joke this way. (Leaving aside the issue of the perpetuation of
national stereotypes). We expect a long rambling story where the Englishman does
something bland, the Scotsman does something penny-pinching, and the Irishman does
something involving a misunderstanding. The joke above pulls the rug from under us
– surprising us, the first time we hear it – by subverting our expectations. It can
do this because we have expectations. As recipients of jokes, we know how they’re
supposed to work.

Exactly the same thing is true of stories. Our readers have read so many novels and
seen so many movies, that they know how plots are supposed to unfold. This is
particularly true of popular and genre stories.

Once Upon a Time There Were Three Bears...

We learn how stories work when we are children, having pestered the adults around
us to keep reading the same stories over and over again. We are attracted by the
pattern and the rhythm and the twists and turns in the story, and every time we
hear them, we are satisfied by the way the story ends. How many times in your life
have you heard, or read, or seen The Three Little Pigs? Or Cinderella? If someone
put you on the spot, you could probably sit and tell these stories, even without
the text in front of you.

The fact that a children’s story is so brief – something like 32 pages in a picture
book – means that their plots exist in the purest, simplest form. There’s no room
to make things unduly complicated. If you Google ‘how to write a children’s book,’
you will find a lot of advice, but it will all boil down to a plot structure that
looks something like this:

Introduce a character with a problem or mystery

Place obstacles between the character and the goal he seeks

The character reacts to the obstacles, causing new obstacles to arise

The character reacts to the new obstacles, creating even bigger obstacles until all
seems lost

Then an unexpected solution is found.

1 and 2 are the set-up. 3 and 4 are the rising tension. 5 is the climax. And 3, 4
and 5 are the three attempts that the central character makes to solve his problem:
the first two attempts fail, the final one is successful. A house of straw, a house
of sticks, a house of bricks. Two girls with big feet, and the slender-footed
Cinderella. When it comes to plotting, this is the ‘secret formula’ that everything
is based on. Setup, rising tension, climax and the ‘rule of three.’

That gives us almost all we need to understand story plotting. To recap, we have a
main character who must deal with some sort of change in his or her life: a problem
or an opportunity. We know that our story will have a beginning, a middle, and an
end, and that they will correspond to setup, rising tension, and climax. And that
the hero will make three attempts to deal with his situation; the first two will
fail, but the final one will bring about a resolution.

This is the aerial view I promised you. And you’ve been looking at it since you
were a child. It’s that simple.

I want to add one more thing before we zoom in on the next level of detail. As far
as I’m aware, this idea first appeared in Syd Field’s 1979 book Screenplay: The
Foundations of Screenwriting. Field said that a screenplay has a beginning, a
middle and an end, which he referred to as three acts – and he said that Act I (the
beginning) was the first quarter of the story; Act II (the middle) was the middle
two quarters; and Act III (the end) was the final quarter.

On our ‘story line’ it looks like this:

This idea has been around for such a long time now that it may not seem like a big
deal, but dividing a plot up into four quarters like this is a really helpful
concept. In the next chapter, we will forget about the three acts, which aren’t
really acts, and look at the four quarters in more detail. Then later we’ll split
them down into the eighths that give us our ‘eight sequence’ plot model.

Quarters

Plotting involves figuring out what should go where so that your story achieves the
maximum dramatic effect. You also have to arrange things such that events unfold in
a way that can be understood and appreciated by your reader, which means meeting
certain expectations people have about what a story should be like.

At this point, I’m going to abandon the idea of stories having ‘acts.’ The fact is,
in films and novels, there are no acts as such. From here on, we’re going to talk
about the four quarters of a story. And then we’ll look at splitting them into
eights. Bear in mind that the quarters and eighths are approximate measures, not
absolutes. They’re serving suggestions.
Four Quarters

To recap: the beginning of a story is the first quarter. The middle is made up of
two quarters. And the end is the final quarter.

Taking our cue from Aristotle, we can say that each of the quarters should serve a
specific function in the story. Let’s start with some basic ideas:

Bad

Worse

Worst

Climax & Resolution

At first glance, this looks too basic to be any use at all, but sometimes it helps
to pare things back to their simplest level.

Going back to what we said about the hero making three attempts to achieve his goal
or resolve his situation gives us another way of looking at the four quarters:

What the hero wants

First attempts don’t work

Second attempts end in disaster

Final attempt, outcome and resolution

Here’s another variation:

Introduce a problem or opportunity

Ignorance/denial – Hero doesn’t know, or denies, the scale of the problem or the
nature of his ‘lack’ (unconscious incompetence)

Midpoint – Revelation/Realisation – Hero knows what he doesn’t know. Awareness

Trying to deal with the true problem or ‘lack’ – Conscious incompetence

Mastering the situation – Conscious competence

If you’re still not seeing anything helpful in this, maybe it’ll help if we apply
it to some real types of story.
The Love Story

Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl. Beginning, middle, and end, as the
old cliché has it. This can be broken down into four quarters plus a midpoint:

Boy and girl meet

They deny their attraction

(Midpoint) They admit their love

Happy together, then disaster forces them apart

Happily ever after

or

Boy and girl meet

Girl is reluctant to accept boy

(Midpoint) Boy wins girl over

Happy together, then boy loses girl by doing something stupid

Boy and girl are reconciled, and live happily ever after

This is one of the most common plot patterns, found in both genre romances, and in
the relationship subplots of many other stories. It can be used for the
relationship between the hero and his lover (or, to use an older term, ‘romantic
interest’), and it can be used for a platonic relationship between the hero and a
friend or ally. A ‘buddy movie’ and an ‘odd couple’ story are also variations on
this basic pattern.

Two people meet, providing an opportunity for a relationship. Although there is

some attraction between them, there are also opposing feelings, and the two are
initially antagonistic towards one another and/or afraid to show their feelings. At
the midpoint, their conflict is (apparently) resolved, and they enjoy a brief
moment of happiness together. Then someone does something stupid, or there is some
misunderstanding, or external events force them apart, and the relationship seems
to be over. Then, in the end, the situation is resolved and they can go forward as
lovers or as friends. This works as both a main plot and for the relationship
subplot of a story.

Even at this level of four quarters and a midpoint, you can see how the story as a
whole progresses. We can see what is referred to as rising action, or rising
tension, as the stakes are raised at key points. The story moves from absence of
love to denial of love; to realisation and acceptance of love; to love in jeopardy,
ending in a crisis when the relationship seems to be over forever; and finally to
love triumphant.
Murder Mystery

A murder mystery, or ‘whodunit,’ is an intellectual puzzle: a problem is presented

at the beginning of the story, and the hero must solve it through investigation and
rational thought. The first half of a mystery usually explores what seems to have
happened: this is the version of events that the murder wants people to believe, as
it steers suspicion away from him (or her). The second half of the story shows the
detective reinterpreting the evidence in a new and unconventional way so that he
can demonstrate what really happened. The detective’s efforts during the second
part of the story initially seem to make the situation much more complicated than
it first seemed, until a point is reached where it seems impossible to make any
sense of the whole mess. It is usually at this point that the detective announces
he has the solution and calls all of the suspects together in the drawing room to
explain his findings.

A body is discovered

The detective investigates, clues point towards a culprit

(Midpoint) The suspected culprit is found dead, second victim of the murderer

The detective re-evaluates the evidence, investigates more, to establish a second

theory, but what he discovers seems to make the situation even more baffling and
impossible to solve.

Final solution – murderer identified and brought to justice.

The Thriller

Alfred Hitchcock perfected the man-on-the-run thriller, placing an innocent man in

the midst of a conspiracy that usually involved a villain determined to get hold of
a ‘MacGuffin’ that was the key to the fate of the free world.

Innocent man accidentally mixed up in a conspiracy

Hero is a victim, pursued by the villains

(Midpoint) Hero discovers the nature of the conspiracy and decides to be proactive
and stop it

Hero takes the fight to the villain, becoming hunter rather than hunted

Hero outwits villain, beating him at his own game.

The hero moves from a position of innocence to being unjustly accused and pursued;
deciding that he cannot escape the injustice of this situation, he decides to turn
and fight: defeating the villain is the only way to prove his own innocence; he
pursues the villain, and finally outwits him. Again we have a pattern of rising
action, of increasing stakes and suspense.

The James Bond novels and films are another form of thriller, involving a
professional hero rather than an innocent amateur.

The villain puts an evil plot into motion; M gives Bond the assignment of stopping
the villain

Bond pursues the villain and takes action to block the villain’s plot

(Midpoint) The villain is more powerful than Bond suspected.

Bond is captured by the villain and usually tortured as well.

Bond outwits and outfights the villain, puts a stop to the evil plan, and usually
blows up the villain’s hideout.

In this variation, Bond is the hunter before the midpoint rather than a victim and
becomes – or appears to become – the victim after the midpoint. The Bond stories,
while fitting in the thriller category, also have much in common with our next
type, the action / adventure story. For my purposes, a story is a thriller if it
centres on some form of conspiracy, and this is what differentiates Bond stories
from straightforward action or adventure stories.

The Action / Adventure

I believe that an action story is different from an adventure story because it

features a different type of character as the hero. An action story concerns a
‘warrior’ hero who competes to achieve a particular goal – he wants to win. An
adventure story features an ‘adventurer’ – a character whose main goal is seeking
thrills: he does what he does for the adrenaline rush, and he competes, for the
most part, with himself and with the obstacles in the world around him. The
difference between these two characters exists in the ‘why’ rather than the ‘what’
– the actions they undertake can be the same, and they usually involve some sort of
quest, but their motivations are different.

In other types of story, the hero often begins as a victim of circumstances – he is

acted upon, rather than choosing to take action – until the midpoint of the story;
at the midpoint, he moves from being passive to being active. In action and
adventure stories, there is no room for a passive hero: he is active from the get-
go. Act I is often shorter in this type of story, as any reluctance to act is
quickly overcome. The hero might fight against what he must ultimately do – he may
be forced into action against his will – but he will be active while he’s doing it!

Introduce the hero and his objective: something to win or conquer

Initial actions towards the goal, resulting in setbacks

(Midpoint) The hero realises the goal is more difficult (and more important) than
he expected
On the brink of failure

Final efforts and success

Action and adventure stories often require the hero to discover additional reserves
of stamina and strength. He often meets an ally or love-interest, but he is
reluctant to admit his feelings towards them. They may offer to assist him at the
midpoint, but he rejects the offer, mistakenly believing that a true hero must act
alone, or believing that he must protect the other person from any form of risk
because they are not up to facing it. Only when things reach crisis point does he
recognise the importance of having help from, or love for, others – from this he
gains what he needs to finally succeed.

Up to this point, I have discussed only genre plots, but what about the so-called
character-based story? Do those stories also follow the same plot pattern? These
stories often feature a main character who is in need of redemption. He or she
needs to learn some lesson, to undergo some kind of character growth or self-
discovery, in order to achieve happiness and success in life. Tootsie, As Good as
It Gets, and Casablanca are examples.

The Flawed Hero

The basic plot structure of these stories is the same as for our genre examples –
the difference is that the hero must resolve an inner problem – or opportunity for
change – rather than an external one. Michael Dorsey in Tootsie must learn to treat
women with respect; Rick Blaine in Casablanca must rediscover his commitment to a
just cause and be selfless rather than selfish, and the Jack Nicholson character in
As Good as It Gets must experience empathy with another human being. Each of these
characters is flawed or wounded, and must overcome this in order to become a whole,
functional person.

Introduce a flawed hero and demonstrate their flawed behaviour

Hero denies flaw – but flawed behaviour causes problems in his life and the lives
of others

(Midpoint) Hero recognises and admits his internal flaw

Hero attempts to overcome flaw, but it is difficult; he falls back into old
behaviours, with catastrophic results

Hero overcomes flaw and happy ending. (Or, hero fails to overcome flaw and tragic
ending)

This flawed hero character development arc can be used in genre stories too. Often
both partners in a romance undergo some kind of growth or develop new self-
awareness, as they move from being alone to being in a partnership. A crusading
hero must learn the difference between revenge and justice. A warrior must learn
that not all situations can be resolved through confrontation, he must also learn
compassion.
The character development arc does not appear in all genre stories and is less
likely to appear where a character appears in a series of books. Though even here,
the character arc may be developed over three or six or more books in a series.
Where a character arc is used in a genre story, it is a subplot and is usually
closely-linked to the relationship subplot. A character’s progress along the
development arc is demonstrated through his relationships with other people.

What’s the Worst Thing That Could Happen?

A piece of advice you will often see in ‘how to’ books for writers is ‘know your
ending.’ This suggestion causes some people to run for the hills, waving their arms
and yelling ‘If I know how my story ends, there’s no point in me writing it!’ And
then there are some people who will write that part of the story first, and write
the rest of their story with the ending in mind. ‘You wouldn’t begin a journey
without knowing your destination,’ these people say. Both types of people are wrong
– and they’re sort of right as well.

Writing a novel or a screenplay isn’t really comparable to going on a journey.

Instead, think of it as creating a guidebook and map so that a reader or viewer can
go on a journey. When you start writing, you might not know exactly where the
journey will end up, and you may have to try a couple of places before you can pick
the one you’ll think is most effective for your travellers. At the same time, you
can’t just set off into the wilderness without some idea of the sort of place you
might like to end up.

The ending of a story is implied at the beginning and is further defined by the
genre of the story. Write a romance without a ‘happily ever after’ and you’re going
to struggle to find readers. And no Hollywood studio is going to invest hundreds of
millions of dollars in your blockbuster screenplay if your hero dies in the third
act and the US of A is overrun by foreign zombies.

Having said that, you want your reader or viewer to think it’s possible that this
sort of ending might happen.

Just before the climax of the story, the hero will suffer a crisis – his darkest
hour. He has suffered through ‘bad’ and ‘worse’ and has arrived at ‘worst.’

Throughout a story, a writer should be asking ‘what is the worst thing that could
happen at this moment?’ – and then making that thing happen, or at least making the
risk of it happening seem real. Your characters should be in constant physical or
emotional jeopardy at various levels of severity. But at the end of the third
quarter, we have to ask, ‘what is the worst possible thing that could happen to the
hero given what he has gone through thus far?’

It must appear to the reader or viewer that everything the hero had, and everything
he has gained during the story, is going to be lost. It should feel like this to
the hero too. At this point in the story, it should seem as if the villain has won.
Or the two lovers are further apart than they have ever been, with no hope of
reconciliation. The crisis should be the farthest from a happing ending that you
could imagine.

Unless you plan for it early, creating a crisis situation on a scale that feels
appropriate – with the right thing(s) at stake – for the story you are telling can
be tricky. It’s much better to think about it while you’re in the ‘four quarters’
stage, and to set down the bad, worse, and worst moments. This will help you create
the rising action and rising tension that a screenplay or novel must have.

A quick recap:

Bad = inciting incident/challenge at the end of Quarter 1

Worse = midpoint failure of first attempt at the end of Quarter 2

Worst = crisis/darkest hour; failure of second attempt at the end of Quarter 3

A weak ending in a film or novel is usually the result of the crisis not being
sufficiently strong. It is not enough that we feel sorry for the hero – we should
feel devastated! We should be upset and angry on his behalf.

In part, this worst situation is such that the hero has done the best that he can
to succeed, but his best has proven to be not good enough. We should feel that he
has done everything he could, but his circumstances – the odds against him – were
too much for him to overcome. Another feature of this moment of the story is that
the crisis is where the hero discovers the one thing that is more important to him
than anything else – including his own happiness, and possibly his own life. This
is the thing that he is prepared to sacrifice himself for – and that is what he has
to do in the final attempt at the climax of the story.

The crisis and climax at the end of a story should arise organically from the
challenge that is set up at the beginning. The first quarter is where we promise
the reader something special, and the final quarter is where we deliver on that
promise. The beginning implies the ending. The challenge offers the hero an
opportunity to achieve something that will bring happiness and fulfilment – or at
the very least, an escape from misery. The crisis and climax are where that
something is most obviously at stake, and where the outcome of a single action will
decide the hero’s fate.

The crisis point – the worst point – of a story is not the point at which the hero
fails to achieve something: it is much worse than that. After the midpoint, the
hero does actually appear to achieve this ‘something’ – he experiences those
feelings of happiness and fulfilment. But at the end of Act II, he loses it. He may
lose it as a result of his own actions, or because of something the antagonist
does, or from a combination of the two. It is usually best if he is at least partly
responsible for the loss himself.

They say it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all – but
that’s not how it feels when your heart has just been broken. The absence of love
is all the more intense for having experienced it. Give your hero a taste of
happiness – then whisk it away from under his nose. To be a writer, you have to
have a sadistic streak – at least when it comes to your fictional people.

Before you begin writing, you need to know what your worst moment is – not
necessarily the exact form it will take, because you can discover that as you
write, but your beginning defines your end. You can’t not have it in mind.

What Use is Any of This?

I believe that thinking about your story in terms of four quarters and a midpoint
can be a really useful tool. If you write those five things down, you have
virtually written out the logline for your screenplay. And you have the beginnings
of your synopsis and the headings for the main sections of your outline. If you
have an idea for a story, you can break it down and see if you can come up with
these five elements. If you can’t, the missing bits will give you an idea of what
you need to add to the idea to turn it into a viable starting point for a novel or
screenplay.

Four quarters and a midpoint are detailed enough to give you an overall structure
for your story, without being so detailed as to inhibit your creative freedom. They
may be all you need before you begin writing. Other writers may want to go on and
break these elements down further: we’ll look at the first stage of doing that in
the next chapter when we look at dividing the quarters into eighths.

Wherever you are in your writing process, you can come back to these five elements
and see whether what you are writing is fulfilling the required functions for that
quarter of the story. If you’re stuck, it can help you see if you’ve gone too far
off track, or it can give you a clue about where you should be heading next.

Does This Sound Right to You?

How do I know that this model for plotting stories is right? How do I know it will
work? I said at the beginning that this wasn’t the only way to explore plot, that
it was only a tool that you may find helpful. But hopefully, as you’ve been
reading, you will have recognised this pattern – not just from stories you’ve read
or movies you’ve seen, but also from your own life. It is based on theories about
how human beings deal with crises or other significant changes in their lives. A
problem, a change, a disaster, an opportunity enters a person’s life. Initially,
they may be unaware that this is their problem. They may ignore it, deny it, try
and force it or blame it on someone else, or they may be completely ignorant of it.
But eventually, they are forced to do something to deal with it. They decide to
tackle the situation. End of Act I.

They take their first steps but are in a state of unknowing: they don’t yet know
the extent of what they don’t know. Act II begins with them trying to deal the
situation, without fully understanding its nature and scale. Then at the midpoint,
they have a realisation or revelation: they achieve a new awareness. Now they know
the full extent of their problem.

In the second half of Act II, they begin to take action based on this new
awareness. They may feel overwhelmed by the situation and suffer a period of self-
doubt, but with a little encouragement from others they recommit themselves to
dealing with the situation. They become a kind of enthusiastic but unskilled
underdog, and this almost proves their undoing. All seems lost. End of Act II.

By the end, our underdog has become a seasoned veteran: he has learned many
difficult lessons and is now ready to make one last attempt at success.

This is a pattern we see when someone falls in love; when they lose a job; when
they start a new job; when a loved one dies; when someone suffers an illness or
injury. It is the pattern of how people deal with major events in their life.
Stories mirror that pattern, and that’s one of the reasons why stories can resonate
so deeply – they echo our experiences.

A problem or new opportunity upsets the balance of my life

I am the victim of my circumstances, and accept that I must suffer

(Midpoint) I accept responsibility for my problem and choose to take action rather
than continue suffering

I fight, but I am an inexperienced underdog and I make mistakes

I apply what I have learned and achieve relief and/or success

The psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross wrote about this pattern of experience in

her book On Death and Dying (1969). She described ‘five stages of grief’ which I
will summarise as:

Denial – A person, in a state of shock and confusion, refuses to believe a terminal

diagnosis, and clings to false hope for a preferable outcome.

Anger – Unable to maintain their denial, the individual becomes frustrated and
angry: Why me? They become angry and may seek to blame people around them.

Bargaining – This involves the hope that the individual can avoid death by
negotiation: Let me live and I will change my life.

Depression – The lowest point for the individual, when they give up all hope and
withdraw and often don’t want to see or interact with others: I’m going to die,
what’s the point?

Acceptance – The individual comes to terms with the inevitable and achieves a sense
of peace, understanding that they cannot prevent what is to come, and so must use
whatever time they have left to best effect, and to prepare themselves.

Kübler-Ross was writing about the experience of people who had been given a
terminal diagnosis, and of the reactions of their close family. Her theory has been
criticised for being not universally applicable – some people don’t go through
these stages – and for being too linear: people do not progress cleanly from one
stage to another, they can fall back into an earlier stage, and some stages can
overlap. But her model has been accepted and extended to the experience of all
kinds of life-changing events: I first came across it in a work context, when it
was used to help people come to terms with major changes in working practices which
were having an impact on morale in a team.

Kübler-Ross’s original five stages, and the change model adapted from it, are
usually presented in terms of a curve. A sixth stage is sometimes added –
‘Integration’ – to show that having accepted the change, people go forwards having
made it a part of their lives:

You have probably already spotted the similarity between this s-curve and the one
we saw earlier for the plot of the movie Jaws. We can imagine it as plotting the
emotional journey of our hero, from the initial surprise of the challenge or
opportunity; then a downward trajectory as his initial attempts at resolving his
situation fail; and then ultimately battling up from the low-point towards a
positive ending. Our reader or audience will be going on the same journey with our
main character.

Four quarters and a midpoint allow us to construct the ‘bird’s-eye view’ of our own
plots. Whenever you are first planning your story, or at any point where you are
struggling to figure out where your plot is going, I would recommend setting
everything else aside and coming back to this very simple model. Have you defined
your bad, worse, worst, and climax? Have you figured out what happens at the
midpoint? The midpoint is an important turning point in the story, and we will look
at it in depth later. But now let’s look at adding the next level of detail by
dividing our quarters into eighths.

The Eight Sequences: An Introduction

How do you create a plot for a 120-minute movie or an 80,000-word (or more) novel?
That’s a lot of pages to fill. The ‘eight sequences model’ says that in the main
plotline of any full-length film or novel, there are seven key moments or ‘turning
points’ – and everything else either builds up to, or happens as a consequence of,
one of these moments.

If you can identify these seven key moments in your story, then you’ve got your
plot sorted.

Divide your story up into eight roughly equal parts, and there will be a turning
point or mini climax at, or near, the end of the first seven parts. The eighth part
is where you tie up the loose ends after the seventh turning point: this seventh
point is the climax of the story and its highest point.

Each of the seven key moments serves a specific function in the story. And they
each occur in roughly the same place, regardless of the genre of your story. This
is as close to the ‘secret formula’ as we’re going to get!

The development and teaching of eight-part structure are credited to Frank Daniel,
while he was the head of the Graduate Screenwriting Program at the University of
Southern California. František Daniel was a film director, producer and
screenwriter born in Kolín, Czechoslovakia in 1926. He died in 1996. He produced
and/or directed more than 40 films, before he emigrated to the United States in
1969. He wrote two books on filmmaking: Cesta za Filmovým Dramatem (The Path to
Film Drama, with Miloš Kratochvíl, 1956), and Stručný Přehled Vývoje Evropských
Dramatických Teorií (A Compact Overview of European Dramatic Theories, 1957). As
far as I am aware, neither of these books have been translated into English and
Daniel never published the theories on screenwriting that he taught: the
information we have comes from people who were students of Frank Daniel.

Paul Gulino’s Screenwriting: The Sequence Approach is the best known of the books
about plotting screenplays using eight-sequences. Chris Soth also teaches this
approach, and has published Million-Dollar Screenwriting: The Mini-Movie Method.
Alexandra Sokoloff writes about it in Screenwriting Tricks for Authors: Stealing
Hollywood. And you can find articles about it on ScriptLab.com
Big films, Gulino writes, are made up of little films. He defines a sequence as an
eight- to fifteen-minute segment of a movie that has its own internal structure,
and says that it differs from a standalone 15-minute movie in that the conflicts
and issues raised in it are only partially resolved, and even if an issue is
resolved, it often opens up a new issue which will become the subject of a later
sequence. Gulino says that the 15-minute sequence exists because of the way films
used to be distributed in the early days of cinema. A film reel held about a
thousand feet of film: when it was projected, this lasted for around fifteen
minutes. When the reel ended, the projectionist had to load a new spool so that the
story could be continued: the audience had to wait while he did this, so filmmakers
used to end a reel with some incident that ensured that people remained seated so
they could find out what happened next. These end of reel incidents weren’t
necessarily cliff-hangers, like those in the old weekly movie serials, but they
were something which captured the attention. TV shows do the same thing to make
sure we come back after the commercial break.

A full-length feature film filled between six and eight reels: 8 x 15 = 120
minutes. This sounds like it could all be made-up, but here is a quote from the
1913 manual The Technique of the Photoplay by Epes Winthrop Sargent, in which he
talks about the ‘multiple reel’ film:

“While this is undoubtedly the story of the future, its special technique is still
so new that few definite rules may be laid down. Some companies want stories in
which each reel or part shall be capable of being used as a single reel
independently of the other reels or parts. This is because a story may be found not
strong enough in interest to run for two or three reels and yet one or more of the
parts may be made into good single reel releases. The more general demand, however,
is for a series of reels with a continuous subject, each reel terminating with a
minor climax with the grand climax at the end of the last reel. For this no better
example can be given than the play of the stage. At the end of each act there comes
a definite stoppage of the action at a point which leaves the audience eager for
the continuation.”

Gulino acknowledges that as films became longer, and particularly with the advent
of talking pictures in the late 1920s, screenwriters adopted the approach to
plotting used by playwrights which developed out of the five-act structure. He also
notes that ten to fifteen minutes has generally been quoted as the average length
of the human attention-span.

The Eight Sequences: A Summary

Here is my own summary of the eight-part structure:

Set-up and Challenge

Reluctance and Commitment (Decision)

Preparation and Minor Actions

First Attempt & Failure (Action)

Planning (Decision)

Second Attempt and Crisis (Action)

Climax / Third Attempt (Decision & Action)

Conclusion

Placing this on our story line gives us something like this diagram:

I think this diagram gives a helpful breakdown of the shape of a plot, with its
broad indications of ‘what goes where.’ At the end of each of the first seven
sequences, there is a turning point, indicated by a thicker line. The emotional or
dramatic significance of each of these turning points will vary, with a tendency
towards more dramatic turning points as we approach the end of the story – these
are indicated by the height of the lines above the baseline. The overall shape of
the ‘graph’ above resembles a stretched out version of the Kübler-Ross change-curve
we saw earlier, with the issuing of the challenge at the end of Sequence 1 being
the equivalent of the ‘shock.’

Generally speaking, there will be a slight dip in the level of drama or emotion at
the end of Sequence 3 and the end of Sequence 5. In both cases, things seem to be
going well for the hero, and he is poised to take action towards his story
objective, and he feels reasonably confident of success. The dip at the end of
Sequence 3 prepares the way for the heightened drama of the midpoint at the end of
Sequence 4. And the dip at the end of Sequence 5 prepares for the heightened drama
of the crisis at the end of Sequence 6.

The ‘action’ – whatever this consists of in the context of the story – occurs more
frequently as the story progresses, with each major action phase being preceded by
a decision phase.

What Goes in Each Sequence?

(1) Setting up the Situation. The hero and his world are introduced, and he is
given a ‘challenge’ or ‘call to adventure’ or an opportunity for change. This is
the ‘inciting incident’ or catalyst that starts off the chain of events that will
form the story.

(2) Responding to the Challenge – Decision. The hero may initially deny the
situation he is faced with, or be reluctant to accept the challenge he has been
presented with. An external action – by an opponent or by an ally – serves to push
or pull the hero into making a decision. He accepts the challenge and chooses a
goal which he believes will provide a solution to his predicament. Here we also
learn what is at stake for the hero. What terrible fate will await him if he fails?
What is the worst possible thing that could happen to him? At this point, set-up of
the story is complete and the ‘major dramatic question’ has been asked: Will the
hero succeed? Sometimes there is a secondary question: Has he chosen the right goal
to be successful?

(3) Actions Taken in Ignorance. The hero doesn’t really know what he is doing, and
he doesn’t really know what he is up against. He begins by doing the obvious things
that anyone would do in his situation. This sequence answers the question ‘Why
doesn’t he just go to the police? / run away? / get out of the house?’ He may also
attempt one or more quick fixes, showing that he has underestimated the difficulty
of the situation. These easy options don’t work, and we see his options being
reduced and the chances of failure increasing. The audience may be aware of
something that the hero doesn’t know: we may know that he has chosen the wrong
goal; we may know that he has a lack of knowledge, skills, or experience that he
will have to overcome before he can succeed; we may know that he has been set-up
and manipulated by someone; we may know that his closest ally has betrayed him...
We have rising action, tension, or suspense in this section. The audience should be
aware that the hero has taken on more than he can cope with, or that he has made
some fatal or tragic error that will guarantee his failure – but the hero doesn’t
know this yet. The hero realises he has to come up with a more considered plan of
action, which he does – but it is based on an incomplete knowledge of the nature
and scale of the problem he faces. The odds for its success don’t look good. The
climax of Sequence 3 is the point at which he takes the first action of what will
be, in effect, his First Attempt to achieve the story objective.

(4) The First Attempt: Action Taken in Ignorance 2. The hero tries harder to
achieve his goal, putting into effect the main action he has planned for his First
Attempt. But we know he’s still doing the wrong thing or going for the wrong goal
or doing things for the wrong reason. The hero may suspect that there is a problem,
but he will deny it. People around him may know that the hero is the problem, but
he will refuse to accept this. His actions will have consequences that make his
situation worse rather than better. The hero will probably have provoked the
villain or rival into taking action against him. He may have put other people at
risk. Again we have rising action and suspense, building towards the midpoint of
the story. The First Attempt fails, and it usually fails because of some action (or
inaction) by the hero.

(Midpoint) A Moment of Revelation or Discovery. The hero learns what the audience
has known or suspected for a while; the problem is bigger than he imagined; he has
chosen the wrong goal; he has some sort of lack that is preventing him from
succeeding; he is ignorant of something that he needs to know. The midpoint is like
a pivot point, where things could go one of two ways. In a tragedy, the midpoint is
often a ‘false victory’ – the hero thinks his actions are working and believes that
he doesn’t need to change; he just needs to fight harder. In a ‘happy-ending’
story, the midpoint is usually a ‘false defeat’ – something terrible happens or is
learned, and the hero feels that he will never be able to succeed; the odds are too
high, the challenge too great. But actually this midpoint defeat is a learning
opportunity – only by going through this experience can he gain the knowledge,
skills, experience, wisdom, self-knowledge, or whatever he needs in order to
succeed.

(5) Responding to the Midpoint. Typically this is a character-focused moment; a

pause for reflection and re-evaluation. It is a decision phase. The hero needs to
decide whether or not to continue with his story quest, in the light of what he has
just learned. The hero may suffer a crisis of confidence: I can’t do this, it’s too
much for me. I’m not brave, smart, good-looking, skilful enough. An ally or lover
will usually support the hero during this, and help him to overcome his self-doubt.
I believe in you, I know you can do this. With their relationship centre-stage, we
often see a glimpse here of what the hero’s life could be like if he successfully
completes his story quest. This effectively raises the relationship stakes,
bringing hero and ally or lover closer together, and making the bond between them
stronger. The hero does decide to continue, and may choose a new goal at this point
if he was previously going for the wrong goal; or he may go for the same goal but
now for the right reason, if he had been acting selfishly before. In either case,
he makes a recommitment to achieving success. And the hero begins planning his
Second Attempt. The major dramatic question is restated, though success now seems
less likely than it did in Sequence 2. The hero’s response to the midpoint is often
a decision to be more pro-active – he will take the fight to his opponent, rather
than carry on reacting to whatever the opponent throws at him: he moves from
passive to active. At the same time, the opponent or villain may also change his
goal: he no longer wants to prevent the hero from succeeding, he wants to
completely destroy him. The stakes have been raised. Sequence 5 climaxes with the
hero taking the first action of the Second Attempt.

(6) The Second Attempt. Sequence 6 contains the main action of the hero’s Second
Attempt. This part takes us from the hero’s re-commitment and renewed optimism, to
a point of catastrophe or crisis, when the Second Attempt fails. This failure,
which marks the end of Act II, is the major crisis of the story, and is the hero’s
‘darkest hour.’ At this point he appears to have lost everything that was important
to him; he has brought harm to people he cared about and has effectively handed
victory to his opponent. The opponent or villain may have used the hero’s own
weakness against him, forcing the hero to make – in a moment of desperation – an
unwise move that was bound to fail. In Sequence 2 we had a glimpse of the ‘worst
possible thing’ that could happen to the hero. At the crisis point, we see this
actually happen – only much worse! Early in the story, he didn’t really know what
was most valuable to him; during the course of his adventures he has come to
realise what he really cares about; and now at the end of Sequence 6, he has lost
that and more. The catastrophe has to be so bad that the hero feels that all is
lost – that he will never achieve his story goal, and that his relationship with
his ally or lover has ended for good: he must feel that he has nothing left to
lose.

(7) Responding to the Crisis and the Third Attempt (The Climax). Sequence 7 is the
beginning of Act III. It begins with a decision phase – the hero must decide how to
respond to the crisis and failure of the previous sequence. He faces a dilemma, a
choice between two courses of action. He must also make this decision alone, as he
doesn’t have the co-protagonist – the ally or lover – to support him this time. As
we are close to the end of the story at this point, the decision phase is kept
reasonably short as we want to move quickly into action again. The hero has been
pushed to a point where he is prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to
prevent the villain or opponent from succeeding. He is no longer acting out of
selfish motives, he doesn’t care what happens to himself, and he is prepared to do
whatever it takes to bring about the right outcome. He will sacrifice his own love,
his sanity, his physical self: he is prepared to die, figuratively or literally, to
save the thing that is most important to him. This ‘thing’ will usually be
something tangible that represents a human value or virtue; ‘justice,’ for example.
Sequence 7 is the final battle or a do-or-die struggle, the Third Attempt, and
involves a coming together of whatever has gone before. The climax of this sequence
is the climax of the story as a whole, and should be the most dramatic and
emotional point in the story.

(8) Resolution and Denouement. The outcome of the battle, the major dramatic
question is answered. Endings can be tragic, happy, or ironic, but they must answer
the question: Did the hero succeed? Sequence 8 ties up any loose ends, answers any
remaining questions about the fate of secondary characters. It shows us the
consequences of the success (or otherwise) of the Third Attempt. And it gives a
hint of what the new ‘everyday world’ will be like for the hero: he is not the same
person he was in Sequence 1, and he will not be returning to a life that is the
same as it was. He may return to the same place and the same job, but something
important will have changed. You can also have a final ‘twist in the tail’ in
Sequence 8, if that is appropriate for your story, or if you want to set up the
possibility of a sequel. Sequence 8 is effectively a post-climax ‘winding down,’
with no action, and – at most – only a ‘what shall we do now?’ decision to be made.
This sequence should be kept relatively short.

In the following chapters, we look at each of the eight sequences in more detail,
and we’ll also see how they relate to the traditional idea of the ‘three acts.’

Act I: Setting Up and Setting in Motion

Act I, the beginning, in the ‘three-act structure’ is the first quarter of a story
and is made up of Sequences 1 and 2. It can be longer or shorter than one quarter
of your story: in some stories, it may be half this length (an eighth of the total
length of the novel or screenplay), in others, it may need to be up to a third of
the total length. Do whatever feels right for the story you are currently writing.
But if you’re still setting up your story past the midpoint, chances are something
has gone wrong. The first two sequences should set-up your story and set it in
motion. You need to introduce all of the important elements that the reader will
need in order to understand and appreciate your story. The beginning sets up a
situation and sparks off the chain of events – actions and reactions – that will
provide the ‘rising action’ that makes up the middle of the story, and that will
propel the story forward. And it sets in motion the forces that will collide at the
end of the story.

Promises, Promises

Nancy Kress, in Beginnings, Middles and Ends, says that the beginning of a story
makes implicit promises to the reader. On an emotional level you are saying: Read
my story and you will be “... entertained, or thrilled, or scared, or titillated,
or saddened, or nostalgic, or uplifted...” And on an intellectual level, you
promise the reader a new perspective on the world or an introduction to a new and
interesting world. These promises are made at the beginning of the story; the
middle develops the promise; while a satisfying ending delivers on the promise.
Endings feel satisfying, Kress says, only because the beginning set-up the implicit
promise in the first place.

Fight, Fight, Fight!

Dwight V. Swain, in Techniques of the Selling Writer, says that the function of the
beginning is to “... let your reader know there is going to be a fight – and that
it’s the kind of fight that will interest him.” A story is generally about some who
wants to do something – remember the Greeks saying that drama is action? A story is
about a character who wants to get or keep something, or who wants to escape from
or prevent something. To get. To keep. To escape. To prevent. These are verbs. At
school you were probably taught that these are ‘doing’ words. A story has someone
who wants to do something. It also needs something that stands in the way of this
character’s success: there needs to be some obstacle or opposing force that means
there is a risk of the character failing to achieve their desired purpose. Desire
and danger are two of the key factors in a story. The third, according to Swain, is
decision. The hero of a story is someone who makes a decision to take action, even
when they know that there is risk involved in doing so. The beginning of a story
has to introduce those three elements: desire, danger, and decision. In fact, that
almost defines the first quarter for us. Who is the story about? What do they want?
What stands in their way? What risk do they face if they decide to take action?

There is a danger here of assuming that we are talking about physical risk here and
that by ‘fight’ Swain is referring to something like a bare-knuckle brawl. But when
we talk about danger, the thing at risk is actually some positive human value: it
could be love, or justice, or dignity, or any one of a dozen other things. The risk
faced by the character may be physical, but it could also be to their emotional or
mental well-being. There is as much danger and conflict in a love story as there is
in an action-adventure story – perhaps more. But the stakes are different, and the
‘fight’ takes place in a different arena. The ‘arena’ is another thing that has to
be established at the beginning of the story: where and when is the story taking
place? The genre too needs to be defined, though there’s every chance that was done
by the title and cover of your book or the movie poster. But still, the beginning
has to be in the style of the genre. Each genre has a whole set of implicit
promises that the reader expects you to deliver on.

In discussing plot there is a tendency to think about a story being about a person
with a problem. Many stories deal with exactly that. But there doesn’t have to be a
problem at the centre of every story. Sometimes the thing that the hero is dealing
with is an opportunity: should he accept it? What will be the implications if he
does? The key thing is that something new comes into a character’s life – this is
the catalyst or inciting incident we will talk about shortly – and this new thing
means that the character has to deal with change. A change is not necessarily a
problem, but it is something that we need to understand and accept and integrate
into our lives. One of the things that draws us to stories is that they show us how
other people deal with change in their lives. Change is a universal experience.

The Beginning, Middle, and End of the Beginning

It has been said by more than one writer that a story is like a fractal or a set of
Russian dolls. The same pattern is repeated on smaller and smaller scale. A story
has a beginning, middle and end. So does each quarter, each sequence, each scene
sequence, each scene, and each beat within a scene. The first act, or beginning, of
our story, will have its own beginning, middle, and end. Early in Act I, we meet
the protagonist and we see the world in which he or she lives. In the middle of Act
I a change is introduced, that upsets the equilibrium of the hero’s life. In the
last part of Act I we see how the hero responds to this change, and we see them
make a decision to take a specific action. They decide to do something.

The Major Dramatic Question

Once the hero has made a decision to act, the story set-up is done and we move from
the beginning into the middle – from Act I into Act II. At this point, we have –
implicitly – asked the central question of our story: Will the hero succeed in
resolving his situation? This question – sometimes referred to as the major
dramatic question – is not answered until the ending of the story, until Act III.
Part of the reason your reader keeps turning the pages is to find out the answer to
this question. Everything that follows is directly related to this question; every
action and every line of dialogue bring us closer to the answer. If we are honest,
the answer to this central question isn’t in much doubt. Of course, the hero will
defeat the villain; the murderer will be identified; the lovers will be reunited.
The real reason we keep turning the pages is that we want to learn how the hero
succeeds. And the fact that we want to see him suffer along the way, though we
never admit that to anyone. We want to see what he has to overcome in order to
succeed. And we probably want to understand why achieving this objective is so
important to him. Why does he risk his life, health, happiness, and/or sanity? The
how, what, and why are what the middle, the second act, are all about.

Begin at the Beginning

The best place to begin your novel or screenplay is at a point just before change
is introduced into your hero’s life. That change will be the ‘inciting incident’ or
‘call to adventure’ or ‘gaunlet’ or ‘challenge,’ and will happen before the end of
the first sequence of your story. This incident may be the culmination of a number
of smaller incidents that cumulatively cause the change in the hero’s
circumstances. If you start your story way, way before the inciting incident takes
place, you risk boring your reader who is sitting there waiting for something
significant to happen. Conversely, if you begin at the moment of change, you may
confuse the reader: they don’t know who the change is happening to or why it is
significant to them. You need to prepare the way a little bit. And if you open
after the change has taken place, you may find yourself having to shoehorn in great
chunks of exposition or backstory.

That is enough overview, let’s get into the detail of the two sequences that make
up Act I.

Sequence 1: Set-up, Foreshadowing & Challenge

The function of Sequence 1 is to introduce vital elements, foreshadow the coming

conflict, and build up to the inciting incident (or ‘challenge’ or ‘call to
adventure’). The first sequence is probably the most important of any novel or
screenplay: if these pages don’t work, there is every chance that the rest of the
story won’t be read at all. Within a very short time, the reader will know whether
the story is working, whether or not it is being properly set-up. These pages must
capture the reader’s attention and make them want to read on. Little wonder, then,
that these are the pages that writers rewrite and polish the most. When we begin
reading a story, we have a number of questions: Who is the story about? What kind
of story is it? What is it about? What is the hero trying to achieve by the end of
the story? Why does he need to achieve it, and why now? Who or what stands in his
way? What happens if he fails? In other words: Who is the story about, what do they
want, and why do I care? With that in mind, there are a number of things that you
should try and include as soon as possible. Some of them are elements of the story
that need to be included, and some are effects that you need to achieve.

I’ve listed 12 things in total, and I have numbered them for ease of presentation.
With the exception of the first one, these can occur in just about any order you
like. The 1 to 12 sequence I have here is one possible way of doing it – but many
of them overlap, and some of them occur simultaneously. The sequence here is really
only so that I can introduce them in some sort of logical order in this guide. Some
of these things are optional, but if your story has them, Sequence 1 is (probably)
where they should be introduced. Some of them can wait until Sequence 2 if that
works better for your story, but those marked * really ought to be in Sequence 1.

Vivid Opening Image or Paragraph*

Hook*

The Opening Scene: Action or Slow-Build?*

Choose the Right Type of Opening Scene*

Genre*

Setting*

Introduce the Hero*

Introduce the Value / Theme

The Hero’s Internal Problem or ‘Lack’

Foreshadowing – Coming Soon: Conflict!*

Opposition: The Antagonist

The Challenge or Inciting Incident*

All of this may make Sequence 1 seem even more daunting, but it shouldn’t. Knowing
what these pages need to achieve, you can construct them so they deliver what
people will be looking for. This sequence can be rewritten as often as necessary to
get them right. Initially, it may be sufficient simply to make only a few notes
regarding what scenes are meant to achieve: the best opening for a story is
sometimes not discovered until the first draft has been completed. Let’s look at
each of the 12 elements of Sequence 1 in detail.

1. Vivid Opening Image or Paragraph

First impressions count – this applies as much to stories as it does to people. In

a book store, a reader may open your book and read the opening sentences to see if
it is the sort of thing they want to read. On line, they might look at your sample
chapters before deciding whether to buy. You want your opening paragraph to make it
easy for them to say ‘yes.’

Films and television are visual media and can use an image to capture the attention
of the viewer. Or a blurred or abstract image to intrigue them and draw them in. Or
a black screen with sound over it, so that people wonder what it is they are not
seeing. It could be a ‘wide shot,’ establishing the world of the story, or it could
be an extreme close-up of one tiny detail that symbolises that world, or hints at
the action to come. It may be a ‘still life’ or a tableau. It may be an action.
Quick movement, slow movement, or no movement – whatever is most appropriate for
your story. The image can reveal the location of the story, the time period –
including historical period, season, or time of day; the genre; the tone – is it a
comedy or a tragedy? – and the mood. The image can also be a representation – a
metaphor – for the story to come. It might show an action that demonstrates, in
miniature, the conflict that will be played out in the main story. Or it may
symbolise the value (or virtue) that will be at stake. Or the vice that will be
fought or argued against in what is to come. The opening image can also be
contrasted with an image at the climax of the story, or the closing image – showing
a ‘before and after.’ These images can show the change that the hero has undergone
or the change that he has brought about in his world. Or has failed to bring about.
Films and television episodes can begin with an action prologue or ‘teaser,’ in
which case the ‘opening image’ may be the first image of the scene immediately
following the prologue.

A novel can use all of these same techniques, but obviously you will need to evoke
the image, making the reader see it in his or her mind’s eye.

The opening may include the hero, or it may not. It might show his world during a
moment of peace, before the arrival of some disruptive element. Or it may instead
show something that is about to impact on the hero’s world and upset its balance.

Alice Orr, in No More Rejections, gives five options for the opening sentence of
your novel:

A startling exclamation in dialogue

An intriguing statement

A comment on something or someone strange

A comment about an unusual aspect of setting

A brief statement alluding to a disaster or pending disaster

She also suggests that this opening sentence should be a simple declarative one.

The opening could be something that is weird, that intrigues the reader and makes
them what to find out more. Or it could be the beginning of a sequence of action
that captures their attention so that they want to discover how it turns out. The
important thing is to make your opening paragraph vivid. Create an image and evoke
an emotion. Choose something that is appropriate for the genre and tone of your
story.

The Hook: Grab Me or Seduce Me

What is going to make the reader want to keep reading? Many stories are rejected by
readers, producers, and agents before they have read to the bottom of the first
page because there was nothing that made them want to read on. You have to make
them turn that first page. Some writers deliberately structure their stories –
whether screenplay or novel – so that there is something at the bottom of the first
page that will make the reader want to turn over. Like a mini cliffhanger. I’ve
probably spent too much time watching Hollywood movies, but I like to ‘grab’ a
reader and pull them into my story. I always want to start with something startling
or intriguing or violent or loud. Dialogue is a good way to start, people love to
listen in on conversations. Or you can start with action – in medias res (in the
middle of things) as Horace put it.

A narrative hook is something which catches the attention of the reader. Science
fiction writer Harry Harrison’s novel The Stainless Steel Rat opens with a hook.
Harrison told me that he was practising writing narrative hooks and wrote one that
hooked him: he had to write the short story to see what happened. The short became
a novel, and the novel became a series that we wrote, on and off, for the rest of
his life. He explained to me what a narrative hook was:

Back in New York, when I was still an artist, I knew all the writers, and we would
sit around and talk. One of the things we discussed was the narrative hook. The
first page of a pulp story [manuscript] has the name and address of the person to
be paid for the story up in the left-hand corner; in the right-hand corner, we have
the number of words in the story. That’s the money! Then, we jump to the middle of
the page – because we need a lot of white for the editor to write on – the title,
double-space, ‘by’ any name at all, double-space, then the first paragraph. And
it’s all double-spaced. At this point you end up with six, or seven, or eight lines
on the front page of the manuscript. The narrative hook is something that will hook
the editor into turning that page. There’s so much crap coming in front of him that
is so rotten: eergh! He looks at it and throws it away. But if you get him to turn
the page, he says: God, I turned the page! I’ll buy it!

Harrison was exaggerating – he did that sometimes – but not by much.

We will look at different types of opening scene under item 3 below. Action is a
good way to open a story: straight away your story has a sense of forward momentum
that – if done well – pulls your reader along. In Hollywood movies, there is often
an action prologue for this reason – the pre-credits or credits sequence. Even when
there is no action prologue, there should be a sense of impending action. Something
is coming. There has to be a sense of forward movement.

The hook, or ‘grabber,’ has been criticised for being unsubtle and overused.
Michael Hauge, in Writing Screenplays That Sell said that “...no one likes to be
grabbed. It’s a jarring, unpleasant experience. A far better way to approach the
opening of your script is to realize you’ve got to seduce the reader...”

The thing that keeps a reader turning the pages after the opening is suspense, but
it isn’t always possible to create suspense at the very beginning: here you often
have to rely on arousing the reader’s curiosity. Dwight V. Swain gives us five
possible ways to achieve this:

Uniqueness

The unanticipated

Deviation from routine

A change about to take place

Inordinate attention to the commonplace

Wells Root, in Writing the Script, offers one possibility that does allow you to
open with suspense. He gives an example described by playwrights Howard Lindsay and
Russell Crouse, in which the curtain goes up on an empty living room setting: and a
man enters...

...carrying a box marked DYNAMITE. He places it carefully under a centre-stage

sofa. Lighting the fuse, he pushes the box gently out of sight. Then he disappears
backstage where he came from. After a moment, the characters in the play enter the
living room and launch into their opening dialogue.

As Root says, the audience will stay in their seats until that dynamite is
discovered. This example sounds like one of Alfred Hitchcock’s, but the ‘plant’ in
such a scene doesn’t have to be something as melodramatic as a bomb: it could be
anything that is likely to ‘blow up’ at some later point in the story. This is an
example of the audience knowing something the characters on stage don’t, which is a
much-used technique for gaining – and keeping – reader involvement.

Your opening sentence and opening paragraph have to draw the reader into the story.
How you do this depends on the type of story you are telling. You might introduce a
person or location or situation that the reader will want to find out more about.
Or you could present them with a puzzle they will want to see unravelled, or an
intriguing question they will want to know the answer to. Or you could amuse them.
Or startle them. A word of warning: I would avoid trying to confuse your reader.
That could just turn them off and make them put the book down forever. Better to
give them a subtle hint that something is not quite right. Secondly, be aware that
when your story opens, your audience will want to know who the ‘hero’ of the story
is as soon as possible. For the most part, modern audiences expect an individual
hero with whom they can identify and empathise, or at least be intrigued by. If you
spend a lot of time on a different character at the beginning this could confuse
things. It’s easier if you’re writing a first person protagonist in a novel,
because by implication you’ve introduced them the moment they begin telling the
story, and they can talk about any character they like, which at the same time will
be revealing something about their own character: Auntie Maureen was the loudest
person I ever met. Even her lipstick was loud...

The best way to figure out how effective openings work is to examine the first
paragraphs of successful and popular novels or the opening scenes of movies, both
in the genre in which you intend to write and in other genres. This is one area
where you are probably best advised to look at modern novels rather than classics.
Readers today expect a much snappier opening than those employed by, say, Charles
Dickens. These expectations are based on a lifetime of watching movies and
television, where stories begin quickly. Except in certain rare circumstances, you
cannot afford to have a slow build-up with a great deal of non-essential detail.

All of which advice is probably enough to put anyone off trying to write the
opening of a story. How can you sit down and write an opening that achieves all of
these things? The answer is that, except in occasional fortunate circumstances, you
can’t. No one can. Opening paragraphs are the most frequently rewritten parts in
anyone’s story, and you often can’t find the right opening until you’ve completed
the first draft. Just start with something that works okay, and come back and fix
it later. Or if that doesn’t work, type this:

[Opening paragraph]

And then carry on and write the next paragraph. My first drafts are littered with
square brackets that say things like [Insert fight scene] or [Joe says something
hilarious] or [Research 1930s coaches] or [word beginning with ‘s’ that means
sounding like a snake]. If something isn’t in my head ready to go down on the page,
I try not to stop and worry about it, otherwise I risk being ‘blocked’ until I can
remember the word ‘sibilant’; or I’ll waste an hour looking at images of coaches on
Google, and then I’ll get distracted and go off and search for some new fonts, and
then someone I’m following on YouTube will have posted a new video...

3. The Opening Scene: Action or Slow-Build?

There are basically two ways to open your story: begin with action, or begin with
calm and have a slow build-up to action. Which you choose will depend on what type
of story you are writing.

Action. With some genres, we are plunged into fast-paced or suspenseful events from
the outset. The story begins in the middle of some action that is already underway,
or it shows a complete action, such as a robbery. If you are writing an action-
adventure story, this is the obvious opening to choose. More than half of Hollywood
movies are action-oriented, relying on strong visuals and simple dialogue: this
makes them easy to translate and sell into foreign markets.

Slow-Build. In other stories, it is more important to introduce the reader to the

hero and his everyday world, before showing the events that upset the balance of
that world. The storm that hits the world may be on the horizon, and we may see it
gradually approaching. Or it may be brewing within the world itself, pressure
building and building until an explosion is inevitable. We will look at the hero in
his ordinary world in more detail under the heading ‘setting’ below.

Over the next couple of pages, we will look at some different techniques you can
use for creating both action and slow-build openings.

4. Choosing the Right Type of Opening Scene

There are five types of opening scene:

Prologue

Flash-forward

True Beginning

Montage

Narration

Prologue

A prologue is usually a self-contained scene that takes place before the main
action of the story. It may take place many years before, or just a few hours.
Either way, it shows events that will have a direct impact on the main story. One
exception to this is the pre-credits sequence in an action-adventure movie, which
may simply be designed to show how much of a kick-ass dude the main hero is – e.g.
James Bond or Indiana Jones. The prologue could show the villain at work, doing bad
things that will have an impact later: this happens quite often in horror movies,
where we see some terrible thing being released or created or arriving on the
scene, doing something nasty, and then heading off towards some peaceful
unsuspecting community. Halloween opens with the serial killer’s first murder,
committed years before. Jaws opens with a shark-attack, which is the first in a
chain of events that will lead directly to the climactic confrontation between the
hero and the monstrous Great White.

The prologue may show some other sort of incident or danger that will soon impact
on the hero’s life. If the audience sees something that the hero doesn’t know about
yet – a literal or metaphorical storm that is about to wreak havoc on his world –
then the reader is placed in a ‘superior’ position: they have information the hero
doesn’t. This use of dramatic irony sets up anticipation and tension: the audience
is waiting for the storm to hit. 48HRS opens with convicts escaping from a chain-
gang, an event that sets off a chain reaction which ends up with cop Nick Nolte
teaming up with convict Eddie Murphy. A less extreme variation of this type of
opening is one which shows events that foreshadow or symbolically represent the
conflict that is to come. This type of prologue doesn’t show the actual ‘storm’
that is heading the hero’s way, but instead shows a similar type of storm, usually
on a smaller scale.

There is another form of prologue which I would advise against using – this is the
‘bookend’ or framing device. Here you start in one location and time period, and
then jump to the main story which takes place in another location and at a
different time period, sometimes in flashback. At the end of the story, we are
returned to the first location and time period. One of the (many) problems with
this device is that it draws attention to the fact that the story is being ‘told,’
as opposed to giving the impression that it unfolding now, in real time, in front
of the audience. If we want to draw our readers in, so that they become ‘lost’ in
our stories, we should avoid anything that distracts them from what is happening.

Flash-Forward

You don’t have to start telling your story at the beginning of the chronological
sequence of events. You can begin with something that happens in the middle, and
then – through exposition or flash-back – fill in the details of what happened to
bring about the action we saw in the first scene. With this sort of opening, the
story is already in motion, and the background details aren’t filled in until
later. You will often see this in TV shows. They start with some intriguing action
that typically ends up with a major character lying shot and bleeding, and then you
will see a caption that says ‘24 hours earlier,’ and we’ll see the events leading
up to the shooting. And all the time we are sitting anticipating the events we have
already seen and wondering whether the shot character is going to survive or not.
The movie Confidence is a great example of this technique in practice. Reservoir
Dogs and The Usual Suspects are variations on the same thing. At first glance, this
might look like an example of the framing device I have just advised you not to
use, but it is slightly different in that the main action of the story eventually
‘catches up’ with the time and location of the opening prologue.
True Beginning

For some stories, it is appropriate to start at the beginning. It could be one

character turning up on another character’s doorstep. It could be the arrival of a
letter or some other form of communication bringing bad news. Or good news. A birth
or a death. Someone leaving or arriving. A new job... A beginning can be any event
that triggers change in someone’s life and which sets off a chain of events. This
is like beginning the story with an ‘inciting incident’ – though there may be
another one at the end of Act I. The Silence of the Lambs sees Clarice Starling
begin work as an agent investigating serial killings. The advantage of having a
newbie arrive in a situation is that it gives the writer a legitimate excuse to
explain things for the benefit of the reader: we are learning things alongside
Clarice, so it doesn’t feel like a cheat. The old cliché has characters explaining
things to each other that they already know, simply for the benefit of the reader:
“As you know, professor, when litmus paper comes into contact with an alkaline...”

Montage

Sometimes you need to provide a lot of information, or many small bits of

information, in order for the reader or viewer to be able to appreciate your story
fully. Trying to put all of this into scenes, or having characters explaining it to
each other, may not work, so you need another option. In a montage, rather than
seeing a complete scene, we see a series of short actions or still images or a
combination of the two. It may include newspaper headlines or snippets of news
footage, or extracts from other documents. These build up to an image of a
character and/or situation. The film Soylent Green opens with a series of
photographs showing the development of the industrial world, leading to pollution
of the environment, and the eventual over-population of the world, setting up the
background against which the story is then told. Several hundred years of history
are presented visually in a few minutes under the credits. Tootsie opens with a
series of audition scenes in which Dustin Hoffman’s character can’t get a job
because he’s never quite right for the role – this brief sequence sets up the story
as a comedy; and sets up Hoffman’s character as an out of work actor who is
desperate for work but who is never quite right physically for any character,
thereby also setting up the hero’s problem – he can’t get work – and his desire: he
wants to be the perfect person for the role.

In a novel, you also have the option of using extracts from letters, diaries, or
other documents. This is a tricky way to open a novel, though, unless the extracts
are vivid and startling enough to make the reader want to keep reading. Another
option is to begin with a series of vignettes – brief actions that aren’t quite
full scenes in their own right, but which in combination serve to set-up the story.

Narration
You can have someone onscreen or in voice-over talking directly to the audience.
This is frowned on by some story theorists because it tends to draw attention to
the fact that you are watching a movie, rather than seeing the events unfold ‘live’
in front of you. In theatre, it was rare to have a character in a play address an
audience directly – the actors were supposed to give the impression that the
audience wasn’t there: if they acknowledged their existence, it was known as
‘breaking the fourth wall.’ Even in novels, where first-person narrators are more
common, the fact that you have someone telling the story – either their own story
or someone else’s adventures – draws attention to the fact that these actions have
already taken place. Narration can also be regarded as telling rather than showing.
But even bearing all this in mind, having a first-person narrator – at the
beginning of the story, or throughout – can turn out to be the best technique for
your particular story.

An opening narration – by Richard Burton, Liam Neeson, or Morgan Freeman, depending

on which version of War of the Worlds you experience – can work well. The scrolling
texts at the beginning of the Star Wars movies are a variation of this. A narration
that carries on throughout a movie is more difficult, because it requires a voice
that is worth listening to. The character speaking needs to be interesting, perhaps
quirky, but never annoying. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is one successful example of a
character we are happy to hear from.

You can, of course, mix and match these opening scene techniques. Deadpool manages
to combine narration, flash-forward, and still images – or very slow-moving ones –
into a unique and intriguing opening.

5. Genre

Genre is important because many readers only choose reading and viewing material in
their favourite genre or genres. In the old days, it used to dictate which section
your book or video got shelved in in the store, but that is less of an issue in
these digital download days where you get to choose multiple subject keywords. It
also matters because readers of a particular genre have certain expectations for
the sorts of locations, characters, and situations in stories of this type. If you
fail to meet those expectations, your story will be regarded as a failure by most
of its readers. It is fine to mix genres, providing you have a good understanding
of the two genres you are mixing – trying to mix more than two is unlikely to work.
Trying to ‘improve’ or expand or subvert the genre is likely to alienate your
readers. They are looking for something ‘the same only different.’ They want a
well-told story with original elements, but within the accepted conventions of the
genre. This is not to say that readers don’t want surprises – they love surprises.
But they have to be genre-appropriate surprises.

Switching genres midway is a definite no-no: if you start out as a Western and then
introduce science fiction elements, the reader will feel cheated, unless you’ve
established from the beginning that in this story world, both cowboys and aliens
coexist. That should have been a great idea for a movie... If you are going to mix
two genres, you have to make that clear from the start.

This isn’t the place to go into the requirements for individual genres: that’s a
whole different kettle of worms. All I’ll say here is: if you’re going to write in
a particular genre, make sure you know its conventions inside and out, and make
sure it is a genre you genuinely love. Readers can always tell when you’re faking
it.

Your opening scene, or scenes, should be appropriate for your chosen genre. Give
the reader what they expect from this type of story, what they came looking for, or
you’re unlikely to build your readership in the way you want. It might be too
obvious to say this but... if you’re writing comedy, then your opening scenes need
to be funny – hell, your whole book needs to be a laugh-riot. If you’re writing
horror, then you need to begin with at least a hint of unease. Don’t forget that
everyone can be a critic these days, and you don’t want a bunch of one- and two-
star ratings from disappointed genre readers who never get beyond the opening
pages.

6. Setting

First of all, the reader needs to know where and when the story is taking place.
Physical location and historical period. If the story takes place at some time
other than the present, or in some place other than our real world, this needs to
be made obvious early in the story. Setting is not simply a painted backdrop
against which the action takes place. Setting includes both physical and social
elements, the ‘milieu,’ which can have a psychological effect on the people who
live and work in that setting. What is the social hierarchy of the setting? Who is
in charge? What sorts of people are present?

Setting can also have an emotional value. How you describe a place can establish
the mood of your story. Does the story open on a crowded beach in bright sunshine?
A dark alley after midnight? A suburban street, a decaying factory, or a mansion?
As well as the man-made environment of buildings and machines, there are also
natural elements such as the season of the year and the weather. Cold and frosty?
Oppressively hot and humid? Rain? Wind? The more specific details you include, the
better the reader will be able to see and feel your story setting. Don’t forget
textures and smells. This applies in a screenplay as much as a novel.

Often we first meet the hero in the ‘ordinary world’ in which he lives. This
setting can help to characterise him – is he wealthy or poor? Professional or blue
collar? Seeing where the hero lives helps us to understand his situation and life
circumstances. A shabby bachelor apartment, a suburban home littered with
children’s toys and drawings, a sterile penthouse apartment – all indicate very
different inhabitants. The things that people choose to surround themselves with –
what makes them feel comfortable – tell us something about them as individuals.
Quirky details can help bring a character to life. The hero’s home or place of work
can also help the reader identify with him, if it is similar to their own. Or
perhaps something that they aspire to. Or perhaps the location is somewhere that
reminds them of where they grew up.

Having said that, it is advisable to keep physical description to the absolute

minimum. It is better to have a few telling details, that enable the reader to
construct the rest of the picture themselves than it is to try and nail down every
specific detail of a place. Because (a) readers like to contribute something
themselves; (b) the details they add enable them to engage with the story more
closely; and, (c) if readers see more than a couple of short paragraphs of
description, they’re likely to skim over them. Most modern readers don’t like page
after page of solid blocks of black text with no dialogue to break it up. This
applies to novels as much as it does to screenplays. The one possible exception to
this ‘rule’ is when you want to include a detail, but at the same time ‘hide it in
plain sight.’ Clues in murder mysteries are often ‘buried’ in a pile of non-
relevant descriptive detail.

The hero’s ‘ordinary world’ is ordinary, but it should never be boring. There
should always be a hint of the conflict to come (see Foreshadowing below). The
purpose of showing the ordinary world is usually to give a sense of equilibrium in
the hero’s life before external factors come in to upset the balance. In which
case, we are seeing the ‘calm before the storm.’ Or, we show the hero in the
comfort of his everyday life, before he is hoisted out of it by events which drop
him in a ‘strange new world’ where he is completely out of his depth. In this case,
the ordinary world is designed to contrast with the world in which the adventure of
the story will take place. We may also get a sense that the hero is hiding in his
everyday world, afraid to face the adventure that is out there. Another function
that the ordinary world can serve is to show a good place that the hero wants to
protect and preserve. It may be the thing that he is fighting for when he goes off
to tackle the bad guys. They pose a threat to the existence of this ordinary world.
In this type of story, the hero often ‘comes home’ at the end of the story.
Conversely, the ordinary world might be somewhere that the hero needs to escape
from or to change significantly. Its ordinary state may be one of injustice or
oppression. His world may be a metaphorical ‘prison’ that the hero needs to get out
of. Or the world may be ‘sick’ – and the hero must go off on a quest to gain a
‘magic elixir’ that he can bring back and use the cure the sickness. This sort of
‘Fisher King’ mythology underlies the ‘Hero’s Journey’ of Christopher Vogler’s
story model in The Writer’s Journey.

The ‘ordinary world’ and the hero are closely linked in many stories. It will be a
reflection of who he is as a person, and his circumstances within it are likely to
be an indication of the weakness or flaw he will need to overcome during the course
of his adventures. For example, if the hero is afraid of commitment, his everyday
life will demonstrate that fact, and the story will force him to confront, and
hopefully overcome, this fear. Although we may see the hero’s ordinary world in
equilibrium, we are likely to see that it is an uneasy or unhealthy equilibrium.
The hero may seem comfortable there, but there is a sense that he isn’t entirely
happy being where he is. The hero is probably ‘trapped,’ and we should see some
clue or demonstration of this. And we may get a sense of pressure building – such
that he may not be able to put up with his current circumstances for much longer.
He may be aware that he needs to escape to something better. Or he may have some
vague sense that he can never be happy there until he has finally faced whatever
inner demon haunts him. In other words, our man is ripe for an adventure – all he
needs in that little push to set him off. And our story is about to give him
exactly that. Part of the function of this ‘ordinary world’ is to show what the
hero’s life would continue to be like if the inciting incident didn’t come along to
upset the equilibrium.

The scene that introduces the hero in his ordinary world may foreshadow events that
will take place in the ‘strange new world’ that is the setting for Act II. It may
show a similar conflict on a smaller scale. Or we may see some entirely different
action, but one which partially reveals the weakness the hero is going to have to
overcome and/or the strength he is going to need to draw on. It will probably also
demonstrate the value that will be at stake in the main plot. The setting – and the
scene that introduces the hero in it – will demonstrate the hero’s dominant
characteristic: his attitude towards life, and the way in which he usually deals
with problems.

Setting also includes the ‘arena’ in which the main action takes place – the ‘new
world’ that the hero finds himself in when he begins his quest for a solution to
his external problem. We will explore the ‘new world’ a little more when we get to
it at the beginning of Act II.
With action-adventure heroes like James Bond or Indiana Jones, their ‘ordinary’
world is one of danger and excitement, which we are often introduced to in a
prologue or pre-credits sequence. We see the hero in action, demonstrating heroic
skills. Sometimes this is followed by a quiet scene in which we see our own
everyday world, which the hero is going to protect from the villain. We are given a
glimpse of what the hero is fighting for. Occasionally this comes later in Act I,
just before the inciting incident, or even after it, so that we can see the impact
of the inciting incident on ‘our’ world. Because it is our world, we are familiar
with it and only need reminding of it, rather than introducing to it. In a
whodunit, for example, the equilibrium may be upset before the story even begins –
someone has committed a murder, and the corpse is discovered in Scene 1. The
everyday world is implied by its absence – and the detective’s job is to restore
equilibrium by removing the cloud of suspicion that hangs over everyone by bringing
the killer to justice.

7. Introduce the Hero

The storyteller’s main goal is to evoke an emotional response in the reader. To

make them feel something. We don’t read a novel or watch a movie to see someone
else have an emotional experience – we want to have that experience ourselves. I
read that somewhere, I don’t remember where, but it has stuck with me for a number
of years and I think it is true. Some story theorists say that the emotions we
experience as readers and viewers are received through the hero – we experience
them vicariously – and this is achieved through identification with the hero. We
put ourselves in his place, feeling what he feels. This happens as a result of our
ability to empathise with other people. Empathy is our natural tendency to share
what others are feeling – it is what makes our cheeks flush and our fists clench
when we see someone else humiliated, or wince when we see them hurt themselves. We
imagine what it feels like to be in their place. The argument goes that stories
must be told subjectively, from the point of view of the hero, so that we can
identify with them and have access to their emotions. An objective viewpoint on
events would be external, unemotional, and uninvolved – the opposite of what a
writer needs to achieve.

On the face of it, this argument makes some sense. And it may be part of the way we
experience emotion evoked by story, but it is not the whole explanation. The fact
is that we do not live our lives through others – moments when we feel empathy for
others are relatively rare. Most of the time we are too wrapped up in our own
feelings. Empathy is important – we need it to be able to see things from another
person’s perspective, otherwise we risk acting from purely selfish motives. Empathy
is a quality that psychopaths lack: they are able to do what they do because they
cannot imagine what their victims are feeling. But most of the time we experience
our own emotions, not other people’s. And the same is true when we are reading a
novel or watching a film. We have a first-hand emotional experience of our own, not
a second-hand one through one of the characters on the screen or page. We are more
likely to watch what is happening to a character and feel sympathy for them, rather
than empathy with them. It is a subtle difference. Some of the time we may feel the
same emotion as the character in the story, but sometimes we feel a different
emotion.

We might see a character on screen treated unjustly, to the point where they are
completely humiliated – and we become angry for them; but the character on screen
may stoically turn the other cheek. We don’t have the same emotional experience as
the character. We are angry at seeing another human being treated in this way. And
we feel an element of frustration because we can’t do anything to help the
character. This is our emotional experience, not the character’s. Similarly, there
are occasions when we see something or read something in a story that makes us cry
– even though no one in the story is crying. We are upset for them. Someone once
said that if the audience cries, the hero doesn’t need to.

Emotions – anger, love, hate, jealousy, despair (Spinoza identified 48 of them!) –

are complicated things, but they are something that virtually all human beings have
in common. Storytellers rely on the fact that there are certain types of situations
that are almost guaranteed to evoke a particular emotional response, and they seek
to create effective and specific examples of those situations. In stories, those
emotions are generally evoked by situations that involve the hero (we worry about
him), the ally or lover of the hero (we care about him/her because the hero does),
or the villain (we hate him!).

It is a misconception, or an over-generalisation, to say that the reader must like

the hero in order to identify with them. It is a bizarre quirk of the human mind
that we are able to put ourselves in the position of people that we don’t like, or
whose actions we don’t approve of. A situation we see all the time on television is
someone breaking into a room and searching it to steal something – and no matter
whether that character is a good guy or a bad guy, we find ourselves worrying that
they will be caught red-handed. Wanting to do something ‘naughty, to transgress, is
a common human feeling, and so is the fear of being caught doing it. Fear of
discovery – or of exposure or of humiliation – is, along with other fears of harm,
the basis of tension and suspense, which are vital in storytelling. We don’t
actually have to like the hero. But we do need to be aware of what he is trying to
achieve. What his objective is and – ideally – what his motivation is for achieving
it.

Although I refer to the hero of a story as ‘the hero’ in this book, the main
character (or protagonist) does not have to be a hero. Very successful stories have
been written about characters who are definitely not ‘good’ people or characters
which are anti-heroes. Examples include the Dirty Harry movies, The Godfather, and
Deathwish and its sequels. You can even tell a story about someone who is truly
monstrous – either literally or metaphorically. We do not need to identify with
them, but we do need to be fascinated or intrigued by them. The key thing is that
the reader must want to find out what is going to happen to this character. They
must care whether or not he succeeds in achieving his story objective. We do not
need to approve of his goal, his motivation, or his methods – but we do need to
know what he is trying to do and why.

Of course, the current trend in popular and genre storytelling is to have a

likeable hero that the reader can empathise and sympathise with. What does that
mean in terms of plot structure? Making your character likeable is a good way of
getting the reader involved in your story. If they like the character, they are
more likely to want to see him succeed. We tend to like people who we recognise as
being similar to ourselves, and who hold values of which we approve. ‘Likeability’
has been devalued somewhat in recent times. We are encouraged to click an on-screen
button to ‘like’ something. People count the number of ‘likes’ they have
accumulated. Our need for approval has been automated.

When a reader begins a story, one of the first things they look for is the ‘hero.’
It is difficult for them to become emotionally involved in a story until they know
who they are supposed to be rooting for. This means that they are likely to attach
themselves to the first remotely likeable person they come across. Like a baby
chick imprinting on a rubber duck ‘mommy.’ This can sometimes work to your
advantage. The movie Witness has the young Amish boy as its central character for
the first scenes of the story. The sympathy the audience has for him is then
transferred to the ‘real’ hero, Harrison Ford’s John Book, when he becomes the
boy’s protector. That kind of transfer is tricky to pull off, but obviously it can
be done. Hitchcock had even more fun with the idea in Psycho.

With stories about anti-heroes or ‘avenging angels,’ it often helps to have an ally
or victim character that the audience can feel sympathy for. The hero himself may
not be instantly likeable, but the fact that he cares for a sympathetic character
makes him easier to accept as our ‘hero.’ There is an element of that in the
original Holmes-Watson relationship. But in most stories, you are going to create a
likeable hero, and you are going to make it easy for the reader by introducing this
character early. He is either going to be in the opening scene, or in the first
scene after the prologue.

Again, in order to make things easy for the reader, most modern stories –
especially genre stories – are told subjectively. We see the action from the point
of view of one or more viewpoint characters. As we have said, that doesn’t
necessarily mean that we experience the story as the hero, it is more along the
lines of being a concerned observer who stands alongside the hero and sees
everything as he sees it. As writers, we try and keep the reader as close to the
hero as possible. When this isn’t possible, as in the traditional ‘whodunit’ where
the story works, in part, because we are not privy to the great detective’s thought
processes, the viewpoint character is the ‘Watson’ who sees everything the
detective sees, but isn’t able to make all of the deductions he does.

We’ve already mentioned narration, and the hero telling his own story in the first-
person. That is a possibility and is the right choice for some stories and some
characters. But for the most part, I would stick with a restricted third-person
viewpoint. Restricted to standing at the hero’s shoulder, seeing only what he sees.
This gives you the option of occasionally standing beside another viewpoint
character when the hero isn’t around, without it seeming like too much of a cheat.
Third-person omniscient – the view looking down from the gods – is something you
can slip into occasionally if you need the equivalent of a wide shot of the scene
in your novel, but I wouldn’t try it for a whole novel. It is too distant – not
emotionally involving. And it allows access to every character’s thoughts and
actions at all times, which is not always something that you want when you are
trying to manage the reader’s emotional response to a story.

And I wouldn’t touch second-person viewpoint, unless you’re writing a choose-your-

own adventure story. You sit down at the keyboard and notice that your coffee cup
is empty. Do you (a) begin writing anyway, or (b) go into the kitchen, fire up the
coffee machine, and then spend the rest of the morning alphabetising your canned
goods...?

People may accept second-person narration for a short story, or a brief section in
a novel, but the fact that it is so rare means that it draws attention to the
artificiality of the storytelling process, which has the effect of pulling the
reader out of the story. The opposite of what you are trying to achieve. Don’t use
‘tricky’ writing techniques and don’t waste time. Get your hero on stage as soon as
possible.

First Impressions

What impression does the hero make when we first see him? They say that you have
something like thirty seconds or less to make your first impression when you go for
a job interview. The same thing applies to the hero of a story. The generally
stated ‘rule’ is that when the hero first appears, he should be doing something
that allows him to demonstrate an admirable or likeable quality. This is the cliché
Blake Snyder pokes fun at in the title of his book Save the Cat! The hero risks his
own safety to save the cat. Villains kick the dog. Metaphorically, if you want to
avoid cliché. Though if I remember correctly, Stephen King did actually have his
villain kick the dog in The Dead Zone: I assume he was poking fun at clichés too.

When the hero first appears, we should see him in action. We should see what sort
of person he is by what he does. We should never tell a reader how to feel about a
character, we should let them form their own opinion based on the evidence before
them. What someone is doing, their location and choice of clothing and props can
all tell us something about them. How they speak and what they say also
characterises them. What someone says and does is much more important than a page
of physical description. Today it is rare for a writer to spend more than a couple
of lines on the physical description of a character. Give the reader something
uniquely memorable about the character, something that makes an impression – and
that preferably evokes an emotional reaction – rather than serving up a slab of
text that sounds like a witness describing the guy who just robbed the liquor
store.

I’m not saying that you shouldn’t know your character’s hair colour, eye colour,
height and brand of aftershave. Write them down for your own reference, so that you
can refer to them and avoid having the character’s eye colour change during the
story – and add to these details as you make up new things about the character. But
you don’t need to include all of those details on the finished page. Because here’s
the thing: readers will ignore your character descriptions. Cover artists will
ignore your character descriptions. And casting directors will ignore your
descriptions. Sam Spade, portrayed by Humphrey Bogart, was described by his creator
as a ‘blond Satan.’ And if I tell you that one famous action-adventure hero was
described as looking like musician Hoagy Carmichael, would you know who I was
referring to? Google an image of Hoagy Carmichael and see if you can figure it out.
Spoiler alert: He doesn’t look much like Sean Connery or Daniel Craig...

When I read, I always ‘see’ characters in my head. But when I re-read a book and
hit the character description again, I’m usually surprised to find that the image
in my head doesn’t match what was on the page. My impression of the character
caused me to see someone who looked different physically. I’m sure I’m not alone in
this. When I’m writing, I also see the characters in my head. Often during the
planning stage, I will think of the type of actor I think would play the part in a
movie. I try to have two or three people in mind for each, so that I don’t end up
writing a character as, say, Jack Nicholson, because then I could fall into the
trap of writing dialogue in his voice and using his facial expressions, which some
readers will spot instantly. My over-the-top Shakespearean actor, Leo Fulbright, in
The Sword in the Stone-Dead is a big man with a full beard. I initially describe
him as a red-haired Viking. He’s arrogant and does a lot of bellowing. I thought I
was basing him on British actor Brian Blessed, with a soupçon of Kenneth Branagh,
but as things went on I realised I was also seeing him as the late James Robertson
Justice with a little bit of Orson Welles. What I’m trying to say is, you need to
give the impression of this type of person and allow the reader to provide the
additional details that best enable them to see the character in their own mind’s
eye. Use whatever material you need – collect images of actors from the Internet or
wherever if that helps – but use them to distil an essence that you can include on
the page, rather than trying to make the reader see every detail that you see.

We’ve already said that where we encounter the hero – his ordinary world – affects
how we view him as a person, so we don’t need to mention that again. Again, use
images if that helps you get a feel for a place, but again reduce this down to the
essence. The other thing to remember in writing the hero’s first appearance is that
he hasn’t just popped into existence for our entertainment – he had a life before
this scene. What was he doing? Where was he going? Where was he coming from? He was
probably planning to do something but is distracted from his purpose by the
incident at the heart of the first scene. This incident draws our attention because
it has distracted his.

In creating a likeable hero, we should – initially – see mainly his positive

qualities. Don’t reveal flaws or weaknesses until later, after the audience has
become acquainted with him. Ideally, we should see the character as someone we
recognise as being ‘like us’ in some way, but at the same time, we should see them
as a unique individual. It’s that ‘same only different’ rule again. We tend to
prefer characters that are superficially like us – or like our idealised images of
ourselves – in terms of age, appearance, and social background. But we also want
our heroes sufficiently different from us to be interesting. This applies to the
hero’s home setting and employment too – keep it familiar, yet intriguingly
different.

Creating characters is a subject for a book on its own, so we’ll limit ourselves
now to looking at some ways of creating a likeable hero using plot techniques.

How to Make People Like You

Having introduced your hero through his actions, you then need to keep attention
focused on him so that the reader can get to know him better. The following are
story situations that you can use in this process. Some of them can also be applied
to the hero’s very first appearance, but I’m grouping them here for ease of
reference.

Make the Reader Feel Sorry for the Hero. Creating sympathy for the hero is one of
the most effective and widely used techniques for establishing identification. Most
of us will side with the underdog and want to see him triumph, it’s that
empathy/sympathy thing again – we’ve all felt like underdogs at some point in our
lives. The way to create this sort of situation is to make the hero be the victim
of some kind of undeserved misfortune or suffering. This misfortune can result from
a specific incident, or from the hero’s basic situation at the start of the story.
Often we will see a hero who is not completely happy with the life he has. He is in
some way ‘making do,’ having put his dreams on hold and putting up with a
frustrating situation, either out of some sense of duty or simply because of
apathy. The reader will feel sorry for a hero who is suffering and will hope he
escapes or turns the tables on those who are causing his suffering, but there is a
risk that the hero will seem weak if he is shown to be a victim. Readers prefer
heroes who are strong and in control of their own lives, so it may be necessary to
show that the hero had no choice but to become a victim of this particular
tormentor. Or to show the hero’s courage and/or sense of humour in the face of his
suffering.

Make the Reader Worry About the Hero. Place the character in a situation where
there is a threat to his life or physical safety, or in a situation where there is
the threat of capture, exposure, embarrassment, or defeat. This creates tension and
causes the reader to hope the hero will quickly escape this risky situation. Again
there is a risk of making the hero look like a weak victim, and so care must be
taken.

There are a number of other specific qualities which the hero might display:
Self-confidence is a quality we all probably wish we had more of, and we find it
attractive in fictional characters, whether it is confidence in dealing with other
people – the charismatic leader-type – or confidence in one’s ability to take
whatever action is necessary, regardless of danger, odds or moral implications. Or
confidence to express one’s feelings publicly, without worrying about the social
acceptability of such a display – such confidence is particularly attractive to
those of us who worry about ‘making a scene’.

Competence. Make the hero good at his job – detectives in thrillers and gun-
slingers in westerns are usually good at what they do, even if their methods are
occasionally unorthodox.

Dependability. When the hero says he’ll do something, he keeps his word no matter
what. Or if he does break his word, he’ll have a very good reason for it, and will
do his utmost to make up for it later. This doesn’t mean the hero can’t lie – he
can fib all he likes about events in his past, but if he promises to do something
in the future, he can be depended on to do it. A promise, kept or broken, is a
strong motif in fiction, and the idea of a ‘gentleman’ keeping his word is still
important in stories about heroes. Accusing someone of breaking their word still
carries a lot of weight in fiction.

Positive Attitude/Enthusiasm. The hero’s attitude towards others and himself can
help win the reader’s sympathy. When things go wrong, a hero shouldn’t complain and
blame everyone but himself, he should take responsibility for his own mistakes,
refer to his worsening circumstances with wry humour, and work out a way to solve
his latest problem. And when he does achieve some kind of victory or performs some
good deed, he doesn’t boast about it and is embarrassed when others praise him. If
someone criticises him, whether fairly or unjustly, he doesn’t argue with them and
defend himself, he trusts that the proof of his intentions will come across when
his actions are successful. But if he sees someone else criticised unfairly, he
will defend them. The hero always has sympathy for the suffering of others and
tries to see things from other people’s point of view. He may become angry, but he
will always try to listen to a person’s explanations. And he’s willing to trust
people, even when they’ve proved by previous actions that they aren’t trustworthy.

Courage. Heroes take physical, social or financial risks to do what they believe is
right or necessary. When a hero has the courage to risk losing his job rather than
keep quiet about a scandal, the reader both admires and fears for his safety.

Fair play. The hero can never do anything underhand or sneaky to win: if he cheats
or does something cowardly, he loses sympathy. This is what made the good guys in
westerns always wait for the bad guy to draw first; what made the good guy in a
swashbuckler always let the bad guy pick up his sword after disarming him; and what
stopped the good girl in a romance from using sex to keep her man.

Volunteer. If a hero is faced with a challenge which requires great courage and
which won’t bring him much by way of glory or reward, the reader will feel sympathy
for him if he volunteers. But if the adventure ahead will bring him fame and/or
fortune, then the reader will have more sympathy for him if he doesn’t volunteer,
and modestly waits to be called on.

Self-Sacrifice. The hero is someone who is willing to sacrifice his own needs on
behalf of others. Most people think a hero must be strong or brave, but these
qualities come second to his willingness to give up something of value – perhaps
even his life – to help a cause or group. This sacrifice is linked to the question
of What’s at stake? And the idea of character growth or change. Many heroes
experience a kind of ‘death and rebirth,’ symbolically giving up some cherished
aspect of their old life as the price of entering a new one. Sacrifice only results
in reader sympathy if it is felt that the cause the hero is willing to die for is
important and right. The reader must feel that the hero has no other choice and
that his sacrifice will bring a genuine and worthwhile improvement for some other
person or persons. If there is an alternative, the reader will expect the hero to
choose it, otherwise his death will seem a stupid waste rather than a noble act.
There is a link here with the idea of the volunteer too: if the hero chooses
martyrdom because he knows that a glorious death means he will be remembered as a
hero forever, his motive for choosing sacrifice is not sympathetic.

A Weakness or Flaw that Makes Him Vulnerable. Another way of making the hero
sympathetic is to give him a normal human trait which the reader will recognise and
identify with – such as feeling awkward around someone he’s attracted to, or
nervous in a high-pressure social situation such as a test or job interview. The
hero’s character weakness might also be something the villain can exploit later,
providing the potential for suspense and a near-defeat for the hero towards the end
of the story. The hero’s weakness might be as simple as lack of knowledge or
experience. Or difficulty in controlling his temper. Or perhaps it is self-
deception, lying to himself about something in order to justify pursuit of an
unwise goal – this self-deception could lead to a plot complication at a critical
point. Or the hero might be indecisive, causing him to miss a great opportunity.
The hero may also have a more series character flaw – sometimes referred to as a
‘tragic flaw’ – that usually arises as a result of some secret, traumatic incident
in the hero’s past. You should probably introduce the hero’s main flaw – if he has
one – in Sequence 2, where it has a function in the plot, unless you can introduce
it in Sequence 1 in a way that makes him seem vulnerable in a good way. Otherwise,
you might just want to give a hint of his flaw at this point, and concentrate on
the hero’s positive qualities, rather than negative qualities and flaws.

One final way of making the hero sympathetic is as a result of his goal and his
motivation, which we will come to shortly.

8. Theme

Here we learn what value is at stake in the story. The writer decides here what is
‘good’ behaviour that will be rewarded, e.g. ‘justice’ or ‘freedom,’ and what is
‘bad’ behaviour that will be punished, e.g. ‘injustice’ or ‘tyranny.’ Early in the
story, there is often a line of dialogue or an incident that reveals the question
that the story will explore – the ‘thematic’ argument that it will prove. Someone,
probably not the hero, poses a question or makes a statement. It will be subliminal
rather than blatant, and will only become obvious in retrospect or on re-reading.
At the heart of every story, there is a value at stake. The hero represents or
personifies the positive side of this value – the virtue – and the villain or rival
represents the negative value, the vice. These two opposing viewpoints effectively
provide a ‘thematic argument’ in the story. The argument is settled, or proved,
when one side wins and the other side loses.

One of the finest examples of this, written over 400 years ago, is William
Shakespeare’s Othello. Othello is a warrior who has achieved success as a result of
his bravery in war. He is very much in love with his wife, Desdemona, and she with
him. Iago is jealous of Othello’s success, and so sets out to destroy him and take
his place. He determines to do this by convincing Othello that Desdemona has been
unfaithful to him. Iago provides ‘evidence’ that proves this. Driven into a jealous
rage, Othello murders Desdemona. Iago’s guilt is uncovered and he is sentenced to
death. Iago’s jealousy destroys him and takes away any chance of achieving the
success he coveted. Othello’s jealousy destroys him and the person he loved most.
This being a tragedy, both hero and villain finish up badly – proving the thematic
argument that ‘jealousy destroys the jealous man and the thing he loves most’ – or
something along those lines.

Back in the first half of the 20th century, playwrights were advised to begin with
theme – to decide up front what ‘moral argument’ their story was going to prove.
During the latter part of the 20th century, the advice – especially to
screenwriters – tended to be: Ignore theme as it will arise organically out of
whatever you write. The argument was that you couldn’t help but introduce a theme,
subconsciously, through your choice of what constitutes ‘good’ and ‘bad’
behaviours. I think the right approach lies somewhere between the two. I don’t
think you should ever try and force a moral into a story because the chances are
that what you write will be too obviously trying to prove a point. Theme belongs in
the subtext – it should be between the lines of dialogue, not in speeches that are
‘on the nose.’ But I do think you should be aware of what value – virtue versus
vice – is at stake, as this can guide you in the direction of the incidents that
will provide the greatest dramatic effect in your story. If you know what is at
stake – for the hero and his world, and for the reader – you can better work out
what sort of thing to include to place that value in jeopardy.

Theme is a tricky thing to get a handle on. I would recommend Stanley D. Williams’
book The Moral Premise if you want to explore it further.

9. The Hero’s Internal Problem or ‘Lack’

The hero doesn’t just appear one day in order to put a stop to the villain’s evil
plan: he is meant to be a living, breathing human being with a life of his own. One
way to make him seem more human is to give him problems of his own – situations
that existed before the story opened. There is usually something missing in the
hero’s life. This is sometimes referred to as the hero’s lack. The thing he most
often lacks is a fulfilling relationship with another adult. Usually, this means
there’s no romance in his life. Another possibility is being in the wrong job –
having failed to find a vocation that makes the best of his abilities and provide a
sense of personal fulfilment. Sometimes the hero has achieved material success or
excelled in a particular job or sport, but still lacks a sense of personal
fulfilment.

The external ‘story problem’ caused by the villain or opponent will also provide
the hero with an opportunity to do something about this lack. It may turn his lack
into something that he can no longer live with or ignore. As the story opens, the
hero has had this problem or lack for some time, but has never felt motivated to do
anything about it. He has been coping with it or ignoring it or denying it. There
should be a sense, early in Act I, that his unhappiness is reaching a point where
he is going to have to do something about it. The hero’s lack can be something that
helps the reader identify with him. Most of us have felt dissatisfied with our jobs
at some point in our lives. And we all know what it is like to feel lonely and in
need of a soul-mate. It could be that he has been separated from his family and/or
friends because of a relocation or a divorce. There is often some event in the
hero’s backstory that is the cause of his present lack. Or some unpleasant event
that was caused by it. There is some unresolved issue – the exact nature of which
we may not learn until Sequence 5 when he unburdens himself to someone he has come
to trust.

The lack may be caused by the hero’s flaw or weakness, some aspect of his
personality that negatively affects his behaviour. We might get a hint of this
early in Act I – ‘something’ is holding him back, preventing him from finding
happiness and fulfilment in his life – but we won’t normally reveal his negative
characteristics until the reader has had a chance to get to know him and like him.
We also need to introduce his external conflict before we get to his internal one.
The hero’s lack is something that he cannot overcome on his own. That is why the
challenge is so important in his life – though he will only see this in retrospect
– because it forces him to interact with someone – an ally or a lover – who can
help him overcome his lack.

10. Foreshadowing – Coming Soon: Conflict!

‘Conflict’ comes from a Latin word for the act of striking together, and is used to
indicate when two things are incompatible or in opposition. Think of opposing
forces in collision. Imagine two trains hurtling down the track towards each other,
neither one able to give way to the other. That’s the sort of feeling you need to
evoke in the first act of your story. From very early on there should be a sense of
impending collision. In Act I one of the promises a writer makes to the reader is:
Stay in your seat, there is a conflict coming, and it is going to be worth seeing.

We can’t actually have the main conflict of the story begin until the end of Act I,
when a challenge is issued to the hero and he commits himself to fighting to
achieve something. Until then, we have to keep the reader’s attention by
introducing them to our two freight trains, and showing them being set on a
collision course. They may only be moving slowly to begin with, but they’re going
to pick up speed, and eventually... bam! In Act I we advertise, as strongly as
possible, that conflict is coming! How blatantly we do this depends on the type of
story we are telling. If our story opens with action, then we’re already showing
minor conflicts, and can give an indication that these are connected to, or may
lead up to, a much bigger conflict. For example, someone may undertake an act that
is bound to trigger a reprisal. We are looking for the snowball that sets off the
avalanche.

Conflict doesn’t have to involve physical confrontation – it can be an emotional or

mental struggle. A battle of wills. Conflict, as we have already mentioned, also
exists within an individual. Imagine someone who is painfully shy who wants to ask
a classmate out on a date. There are family feuds; romantic misunderstandings;
financial challenges; all manner of small-scale conflicts and dilemmas.

If our story has a ‘slow-build’ opening, it is especially important to weave in

suggestions that something important is going to happen soon. There needs to be a
shadow hanging over things, or some sort of deep undercurrent. A force building
that must eventually explode into action of some kind. Watching someone fight to
control their temper can be just as dramatic to watch as an eruption of violence –
more so if the circumstances are set up correctly. In the first few pages of a
story, you need to plant the idea that change is coming. However calm the ordinary
world looks, something is not quite right. A situation is developing. This will
probably be related, in part, to the actions of an opponent or rival. And in part
to the hero’s internal conflict. At this early stage, the hero is not yet motivated
to do anything about either his external or internal problems – he is doing his
best to cope with them or ignore them. He may not even be consciously aware of the
existence of either. One way to demonstrate this is to have the hero trying to
complete some small-scale task and failing to attain the desired outcome. As he
expresses his frustration – or represses these feelings – we see this as symbolic
of a much deeper frustration and unhappiness.

Leading the reader to anticipate that conflict will erupt in the near future is an
excellent way of capturing their attention and keeping them turning the pages.
Conflict is a fundamental part of storytelling and, as we mentioned earlier, having
promised this conflict, you have got to deliver on the promise later, and we will
look at some ways you can do that in later sequences.

11. Opposition: The Antagonist

The antagonist is the second most important character in a story. His function is
to provide opposition – to challenge the hero. He actively opposes the hero,
preventing him from achieving his external objective. The actions of the antagonist
place the hero under immense pressure – and we see the best, and worst of people,
when they feel threatened. Conflict is the basis of drama – without it, there is no
story. Alfred Hitchcock said that the better the villain, the better the story.
Hero and villain must be worthy opponents for one another. We judge the hero by the
size of the obstacles he must overcome to achieve his objective, admiring most
those who tackle incredible odds. The outcome of a story is less important than the
struggle, because it is the struggle that provides the reader with a sustained
emotional experience and an insight into character, rather than the winning or
losing of a battle. Hero and villain must be closely matched to ensure that their
final confrontation is seen to be closely fought.

The hero and the antagonist must have goals that are mutually exclusive – there can
be no middle-ground or compromise option. If the hero succeeds in achieving his
goal, the villain or rival – as a consequence – must fail. And vice versa. Each
will want to ensure that the other fails. If the hero advances a step towards his
goal, there must be a counter-thrust from the villain, causing a setback for the
hero. And vice versa. It is the steps the villain takes in order to thwart the
hero’s plans that provide the complications of the plot. As the adversaries act and
react, the conflict rises and keeps the reader anxious to know the outcome.

The hero’s antagonist, nemesis, or rival – the ‘villain’ if there is one – may not
appear on stage in Act I. But the reader should become aware of his presence and
his actions. In some types of story, it is important that the identity of the
villain is kept secret until the end of Act II, or even into Act III. He often
remains offstage, and we see instead the actions of his ‘soldiers’ and his second-
in-command, his henchman. The antagonist doesn’t have to be a ‘villain’ in the
traditional sense – he can be a rival seeking the same promotion or the hand of the
same romantic interest, or he can be an opponent in a sport or some other contest.
The only requirement of the antagonist is that he is someone whose goals bring him
into conflict with the hero. Romance genre stories typically have no central
villain as such: there may be a rival for the heroine’s affections, but the main
antagonism occurs between the hero and the heroine: they serve as both the ‘love
interest’ and antagonist for each other.

Where there is a villain or opponent, he should not be created as some guy in a

black hat who does bad things for the sake of creating opposition in the story.
Always remember that the villain is the ‘hero’ of his own story: he should be
created with much the same attention to detail as the hero. The villain has a
strong motivation of his own for doing what he is doing. He has his own backstory,
and often feels he is ‘owed’ by society for some past ‘injustice’ he believes – or
imagines – that he suffered. As the story opens, the villain has an objective and
has chosen an external goal which he believes will enable him to achieve this
objective. And his plan to achieve this goal is already in motion.

The challenge or inciting incident is usually caused by the actions of the villain
– or his foot-soldiers – and is the first time that an action in the villain’s plan
directly impacts on the hero’s life. Earlier stages of the villain’s plan may have
had a negative impact on the hero’s everyday world, but the inciting incident is
when the hero can no longer ignore what is happening. Someone once referred to it
as the ‘Popeye moment’ – that point at which the hero says “That’s all I can
stands, I can’t stands no more!”

The antagonist represents a point of view that is direct opposition to the hero’s.
If the hero strongly believes in justice, for example, the antagonist operates in a
manner that is totally unjust. If the hero believes in serving others, in battle or
in society, then the villain is totally self-serving. The antagonist is, for this
reason often described as the hero’s shadow. Where the hero represents light, the
antagonist is darkness. Many stories, as we have already seen, present their theme
in the form of an argument between two opposing points of view. Even the simplest
of tales often demonstrates that ‘bad’ behaviour is wrong and should be punished,
and ‘good’ behaviour is right and should be rewarded. Stories tend to reinforce the
values of the dominant culture. Except when they deliberately do not...

When we move from children’s picture books to novels and plays, the thematic
argument becomes more subtle, and we have stories of opposites such as
justice/injustice or justice/revenge. In Shakespeare’s Othello, the theme is
jealousy versus trust. In Star Wars, freedom versus oppression. And then we can
move on to stories where the argument is not so clear-cut: the ‘right’ and ‘wrong’
are not so clearly defined. Here we have stories where the hero is forced to choose
the ‘lesser of two evils’ or perhaps the ‘greater of two goods.’ Sometimes there is
no ‘right’ answer, and we have to make a choice and then live with the
consequences. These stories are difficult to write – and read – but are often the
most rewarding.

The hero-villain relationship is central to the thematic argument. At the simplest

level, the hero represents virtue and the villain represents vice. But as we have
said, the villain also represents the hero’s own shadow – his dark side. The
villain embodies an aspect of his own character that the hero is afraid of and
denies. Where the villain often feels he is owed by society – and intends to take
what he believes is due to him; the hero often feels a sense of guilt, and that he
must ‘atone’ for some crime or sin committed in the past. At some point, he failed
to live up to his own high standards, and so feels that he is a failure. His
opinion of himself is dominated by this one past mistake. No-one likes to feel
guilty, and the hero feels angry if someone unwittingly reminds him of this event –
even though he beats himself up about it all the time. The villain represents who
the hero is afraid he could become if he drops his vigilance and allows himself to
wander along the ‘wrong path.’ The villain openly demonstrates behaviour the hero
knows he is capable of himself, and he is ashamed of this part of himself.

It is important that the antagonist is a visible, specific character, rather than

an abstract concept. If the hero is battling the ‘evils of society,’ those evils
should be personified in the form of a single, recognisable individual. The villain
can’t be a group – such as ‘the Mafia’ or ‘the Nazis’ or ‘the Triads’ or whatever –
he must be a single person from within that group who represents their activities
and their values. A personal, one-to-one confrontation is much more effective than
having the hero facing unfocused opposition. The reader needs to be able to focus
their fear and hatred on a single person!

As previously mentioned, creating a villain who is a visible individual does not

necessarily mean revealing that individual’s identity. But the reader should be
aware of the existence of the villain as a result of his actions. Or through the
actions of his agents. We often see more of the villain’s henchman than we do of
the villain – think of the steel-jawed ‘Jaws’ in the James Bond films, or ‘Oddjob,’
or Darth Vader. Hero and villain may not meet until the midpoint of the story, or
perhaps not until Act III at the climax when they have their face-to-face showdown.
The first time we really become aware of the antagonist as an opponent to the hero
is at the moment of the challenge or inciting incident. We may not know who the
opponent is, but we become aware that there are forces of opposition. This adds a
hint of danger – the idea of a threat to the hero’s everyday world or his well-
being. The inciting incident upsets the balance of the hero’s world, forcing him to
make a decision – to choose how he will respond.

Our subject here is the function of character within the plot, so this is not the
place to go into detail about creating a villain – but I will include a few notes
below about the sort of qualities that make a villain villainous. By design, these
are usually mirror-opposites of the qualities of a hero.

Creating Antipathy for the Villain

Getting the reader to hate the villain is easier than getting them to like the
hero: nasty actions are far more memorable and dramatic than nice ones! Here are
some of the techniques which can be used for making the reader loathe the villain:

Abuse of power. The typical villain is attracted to power for its own sake, and as
a result may be a sadist or a bully. A sadist deliberately causes physical or
mental harm to another person, and the appeal of this action to the sadist is the
sense of control – of power – they have over the body or mind or life of another
person. The reader will hate someone who enjoys causing pain, whether that pain is
physical torture or some form of emotional domination or abuse.

Motive. The villain or rival has his own goal and motivation. His goal and the
hero’s are mutually exclusive. The villain or rival will actively try to ensure
that the hero fails. If a hero has an admirable motive, the reader wants him to
succeed in achieving his goal. The reader must want the villain to fail, so the
motivation given to the villain must be far from admirable. The villain should act
out of pure selfishness, and his victims should be people who don’t deserve to be
hurt. Actions in themselves are not guarantees for creating reader antipathy – an
assassin can seem almost sympathetic if his intended victim is made evil enough –
would the reader side with the would-be assassin or with Hitler? Similarly,
Hamlet’s desire to avenge his father’s death cause him to plot Claudius’ death, but
his motive means that we sympathise with Hamlet, not Claudius. Motive helps us
assign a character’s relative place within the moral spectrum, which makes possible
heroes who are con men, thieves and adulterers.

Betrayal. A hero must keep his promise or suffer pangs of guilt if he is forced to
break it. The villain feels no such qualms. Villains break their promises and
betray trusts. If we tell someone something in confidence and they reveal our
secret to everyone, we feel betrayed and no longer trust that person. A person who
does not keep his word, who breaks an oath, is not a sympathetic character.

The Usurper or Interloper. If a person takes up a position of power which they have
not earned, particularly if they displace the rightful heir, they immediately
attract resentment. They are seen as over-ambitious, self-asserting and self-
appointed. If someone takes up a position which they weren’t invited to fill and
which no one wanted them to fill, they lose reader sympathy. This antipathy isn’t
permanent, it lasts only until the usurper proves that he deserves the position and
wins the respect of others, and is accepted, receiving his ‘invitation’ after the
fact. Heroes can begin as interlopers – outsiders who are resented because they
take on the role of leader or problem-solver without being asked – but they always,
eventually, win acceptance and approval. They are vindicated and prove themselves
worthy of the position. It is a situation the reader can sympathise with – we have
all gone into situations where we feel like interlopers, and tried to gain
acceptance. The villain never wins the reader’s acceptance.

Resentment. There are other ways to get the audience to dislike the villain. Things
we dislike in people in real life work just as well with fictional characters. The
well-educated and highly articulate Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs brings
out in the reader and viewer all the resentment they have ever felt for sadistic
school masters and others who have tried to convince us that they are our
intellectual superiors. This probably accounts for the success of classically
trained British actors as villains in American movies.

Insanity. The other quality we find disturbing in Hannibal Lecter is his warped
world view. We are afraid of people who don’t see reality the same way we do, whose
behaviour we regard as irrational or socially unacceptable. It is impossible to
reason with such a character, to persuade them that their ‘reality’ is incorrect.
And if the villain manages to persuade others that his reality is the truth - as
Hitler did, at least for a while - the reader’s sense of fear and dislike grows.
The kind of insanity portrayed in films and novels is usually psychotic or
sociopathic in nature, though its accuracy in clinical terms is usually suspect.
The danger here, of course, is that there is a fine line between creating an over-
the-top movie psycho and perpetuating stereotypes about mental illnesses such as
schizophrenia.

Attitude. The villain’s attitude toward life, himself, and other people works in
the opposite way to the hero’s. The hero may be humourless and unable to laugh at
his own mistakes; when things go wrong he will complain and blame others around
him, never accepting responsibility himself. If things go right, he takes all the
credit and boasts about ‘his’ success. He never worries about hurting other
people’s feelings, he never trusts anyone, he judges people harshly and never
listens to their explanations or point of view. He favours the rich and powerful
over the poor and powerless. He is a hypocrite. He treats other people as if they
only exist to serve his purposes.

Empathy with the Devil: The Antagonist’s Redeeming Features

If he is a fully-rounded character, the villain will almost certainly have some

aspect which makes him sympathetic, or at the very least their motives will be
understandable. Every person is the hero of his or her own life story, and so the
villain must see himself in that light. He somehow justifies his actions to
himself. Perhaps he believes that the ill-treatment he himself has suffered in the
past justifies the way he treats people now. Maybe he thinks that everyone feels
the same way he does, but most people don’t have the courage to act on those
feelings, or they simply pretend to be good guys. To depict the villain honestly,
the writer must allow the reader to know the villain’s side of the story.

Just as the hero can have flaws and weaknesses, the villain can have minor virtues
- maybe his is a man of honour who keeps his word; maybe he is devoted to his
family; maybe he has some quality which makes him vulnerable; or maybe he was very
badly treated at some point in his life, making his hate and anger understandable
to some extent. The idea is not to make the villain a sympathetic character, to
persuade the reader to like him, but rather to give him some qualities which allow
the villain to win some respect. A villain who is not a completely one-dimensional
bad guy is a much worthier opponent for the hero.

But what the writer can’t do is turn the sadistic, insane usurper into a
sympathetic character, or the reader will feel confused and cheated: the problem
won’t have been solved, it will have been waved away by a magic wand. The only time
a character can legitimately perform such an about-turn is if they have been
pretending to be a sadistic, insane usurper in order to accomplish some greater
noble purpose, or if the image of the character as a sadistic, insane usurper was a
misconception, a reputation created by his enemies which was far from the truth.

12. The Challenge or Inciting Incident

This is also referred to as the exciting force, the point of attack, the catalyst,
or ‘call to adventure.’ We refer to it as a challenge – or ‘throwing down the
gauntlet’ – because it puts the hero on the spot and says ‘here’s your chance to do
something about it.’ The hero is aware of some problem in his world and/or feelings
of unhappiness in his own life, and now he is being offered an opportunity to take
action and – possibly – fix these problems. That is the challenge he is given. Put
up, or shut up. This doesn’t have to be the equivalent of someone challenging him
to a duel. It could be the arrival of someone who just might be the person he could
spend the rest of his life with. The challenge is a story’s first major plot point
and is an event that sets off a chain of action and reaction that continues
throughout the rest of the story. Everything up to this point has been introduction
and preparation. This event sets the story in motion. This means that the moment
the challenge is issued is an important one, and needs to be of an appropriate
emotional intensity and duration. It will probably unfold in a scene more than a
single page long. A single line of dialogue wouldn’t be sufficient.

There are three ways in which the challenge might be presented. In order of
dramatic intensity they are: a specific action, which offers the strongest impact;
the arrival of a message or piece of news; or a situation which builds over time
until it reaches a head. Or it could be a combination of these things.

The challenge should be an event that demands a response from the hero. His initial
response may be ‘This is not my problem’ or ‘I can’t do anything about it,’ which
is fine, but he cannot ignore or remain unaware of the challenge. The inciting
incident upsets the balance of the hero’s world and effectively makes his situation
worse. He may decide that he’ll do nothing and just live with it, but he has to
make a decision. The challenge can be a positive event – a chance for a new
romance; an offer of a new job; or an opportunity to do something he has always
wanted to do. Even if the situation he is faced with is an unpleasant problem, it
still offers him an opportunity to do something to change a life that he does not
find entirely satisfactory. He doesn’t know it yet, but it will also offer him a
chance to face and overcome his own inner demons.

The challenge presents the hero with a dilemma – it provides him with an
opportunity to change a frustrating situation, but accepting the challenge has
risks attached to it. Challenges never offer a safe option – there is always some
associated danger. The risk may be physical, emotional, or mental. Which of these
you choose will be related to whatever the hero fears most, because the challenge –
and the story – is designed to force him to face this fear. The challenge should
also be such that accepting it will put the hero into conflict with someone, and
perhaps even with himself. A policeman may have to commit a crime. A pacifist may
have to fight. Choosing this romantic partner may put him at odds with his own
family or social group. The dilemma the hero faces is that while the challenge
offers him an opportunity to achieve something he desires, accepting it brings with
it the danger of having to face something he fears.

The challenge is a crucial part of the set-up of a story. It provides the hero with
a potential objective or goal and motivation – to achieve this action (whatever
that is in the story) and achieve an improvement in his life circumstances. Do this
and return your life to a new and better equilibrium. The challenging situation is
usually brought about, either directly or indirectly, by the actions of the
antagonist. It may be a stage in the plan he is currently putting into action, or
it could be an accidental by-product of his plan. Obviously, the antagonist won’t
care that his actions are inconveniencing or even harming others.

Sometimes the challenge is actually issued by another character, a messenger or

‘herald.’ As well as issuing the challenge, this character serves to tell the hero
– and the reader – that significant changes are coming. In High Noon, the herald is
a telegraph clerk who brings Gary Cooper word that his enemies are out of jail and
heading into town to kill him. The herald can be any character – major or minor –
and may be a positive, negative, or neutral figure. The villain, or one of his men,
might issue a direct challenge to the hero. Or they may act in such as way as to
force the hero to make a decision. Or the herald can be a friend or mentor who
urges the hero to accept the opportunity to improve his life.

The end of Sequence 1 provides the hero with an opportunity to do something to

improve his present situation. The hero is aware of the challenge, but he doesn’t
actually respond to the challenge yet – that is the function of Sequence 2. The
challenge can be quite disorienting for the hero, as it forces him to acknowledge
that his world is unstable and that action will be required to restore its balance.

Yikes! That seems like a hell of a lot of stuff to include in just one-eighth of
your story, doesn’t it? The thing is, the first two sequences of your story have to
include everything that your reader needs to understand what follows. And they have
to include everything that you need to write a full-length story. One of the
reasons that a lot of my old story ideas fizzled out after about 20,000 words was
because I wasn’t setting them up properly, so they had nowhere to go. In Act I,
you’re putting in place the things that you’ll need to create that looong middle
section, and also lighting the fuse for the major turning point that will be your
crisis at the end of Act II, and also planting whatever information you’re going to
need to pull the surprise solution out of the bag at the climax in Act III, so that
this doesn’t look like a cheat when you get there.

I used to be writing ‘middle stuff’ when I should have been including all the Act I
stuff. As you can see from the 12-point list, there’s plenty to go at.

I mentioned previously that the quarters and eighths were only approximate
measures, and that any one of them could be longer or shorter than the absolute
numerical value of the fraction. Sequence 1 can be more or less than 15 pages of
your 120-page screenplay, or 10,000 words of your 80,000-word novel. In a fast-
paced adventure, you can often set-up your story elements in a lot shorter time. If
you’re introducing a lot of characters and/or a complex situation, you may need
more. Do whatever feels appropriate for your story. But if you’re coming up
massively short, go back and check you’ve included everything. And if you’re coming
in way too long, check that you haven’t started in on the middle stuff.
There’s no reason why you can’t put ‘Section 2 stuff’ in the first eighth of your
story and tick things off early, but if you’re starting to include ‘Section 3
stuff,’ you should probably ask yourself if you’re doing it for the right reason.

Sequence 2: Responding to the Challenge

Previously on Plot Basics... We introduced the hero and saw him issued with a
challenge. What will he decide to do? Once the challenge has been presented, the
hero can no longer remain in the comfort of his ordinary world. He may hesitate to
take up the challenge, but eventually he has got to act. There would be no story
otherwise. The function of Sequence 2 is to show the hero’s response to the
challenge that has just been issued and to take him up to the point where he
accepts the challenge and sets out on his quest to achieve his story objective.
This sequence of the story is often referred to as the hero’s ‘refusal of the
call.’ It shows the protagonist’s reaction to the inciting incident, and at the
same completes the set-up stage of the story, taking us up to the turning point at
the end of Act I. Blake Snyder refers to this part of the story as the ‘debate,’ as
the hero and the audience are presented with both sides of the argument, for and
against accepting the challenge. This sequence builds to the point where the hero
accepts the challenge and chooses to go on a quest to achieve some objective that
he believes will provide a solution to his external story problem. At the moment
this happens, a question is posed in the reader’s mind: Will the hero achieve his
objective? This is sometimes called the ‘major dramatic question,’ and it is not
answered until the climax of the story in Act III.

I’ve identified 16 headings for things to include in this sequence, though some of
them are quite short, and some of them are plot functions that will occur
simultaneously in the same scene – so again, this sequence is really only for ease
of presentation.

Initial Reaction to the Challenge

The Hero’s Greatest Fear

Refusal of the Call – The Reluctant Hero

Backstory

Subplots – The B-story & Other Secondary Plotlines

Consequences of Refusing the Challenge

Pressure to Accept the Challenge

Lock-in – Why Doesn’t the Hero Run Away?

Introducing Other Major Characters: Ally, Romance, Mentor, Henchman

Stakes – What is the Worst Possible Thing That Could Happen?

Motivation

Decision: Accepting the Challenge

The Hero’s Goal

Major Dramatic Question

Crossing the Threshold – Point of No Return

Turning Points

1. Initial Reaction to the Challenge

At the time the challenge was issued, the hero may have also been given a warning
of some danger or tragedy that was associated with accepting the challenge. Or the
nature of the challenge may have made it obvious that there was some risk involved
in accepting it. The challenge should be such that it is not an easy thing for the
hero to accept – there must be pros and cons in agreeing to take it on. The
challenge having been issued, the first thing we will see is the hero’s immediate
emotional response. This will be instantaneous and in character. It will be typical
of how the hero responds to difficult situations. Does the hero deny the challenge?
Is he angry? Afraid? Amused? How does what he says about this situation compare to
the actions he takes? After this first emotional reaction, the hero may return to
his mundane life. He tries to go back to his life as it used to be. But the
challenge has changed things. Perhaps he is now always looking over his shoulder.
Perhaps he becomes distracted and unable to concentrate on anything except the
nature of the challenge. Or perhaps his dissatisfaction with his normal life grows
to a point where his present situation is no longer tolerable. The hero may or may
not make some attempt to deal with the external problem at this point, depending on
how much it affects him personally. He may see what he believes to be an easy
solution – a quick fix or sticking-plaster job – and decide to use it. But this
will be a temporary solution at best and is more likely to make the situation worse
rather than better.

2. The Hero’s Greatest Fear?

Heroes are not invincible. Even a superhero like Superman had weaknesses –
Kryptonite and Lois Lane. I think the reason why the television show Smallville and
the Christopher Reeve Superman movies appealed to audiences is that they got the
Clark Kent part of the character right: he was warm and vulnerable and lacked self-
confidence when it came to relationships. He was as ‘human’ as the rest of us. The
more recent movies (as I write this) have somehow lost that, and concentrated on
the superhuman side of the character, the ‘man of steel,’ making the movies seem
cold, distant, and uninvolving.

James Bond gets all kinds of gadgets and supercars from Q, but he tends to lose
these along the way so that in the final battle he’s down to his own ingenuity and
physical stamina – which has probably just been weakened by some cruel torture. The
writers make him vulnerable, which makes us feel for him, and wonder whether he can
succeed in the final battle.

What this means for your story is that you need to think about where your hero’s
vulnerability lies. This vulnerability is one of the things that makes a character
likeable and helps a reader identify with them. A weakness engages the reader’s
empathy, sympathy, and/or curiosity. The hero’s weakness is sometimes identified by
another character, who challenges him after some demonstration of flawed behaviour:
‘You know what your trouble is...?’ The challenges that the hero faces in the story
will bring his weakness into sharp relief – and the beliefs and behaviours
associated with it will ‘explode’ at some point.

The hero’s greatest fear is linked to some traumatic experience, a ‘ghost from the
past’ or ‘demon’ that haunts him. The hero’s greatest fear is having to face that
traumatic situation again. This greatest fear has its roots in some – usually
unstated – child hood trauma, which is symbolised by some more recent event in his
backstory. This may have involved an emotional loss – the death of a loved one – or
rejection, betrayal, abandonment, humiliation, or some past failure in life. It
affects how the hero views the world, and it influences the actions he takes. This
thing that he fears most is what he will have to face and hopefully overcome,
during his ‘darkest hour,’ during the crisis at the end of Act II. In Sequence 2,
the ‘ghost’ should be implied, but details should be withheld. This is not the time
for masses of exposition or backstory. The full details are sometimes revealed in
Sequence 5, in a scene that demonstrates how the hero has grown to trust his
closest ally or his lover.

We have already mentioned the ‘flawed hero’ story. It features a story where the
hero’s inner conflict and fears lie at the heart of the story, and where a
character development arc runs alongside the main plot line. For the moment, we
will concentrate on stories without character development, and where the hero’s
fears impact on external plot development.

Secret Wish – Want versus Need

The fact that there is something lacking in the hero’s life, some need that is
unfulfilled, means that he has a secret wish or secret desire. He wants something
that will resolve his need. He may not know what it is that he actually needs – and
he may fixate on something that won’t actually fulfil his need. In many movies, the
hero believes wealth or some other form of ‘winning’ will fulfil his need; or that
sex with a woman with big boobs will fulfil his need, when what he really needs is
a proper relationship with another person. This means that the hero often chooses
to go for the wrong goal at the end of Act I – he chooses something he wants rather
than what he actually needs.

Want versus need is often highlighted by story theorists. In a romance, the hero
often goes for the wrong girl, and mistakes lust for love, choosing ‘want-girl’
instead of ‘need-girl.’ The hero’s lack tells us what he really needs in life – it
is the source of his hopes and dreams. This dream or secret wish is something he
rarely shares with others. He may even mock it as unrealistic himself. This dream
will never come true for him until he overcomes his flaw. This dream foreshadows
the ending – if the hero successfully meets the challenge and achieves his ultimate
(correct) objective, his secret wish may come true with little additional effort on
his part. He gets it as his reward for ‘virtuous’ behaviour.

The hero may share his secret wish with the co-protagonist in Sequence 5 in a scene
that demonstrates the trust and respect that has developed between the two
characters.
The Hero’s Lack and the Challenge

The hero’s feelings of unhappiness or lack of fulfilment existed before the story
opens. He has not, until this point, been motivated to do anything about this. He
has endured these circumstances, denied them, or ignored them. There should be some
hint in the early pages of the story that this situation exists – and that the hero
won’t be able to live with things the way they are for much longer. As well as the
external conflict that is brewing and threatening to destabilise the hero’s world,
there is an internal storm boiling up as well. The situation is building in such a
way that an explosion of emotion and/or action cannot be too far away.

Readers do not identify with characters who sit and wallow in self-pity, enduring
circumstances that are clearly making them unhappy. They like to see people who
take action – who do something – to tackle their problems. That’s because we all
like to think we are – or would like to be – someone who does something. We don’t
want to think of ourselves as passive victims, and we don’t want to see that in our
heroes. As the story opens, the hero is already at a point where he needs to make
an important decision about his future. He’s been at this point for a while, but he
keeps putting it off. He needs to make a choice: does he stay in his current,
unfulfilling circumstances, or does he take some action in order to bring about a
change? Up until now, he has been putting up with things, getting by, coping. He
has tried to pretend to himself that everything is okay. His flawed thinking has
kept him in this situation: he believes that he doesn’t deserve happiness; or that
he is incapable of changing, or has some other belief that holds him back.

The challenge – or ‘call to adventure’ – changes all that. It is an opportunity for

change that he cannot ignore. He could decide not to accept the challenge, but if
he did we wouldn’t have much of a story. Or much of a hero. He may initially refuse
the challenge, but ultimately he has to accept it, despite his fears. The hero
doesn’t actually know what he’s getting himself into – if he did, he definitely
would not accept the challenge! Up until the midpoint, he probably won’t fully
understand the nature of the problem he is facing or the importance of the
opportunity he is being given. For the first half of Act II – Sequences 3 and 4 –
as we shall see, he is typically ‘acting in ignorance,’ and may even be ‘going for
the wrong goal.’

3. Refusal of the Call – The Reluctant Hero

This is also sometimes referred to as ‘resisting the call to adventure.’ In many

stories, after his initial emotional reaction to the challenge, the hero will make
a decision to refuse the challenge he has been offered. He rejects the opportunity
that the life-changing event offers him, or denies that there is a need to take
action to respond to it. He may pretend to himself that there is no problem; or
decide that it is not his problem, or just hope that the problem will go away of
its own accord. He tries to hang on to things as they were – to the safety of the
life he knows. Part of the reason for the hero’s reluctance is that he recognises
the danger inherent in accepting the challenge. He is aware, perhaps only
subconsciously, that accepting the challenge will force him to face his greatest
fear. Inherent in the challenge is the possibility of being faced with a situation
similar to the ‘trauma’ that caused his psychological or emotional wounding. It
could also be that the challenge itself is a dangerous proposition, offering risks
that any normal person would be loath to accept.

Making the hero reluctant allows us to show that there is something important at
stake for him – physically and emotionally. As we have said, this sequence can be
presented as a sort of debate, as the two sides – taking action versus not taking
action – are weighed up. The hero may question whether the adventure is necessary.
He may be reluctant to accept the challenge based on past experience – cynical
lovers and private detectives often do, referring to previous events that have left
them sadder but wiser. This is an opportunity to weave in necessary parts of the
character’s backstory, or at least hint at it (see item 4 below). The hero’s
dilemma could be that he is being forced to choose between duty and desire, or
between an opportunity to take action and a wish to run away. This is the point at
which his difficulty in accepting the challenge is expressed, and it is the point
at which we see the hero’s original self-definition. If he wants to ignore the
challenge or to run away, we see that he does not regard himself as capable of
rising to the challenge. This also demonstrates the hero’s primary emotional state,
which could be fear, guilt, self-loathing, or whatever. The hero’s reluctance is
also part of the game. Readers like to see the hero’s reluctance overcome – they
enjoy seeing him try to avoid the challenge, see his excuses and attempts at
avoidance, but ending up having to accept it anyway.

In some stories, the hero does make some sort of half-hearted attempt to deal with
the problem. He attempts a quick-fix in the hope that this will do and allow him to
get back to his everyday life. The choice he makes here will be a mistake,
influenced by his inner flaw. He will underestimate the nature of the problem, or
its seriousness, and so will do something that makes things worse rather than
better.

Certain types of story do not have a reluctant hero. Adventure stories like the
Indiana Jones or James Bond movies, for example, have a hero who leaps straight
into action. Other stories feature a ‘travelling angel’ character who undertakes an
adventure, but does not undergo any form of character development – he has no flaw
to overcome or ends the story with his flaw still in place. Shane is an example of
this. In a story like Speed, the hero is forced to take action, he has no choice.
Sequence 2 in this type of story concentrates more on setting up the danger that
the hero must face. And even the most willing hero may hesitate, as he assesses the
implications of setting off into the unknown.

4. Backstory

A good story doesn’t always begin at the beginning, at some convenient point when
two characters first meet, or when some other initiating event takes place. It
begins at a point where the action is well underway and already heading towards a
climax. The villain’s plan was probably put into action some time ago, and its
impact on the ordinary world of the hero may have been increasing for some time.
The hero’s feelings of dissatisfaction began long ago, and have been building and
building until he’s like a pressure cooker about to blow. In other words, the
reader enters at a point where things are just about to get interesting. To begin
with, we introduce interesting people, places and situations in order to pique the
interest of the reader. Only then do we need to worry about answering some of the
questions the reader may have about who these people are, how they came to be in
this particular place, and how they got themselves into the situation that they
currently find themselves in.

The earlier events that took place, that brought about the present situation and
set events in motion, are called backstory. Backstory is anything that happened to
your hero – or anything that happened in the story world – in the hours, days, or
years before the story opened, and which have a direct bearing on the present
story. Backstory includes any past event that the reader must know in order to be
able to understand the story you are telling now. Backstory is a form of
exposition, and because it relates to past events rather than what is happening in
the ‘now’ of the story, it is telling rather than showing.

In many stories, an event – or a series of events – occurs before the story opens
that threatens to upset the balance of the hero’s everyday life. The impact of this
event does not become clear until the moment of the challenge or ‘inciting
incident’ at the end of Sequence 1. In Hamlet – as in many whodunits – a murder has
taken place before the story opens.

All major characters should enter the story with a past life. They will all have
their own backstory – some of this will be relevant to the current story (so it
should be included or hinted at) and some of it won’t (and so it shouldn’t be
included). They will have memories of events in their lives, and a complex web of
relationships with family, friends, lovers, enemies, co-workers, employers, and
other people. Physical and social factors will have influenced them
psychologically, making them into the people they are today, and causing them to
behave in the way that they do. The writer needs to know where the character is
coming from, as this will have a bearing on where he needs to go. Knowing the
hero’s current life situation and emotional state, along with what happened
immediately before the opening scene, allows the writer to hit the ground running
and create strong dramatic tension from the outset.

A writer should always know much more about the hero’s backstory than will be
included in the story. In order to know the character, the writer must know things
like where the hero is coming from when the story opens and what happened
immediately prior to the first scene in which the hero appears; why he has ended up
in the place where his first scene occurs; and what his immediate and long-term
plans are before the challenge is issued. How far back the backstory needs to go
varies from story to story. Sometimes these events happened only an hour ago.
Sometimes they happened in a character’s childhood. These significant events may be
known by only one character, or they may be known by everyone except one character.
They may be used in the story itself as revelations that provide a dramatic jolt or
plot-twist. Or they might serve as the cause of a complication or obstacle.
Backstory events can also be used when a character comes to a point where he or she
must make a decision. An event from their past can be used to influence or trigger
a decision. Or these events may explain their attitude towards life and their
typical reactions to situations – that is, they may be the cause of, or the result
of, their character flaw.

While the scenes in this sequence will be of a more expository nature, there should
still be some action and/or conflict in them. But it is important to vary the
intensity of conflict from scene to scene. Every scene cannot feature car chases,
gun fights, or characters yelling at each other. If your opening scene, or sequence
of scenes, was action-packed or revealed an intriguing or puzzling situation, then
you can safely have a slower-paced scene that provides some background material
that will help the reader better understand the story situation. If your opening
was more of a slow-build, then you may need to structure your exposition into some
form of dramatic revelation: someone arrives dramatic news or reveals the details
of a dramatic past event. Sometimes it is possible to present exposition within a
conflict situation: someone trying to obtain information from a reluctant witness;
an interrogation; or some other form of one-to-one confrontation. One of the best
ways to make the reader pay attention to backstory is to make them want to discover
what happened in the past. Refer to some past event, and then move on, leaving
people to wonder what actually happened. Or have a character refuse to give the
details of what happened. Of course, when the information is finally revealed, it
has to have been worth waiting for.

The general rule of thumb is that exposition should be kept to a minimum. Give the
reader only what is essential for them to understand what is going on. Dwight V.
Swain puts it best in Techniques of the Selling Writer when he says: “Quit thinking
your reader needs to know as much background to read your story as you need to know
to write it.” The reader of a story, he says, is interested in the future, “... not
the past. He wants to know what will happen as desire struggles against danger; not
what did happen that led to the present conflict.”

The reader doesn’t need to know the hero’s whole life story, they only need those
details that will help them understand why the character behaves the way he does.
And those details should be revealed gradually, rather in a great expository lump.
“Wherever possible,” Swain says, “translate information into people doing things.”

Generally speaking, we are only interested in the backstory of the hero in Act I –
we may learn something of the backstory of the villain later in the story. We only
really care about the backstory of other characters if it is relevant in some way
to their relationship with the hero, and possibly to the thematic argument of the
story.

5. Subplots – The B-story and Other Secondary Plotlines

Significant storylines that will run throughout the novel or screenplay – a

romantic subplot, for example – should normally be introduced before the end of Act
I. Lesser subplots may be introduced later, but all of them should be introduced by
the midpoint of the story, as this is the point at which all of the elements should
have been set-up and we start moving towards resolution. The A-story is the
physical action of the story, usually hero versus villain. The B-story is usually a
relationship story – either a romance between the hero and his lover, or a platonic
relationship between the hero and his ally, co-worker, or ‘buddy.’ In the romance
genre, the opposite is true: the A-story concerns the relationship between the hero
and the heroine, and the physical action becomes the B-story – the external action
is most significant when it impacts the main romantic plotline. There may also be
lesser subplots which may, or may not, involve the hero. These will typically
mirror or contrast with the relationship story involving the hero, or provide an
additional variation or viewpoint on the thematic argument.

In A Practical Manual of Screen Playwriting for Theatre and Television Films, Lewis
Herman writes that subplots are “foils for the main plot,” providing an opportunity
for contrast and comparison, and that “... they make excellent vehicles for comedy
relief, crisis relief, and time-lapse cutaways. When the major story line becomes
too tense, the action can always be cut away to the antics of the characters in the
subplot.” In order to be effective, Herman says, “a subplot must be integrated into
the main story line. It must contribute to its development, influence its crises,
or affect its climax.”

Linda Seger, in Making a Good Script Great, agrees saying that the romantic subplot
often causes major changes in the main plot. She also says that subplot typically
carries the theme of the story. Seger also writes that where the main plot of a
story is often fairly conventional, the subplot can offer something special and
unique.

As well as the A- and B-plots, some story theorists refer to the C-plot as being
the hero’s developmental (or character growth) arc.

Good subplots will usually demonstrate variations on the main thematic argument of
the story, showing characters in similar situations to the hero and the co-
protagonist, but who make different choices or suffer different consequences to
their actions. In this way, subplots can deepen a story. They can also add an
additional level of complexity if the main plotline seems too straightforward.
Subplots should always intersect with the main plot at various points, and should
ideally serve as complications for the main plot. Alternatively, they can be used
to set-up or plant things that will be needed in the main plot later. As we will
see later, cutting between the action of the main plot and a subplot can also be
used to vary the pace of a story, and to heighten suspense.

Significant subplots can be resolved before or at the crisis and climax of the main
plot. Minor subplots will normally be tied up before this, so as not to distract
from the main action. The final resolution of the main relationship subplot may not
come until Sequence 8, when we see what the hero’s future is likely to be, now that
his adventure is ending.

How Many Subplots?

A straightforward genre novel or movie will probably have one or two subplots – a
relationship subplot between the hero and the co-protagonist (his ally or lover),
and a subplot featuring secondary characters that reflects or offers a variation on
the main story in some way. Herman suggests it could be the romance of the
heroine’s girlfriend. If a subplot involves secondary characters, they should be
introduced within the main plot first, otherwise the reader is likely to think: Who
are these people? Why do I care what they are doing? Other types of plot may have
more subplots. A film with an ‘ensemble’ cast could well have subplots relating to
each of the heroes, and the same may be true for a novel which features multiple
viewpoint characters.

The whodunit is unusual in that there is normally no relationship subplot – no B-

story. But the structure of this type of story is also slightly unusual, in that
the A-story consists – to all intents and purposes – of two intertwined plotlines:
the detective’s investigation, as he pieces together what really happened, and the
version of events that the murderer has created to deflect suspicion from himself,
i.e. what seems to have happened. Added to that, each suspect has their own story,
and usually their own guilty secret, that is presented in one or more vignettes as
the detective interviews them.

Subplot Structure

For the most part, a subplot is structured in the same way as the main plot, with a
beginning, middle, and end – the main subplots will also have turning points, and
may even have a mini-version of the eight sequence structure. It is usually
advisable to work out the subplot as if it was a separate story, and then look at
the best way to weave it together with the main plot. If the subplot features
characters and locations in common with the main plot, you have less setting up to
do. If your subplot doesn’t include people and places from the main plot, then you
need to make sure that it is connected to it in some other way, otherwise it risks
looking like a pointless diversion. Subplots usually work best when they intersect
with the main plot to cause unexpected obstacles or complications. The way to
structure your subplot is to look at it separately and plot out its eight
sequences. Some of these sequences may be short, sketchy, or simply implied, but a
full subplot will be structured like a story in its own right. You also need to
look at it in terms of its relationship to the theme of the main story – is the
subplot a variation on the theme? Or does it serve the hero’s development arc? Or
is it related to the villain’s plot? Or the ally or lover’s story? If it does none
of these things, you need to ask yourself whether it really belongs in the story.
Minor subplots may not need the full three-act, eight-part structure – they may be
more along the lines of a short story plot or a two-act or one-act structure.
Plotting short stories and other act-structures is a separate thing that we don’t
have space to cover here – we just need to bear in mind that there are other story
forms that we can adapt to use in subplots.

Usually, subplots will begin after the inciting incident and finish before the
climax in Act III. The most important subplots will usually be the longest,
starting earlier and finishing later. Less important subplots will be resolved
before the end of Act II. Sometimes you may hold up the final resolution of a
subplot until Sequence 8, where you will tie up all the loose ends, but you will
want to get the bulk of the subplots out of the way so that the crisis and climax
of the story concentrate on the A- and B-stories only.

6. Consequences of the Refusal – The Villain Gains an Advantage

The hero’s refusal to take up the challenge will have consequences, one of which
might be that the villain or rival gets the upper hand. By not opposing him, the
hero has allowed the villain some degree of success, and the villain has moved
closer to achieving his own objective, whatever that might be. The refusal will
also have consequences for the hero himself, if only in a change in his emotional
state or in his own opinion of himself, which will be reflected in his subsequent
behaviour. If he feels guilty for refusing the call, for example, he may develop
and exaggerated desire to please others in an attempt to make amends for his
perceived failing. Or he might push people away, for fear of being ‘found out.’ He
may feel unworthy of having happiness, love, or friendship. He may go into denial
or lie about his own actions or feelings. This is an external expression of his
internal emotional state and is probably linked directly to his character flaw. The
hero’s own feelings resulting from the refusal, and other people’s reactions to his
refusal of the challenge, will increase the pressure on the hero. The pressure will
force him to re-evaluate his decision, and push him closer to accepting the
challenge, or perhaps make him even more determined not to accept the challenge,
depending on his character.

The ultimate consequence of the refusal is that the hero’s external problem
worsens. The effect of the external problem on the hero’s world increases. In some
cases, the hero may have attempted a quick-fix for the problem, rather than
committing himself to finding a proper solution. In these cases, it will be the
hero’s half-hearted actions, rather than his refusal to act, that will have caused
the worsening of the situation. Either way, things get worse. Pressure on the hero
increases. The risk to the hero, and other people in his world, will increase.

The villain, or his people, may threaten or actually harm someone the hero cares
about; or they may take this person away. In Mariner Software’s Contour writing
system, this person is referred to as the ‘stakes character’ and represents all of
the people that the villain and his henchmen are victimising. It is usually someone
the hero feels deeply about – his closest ally, perhaps even his lover or someone
he wishes to be his lover. The antagonist harms this character in some way, taking
something from him or her, or perhaps deceiving them tricking them into doing
something to further the villain’s plan, harming them or degrading the ‘stakes
character’ in the process. Or this character may make some innocent mistake that
ends up furthering the villain’s cause. The antagonists’ actions move the change
from being something that is happening in the hero’s world, to something that
impacts him directly. They reach a point where they can no longer be ignored. This
serves to reinforce or raise the stakes – the severity of the threat to the hero
and his world is made much clearer, demanding that the hero make a response.

7. Pressure to Accept the Challenge

Having achieved some success unchallenged, the antagonist is likely to make another
move towards his objective. He may become more openly daring in the absence of
opposition, and the scale of his actions may increase. As such, the impact of these
actions on the hero and his world increases. The ally or mentor character may also
put pressure on the hero to accept the challenge. We are looking to develop a
situation that will force the hero to accept the challenge. Something that will
push him or pull him into the adventure. We need to get the hero to a point where
not acting has worse consequences than he risks by taking action. A new act of
villainy will probably prove to be the final straw as far as the hero is concerned.
Its impact will be such that he cannot sit back any longer – he must act. In other
words, the hero must change his mind and accept the challenge which has been
issued, even though the stakes have now been raised by the villain’s latest
actions. As mentioned above, the last straw may have come about as a result of the
failure of the hero’s own half-hearted attempt to patch-up the situation: he may be
directly responsible for the villain’s recent success. Or the hero may make a
shocking discovery. He may receive terrible news. Or there may be some sort of
revelation that causes the hero to see that the situation is much worse than he
originally thought. Someone may have a good reason – either a friend or a foe – for
pushing the hero. Or an antagonist may pull the hero into the adventure. Or the
ally or ‘romantic interest’ character may choose to accept the challenge in the
hero’s stead, and get themselves into trouble so that the hero – perhaps partially
out of feelings of guilt – then has to go to their aid.

The final straw that causes the hero to make a decision can be either an external
force – the villain pushes him, or an ally or mentor gives him an encouraging
shove, or an internal force – he feels he must act to save himself from perceived
danger, or to save someone else from danger. Eventually, the hero must find himself
in a situation that is intolerable. This may be a combination of external and
internal forces that bring about his decision to act. Where the inciting incident
or challenge provides the hero with an opportunity to do something, the event we
are talking about here is some specific incident that acts as the final catalyst
that jolts the hero into taking action. It may come in the form of a specific
action, such as a murder or a kidnap or someone holding a gun to the hero’s head,
or some other action that cannot be ignored. These are the strongest forms of
catalyst. Or it may be a piece of information that the hero receives – the hero’s
house is going to be repossessed, his wife wants a divorce, or war has been
declared. Or it could be a situational change of some kind: a series of minor
events may build to a point where the hero runs out of options and has no choice
but to accept the challenge of the situation. His comfortable everyday existence
may just cease to be available. Or his everyday life may become so oppressive that
he feels he has got to escape. The escalation of pressure on the hero gives the
story a kick that moves it forward.

8. Lock-in – Why Doesn’t the Hero Run Away?

There are a couple of logical questions that have to be dealt with early in a lot
of stories: If the hero is troubled by a villain whose actions are criminal, why
doesn’t he just go to the police? And: If the hero doesn’t want to have to face his
worst fears, why doesn’t he just run away? The obvious answer to both these
questions is that if the hero did either of these things, we wouldn’t have a story.
But we need to answer them in some way that is logical within the context of the
story. In the whodunit, we take away the option of calling for the police by having
the murder take place in some isolated location. Or we make it clear that the
official investigator isn’t up to the task of solving the mystery. In a thriller,
we typically have the hero unjustly accused of a crime, so that he has to hide from
the police as well as the villains. Or the local police or national authorities may
be part of the conspiracy. In other types of story, we rule out calling in the
authorities for other reasons. Perhaps the villain is a friend or relative of the
hero or the ally or the ‘romantic interest.’ Many families and organisations have
an unwritten rule: we deal with our own problems, we don’t bring in outsiders.
Families don’t want to wash their ‘dirty laundry’ in public, or they may not want a
family member to go to prison, so decide to dispense their own form of justice.
Companies and other public institutions may not want the bad publicity that would
come from revealing their problem to outsiders. Some types of character just
mistrust authority figures or the nature of their problem is such that they are not
taken seriously by the police, or it is not the sort of thing a policeman could do
anything about.

You also need to construct your story problem is such a way that the hero cannot
simply run away or turn his back on it. Again, the whodunit’s isolated location
helps to keep everyone contained and forces the amateur detective to deal with the
problem. In the man-on-the-run thriller, the hero does try to run away but
discovers that there is no escape. And in other types of story, the setting is such
that the hero cannot leave, or does not want to leave because he would lose too
much by going away. Setting a story in an ‘enclosed’ environment such as a school,
or a company, or a hospital provides a boundary within which the story has to take
place. People face problems in the workplace every day – if they run away, they may
lose their livelihood or any chance to further their career. You have to provide a
reason that makes it seem reasonable for the hero to stay where he is. This is
related to setting as well as to the hero’s life circumstances. You need something
that brings the characters of your story together and keeps them in this particular
arena. Ideally it will be somewhere with physical boundaries, like the isolated
country house of the whodunit; or emotional boundaries, like a family; or a
hierarchical structure like a hospital or the military or politics, that not only
keeps everyone together, but also allows you to treat it like a pressure cooker or
crucible, turning up the heat under it to increase the difficulties of those
inside.
9. Introduce Other Major Characters

Any character who is going to play a major part in the story should be introduced
before the end of Act I. This doesn’t mean that they have to appear on stage, but
they should be introduced by the impact of their actions or in discussions between
other characters. This is a book about plot, so here I will talk about characters
in terms of the roles they play in the story. Other than the hero – the protagonist
or main character – and the antagonist or villain, there are four other significant
types of character:

The Ally

The Romance

The Mentor

The Villain’s Henchman

The Ally

The ally may be the hero’s ‘love interest’ (see Romance below) or the ‘buddy’ in a
buddy movie; they could be a character’s partner in work or in some other
enterprise; they could be a ‘rookie’ the hero is training; they could be the other
half of an ‘odd couple’ – someone the hero finds himself having to share living
space with; or they could someone the hero finds himself forced to work with.
Sometimes the hero seeks out or recruits his ally, who may then serve as both
partner and mentor (see Mentor below). The ally may initially be reluctant to join
the hero on his quest. In some stories, the hero may have a mentor and an ally, or
an ally and a romantic interest, and sometimes he has all three. Usually only one
of these will serve as the hero’s co-protagonist throughout the story, and the
relationship between the hero and the co-protagonist – whether it is a platonic
friendship or a romance – makes up the B-story. As already mentioned, in the
romance genre, the hero and the heroine usually serve as the main co-protagonist
and antagonist for each other. Each may have a best friend with whom they discuss
the tribulations of their romance, and each may have a ‘love rival’ who is seeking
to replace them in the romantic relationship with their respective partner. Like
the romance character, the ally is effectively a co-protagonist. The hero will, in
all probability, spend most of Act II in the company of this character.

At the very simplest level, the ally is someone the hero can travel with and saves
the hero having to talk to himself. He or she can be a sounding-board for the
hero’s ideas and can spur the hero on when the going gets tough. The ally usually
supports the hero in his quest – he may have been instrumental getting the hero to
accept the challenge, though he may not share the same motivation as the hero, or
even agree with the hero’s choice of goal.

Often the relationship between the hero and the ally begins antagonistically. They
dislike each other on sight, have different viewpoints on life, and seem to have
nothing in common. They are thrown together by circumstances and spend a fair
amount of time bickering until each gradually comes to respect the other. 48HRS
teams a convict with the cop (Eddie Murphy and Nick Nolte) who are initially – and
literally – at each other’s throats, until they gradually bond and find a way to
work together effectively. Like any friend, sometimes the ally will support the
hero – even when he thinks the hero is wrong or doing something stupid; and
sometimes the ally will actively oppose the hero. The hero will want the ally to
help him avoid having to face the thing he fears most. But in actual fact, the ally
will turn out to be someone who is ideally suited to help the hero face his demons
and overcome them.

In some stories, such as the flawed hero story, it is through the relationship with
the ally that we see the stages in the hero’s character development. For this
reason, the ally is sometimes referred to the hero’s ‘reflection’ or ‘mirror.’ The
ally typically mirrors the positive aspects of himself that the hero denies. While
the villain mirrors the negative aspects. The ally may act as a role model,
demonstrating positive qualities that the hero needs to develop. Or the ally could
provide a negative role-model, being an exaggeration of the qualities and
behaviours the hero needs to grow out of. Hero and ally may begin as opposites, or
as virtual twins who come from the same situation and behave in the same ways. The
hero will change – growing as a character – as the story proceeds, but the ally
will not. This way we can see the hero’s changes in starker contrast. The ally is
like the ‘control group’ in an experiment – he remains the same so that the changes
in the ‘test subject’ can be measured against him. The ally helps the hero
recognise the impact of the hero’s inner flaw by serving as either a positive or a
negative example.

The ally is – or becomes – someone the hero can trust. His confidante. The hero
will feel comfortable sharing his feelings, his hopes and fears, and his self-doubt
with the ally. The hero feels safe showing his vulnerable side to the ally: they
are able to laugh and to cry together. There is often a fairly intimate scene
between the two in Sequence 5, immediately following the midpoint and the self-
revelation that the hero has experienced. The hero usually explains his plan to the
ally, setting up anticipation as the reader wonders whether things will work out as
the hero believes they will. Especially if the reader knows something that the hero
doesn’t, that could derail the plan.

Create and develop the ally in the same way as the hero, but bear in mind that –
even though the ally may have the same character flaw as the hero (or may have a
different flaw, or no apparent flaw), he will not demonstrate character growth
during the course of the story. The ally will be introduced in some situation that
demonstrates his dominant character trait and attitude towards life, and these will
remain constant.

The fact that the hero comes to depend on the presence of the ally can be used
against him by the villain, who may seek to remove the ally in order to weaken the
hero or to force him to give up his quest. Allies are sometimes taken hostage, and
sometimes they are killed. And – perhaps most dramatically of all – allies
sometimes turn out to be betrayers: they have been working for the villain all
along.

The Romance

Sometimes referred to as the ‘romantic interest,’ lover, or – in days past – the

‘love interest.’ Years ago, the love interest served as a sort of ‘prize’ the hero
won when he successfully completed his quest, and her only other role in the story
was to get herself captured by the villain so the hero had to ride to her rescue.
Today, the person in whom the hero has a romantic interest is better written as a
co-protagonist and partner on the quest, combining the functions of lover and best-
friend/confidante. Except in the romance genre, as mentioned above, where hero and
heroine serve as both co-protagonist and antagonist for each other.

Everything that has been said above about the ally can be applied to the romance
character. They may begin as reluctant and antagonistic partners, forced together
as a result of circumstances. Or they may not initially trust one another, so they
deny their attraction to each other. The hero may, as a result of his flawed
beliefs and behaviour, seek to have a romantic relationship with the wrong person.
He may, for example, mistake lust for love. In this case, there is usually a second
character who is actually the right person for the hero – but the hero won’t
recognise her as such until he has overcome his own flaw.

If the writer wants the reader to approve of the hero’s choice of partner, then the
romance character must have qualities that make her seem lovable and allow the
reader to feel sympathy for her. These qualities are created in exactly the same
way as those for the hero. If we want the reader to see the hero’s choice of lover
as the wrong choice, we need to give her unsympathetic traits, in the same way as
we did for the villain.

The Mentor

The mentor is usually a positive character who helps or teaches the hero, and who
might also protect him and provide him with weapons, tools, or other ‘gifts’ to
help him during his quest. The mentor is often a wise old man or a wise old woman.
Merlin in Arthurian legend and Obi Wan Kenobi in Star Wars are mentors, as are the
martial arts master Mr. Miyagi in The Karate Kid, Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother, the
Robert Shaw character Quint in Jaws, and the ‘old cop’ in the old cop – young cop
teamings in such films as Seven and Lethal Weapon. Mentors are often people who
were heroes when they were younger – they have survived the trials of life, and are
now passing on the wisdom gained from experience. The mentor can be a wiser, more
noble figure who the hero aspires to be like, a sort of role model. Mentors do not
have to have been successful as heroes earlier in their lives – a failed hero can
show the hero the pitfalls to avoid. Sometimes mentors teach in spite of
themselves.

Some mentors may still be trying to complete their own heroic journey, but find
themselves faced with a crisis of faith or a tragic flaw in their own character.
Sometimes the mentor is suffering from the onset of age or approaching death;
sometimes he may have fallen from the hero’s path. The new, young hero needs the
mentor to pull himself together one more time, and there may be serious doubt that
the mentor can do it. Such a mentor may go through all the stages of his own
‘hero’s journey’ in order to achieve redemption.

Mentors can be willing or unwilling. The mentor may seek out the hero and convince
him of his destiny, or the hero may seek out the mentor to ask him to share his
wisdom. A hero may learn from a series of mentors, each of whom teaches him a
specific skill or provide him with one of the tools or weapons he will need for his
adventure. Different functions of the mentor may be fulfilled by different
characters. The mentor can also fill the role of a missing parent figure or may
actually be one of the hero’s parents.
In comedies – particularly romantic comedies – the hero has a friend or co-worker
(usually of the same sex) who offers advice. This advice is well-meant but usually
leads to a complication or disaster. The comic-mentor may suggest that the hero go
out with someone else in order to make his/her true love jealous; or he may suggest
that the hero pretends to be like someone his true love admires; or pretends to be
interested in some subject or hobby which he believes his true love to be
interested in. Following this advice leads the hero into deeper and deeper trouble.
Sometimes a character may appear to the hero to be a mentor, but this character is,
in fact, an agent of the villain whose aim is to lead the hero into danger and
cause him to fail in his quest.

The mentor serves a number of functions:

Teaching or training the hero, helping him to learn skills or gain knowledge he
will need to face the challenges ahead and to succeed in his quest. This may also,
in the early part of Act II, include testing of the hero in order to see what
skills the hero has, what he needs to develop, and whether he is proving himself a
worthy pupil. The mentor will also begin the hero on the path of self-discovery,
trying to assist the hero in identifying his own strengths and weaknesses. The
mentor will not tell the hero what his flaw is, but he will help the hero to
discover it.

Weapons or tools are often provided by the mentor – a magical sword such as
Excalibur, or a magic potion, a spell, a medicine or talisman, or even an important
piece of knowledge such as a clue or a life-saving bit of advice. The hero will
usually have to earn the mentor’s gifts of teaching and tools or weapons by passing
some kind of test, proving himself worthy of the gifts. The hero earns the gifts
through an act of learning, sacrifice or commitment.

Conscience. The mentor can also function as the hero’s ethical guide, teaching him
the moral code of the knight, and warning him of the dangers and seductive nature
of evil.

Motivation. The mentor reassures the hero, helping him to overcome his reluctance
and fear, and urging him to accept the challenge of the adventure. Sometimes the
teaching and gifts are enough to encourage the unwilling hero to accept the
challenge. At others, the mentor must arrange an incident which proves to the hero
that he has what it takes to embark on the adventure, motivating him and giving him
that final push which gets him to commit to the quest.

Planting. An important function of the mentor is to plant information or a prop

that will become important later in the story. Plants are important facts or
objects which the reader will forget about until they become important later. In
James Bond movies, Q provides 007 with some new gadget which will help him escape
from a tight spot later: planting the gadget early in the film stops its use later
from seeming too improbable or too much of a cheat. Such plants also help to tie
together the beginning and end of the film and show the importance of what the hero
has learned from the mentor.

As previously mentioned, the mentor can only take the hero so far on his journey.
At some point, the mentor must judge that the hero is ready to continue alone. A
good mentor will not allow the hero to become dependent on him because he knows
that he will not always be present to help the hero out in difficult times. The
hero may feel he has been abandoned or betrayed by the mentor – until he realises
that he no longer needs him. And, of course, a good villain will take away the
hero’s mentor before the hero is ready to continue the quest alone.
The Villain’s Henchman

We have already said that in some stories, the identity of the villain – the
mastermind behind the evil plot – often has to remain a secret, so that it can be
subject of a dramatic revelation at the midpoint of the story or at the end of Act
II. In the whodunit, the name of the murderer is not revealed until the ‘drawing
room scene’ at the climax of Act III, though the killer will have been on stage
throughout the story as one of the suspects. In a thriller, the person behind the
conspiracy is typically a well-known and powerful individual in the story world,
who will probably also have been on stage for at least some part of the story, but
whose true nature does not become known until the crisis point of the story.
Criminal masterminds of the Bond-villain variety often have a henchman to carry out
their dirty work for them. These are usually highly-trained and ruthless
individuals who serve to personify the force of antagonism. This is the person who
will make several attempts on the hero’s life during Act II, and who the hero will
probably end up fighting at the end of Act II. A good henchman usually seems
literally larger than life. They are bigger and more powerful than the hero; they
are relentless in their pursuit of him; they are remorseless, not caring if
innocent bystanders are injured as a result of his actions; incorruptible, they
remain totally loyal to their master; impervious to pain; and often curiously
attractive.

Jaws, Oddjob and Darth Vader have already been mentioned in this role. To them we
can add Agent Smith in The Matrix movies; Luca Brasi in The Godfather; and – since
some of the best henchmen are women – I’m going to nominate Pamela Swynford de
Beaufort from True Blood. Sometimes henchmen are mute, but often they have some
really great – and evil! – lines. If your story calls for a henchman, make him or
her a memorable one, and don’t allow the hero to kill him off too easily.

10. Stakes – A Potential Disaster

What is the worst possible thing that could happen to the hero? And what is the
worst possible thing that could happen to the hero’s world? The reader needs to
know what is at stake for the hero. What does he stand to gain or lose by the
adventure? What will be the consequences for the hero, and for his world, if he
fails? What is the potential disaster that will be his fate if he doesn’t achieve
his objective? In most cases, the hero is risking his life or his future happiness,
or possibly both. The reader must be convinced that something vitally important
will be lost if the hero does not achieve his objective. In order for the reader to
become emotionally involved in the story, the hero must be emotionally involved in
the action. If the reader doesn’t believe that it is absolutely essential for the
hero to achieve his goal, they won’t root for the hero. The stakes might be
survival, the need to belong, self-esteem, or the survival of another person or of
a whole community. But the reader must clearly understand why it is essential for
the hero’s physical or emotional or mental well-being to achieve his objective.

What does the hero fear most? How is that fear expressed in terms of his
behaviours? He will need to face this fear at the climax of the story. You must
match your hero to the story and your story to the hero. The climax will be most
dramatic if you have a situation which your hero, based on his personal fears, is
the least likely person to be able to face it successfully. By having your hero
seem to be completely unprepared to tackle such a situation, you put the outcome in
doubt – and you keep the reader on the edge of their seat as they wait to see how
things will turn out. The hero almost always succeeds – the trick is to make it
seem that he won’t, and also – if you can manage it – have him succeed in a manner
that the reader isn’t expecting. Who is the least likely person to be able to face
the climax situation you have in mind? Make that person your hero. Or if you know
your hero already, what sort of situation is the least likely to be able to face
successfully? Put a coward in a situation that requires bravery. Put a greedy
person in a situation where his wealth cannot help him. Put a strong man in a
situation where physical strength is no use in solving the problem.

Stakes are important in storytelling, and they need to be raised at various points
throughout the story.

11. Motivation – The Hero’s Point of View

The hero’s motivation at this point in the story is strongly influenced by whatever
it is he fears most. Any decision he makes will involve trying to avoid having to
face this fear. Even when he has been forced into a position where he has got to
make a decision to accept the challenge or ‘call to adventure,’ his response will
be in line with the typical, protective behaviours that arise from his character
flaw. His choices will be based around the way he currently defines himself.

His motivation, along with the goal he chooses (see 13 below), tell us something
about the hero. They tell us what he (currently) believes to be of value. He will
not, at this point in the story, be ready to demonstrate his commitment to the
‘virtue’ side of the story’s moral argument. He has not yet discovered what it is
that he values most, or if he is aware of this, he is not yet ready to make a
commitment to fight for this value. Again we are back to what the hero thinks he
wants versus what he really needs.

12. Decision – Accepting the Challenge

This is the point at which the hero makes the decision to commit himself to the
quest – he will take action to deal with the external problem. He will have been
under pressure to accept the challenge, but he has to make the choice himself. He
cannot be tricked, dragged, lured, or forced into making this particular choice.
One of the heroic qualities we mentioned earlier was that of being a volunteer: we
like people more when they choose to put themselves at risk in order to do what
they believe is right. And we like people who are decisive and appear to be in
control of their own lives, rather than appearing to be reactive victims of
circumstance. In some stories, it appears that the hero doesn’t have a choice to
make, and is thrown into the adventure by circumstances. In a ‘man-on-the-run’
thriller, such as The Thirty-Nine Steps or North by North-West, the hero usually
finds himself either kidnapped or unjustly accused of some crime, or in possession
of something wanted by the villain, or in some other way is thrown into exile, and
has no choice but to be a part of what is going on. He does make a choice – to try
and escape and prove his innocence – but spends the first half of the story on the
run, being reactive rather than proactive: he typically doesn’t make a decision to
try and defeat the villain until the midpoint of the story, when he decides he’s
not going to run anymore, he will take the fight to the villain.

The decision is a moment of change – the hero makes a commitment at this point. As
we have already said, the hero’s motivation for taking action may be confused at
this point as a result of his fears. He may make a decision to act out of fairly
selfish motives – to avoid being harmed himself or to try and fix things quickly so
he can get back to his normal life. In other words, he may embark on the quest for
the wrong reason – he may do it because he feels guilty or indebted to someone,
rather than because resolving the problem is in the best interests of both himself
and his world. Or he may choose to take action out of greed or some other selfish
motive. Having made a decision to act, the hero will choose how he will act: he
chooses a goal (see below) that he believes will provide a solution to the external
problem. But, as we will see, he may choose the wrong goal. By committing himself
to the ‘quest,’ the hero puts himself into a position where he will actively oppose
the villain or rival.

13. The Hero’s Goal

Having decided to accept the challenge, the hero now chooses some target to aim
for. Having decided that he will do something, he chooses exactly what it is he
will do. In this context, we are looking for a goal that is external and action-
oriented. To kill the dragon. To find the man he believes killed his father. To win
the heart of the person he believes he will spend the rest of his life with. These
are tangible things that can represent intangible objectives, such as – perhaps –
freedom from fear, justice, and to find love. ‘To find love’ is not a tangible
objective, but ‘to ask Mary-Lou to be my prom date’ is.

The hero wants to succeed in something and chooses a goal which – to him –
symbolises success. At this point in his life, the hero may choose the wrong goal.
He defines success in terms of what his life experiences have led him to believe
about the world. Or he may choose the wrong goal because of his lack of experience,
or lack of understanding of the problem. Or – referring back to his motivation – he
may choose the right goal, but for the wrong reasons. He is defining success in
terms of his want rather than his true need. Whatever the goal he chooses, the hero
will pursue it until the midpoint of the story. If he confuses wealth with
fulfilment, for example, he will set off in search of wealth. Until, at the
midpoint, he discovers that wealth doesn’t automatically bring with it a sense of
happiness and fulfilment. Or he may pursue someone he feels sexually attracted to,
rather than seeking someone with whom he is genuinely compatible – confusing lust
for love. Want for need.

At the midpoint of the story, the hero usually discovers something about himself
and about the nature of his situation that makes him re-evaluate his beliefs and
his priorities. Discovering that he has chosen the wrong goal and/or been acting
from the wrong motivation, is an important stage in his growth as a character. The
hero has an external problem – related to the actions of the villain – and an
internal problem, relating to his flaw. As we have said, dealing with the external
problem will force the hero to face and overcome his internal problem. But the hero
doesn’t know that. When he first chooses a goal, he goes for something that he
believes will allow him to resolve the external problem without having to face his
inner demon. That’s why he chooses a wrong goal or a goal that is not sufficiently
strong.
If you have ever worked in an organisation with any form of appraisal or
performance management, you will probably have come across the concept of SMART
goals or objectives when setting your priorities during your annual review.
Although I have a strong aversion to corporate hierarchies and ‘management speak,’
I will include the idea of SMART goals here, as it is a tool you may find useful. A
SMART objective is:

S – Specific. As we said above, it is something external and tangible. It should be

something you can point to and say, yes, that has been achieved or no it hasn’t.
The hero’s goal should be something the audience can see so that they know when he
has achieved it. Or failed to. It could be to win a contest or battle; to escape
from a dangerous situation, such as an earthquake; to reach a particular location;
to obtain a specific object; to find or apprehend a particular individual; to gain
a particular piece of knowledge or information; to protect a place or way of life
from attack; to get a particular person to go out on a date...

M – Measurable. It must be possible to measure progress towards achieving the

objective so that at any point you can stop and ask: is this activity bringing me
closer to my goal or not? And also, how am I doing so far?

A – Achievable. Goals need to be realistic and attainable within any limitations

that a person is acting within. A goal should stretch someone and ask the best from
them, but it should not be impossibly difficult.

R – Relevant. This relates to context. Does the goal make sense, is it worthwhile
within the overall strategic objectives or needs of our group, organisation, world
or whatever.

T – Time-limited. There should be a target-date for achieving the goal. A goal with
no finish date is likely to get put off and put off. Setting a target date for
completion adds a sense of urgency, and also allows someone to prioritise this task
in relation to other day-to-day tasks that may come up and potentially take
precedence. Deadlines are an important part of a story, as they help increase
tension: Time is running out, we have to get to X before Y!

14. The Major Dramatic Question

Once the hero has accepted the challenge and chosen a goal, we have effectively
asked the major dramatic question of the story: Will the hero succeed? This is
sometimes referred to as the overall story objective. We ask this question in Act
I, and it is not answered until the climax of the story in Act III. A problem or an
opportunity is presented at the beginning of the story, and the outcome is not
revealed until the end. Part of the reason a reader keeps turning the pages is to
find out the answer to this question. It is called the major dramatic question
because there will be dozens of lesser dramatic questions throughout the story.
Every scene will have at least one character who is trying to achieve a ‘scene
objective.’ Other dramatic questions include things like: Has the hero chosen the
correct goal to bring about the desired outcome? Will he overcome his flaw, or will
his behaviour cause him to fail in his quest to achieve the goal?

The question is usually implied rather than stated directly. It provides the
backbone of the story, and everything that follows – every action and line of
dialogue – should be directly related to it, bringing us closer to knowing the
final answer. In Hamlet the major dramatic question is: Will Hamlet convince
himself of his uncle’s guilt and avenge his father’s murder?

As we know, the answer to the major dramatic question is not in much doubt: of
course the hero will win. But it is how he wins, what obstacles he has to overcome
along the way, and what he ultimately gains, that keep the reader’s interest. The
major dramatic question is hinted at throughout Act I but is usually ‘asked’ –
implicitly rather than directly – at the end of the act, when the hero finally
accepts the challenge and chooses his first goal.

15. Crossing the Threshold

I’ve taken the term ‘crossing the threshold’ from Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s
Journey. Other theorists have referred to it as the ‘point of no return’ and
compared it to a one-way door – once the hero steps through it, he cannot go back
to the life he had before. After this moment, things will never be the same again.
At the end of Act I, as a visual demonstration that the hero has decided to leave
the comfort of his everyday world, there is a physical or symbolic change of
location. This could be an actual doorway or gateway that he passes through, a
bridge he crosses, or a building he enters or leaves. There should be a sense of a
door closing behind him, indicating that there is no going back. The hero may
choose to pass through this portal after he has accepted the call to adventure; or
he may be pushed or pulled through it before he makes the decision: it may be one
of the final events that cause him to accept the challenge.

As the hero crosses the threshold into the ‘new world’ in which his quest will take
place, Act I ends and Act II begins. The set-up of the story is complete, and the
major dramatic question has been asked: Will the hero succeed? This moment is
usually marked by a visible change of story location, a change in the tone of the
story, or by some other incident that symbolises this change. The fact that the
set-up is complete doesn’t mean that the reader understands everything, only that
they now have all of the information they need to make sense of the story as it
unfolds.

16. Major Turning Point

The hero’s acceptance of the challenge at the end of Act I is the story’s first
major turning point, so now is a good time to have a quick look at the concept of
turning points and major turning points.

What is a Turning Point?

What makes a reader keep turning the pages, unable to put a story down? A story
maintains reader interest when it is unpredictable, when there are intriguing
twists and turns in the action as it heads towards the climax, posing new dramatic
questions in the reader’s mind. A story can have a variety of twists and turns –
there will be a turning point at the end of each of the eight sequences that moves
the story on into the following sequence – but there are two vital ones needed to
keep the plot moving – these are the two major turning points, also referred to as
major plot points. The first major turning point occurs at the end of Act I and
sets up the situation for Act II. The second turning point occurs at the end of Act
II and sets up the situation for Act III, the story’s resolution. The major turning
points are significant events which cause the story to change direction, dramatic
twists which allow the story to develop in a new way. Decisions are made. As a
result of these turning points, the story achieves momentum and stays on course.

Turning points always happen to the hero, they are character-related and are caused
by the hero’s actions. The hero will then respond to the turning point in some way,
formulating a goal and a plan of action as a result. The turning point causes the
hero to reassess his plan and possibly his chosen goal. It may also cause him to
question his own motivation. And a turning point will usually raise the stakes in
some way. The turning points are also dramatic incidents which grab the reader’s
attention and keep them intrigued. The purpose of the turning point is to propel
the story onwards towards its major climax at the end of Act III.

Linda Seger lists the functions of major turning points:

to turn the action onto a new direction

to raise the major dramatic question and make the reader wonder about the answer

to provide a decisive moment for the hero, a point at which a commitment or re-
commitment is made

to raise the stakes

to push the story into the next stage – Act I into Act II, Act II into Act III

to take the story into a new arena and provide a different focus for the action

Good turning points serve one or more of these functions, while the major turning
points serve all of them. There is one more important turning point in the story,
the midpoint, which we will cover when we get to it.

We have reached the end of Sequence 2, which is also the end of the first quarter
of our story and the end of the traditional Act I. We seem to have covered a huge
amount of material already, but that is because we have explored all of the things
that need to go into setting up a story. Get this stuff right and you’re much more
likely to have a story that you will be able to write all the way to the end. Get
it wrong and you could end up with another one of those unfinished projects – a
beginning that never goes anywhere.

Act II: The Middle

The story so far... Act I has given us a hero who is strongly motivated to solve a
problem or benefit from some opportunity; he has chosen a goal, an external
objective, that he believes will allow him to solve the problem and/or bring an
improvement in his life circumstances. The hero has accepted the challenge, leaving
the comfort of the life he knew and crossed – either physically or metaphorically –
a threshold into a ‘strange new world’ in which his quest for the goal will take
place.

The Functions of Act II

The middle of the story, the second act, is effectively everything after the
introduction of the main characters and conflict, and before the climax. It is the
largest of the three acts, being fifty-percent (or more) of the total length of a
screenplay or novel. In the eight sequence structure, we break this middle act down
into four separate parts – Sequences 3,4,5 and 6 – so that we can construct
something that is easier to write and more dramatic to read. In the middle of these
comes the midpoint, which is the middle of Act II and the middle of the story as a
whole: we will give the midpoint a short chapter of its own.

Act II is generally described as consisting of ‘rising conflict’ or ‘rising

tension,’ as it continually builds and moves forward to the second major turning
point, which sets up Act III and the climax of the story. This means that right
from the start of Act II, you must be thinking about moving towards the crisis at
the end of Act II and the climax in Act III. As Ansen Dibell writes in his book
Plot: “The job of the middle is to build towards and deliver crisis.” Nancy Kress
and Blake Snyder both say that the purpose of the middle of the story is to deliver
on the promise we make to the reader in Act I when we said: Read this and you’ll
see something exciting happen. According to Kress, the middle delivers on this
promise by “... dramatising incidents that increase conflict, reveal character, and
put in place all the various forces that will collide at the story’s climax.” The
forces and conflicts developed in Act II must emerge naturally out of the
characters and situation introduced in Act I. Snyder describes the first half of
Act II as being ‘fun and games’ and says it answers the question: “Why did I come
and see this movie?” It is the section that contains the exciting set-pieces that
you see in the movie trailer. He says that it is less about raising the stakes –
this will happen at the midpoint – and more about having fun with your characters,
saying that it is “... where the buddies in all buddy movies do their most
clashing.” Michael Halperin, in Writing the Second Act, agrees that character
revelation is an important part of Act II: “It helps us make the antagonist and
protagonist believable within the context of the genre.”

Although we may define Act II as consisting of ‘rising action’ or ‘rising tension,’

because this is an important overall effect to bear in mind, this part of our story
does not actually consist of one headlong rush uphill towards our climax. This
would be both monotonous and exhausting, and probably not terribly effective. There
are highs and lows throughout Act II, whether you measure these in terms of
‘action’ or of ‘emotion.’ Ideally, you will have a combination of the two in any
kind of story – dramatic events and dramatic emotional responses. And both of these
will be constructed in a way that provides the reader with an emotional experience
– because as we have said, we don’t read a story in order to see someone else have
an intense emotional experience, we want to feel it ourselves.

Act II will consist of a series of actions instigated by the hero – remember that
readers like to see people who take responsibility for their own destinies, and who
make decisions and do things. These actions will result in consequences – the
villain or rival, or someone else, will react or respond to the hero’s action,
causing another change in the story situation. The consequences are usually such
that the hero will find himself in a more desperate situation than when he started,
raising the stakes and the tension. Each mini disaster or mini climax leaves the
hero faced with a dilemma – should he carry on in the face of increased opposition
and increased risk? Or should he rethink his plan and perhaps even his goal?

Each period of intense action or highly-charged emotion is followed by a quieter

period of contemplation, where the hero recovers from what he has just experienced.
Here we learn a little more of his life story so that we can gradually piece
together the events that turned him into the person we first met in Act I. These
reflective moments are usually interactions between the hero and the ally or co-
protagonist. The hero may discuss his predicament with the ally, and – as he comes
to trust this character – will reveal his hopes and fears for the future. He may
use the ally as a sounding board as he considers what the next steps in his plan
should be.

As Act II progresses, the obstacles faced by the hero will become bigger and more
intense, and the choices he has to make will be more difficult. The effort he has
to expend to make progress will become greater as we build towards the crisis at
the end of Act II. Our definition says that the middle of a story delivers on the
implicit promise by presenting dramatic incidents. Which specific incidents you
dramatise depends, of course, on the story you want to tell. However, there are
some guidelines that can be used to help you build on your beginning and propel the
story towards the ending.

Let’s move from what you need to achieve and look at how you can deliver it.

Sequence 3: Responding to the ‘Strange New World’

Sequence 3 is the beginning of Act II, and it opens with the hero taking his first
steps in the strange new world in which the story will take place. We see his
initial reactions – in character – to his new environment. This is true whether the
‘new world’ is an actual physical place, or just a change in his emotional or
psychological space, such as the beginning of a romantic relationship.

This sequence in a story is where the hero first learns that responding to the
inciting incident isn’t going to be quick and easy. He has accepted the challenge
in the belief that he will need to perform one or two tasks that won’t be too
challenging, and then he’ll be able to go back to his life as it was before. He
will begin by doing the sorts of things that any of us might do faced with a
situation – the obvious actions. We need him to do this for two reasons – firstly
because if he doesn’t do them, readers are going to think it odd. You don’t want
them to say “Why doesn’t he just...” Linked to this is the fact that we want to
begin narrowing the hero’s options as soon as we can. Between now and the end of
Act II, we will see the hero making choices and taking actions that he believes
will bring him closer to his story goal – and as each of these attempts fails, his
choices are reduced and the odds against him succeeding increase. Dara Marks, in
Inside Story, calls this phase of the story ‘exhaustion,’ because the hero’s
possible solutions are gradually used up, and he himself is worn down as every step
forward seems to result in him taking two steps back. One by one, outside sources
of help should be cut off or proved useless. His options should be reduced,
becoming progressively more difficult and less desirable, until the point – at the
end of Act II – where he is forced to rely on his own efforts alone. And that all
begins in Sequence 3.
The action in this sequence begins gradually: it consists of a series of small
actions, whose cumulative function is to move the hero to a point where he realises
that low-energy, half-hearted actions are not going to be enough and that he is
going to have to come up with a proper plan of action. In other words, we drive him
towards a decision, which is that he must make the First Attempt. The easy options
and quick fixes having proved useless, and possibly (ideally) having made his
situation worse and/or a solution more urgent, the hero decides that he must now
make a properly considered major assault. Towards the end of Sequence 3, he makes
plans and preparations for this, and the climax of the sequence is him committing
himself by taking the first action.

All of the above fits pretty well with what Christopher Vogler writes about this
part of the story in his The Writer’s Journey, where he says it consists of tests,
obstacles, learning, discovery, and preparation.

An important fact about the actions taken in both Sequence 3 and Sequence 4 is that
they are action taken in ignorance. The hero does not yet know the full extent of
the problem he is facing – he is only dealing with the first visible impacts of the
antagonist’s actions, and isn’t aware of the full extent of what the antagonist is
planning. Peter Dunne, in Emotional Structure, says that, at this point in the
story, the hero is in a state of ‘unconscious incompetence’: he doesn’t know the
true nature of the problem he is up against and he is not yet prepared to be able
to deal with it. He will not become aware of the full-scale of the problem until a
moment of discovery or revelation at the midpoint of the story (the end of Sequence
4). At that point he will know what the problem is, and will discover that he does
not have all of the necessary skills, knowledge, or experience that he will need to
have in order to be able to deal with it – he enters a ‘conscious incompetence’
phase.

There are a number of things that can appear in the early part of Act II: they
don’t all belong in every story, but they are listed here as possibilities that you
can consider for your own story.

First Test – the ‘Threshold Guardian’

First Impressions of the New World

Initial (Emotional) Reaction

Hero as Outsider

Mistakes and Transgressions

Tests

Learning

Allies and Enemies

Recruiting

Beginning of the B-story Relationship

First (Minor) Actions Towards the Goal

Planning the First Attempt

Pinch Point I – ‘Page 45’

The first three of these logically belong at the beginning of Section 3, and the
last two belong at the end. The rest, if they occur in a story, can appear in any
sequence, and some of them are functions that can occur more than once – there may
be multiple tests for the hero, for example, and several learning opportunities.

We are still pretending that there are nice neat breaks between the acts and the
sequences in a story, but this isn’t really the case: some elements that were
listed in Sequences 1 and 2 may occur as late as Sequence 3, and some from Sequence
2 may overlap into Section 3. Similarly, some of the items listed here can run on
into Sequence 4. The only real ‘rule’ is that you should do what feels right for
the particular story you are writing in terms of creating a dramatic story and an
emotional experience for the reader.

1. First Test – The Threshold Guardian

Testing is a common feature in the early-middle part of many stories. We need to

discover what skills and experience the hero has already got, and what is missing
so that we know what he will need to gain. By this we mean physical skills – can he
shoot a bow and arrow? – but also life skills – can he deal with failure and
disappointment? We need a sort of baseline measurement of his skills, knowledge
(including self-knowledge) and experience, so that we can see how much he needs to
learn before he stands a chance of achieving his chosen goal. Testing will put him
into pressurised situations which will allow the reader to see his typical
behaviours and the extent of his various abilities.

‘The Threshold Guardian’ is a concept that comes from Christopher Vogler’s The
Writer’s Journey, and refers to some small challenge that the hero must face to
prove his commitment to, and ‘worthiness’ to attempt, the challenge. He comes to
the ‘doorway’ that leads to the strange new world in which his goal-quest will take
place, and he finds there is someone (or something) guarding the entrance. The hero
must make it past this guardian before he can begin his quest. Facing the threshold
guardian is a sort of initiation test. This first test serves to highlight the
seriousness of the challenge and to demonstrate that something important is at
stake. It is the first of several occasions in which the hero will be challenged to
prove that he has got what it takes to proceed and that he is committed to the
task.

The threshold guardian is not usually the villain or even the villain’s main
henchman, but it may be one of the villain’s underlings. Or the guardian may be a
completely neutral character who lives in the ‘strange new world’ and serves to
protect it from undesirables who don’t belong there. The function of threshold
guardian can also be performed by one of the other characters: the mentor might
test the hero to see if he is worthy of becoming his pupil. Or the ally may test
the hero to see whether he has got what it takes to join him on an adventure in the
strange world. Or a potential lover may test him to see if he is ‘worthy’ of her
affection or to see if they genuinely have anything in common. In some stories the
threshold guardian appears once and is then never seen again – sometimes to get
past him, the hero has to destroy him. In other cases, the guardian may become an
ally or mentor, joining the hero for all or part of his quest, or providing him
with some learning experience that will help him later in the story. Other times
the guardian will just wish him luck or encourage him to do his best. The threshold
guardian may issue dire warnings: Go back, there is danger ahead. They may once
have embarked on a similar quest themselves, and been defeated by it: scarred by
experience, they try and persuade the hero not to make the same mistake they did.
This is often the case with a reluctant mentor or a reluctant ally.

The skill or quality that the hero will need to demonstrate in order to get past
the guardian will depend on the type of story you are writing. If the quest is
going to require the hero to demonstrate intellectual abilities, he may be asked a
riddle or asked to solve some other kind of puzzle. If the story is a romance, the
hero may need to show that he is able to respond on an emotional or empathetic
level. If it is to be a physical adventure, the hero may need to show that he can
face a much bigger opponent and overcome him in some way other than a head-on
attack. And sometimes the hero may simply have to show that he can handle defeat
without crying and running away. The nature of this first test should be such that
the hero learns something about himself, something about his opposition, or
something about the strange new world he is entering, or perhaps all three. He may
gain an understanding of this inhabitant of the strange world that will be of
benefit to him later. He may ‘fail’ this first test, but this could tell him what
not to do next time he is faced with the same sort of challenge.

The hero may need to learn that challengers are not necessarily negative forces.
They offer learning experiences, may give advice or allow insights to be gained. In
the best examples, the guardian enables the hero to learn something about himself.
They may personify a negative quality (or a positive one) that the hero also has,
but which he is afraid of or ashamed of. The correct solution is not for the hero
to destroy the threshold guardian, but rather to gain an understanding of him, to
avoid judging him as positive or negative, to feel compassion for him, and to
accept him as a valid part of existence. The hero may not get this right first
time: the mentor may advise the hero to befriend the guardian or to help him in
some way, and the hero may instead destroy him – proving that he is not yet
sufficiently enlightened to behave in an ideal manner. The hero may ‘get past’ the
guardian in a way that demonstrates a weakness or flaw, rather than showing his
worthiness as a hero. But this too is an opportunity for learning: the hero may not
understand the mentor’s disappointment right now, be he may grow to understand it
later.

By some means or other, the hero gets past the threshold guardian. He may destroy
him, trick him, bribe him, pay him a fitting tribute, seduce him, outwit him,
outfight him, or simply run faster than him. Having done this, the hero steps over
the threshold into the strange new world in which his quest will take place. This
initial taste of success encourages the hero and makes him feel that his goal is
attainable. But it may also cause him to be over-confident, such that he takes
unnecessary risks or ignores sound advice – which will have consequences later. His
success may turn out to have been ‘too easy,’ and to be a false success, having
consequences that open up a whole new set of problems. Or the guardian may have
been a decoy, guarding a false entrance, so that the hero sets off along the wrong
road, a mistake that is not discovered until later. His ‘false success’ at the
beginning of Act II may be a contrast with the ‘false defeat’ he experiences at the
crisis point at the end of Act II.

2. First Impressions of the ‘New World’

Having successfully completed an action that has allowed him entry to the new world
of the story, the hero takes a moment to assess his situation. His initial landing
here may have been a bumpy one, depending on the nature of the test he has just
faced. Some of what he sees now may be beautiful and inspiring, other things may be
terrifying. However he got there, this new world is strange and is not quite what
he was expecting. By calling it a ‘strange new world,’ we make it sound like the
hero has stepped onto an alien planet. What we really mean is that he has entered
an arena that is not familiar to him. Someone who has just had a parent with
Alzheimer’s come to live with them has entered a new world, even though they have
not left their own home. ‘New world’ simply means a change of situation or
circumstances. Change means having to deal with something new – that is what
stories are all about: how people deal with change in their lives.

What we are thinking about under this heading is not how the hero reacts to the new
world (that comes next), but what he observes about it. How does it seem to him?
What does he notice first about it? What are the things that seem most strange to
him? These things will tell us something about the hero and about his life
experiences to date. If you have travelled outside of your home town, try and
remember what it felt like the first time you left the countryside and entered a
big city or vice versa. Think about the first time you ever went to another country
and experienced a different culture. The colours, the smells, and the sounds were
all slightly different. The street signs and shop names were all in a different
language. But some things were just the same – probably the cola and hamburger
signs. Or remember the first time you went to a new job or a new school. Or the
first time you had to go into hospital. You are trying to capture that initial
sense of disorientation – of trying to get your bearings or your ‘sea legs.’ It’s a
period of adjustment.

3. Initial (Emotional) Reaction

Having caught his breath, how does the hero now react to the new world? What is the
hero’s initial emotional reaction to the strange new world? This reaction will be
‘in character’ in that he will respond to this in the same way we saw him respond
to situations in Act I, which is to say, he will demonstrate his typical behaviours
and outlook on life. He will probably be disoriented, but is he afraid? Annoyed?
Shocked? Or does he have some other reaction altogether? Is he glad to be here, or
does he regret having accepted the challenge? Does he miss home already, or is he
enjoying his new-found freedom? Is he feeling nervous or overconfident? What action
does he take? Again, his behaviour should be ‘in character’ as we understand him
from Act I.

Two things have just happened to the hero: he has successfully passed a threshold
guardian or small-scale test, and he has entered an environment that is not
familiar to him. He reacts to these things in a way that is typical for him. We may
also see the effect of these two things on other people around him. This includes
any people he has brought will him across the threshold – his ally or mentor,
perhaps – and anyone he encounters in the new world. How do they react to him being
in the new world? How do they react to being in the new world themselves? How do
they react to him having passed the threshold guardian and the methods he used to
get past it? And we will see how the hero responds to the reactions of those people
around him. Is he sympathetic to their feelings, or totally oblivious? Is he aware
of the impact of this new situation on their lives, or doesn’t he care? Does he
acknowledge their help and support in getting into the new world, or does he take
them for granted? Or take all the credit himself? Does he heed their advice to be
cautious, or does he blunder on regardless? This will depend on the story you are
telling and the kinds of people you are writing about. Whatever initial emotion the
hero experiences, it will soon be joined by feelings of doubt as he wonders: What
do I do now?

4. The Hero as an Outsider

No matter what his previous experience in life, the hero is now in a situation
where he is an outsider. He doesn’t know the geography of the place, doesn’t know
the rules or etiquette, and doesn’t know anything about the social or power
hierarchy. He is going to have to find these things out, and quickly, if he’s going
to survive in this strange environment. But this world and the people in it are not
going to make any allowances for the fact that he’s a new guy: they are going to
throw everything at him and expect him to cope. It’s like the first day in a new
school or a new job – but much worse! People are going to notice that the hero
doesn’t belong here and they are going to be suspicious of him. He is going to have
to learn how to fit in, and he’s probably going to have to prove that he deserves
to be allowed to stay. Being an outsider is something that we have all experienced
at some point, which means that the reader can sympathise with the hero’s present
situation. We can intensify these feelings if we make the hero seem like an
underdog, or if we subject him to undeserved misfortune just because he’s a newbie
here.

Eventually, the hero may attain the status of being an insider in this world. The
knowledge, skills and experience he has gained qualify him for the status of
‘belonging here.’ He goes from being an apprentice to being a warrior (or some
other form of master) in his own right, but that doesn’t occur until the end of Act
II or the beginning of Act III. For now, he is firmly in ‘unconscious incompetence’
mode.

5. Mistakes and Transgressions

Not knowing the rules might bring the hero into conflict if he accidentally commits
some transgression and draws attention to himself, and this may put him in danger:
the price for mistakes in this world will be higher than he is used to. The hero
may struggle to tackle the problems he is faced with. His misjudgements will cause
additional complications, hindrances, obstacles, and disasters – one after another,
with each one being more difficult and more frightening than the one before, as
each moves him closer and closer to a situation similar to the ‘thing he fears
most.’

The hero’s actions to date are likely to have attracted the attention of the
villain or rival. If this hasn’t already happened as a result of the hero accepting
the challenge and crossing the threshold, then it will happen when the hero starts
blundering about in the strange new world. He may have triggered some sort of alarm
or been spotted by some kind of sentry. The hero has effectively put his head above
the parapet, and must now accept the consequences.
6. Tests

These early tests will reveal what skills, knowledge, and experience the hero
already possesses, and they will highlight his deficiencies, showing areas where he
has things to learn. By putting the hero under pressure, the tests will also reveal
aspects of his character, especially his typical behaviours when faced with
difficult situations. If the hero has been accompanied on his quest by a mentor,
these initial tests may be part of the training he is receiving.

Some of the tests may be an intrinsic part of the landscape of this world: the hero
will need to survive in the local environment, including how to face any natural
disasters to which the landscape is prone. This world is also the villain’s natural
habitat, so there may well be traps, barricades, or checkpoints set by the
antagonists, which the hero must learn to recognise, defuse, or avoid. Although he
passed a challenge to enter this world, he now has to prove that he deserves to be
allowed to stay. He may be called upon to make some sort of sacrifice or undergo
some ordeal to prove himself. In Section 3, the hero may well fall into traps or
set off traps which alert the antagonists of his presence. How the hero deals with
these traps is part of the testing. Can he spot them? If not, can he survive them?
Is he able to turn a bad situation to his advantage?

The purpose of these tests is to demonstrate where the hero currently stands in
terms of readiness to face the challenge of the crisis at the end of Act II. And we
should clearly see that he has a long way to go before he is ready. He will face
other ordeals as the story goes on, which will allow the reader to see how much
progress he has made, and how much further he still has to go. Any obstacle or
ordeal the hero faces also helps to reinforce the importance of his objective, by
showing how difficult it is to achieve. The challenges he encounters here may also
sharpen his skills in certain areas, teaching him things he needs to know to
survive in his new environment. Like everyone else, the hero will learn by making
mistakes or by discovering what he doesn’t know. Each challenge, ordeal, or setback
is intended to be a lesson – a moral or psychological challenge – each of which
gradually moves him closer to having to face his greatest fear in the end of Act II
crisis, which will also provide him with an opportunity, finally, to overcome his
fear.

The hero will probably find that the people in this new world do not behave in the
same way as the people he is used to. He will need to be able to judge the
character of the people he meets, to assess whether he can trust them. Heroes,
especially younger ones, are often quite naive and find it difficult to recognise
when someone is trying to deceive them. The hero may make a mistake and trust
someone he shouldn’t: he may choose an ‘ally’ who is actually working for the
enemy, or who is prepared to betray him to the enemy for a fee. This increases the
risk to the hero by giving the villain greater power in the form of an ‘inside man’
(or woman). The hero may not discover the truth about this ‘traitor’ until the end
of Act II, or perhaps even the climax of Act III, though the audience is likely to
know the truth earlier – possibly even right from the point of the ‘fake’ ally’s
introduction.

If the hero is travelling with a group, the tests may screen out unsuitable
members, and reveal the abilities and personalities of those who remain. Some of
the team members who leave – or perhaps are even killed – could be good people with
vital skills, and the hero will need to decide how to compensate for their loss.

In a romance, the testing might be in the form of a first date or some shared
experience which begins to build the relationship. And it might not go that well.
The tests provide the hero with small-scale, external opportunities to experiment
with change. Initially, he will try and deal with problems using his old
behaviours, but gradually he becomes confident enough, or desperate enough, to
experiment with something different. The tests at the beginning of Act II are often
difficult obstacles, but they aren’t on the life-or-death scale of later ordeals.
They are like ‘training exercises’ or ‘dry runs’ for the skills and insights the
hero will need to demonstrate during his climactic confrontation with the
antagonist. But at this point in the story, the hero is struggling to overcome even
these basic challenges using his typical behaviours, and this doesn’t bode well.
And where the hero does successfully face an obstacle or opponent, there may be
unforeseen consequences of his victory. The way that he has succeeded may be
‘immoral,’ and come back to haunt him in the second half of Act II.

7. Learning

Early in Act II, we must see that the hero has the potential to learn from
experience and to change how he behaves as a result. This paves the way for a more
significant change in the hero later in the story. The hero needs to learn the
local rules or laws, the layout of the land, the social and power hierarchies, and
local politics. How quickly he does this is a test of his ability to gather
information and adapt to changing situations. Who is in charge? Who is responsible
for law and order? Who is the local bully? One of the things the hero needs to
discover is where he can find reliable information, and possibly recruit local
people to join him on his quest. In fantasy novels, detective stories, and
westerns, a bar or saloon is often the preferred location for meeting people or
seeking people. Star Wars had the cantina scene. This may also be somewhere that he
meets a character who becomes his main ally or romantic interest. Or he may
encounter someone who becomes a ‘victim’ and who he feels the need to rescue and
protect.

And the hero has to learn who his allies and enemies are...

8. Allies and Enemies

The hero will spend some time finding out, perhaps by trial and error, who he can
truly trust and rely upon, and who will betray him or let him down. This is a test
of the hero’s ability to judge character and is something that can only be gained
by experience. The hero may initially approach local people for information, and
end up making friends and enemies as a result. Some local people the hero meets may
not be villains, but they may fear the villain’s retribution if they agree to help
the hero, and so may act against the hero, exile him, or betray him. An important
consideration is the fact that the hero is behaving in a way that is dictated by
his fears or lack of knowledge. In order to protect himself from having to tackle
his greatest fear, the hero may engage in behaviours that are – according to the
thematic argument of the story – ‘immoral.’ He may not be aware that his behaviour
is causing harm to himself and to others, but what he is doing is definitely on the
negative side of the virtue-vice scale. A genuine ally or lover will understand
that this behaviour is motivated by insecurity or fear, and will make allowances:
people who genuinely care about us, love us despite our faults. But there may be
some allies who side with the hero because of his faults. People who enjoy doing
‘bad things’ with the hero may turn against him when he comes to see the hero sees
the error of his ways and tries to change. They will not support him when he adopts
new ‘moral’ ways of behaving, and may even turn on him and oppose him.

Similarly, people who opposed the hero when he was behaving ‘immorally,’ may turn
into allies when they see that he has changed, or is attempting to change. In a
romance or ‘buddy’ story, the co-protagonist may initially oppose the hero because
of his immoral behaviours, but will gradually grow to like and support him as the
hero tries to change into a better person. They may be among the first to see his
potential and support him through the difficult period of change. Early in Act II,
the ally, lover, or buddy may support the hero’s quest, but be mistrustful or
antagonistic towards him because of his behaviour. They support what he is trying
to do, but not the way he is trying to do it. If the hero has not already
encountered these people, he may gain a mentor (perhaps in the form of a local
‘guide’), an ally – his Robin, Tonto, or Watson – or a lover at this point.

In some types of story, it is necessary for the hero to put together a team of
adventurers to join him on the quest...

9. Recruiting

The hero may need to put together a group of people with different skills (and
personalities!) and try to bond them into a coherent unit. They may need training,
they may need to gather equipment and supplies, and they will need to make plans
and rehearse strategies. Their varied temperaments may cause issues, making it
difficult to get them to trust one another and work together. Another test for the
hero may come in the form of a power struggle, when another member of the group
challenges him for leadership. The hero will then have to prove that he has what it
takes to be the leader – or perhaps hand over control until some point when he can
prove his suitability. The different skills, strengths and flaws of each team
member will be explored at this point. Who can be trusted and who cannot? Who is
reliable, and who is unpredictable or unstable? Who is committed to the quest, and
who is interested only in the money? Who is loyal to the hero and who is a traitor?
Who has a hidden weakness that will flare up and derail the quest at some crucial
point? Which characters work well together, and which ones are in conflict? Who is
the bully? Who is afraid? Which characters have past history that remains
unresolved? Is one an impostor, lacking the skills he professes to have, or is one
an agent of the enemy? Is someone tagging along on this quest with his own agenda,
planning to use the skills and equipment of the team for his own purposes at some
future point?

Having a traitor in the group, someone who is secretly working for the antagonist,
adds suspense to the story. A traitor can also be a complex and interesting
character, whose motivation can add depth to a story, and provide another viewpoint
that is another variation on the thematic argument. A traitor who comes to side
with the hero – to like him or to sympathise with his values – may then face a
dilemma: does he betray the hero to the antagonist? Or does he betray his
master/employer, and assist the hero in his quest? If he betrays the antagonist,
will the hero and the rest of the team believe that the traitor has genuinely
changed sides? And if he stays, will he put the group under greater threat of
injury or death if the antagonist orders that the traitor be killed at all cost?

One crucial member of the team may be reluctant to join. He will take the role of
the reluctant hero, for any of the reasons we discussed earlier under ‘refusal of
the call.’ He may need to be bribed, cajoled, bullied or shamed into joining the
group. He will usually be the last to be recruited.

If the hero has a group, the villain probably has at least a small army. We may see
people being recruited to the villain’s side – perhaps someone who refused to join
the hero, and who may have been vital to the hero’s plan. Or we may meet someone
who defects from the villain’s side to join the hero. Or we may just see members of
each group standing on opposite sides of the street, sizing each other up, but
making no move at this point.

10. Beginning of the B-story Relationship

The hero may have met the ally or the romance character in Act I, but their
relationship doesn’t really begin until the beginning of Act II. They may share the
experience of exploring the strange new world together, or in the case of a
romance, the romance itself has created a strange new environment that the two
characters must learn about. The relationship between the hero and his co-
protagonist is often a rocky one initially and may be openly antagonistic. The hero
may need the ally’s help, and the ally may want nothing to do with him or his
quest. Or the hero may be forced into a close working relationship with the ally,
even though he does not really want a partner of any kind. Whatever problem exists
in the relationship between the hero and his co-protagonist may be rooted in the
hero’s personal weakness or flaw. In the film Rocky, the Sylvester Stallone
character has to overcome his flaw – believing himself to be a loser – before he
can feel worthy of Adrian’s love.

The two may agree to work together for a limited time because it is mutually
beneficial. They make no long-term commitment to one another, and the understanding
is that they will go their separate ways and pursue their own goals when it no
longer benefits them to work together. The two will probably be wary of each other,
and neither will want to become emotionally involved with the other. Mistrust
causes them to keep their distance. Often the first encounter, or first date, of
two lovers is so disastrous that they part vowing never to have anything to do with
each other again. It should seem impossible that they should ever want to see one
another again, and then fate or circumstance will throw them back together in some
situation that means they have to broker some kind of temporary truce.

The B-story relationship is where the theme of the story can be explored. The B-
story also provides the writer with an opportunity to cut away from the A-story, to
provide a break from the A-story action, or to build up the suspense by cutting
away from the A-story action at a tense moment, keeping the audience on the edge of
their seats for a while longer – suspense gets its own chapter too.

Once the hero has made a commitment to accept the challenge and has faced to
threshold guardian, Act II enters a ‘transition’ phase where there may not be much
happening in terms of action: the hero is finding his way around the new world.
This can give the audience a chance to catch its breath after the climax at the end
of Act I, and an opportunity to learn something of the hero’s backstory (if this is
necessary to the story). Starting a romantic subplot at this point helps to
maintain interest in the story. Especially if the beginning of the relationship is
a stormy one.
11. First Actions Towards the Goal

As I mentioned earlier, the first thing we need our hero to do is to get the
obvious stuff out of the way first. If you’re ever watching a movie and ask
yourself: Why didn’t he just...? it’s because the writer forgot to do this. Look at
your character’s situation at the beginning of Act II and ask yourself: What would
a normal person do? He’d phone for help – so you need to take away the hero’s
‘phone. He’d drive away as fast as he could – so you need to take away his car.
He’d go to the cops – so you need to make it so he can’t go to the authorities for
help. Some of these things you can rule out by letting the audience know that the
option isn’t currently available. But some of them you need to show to be
ineffective solutions. The hero tries these things and they fail.

Be careful how you do this. In some (bad) romantic comedies, the whole of the
action relies on the fact that some misunderstanding occurred at the beginning of
Act II, and the whole plot would crumble if that misunderstanding was cleared up
between the two lovers. If you’re twisting your plot like a pretzel to keep the
heroine from finding out that the hero didn’t really take a hooker as his prom
date, then you’ve got a problem no amount of dick jokes and ‘accidental’ wet t-
shirts are going to disguise. The audience will suspend its disbelief – they want
to work with you and accept your premise, but if you insult their intelligence, you
are just making an ass out of yourself.

Apart from helping with plausibility, exhausting the obvious has a couple of other
advantages or functions. First of all, at this stage of the story, the hero’s
actions are influenced by his lack of awareness of the problem, and by the fact
that his behaviour is designed to protect him from having to face his greatest
fear. As a consequence, he is looking for a solution that won’t cost him much
either physically or emotionally. He wants to invest the minimum he can get away
with. He wants to tackle the external problem without tackling the internal one. At
this point, he doesn’t really know what he is up against, so a half-hearted attempt
doesn’t seem unreasonable to him. At least he’s doing something. His first minor
attempt at a solution fails, so he has to try something else that is a little bit
more challenging. This too fails. So he has to try something else. Zero for three.
These failures have consequences and usually make his situation worse. And he is
effectively failing tests, proving that he is not yet ready to be a ‘hero.’ But
gradually he is coming to see that his typical behaviours, the things he usually
does to tackle problem situations, are not working. How the hero reacts to these
failures, and their consequences, also reveals something about his character.

Early in Act II, exhaust the obvious and quick-win solutions, get them out of the
way and show that the hero really is some way along Poop River, and his canoe
doesn’t have one of those big spatula things. Once all the easy options have been
discounted, we can get down to the business of coming up with something new.

12. Planning the First Attempt, or, How to Be A Success

What we need is a cunning plan! Blackadder and his sidekick Baldrick often had this
conversation. I read on one of those dreadful motivational posters that: A goal
without a plan is just a wish. I hope you could sense me typing that in a whiny
sarcastic voice because I hate the triteness of those posters: they’re loved by
people who like to trot out things like ‘If you assume, it makes an ass out of you
and me.’ No mate, you didn’t need me to make you into an ass. As a writer, I am
allergic to clichés and platitudes. Most forms of business communication make me
mentally gag. Can you smell the vitriol melting my keyboard? Or maybe it’s bile.

Where were we? Plans. Plans can be good things if done well. I believe that, and
that’s why I’m sitting here writing about plot structure while the sun is shining
brightly outside my window. Why else would I be indoors doing this? Apart from
hayfever, obviously.

If the hero sets out to achieve a story goal, then he is going to need a plan. The
sort of steps he will need to take will be similar to those that we need to take
when we try to achieve something in our own lives. There are any number of self-
help books offering advice on goal-setting and planning for success, but the basic
steps boil down to something like this:

Identify a desire or need

Set a specific goal that you believe will bring about your desired outcome

Create a plan containing the steps necessary to achieve your goal: stepping stones
towards your ultimate destination

Consider what resources will be necessary to carry out your plan: do you have all
of the knowledge, skills, experience, equipment, people, etc.?

Gain skills and equipment. Train your team. Obtain the resources identified as
missing in step 4.

Create a schedule for the individual steps or activities that make up your plan.

Take the first step – do not procrastinate!

That, more or less, is the outline for success in any project, whether personal or
work-related.

In an attempt to avoid having to confront his greatest fear, or in order to hide

his lack of knowledge or experience, the hero may come up with a plan that is
filled with escape routes and danger avoidance measures, to the extent that it is
too convoluted to be workable. It is so constraining as to make successful action
impossible. Or the plan may be naïvely optimistic, underestimating the time and
resources that will be necessary. Either way, even at this early stage, it will
have a whiff of potential failure about it.

13. Pinch Point I – ‘Page 45’

In his book The Screenwriter’s Workbook, Syd Field added the midpoint and two
additional ‘story progression points’ to the paradigm he had presented in
Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting. These two additional points occurred
around pages 45 and 75 in his 120-page model screenplay – the ends of Sequence 3
and Sequence 5 in the eight-sequence model. He called them Pinch I and Pinch II.
Other writers sometimes refer to them as ‘focus points.’ These are turning points
in the story, but they are not as major as the turning points at the ends of Act I
and Act II. Field described them as “... just a little pinch in the story line that
keeps the action on track, moving the story forward...” Pinch I moves the story on
towards the midpoint, and Pinch II moves the story on towards the major turning
point (the crisis) at the end of Act II. They are two more staging posts that help
get us through the wilderness that is Act II.

Field also says that in some – but not all – stories, there is a link between Pinch
I and Pinch II. He gives as an example the film Thelma & Louise: Pinch I occurs
when Thelma and Louise pick up J.D. (Brad Pitt). At the midpoint, he steals their
money. And Pinch II is when J.D. is picked up by the police and tells them where
our two heroines are heading. This sort of symmetry can help make a story feel more
like a unified whole.

The two pinch points serve other functions in the story as well. They can provide
moments where we can ‘compare and contrast’ the hero and his situation – at Pinch
I, we are still at a relatively early point in the story, the hero is perhaps a
little naïve and over-optimistic, and he has just come up with the plan for his
First Attempt. He believes it will succeed, but he is acting in ignorance and is in
the ‘unconscious incompetence’ phase. At Pinch II, he has passed the midpoint
‘revelation,’ and so is now in the ‘conscious ignorance’ phase, he is now aware of
the dangers he faces, but perhaps isn’t yet aware of his lack of skills and
experience. He has just come up with his plan for the Second Attempt – he is no
longer naïvely over-confident, but he is still fairly confident of success. At both
pinch points, the audience is probably aware that the hero’s plan is likely to fail
as a result of his lack of knowledge, or of particular skills or experience that
are required for success. Pinch I sets him up for failure at the midpoint, and
Pinch II sets him up for failure (and a major crisis) at the end of Act II.

Pinch I and Pinch II can also be used as key moments in the proving of the thematic
argument. A key theme in Thelma & Louise is the idea of escaping from male
oppression, and that men cannot be trusted: at Pinch I Thelma and Louise naïvely
believe that the character of J.D. is one of those rare nice guys who won’t try to
exploit them; at the midpoint he proves otherwise, and at Pinch II, he betrays them
to the policemen who are pursuing them. Pinch I suggests the possibility of freedom
and fun with men; Pinch II shows the dark reality of men closing in on them to take
away their freedom.

If you can come up with two points in your story like this, you can add depth and
resonance, and give your story a feeling of being a well-thought-out and well-
constructed whole. The idea of passing from a First Attempt optimistically planned
in naïvety or unawareness, through a midpoint revelation or discovery, and on to a
Second Attempt based on awareness and a more mature understanding, also helps give
you some key moments that can be used to help plot Act II and keep your story on
track.

14. First Action of the First Attempt

Having tried the obvious solutions, the hero puts into action a bigger, more
elaborate plan to try and achieve his external goal. By default, this is an action
taken against the antagonist, though the hero may not yet be aware of that. The
hero has chosen a course of action that he believes will allow him to avoid having
to face the thing he fears most. The climax of Sequence 3 is the hero starting the
first action required by his plan. This is a new demonstration of his commitment to
achieving the story goal. It is also quite possible at this point that the audience
knows, or suspects, that the hero is going into battle without fully realising the
size and strength of the enemy he is going up against. He’s the man who is taking a
knife to a gunfight. I lied about hating clichés.

Sequence 4: First Attempt, First Failure & Consequences

We’ve reached the fourth sequence of our story. It begins with the hero in action,
as he makes his First Attempt to achieve the story goal, and it climaxes at the
midpoint, which will feature a revelation or discovery of some kind that will turn
the story around. The midpoint is where the hero discovers that he has been ‘acting
in ignorance’ since accepting the challenge. For the first time, he discovers the
full extent of what he is really up against. The midpoint is also where the hero
has to admit his own internal conflict – whether this is related to a character
flaw, or to some other form of ‘lack’ that is having an impact on his own life and
the lives of the people around him. Before he is ready to admit his weaknesses at
the midpoint, the hero will need to see proof – during Sequence 4 – that what he
believes about both himself and the way that the world works is wrong or
incomplete.

Sequence 4 is also important in the relationship between the hero and the co-
protagonist – his ally or lover. During Sequence 3, they spent time together and
their lives became more entwined, though these early stages of their relationship
were mostly antagonistic. The action of the plot forced them together and made them
have to work together. They did not want to be together, and so were probably
pretty unpleasant to one another. Partly because they felt a spark of attraction
and didn’t want to admit it, even to themselves, never mind to each other. The
audience could see that they were meant to be good friends or lovers, but the
characters could not see this. As their feelings for each other develop, they might
actually become more antagonistic for a while, as they may both be afraid of making
a commitment to the relationship. They still find it difficult to trust each other.
It could be that both characters have issues with trust and commitment, or this
problem may exist only in one of the characters. If the co-protagonist has no trust
or commitment issues, they may become frustrated by the hero’s and be impatient for
him to move on; or they may empathise with him and seek to guide or mentor him.

In Sequence 4, then, the external action of the plot has brought these two
characters together, but some form of internal conflict – on the part of one or
both of the characters – is keeping them apart. The reader will become aware of how
important this B-story relationship is to the hero, and how his future success may
depend on it, but the hero remains oblivious to the fact or denies it.

There are a number of things that can appear in Sequence 4. The first four listed
below will probably occur in the order listed (though 3 and 4 can be switched
around) – as there is a logical progression from one to the other. Item 5 is
optional, though some sort of reaction to the failure of the First Attempt should
probably be here. Item 6 is optional, but likely to be there.

The First Attempt

First Failure

Antagonist Counter-attacks
Consequences of the Failure

Co-protagonist and/or Team Confront Hero Over Failure

Hero Denies Problem

1. The First Attempt

At the end of Sequence 3, the hero undertook the first action of his plan, marking
the beginning of his First Attempt to achieve the story goal. This is his first
major attempt involving pre-thought and planning, in contrast to his earlier random
actions to try and deal with the problem. The rest of the action of this First
Attempt occurs in the first part of Sequence 4. If the hero described the steps of
his plan in detail in Sequence 3, we will quickly see events veer away from the
planned sequence, as unexpected obstacles and consequences arise. In a story,
explaining a plan sets up anticipation of things to come, but we never see things
turn out exactly as planned. In his book Story, Robert McKee talks about conflict
arising out of the gap between an expected or hoped-for outcome, and what really
happens. The hero is frustrated by his failure to achieve what he had planned to
achieve.

The actions of the hero’s First Attempt do not succeed, and the failure will have
consequences that worsen the situation for the hero, his co-protagonist, and – if
he has one – his team. If you remember our original description of the four
quarters – bad, worse, worst, climax – then you will see that we are currently in
the second quarter, the ‘worse’ phase. The action begun by the hero may fail purely
as a result of his own actions – we’ll look at this as item 2 below. Or it may fail
because of action taken by the antagonist and/or his men, who are provoked into
responding to the hero’s actions – see 3 below.

2. First Failure

As a result of some miscalculation, lack of preparation, or some other mistake – or

perhaps because of action taken by the antagonist (see below) – the hero’s plan
fails or at least does not go as anticipated. It fails because of something the
hero doesn’t know, or is unable to do, at this point in the story.

In The Screenwriting Formula, Rob Tobin writes about something called the hero’s
‘balk’ (baulk in ‘British English’) by which he means some action (or inaction) by
the hero, caused by his character flaw or weakness, that puts him and his ally or
team in jeopardy, and results in their being trapped or injured, or simply causes
their plan to fail. At a vital moment, the hero freezes, chickens out, or chooses a
wrong path, and his choice of action is motivated by his desire to protect himself
from having to face the thing he fears most or his lack of knowledge and/or
experience. Imagine a horse racing up to a fence and then refusing to jump or a
speaker standing on stage and discovering that the words won’t come.

Whatever error or poor choice the hero makes should occur at a point where it has
the most dramatic impact. Typically this means it will occur in the middle of the
action or just before a vital action – at a crucial moment when the stakes are
high. It may take place during the First Attempt (see above) or it may occur as the
hero and his allies are trying to deal with the antagonist’s counter-attack (see
below) which was provoked by the First Attempt.

This failure will be the result of some weakness or lack on the part of the hero.
There is some skill, knowledge, or experience that he needs but does not have. Or
perhaps he has some deeply-rooted personal fear that prevents him from being able
to to take the necessary action. An inner fear or ‘tragic flaw’ can cause someone
to do things which effectively sabotage their own efforts – without them being
aware that they are doing so.

The hero’s failure at this moment in the story will have consequences – both for
himself and for the people around him (see below).

It is possible for this failure to appear to be a moment of success for the hero.
But if so, this will be a false success. He may achieve something that he wants,
but he will not have gained the thing that he needs. He has successfully managed to
avoid having to face his fear, but as a result, he has not actually attained
anything meaningful. At this point in the story, the hero’s definition of ‘success’
is wrong, because it is based on flawed beliefs about himself and about the way the
world works. In terms of our major dramatic question – Will the hero succeed in
achieving his objective? – the answer at this point will be no. He cannot possibly
succeed until he is prepared to face and overcome his fears. He doesn’t know it at
this point, but the failure of the First Attempt has brought him a step closer to
having to face the thing he fears most.

The action the hero takes at this point is still taken in ignorance. He pursues
something that he believes is the right thing to resolve the problem. But he may be
going for the wrong goal because he doesn’t have all of the facts yet. During the
course of his actions in Sections 3 and 4, the hero will gain insight into what is
really needed to resolve the external problem – and what is needed to resolve his
inner problem – but he is not yet ready to accept this insight and act upon it. For
now, he may remain oblivious to some of the lessons he is learning, or he may deny
the validity or the necessity of the changes that he is being told are necessary.

3. The Antagonist Counter-Attacks

The rival, opponent, or villain takes action to prevent the hero and his ally or
team from achieving their objective or acts in retaliation. This action could be
what places the hero and the antagonist(s) in active opposition to one another for
the first time. The counter-attack may begin during the hero’s ‘first attempt’ (see
above), with victory being handed to the antagonist as a result of the hero’s
failure. The antagonist has his own objective and his own plan for achieving it. He
also has his own value-system and his own point of view. His viewpoint will present
the negative side of the moral argument of the story. His values will be opposition
to the hero’s. The battle between hero and antagonist then symbolises the battle
between two moral viewpoints. The fact that the antagonist has now taken direct
action against the hero means that our hero has now lost control of his life:
someone else is now directing the shots. Whatever else he wants to do, the hero is
going to have to deal with whatever the antagonist throws at him. This is an
important turning point in the story: events have been set in motion that the hero
cannot stop or slow down. These events will escalate and speed-up as the story
approaches the end of Act II. What will the hero do now? Surrender? Run away? Or
stand and fight? This will depend on what sort of person the hero is, and on his
typical behaviour in response to difficult situations.

4. Consequences of the Failure

The main consequence of the failure of the First Attempt is that the hero and the
person or people with him will find themselves in a worse situation than before the
attempt. The failure may have been caused by action taken by the antagonist, or it
may have occurred as a result of some mistake or failing on the part of the hero.
In either case, it is likely that something is lost or someone is hurt as a result
of the failed attempt – the hero and/or his team suffer a loss. If the failure was
all the hero’s own work, then a consequence of it may be that he has attracted the
attention of the antagonist, who takes some action harmful or obstructive to the
hero and his people – that is, the failed action provoked the antagonist into
retaliating (see above).

5. Co-protagonist and/or Team Confront Hero Over Failure

Another consequence of the failure comes in the form of the reaction to it by the
co-protagonist and – if he has a team – the other members of the hero’s group. They
may be aware that the hero’s actions caused the failure, and so may challenge him
on this – especially if the hero failed to take action at a critical moment. Or
they may blame the hero for the failure simply because he was the leader and it was
his plan.

Although the co-protagonist may challenge him, he or she will normally continue to
be supportive and encouraging, even if they are disappointed, and have possibly
even been harmed as a result of the failure/antagonist’s counter-attack. Other team
members may be less forgiving, particularly if one or more of them has been injured
or even killed. They express their anger and disappointment. One or more team
members may abandon the hero, or one of them may challenge him for leadership of
the group, arguing that he is not up to the task. Anyone who does stay with him may
give him an ultimatum – he has one more chance to prove himself, or else.

6. The Hero Denies There is a Problem

The hero’s response to the failure may be to deny that there is a problem. He
refuses to admit that his actions (or lack of action) at a key moment caused the
failure. He may blame fate or circumstances – ‘bad luck.’ Or he may blame poor
preparation or execution on the part of other team members. In short, he will blame
anyone or anything, refusing to take responsibility himself. This is more likely to
happen if he has a weakness that he is trying to hide. If the hero froze at a key
moment, the reader and the people around him may be aware that he has a problem –
that he is being held back by his own fears. But he may be unaware of the
connection or may be denying it to himself.

All of this sets us up for a significant story point that marks the middle of the
story – the midpoint revelation.

The Midpoint

The first half of Act II, which we have characterised as ‘acting in ignorance’ and
‘unconscious incompetence,’ builds up to a dramatic revelation or discovery at the
midpoint. The second half of Act II then deals with the consequences of the
midpoint reversal. At the midpoint the hero becomes aware of whatever it was he
didn’t know – he learns something that the reader has known, or at least suspected,
for some time. The full nature and extent of his situation becomes apparent to the
hero for the first time – and it is much bigger, worse, or life-changing than he
ever suspected. From this point on, he is no longer ‘acting in ignorance,’ that
phase of the story is now over. The hero moves on from being in a state of
‘unconscious incompetence,’ because he is now aware of what he is up against. But
as he sees the scale of the situation – whether it is a problem or an opportunity –
he also becomes aware that he is not yet ready to be able to deal with it. In other
words, he is entering the phase of ‘conscious incompetence.’

The midpoint is where the hero is forced to acknowledge that he has been ‘acting in
ignorance’ since accepting the challenge. He has been unaware of the full-scale of
the situation he is facing, and he has underestimated both the danger involved and
the resources – both physical and mental/emotional – that will be required to
resolve the situation. The midpoint provides a major revelation, discovery, or
reversal of fortune. As a result of the midpoint, the hero’s situation will change
dramatically.

The midpoint often provides a point of no return. Whatever happens at the midpoint
causes the hero to reassess his quest for the story goal and consider whether or
not to continue: once this decision is made, he will have gone too far to be able
to turn back. In a romance, the point of no return occurs when the couple say ‘I
love you for the first time,’ and mean it. This may be symbolised by a first kiss
or the first time they go to bed together. Having reached a point of no return, the
hero obviously has fewer choices open to him.

In other types of story which have a romantic B-story, the first moment of intimacy
may not come until Sequence 5, after the midpoint revelation relating to the A-
story.

If the hero has a lack or a flaw, the midpoint forces him to face it and admit to
it.

The midpoint is often an emotional highpoint (or extreme low point) in the story,
but may be relatively quiet in terms of the external action of the story. Usually,
there will be some form of external action that symbolises the emotional impact.
The hero may seem to be overwhelmed and may do something that indicates an
admission of defeat. Or he may give up on the story objective completely, and say
that he’ll live with the consequences of the antagonist now gaining victory
unopposed. This is another example of the hero refusing to deal with his own fears.
He knows that if he continues with the quest, he will end up in a situation where
he will have to face the thing that he fears most. He would sooner abandon the
quest than do that.

The midpoint occurs immediately after the failure of the First Attempt, and so
marks a low point for the hero. The midpoint revelation or reversal makes a bad
situation even worse. Not only has he failed, but the hero now discovers that the
situation is much worse than he ever imagined it could be. His self-confidence has
been badly dented, and he feels particularly vulnerable. He seriously considers
giving up the story-goal quest and accepting whatever consequences this may bring.

The midpoint revelation or discovery can be presented in a number of ways:

the failure of the First Attempt may have dramatic consequences, resulting in
injury to, or perhaps even the death of, someone in the hero’s team;

the co-protagonist may confront the hero and question him about his part in the
failure of the first attempt; he or she may threaten to abandon the hero if he
doesn’t admit and explain his failure;

the co-protagonist or another character may act as a positive role-model, taking

charge of the aftermath of the failure and getting the team back to safety;

the co-protagonist or another character may act as a negative role-model, ‘going to

pieces’ in the aftermath of the failure in some dramatic fashion;

someone in the hero’s team may, as a result of the failure, decide to betray the
hero and change sides; or someone may prove to have been working for the antagonist
all along;

the First Attempt may have drawn the attention of the antagonist, or his henchman,
and the hero may find himself in a face-to-face confrontation with them, or they
may just mock him in the aftermath of the failure;

the hero, still in a state of denial, may express his frustration and anger at the
failure, and seek to blame external circumstances or members of his own team; this
may, in turn, provoke someone in his team, perhaps even the co-protagonist, to
speak their mind about the hero’s part in the failure;

the hero may come to the realisation on his own, and feel ashamed of his part in
the failure; he may hand over leadership of the team to a ‘better man,’ or he may
try to sneak away and hide – but find himself instead cornered by the co-
protagonist

The midpoint can serve a number of functions:

It makes the hero realise that he has misunderstood the nature of the situation;

It causes the hero to re-evaluate his story goal and his motive for trying to
achieve it. He reassesses his priorities and his viewpoint in terms of what
constitutes ‘moral’ behaviour;

It focuses the conflict between the hero and the antagonist: the hero finally
discovers what he is really up against; and it raises the stakes, setting the hero
on a collision course with the antagonist, as their respective goals are now very
much mutually exclusive; and it clarifies the thematic argument of the story, as
the hero and antagonist choose sides, demonstrate their motivations, and the types
of behaviour – the actions – that they consider acceptable in pursuit of their
respective goals;
It (possibly) marks an important point in the hero’s growth as a person;

It marks a significant point in the B-story – the relationship between the hero and
the co-protagonist

(i) What the Hero Learns About the Story Situation

The midpoint revelation or discovery causes the hero to look at things in a new
way. He may discover that he has been looking at things in the wrong way, and his
new perspective means that things suddenly begin to make sense. This applies to
both external events and internal emotions, and it causes him to reassess
everything that has gone before, and (possibly) to re-evaluate the relationships he
has with various people. He may discover that past events had very different
meanings – causes and effects – than he previously thought. Or he might have
misunderstood someone’s actions – their feelings, intentions, and motivations.

What the hero learns at the midpoint, and the way he learns it, may not require a
big action set piece. It may not be a dramatic climax in the way that the major
turning points at the ends of Act I and Act II are. It will be dramatic because it
turns the hero’s situation and the story around, and it could be a highly emotional
moment. But there may not be significant physical action. It could be as simple as
a door closing or a first kiss. It may be a piece of information that the hero
receives. It may be a significant piece of backstory – something that happened in
the distant past or just before our story opened, and that has the effect of
turning the story around and changing its meaning. It causes the hero to re-
evaluate everything that has happened in the story up to this point.

In many stories, the midpoint is where the hero learns the full extent of the
villain’s plans. Previously he may only have been aware of one small part of them –
a single battle in the villain’s war, or the first action in a series that will
culminate in something drastic. In Star Wars Luke Skywalker learns the significance
of the stolen Death Star plans. He reassesses his goal – and expands it from
‘rescue the princess’ to ‘rescue the princess in order to save the rebellion.’ In
thrillers, the hero is often trying to escape from the villain and spends the first
half of Act II running away. But at the midpoint, he decides or discovers that
escape is impossible, so he will turn and fight the villain: he changes from being
the pursued and instead becomes the pursuer. This change is often motivated by his
discovery of the true nature of the villain’s plan – the microfilm actually
contains the plans for a secret weapon that the villain will use to attack Russia
and provoke a nuclear war.

In other stories too, the hero may have seemed to be a victim during the first half
of Act II, reacting to circumstances thrown at him, rather than actively
instigating actions himself. He may have been trying to avoid taking responsibility
for dealing with his situation and was not totally committed to resolving it. His
failure during the First Attempt was a subconscious act of self-sabotage that
demonstrated this. After the midpoint, all this changes. He can no longer avoid the
responsibility: he must choose between total commitment or total surrender.

A consequence of this new knowledge is that the hero becomes aware that there is
much more at stake than he previously thought. It isn’t just his own happiness or
safety that is at stake – he is now aware that other people are at risk.
(ii) The Wrong Goal or a Change of Goal

At the midpoint, the hero may discover that he has been trying to achieve the wrong
goal. The specific object or destination he has been aiming for, he learns, will
not bring him the outcome that he desires or needs.

In the example of Star Wars, we saw how Luke Skywalker’s story objective was
expanded by what he learned at the midpoint of the story. Some might argue that
Luke achieved his initial goal (save the princess) and that this was replaced by a
new goal (save the rebellion), but the two are so closely tied that it doesn’t
really matter. In E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial, Elliott does change his goal at the
midpoint – initially, he wants to hide E.T. and keep him as a friend; after the
midpoint, he wants to help E.T. get home. David Siegel believes that the best films
have a change of goal at the midpoint, and he uses it as the basis for his two-
goal, nine-act structure. The first goal may be achieved at the midpoint, and a new
one may take its place. Achieving the first goal may, as a consequence, cause a new
problem that creates the need for the second goal. An apparent victory may prove to
be a false victory, calling for a whole new goal-quest. Or the original goal may be
expanded or adapted as a result of the midpoint revelation.

Or the hero may discover that he has pursued the right goal, but for the wrong
reason. In the first half of Act II, his motive may have been a selfish one, but at
the midpoint he discovers an unselfish reason for pursuing the same goal. He stops
thinking about only himself and his own desires or wants, and instead starts
thinking about someone else, or perhaps a benefit to his whole ‘society’ or group.
A clichéd example of this occurs in teen comedies where the hero pursues the new
girl because he and his friends have made a bet to see who can ‘get her in the
sack’ first – but as he tries to woo her, the hero finds himself genuinely falling
in love with her. He still wants to ‘be intimate’ with her, but his motive has
changed as her happiness and needs become more important to him than his own (isn’t
that what love means?).

(iii) Conflict with the Antagonist and the Thematic Argument

As we have said, the midpoint often reveals the full extent of the antagonist’s
plan. Even if he doesn’t appear in person yet, we learn what it is he is trying to
achieve, and have a much better idea of the lengths he is prepared to go to achieve
it. We will discover the antagonist’s point of view, in terms of the ‘virtue and
vice’ sides of the thematic argument. And we may also learn something of his
motivation – about why he is trying to achieve his nefarious ends.

The midpoint may be the moment when the hero defines his position as being in
opposition to the antagonist. Previously he was acting against the antagonist by
default – the actions towards the hero’s goal co-incidentally acted as obstacles to
the antagonist achieving his objective. But at the midpoint, having discovered what
the antagonist’s plan is, the hero declares himself to be in opposition to it. He
officially enters the battle against the antagonist. This too has the effect of
raising the stakes, as this may be the first time that the antagonist becomes aware
of the hero as an active threat to his own plans.
In some stories, the midpoint is where the hero and the antagonist meet for the
first time, or where the hero discovers the nature and/or identity of the villain.
Or discovers that there actually is an antagonist.

(iv) The Hero’s Personal Growth

The midpoint revelation often changes the hero in some way and marks a significant
stage in his growth as a person. It is a moment of ‘recognition’ for him. He sees
the error of his ways and becomes a less selfish person. Or he is made wise by
experience, realising that he has been deceived or exploited as a result of his own
idealism or naiveté. He learns the value of something he previously took for
granted. Or he learns that he has to take responsibility for his own actions. Or he
may discover that it is time for him to grow up and put away ‘childish things.’
Between the inciting incident and the midpoint, we have seen the hero in a variety
of situations and seen that, on the positive side, he is resourceful and adaptable,
and is capable of changing in order to deal with unstable circumstances. On the
negative side, we have been made aware of his major shortcomings – whether that is
in terms of important skills or abilities, emotional maturity, or just the number
of soldiers in his army. Although the midpoint changes the hero’s outlook, it
doesn’t fix these deficiencies – so he becomes aware that he doesn’t have
everything he needs in order to face the challenge he has just learned about.

(v) The Relationship or B-Story

The midpoint also marks a turning point in the relationship between the hero and
his co-protagonist, whether that character is an ally or a lover. As we will see in
Sequence 5, in the immediate aftermath of the failure of the First Attempt and the
midpoint reversal, the relationship between these two characters – the B-story –
will take centre stage for a little while. The midpoint is where the hero and the
co-protagonist change from being antagonistic towards one another, to being
supportive, trusting, and respectful. This doesn’t happen all at once, but the
midpoint is where this change begins. The working relationship they have
established develops into something stronger – either a genuine friendship or a
romance, depending on the needs of the story and the characters you have created.
After the failure of the First Attempt, the co-protagonist may want to confront the
hero about his refusal to act or whatever else caused the failure, but at the same
time, the failure has caused the hero to be much more honest – in admitting his
culpability and expressing his fear that he isn’t up to tackling the situation as
he now understands it, the hero displays a vulnerability he’s never demonstrated
before, and the co-protagonist responds to this.

It has been said that in many stories, the midpoint marks a change such that where
the first half of the plot was dominated by events and action, the second half is
dominated by relationships: an action-adventure story becomes a romance, for
example. The hero is no longer acting in his own interests alone: he has a lover or
a friend whose fate is also at stake. In a genre romance or romantic comedy, the
reverse is often true – the first half of the story concentrated on the
relationship, bringing the two lovers together, and the second half of the story is
filled with events and action that serve to drive them apart, at least until the
climax of the story.

By making the relationship important to the hero, and then threatening it, we can
raise the stakes in our story, whatever its genre. At the midpoint, the hero makes
a new commitment to his story goal-quest and also to his relationship with the co-
protagonist. In the second half of the story, relationships and emotions become
much more central to the story, serving to provide both motivation, increased
stakes, and added obstacles.

Sequence 5: Reacting to the Midpoint & Raising the Stakes

At the midpoint, the hero discovered something important and had to admit that
things can’t go on like this – it isn’t working. The hero has realised he has been
looking at the situation wrongly, or has denied it’s true nature, or has completely
misunderstood it. Following this realisation, he has to change the way he does
things. His external goal may change or his motivation for achieving it may change.
Something changes that sets the story off in a new way, And at the same time, the
stakes are raised: the hero now has more to lose. Often the new stakes include a
relationship – a friendship or romance – that has become important to him. Or he
goes from being a passive character who reacts to events, to an active one who
decides to make things happen, therefore putting himself in a riskier position. In
a romance, the main characters found that they could no longer deny their
attraction. In a thriller, the hero learns that he cannot run away from the
problem, he must turn and confront it.

Sequence 5 exists as a reaction to the midpoint realisation or revelation. It is

the hero’s response – emotional, physical, and intellectual – to what he has
learned. For this reason, it tends to be more of a transition sequence rather than
a major action sequence.

In many stories, Sequence 5 will focus on the relationship between the hero and the
co-protagonist – the hero’s ally/buddy or his lover. The midpoint marked a change
in this relationship, with the hero effectively saying, ‘I can’t do this without
you – I need your help.’ Or ‘I don’t want to be alone anymore.’ As a result, trust
develops between these two characters and they become closer. The relationship is
now important to both of them. This is most obvious in a romance story or a story
with a romantic subplot, because at the midpoint the couple come together
romantically for the first time. Sequence 5 then becomes a sort of honeymoon period
where they spend time together, the relationship develops, and their bond
strengthens. The couple have gone from denying their feels to trusting and acting
upon them. A similar thing happens in the platonic relationship in a ‘buddy movie.’

Spoiler alert: One of the reasons why we give the hero an important relationship at
this point in the story is so that we can whip it away from him at the end of Act
II.

In stories that do not have such a significant relationship, we have to find

another way to deepen reader interest and raise the stakes for the hero. In a
Hitchcock-style thriller, for example, the hero moves from being a passive victim
to an active combatant: he will try and resolve his problem situation by taking the
fight to the villain. Sequence 5 then shows us the hero being active on a small
scale and achieving some kind of success that boosts his confidence, encouraging
him towards the Second Attempt that will be the focus of Act II.
Dara Marks, in Inside Story, refers to this part of a screenplay as a ‘period of
grace.’ The midpoint has provided some sort of epiphany or enlightenment allowing
the hero to move from a state of ignorance or unknowing, to a state of awareness.
Marks notes that during this period the hero tends to thrive, as the tension is
relieved for a while. This period of grace also offers “... a glimpse of what life
might be like for the protagonist if he or she can reach the goal.” We see a
glimpse of the prize that the hero could claim if he succeeds in his present
adventure.

In most stories, this moment is intended to lure both hero and audience into a
false sense of security, causing them to lower their defences. Creating this lull
makes the resumption of action all the more dramatic. This brighter moment also
contrasts nicely with the ‘darkest hour’ that the hero will suffer at the end of
Sequence 6.

The events that occur in Sequence 5 may differ depending on whether a hero/co-
protagonist relationship is important in your story or not. Below I’ve listed a
dozen things that can be included in this sequence – the first nine are common to
all stories, the last three will only occur where the hero has a significant
relationship with an ally, lover, or team. The sequence below is for ease of
presentation only – the three relationship-related actions will need to be mixed in
with the others if you use them in your story. 1 and 2 in this list will appear
near the beginning of Sequence 5; 8 and 9 will occur near the end – everything else
can be shifted around to suit the needs of your story.

Emotional Reaction to the Midpoint

Reluctance to Go On

Decision and New Commitment

Hero Tries to Prove Himself

Hero Redeems Himself

Active Hero

Active Antagonist

Planning the Second Attempt

Pinch Point II – ‘Page 75’

Hero Tries to Convince Ally, Lover or Team to Give Him Another Chance

Hero and Co-protagonist Bonding and Increased Intimacy

Hero and Co-protagonist Unite Against the Villain

1. Emotional Reaction to the Midpoint

Just before the midpoint of the story, the hero suffered a defeat: his First
Attempt to achieve the external story goal failed. He may even have discovered that
he had chosen the wrong goal as a way of solving his external problem. The hero has
also discovered that the world does not work the way he believed it did, or that
the situation he is currently facing is not as straightforward as he thought. Or
both. He may also have learned something important about himself as a person. The
hero’s immediate response to all of this will be an emotional one.

Initially, he will be shaken by these realisations and revelations, because they

require him to reassess his understanding and beliefs. He may become depressed as
he realises the scale of what he faces, believing the problems to be
insurmountable. Up until this point, the hero thought he knew what was expected of
him, and believed he had the necessary knowledge, skills, and experience to
succeed. But his confidence has been shaken by what occurred at the midpoint. He is
troubled by self-doubt. He is afraid. These feelings of fear and uncertainty may be
the result of the fact that the villain has just tried to kill him. Or they may
have been caused by the fact that he has just fallen in love with someone.

If there is an ally or lover, they will also have an emotional reaction at this
point – both to the failure of the First Attempt and to the perceived changed in
their relationship to the hero.

2. Reluctance to Go On

Given the failure of the First Attempt, the hero may initially feel that he does
not want to go on with his quest. He wants to abandon his goal and live with
whatever consequences this may bring. His failure has shown him that resolving his
situation will require more effort than he thought. It will require some sort of
sacrifice on his part, and he doesn’t know whether he is prepared – or even able –
to make that sacrifice. He may express reluctance to continue, telling people that
he doesn’t think he’s the right person for the job. He probably won’t say publicly
that he’s afraid, instead he’ll say that he made a mistake or misjudged the
situation, and that he feels he should step aside and let someone else take over –
someone who is better qualified or more committed to the cause. His fear may be
such that he denies that he ever wanted to resolve his problem and that he was
happy with things as they were. Better this than to have to face his fears head-on,
or so he thinks.

The co-protagonist – whether they are a lover or an ally – may be confused by this
reluctance. Why is he backing out now? They may feel that the hero is exactly the
right person to be undertaking this goal-quest. They may share some of the hero’s
nervousness about continuing, but they do not have the same deep-seated fears as
him.

3. Decision and New Commitment

Someone or something prompts the hero to make a decision. The co-protagonist or

other members of his team may decide to continue with the quest, with or without
him, and he must decide whether to go after them. Or the antagonist may take some
action that the hero has to respond to – making him choose whether to give up or go
on. Having had an emotional response to the events before the midpoint, the
decision marks the hero’s intellectual response. He thinks rationally about the
situation he now finds himself in. The failure he has experienced causes him to re-
examine both his objective and his motivation. He may also have to give some
thought to what it is he is afraid of and why it paralyses him.

If the hero is involved in a relationship with an ally or lover, it may be this

that swings the balance and makes him choose to continue: he wants to save the
relationship. If the hero of your story has no such relationship, you will need
some other incident to prompt him to reach his decision. The decision will need to
be brought about by some combination of external event – another action taken by
the villain, perhaps – and some inner pressure relating to what the hero wants or
needs in life.

Part of his decision may include choosing a new, more appropriate, goal – something
different that he believes will allow him to achieve his overall story objective.
Or he may choose to make another attempt for the same goal, if he believes it is
still the correct goal. There may be a change in his motivation – why he wants to
achieve the story objective, and there will almost certainly need to be a change in
the method he employs to achieve his goal. He will need a new plan for the Second
Attempt.

The hero renews his determination to achieve his external objective – to deal with
the problem situation or opportunity – and makes a new commitment to achieving his
goal.

4. Hero Tries to Prove Himself

His failure before the midpoint, and his decision to continue his quest in spite of
this, mean that the hero has now got something to prove – to himself, to the
reader, and to his ally, lover or team. It is not enough for him to just say that
he’s recommitting himself to the adventure, he must demonstrate it. This will
require him undertaking some concrete action that shows he means what he says.

The exact nature of this action will depend in part on who the hero of your story
is, the type of story you are telling, and the nature of the thing that the hero
fears most. In some stories, asking for help – saying ‘I can’t do this on my own’ –
is the right action: the hero may ask for a mentor or ally or lover or team’s
support. In other instances, the opposite may be true – the hero may need to prove
that he can take responsibility for acting on his own without back-up. It may be
necessary for the hero to admit he is vulnerable, and admit that he made a mistake
before the midpoint. Or he may need to prove that he is strong – perhaps even
having to defeat someone who challenges him for leadership of the team.

This action is not easy for the hero to perform because in some way it reminds him
of, and perhaps bring him closer to, the thing he fears most. The stakes were
raised at the midpoint and he is acutely aware of the added risk.

A lover may be keen to encourage and support the hero in taking these actions,
seeing them as evidence of his new commitment. An ally or team may be more
sceptical and less supportive: they have seen him fail once and are wondering how
strong this new commitment really is.
5. Hero Redeems Himself

The hero successfully completes an action that proves his new commitment or
suitability to himself, the reader, the co-protagonist and/or his team. This may
involve him putting himself at risk of physical or emotional risk to protect
others. Or it may be performing some action that he failed at, or was afraid to
attempt, during the First Attempt. Whatever it is, it earns him a chance to
undertake a Second Attempt.

6. Active Hero

Related to 4 and 5 above is the need for the hero to take action. During the first
half of Act II, he tended to be reactive rather than proactive. He may have
regarded himself as a victim of circumstances, responding to events as they arose,
and trying to escape from the problem. He was also a novice and a wanderer in the
‘strange new world’ in which his quest was taking place. He made mistakes because
he didn’t know what the rules were or how to behave in this place, and he didn’t
really understand the nature of the problem he was trying to deal with. He was a
bumbling amateur acting in ignorance. The revelations and/or realisations at the
midpoint changed this. As he moves into the second half of Act II, he has gained
experience and learned from his mistakes. He’s starting to find his way around in
this world and knows what is expected of him. The things he learned at the midpoint
mean he is no longer in the dark about what he is up against: he has a better
understanding of the forces that oppose him. The hero may not yet have all the
skills, knowledge and experience that he will need, but is no longer in a position
of ‘unconscious incompetence’ but has moved to what Peter Dunne calls ‘conscious
incompetence’ – he now knows what he is lacking and can take action to achieve
something closer to the competence that success will require. Sequence 5 is where
he begins to try and close that gap.

After the midpoint there is often an obvious change in the hero’s behaviour. In a
romance, the main character no longer denies their feelings, instead they accept
them and act on them. In a thriller, the hero has been chased by the villain but
now turns the tables and becomes the pursuer, setting out to stop the villain’s
evil plan. The hero becomes more active in this part of the story and actually
instigates his own actions rather than just reacting to things done by the
antagonist. This new proactivity is one of the things that helps to redeem the hero
in the eyes of other characters and of the reader.

7. Active Antagonist

We’ve said that Sequence 5 is more of a transitional period than an action

sequence, because it provides the hero time to reflect and readjust to what
happened at the midpoint. The relationship – the B-story – often takes precedence
over the A-story here. But that does not mean that the main action of the plot
stands still while this happens.
Blake Snyder calls this part of a screenplay ‘the bad guys close in.’ The villain
or opponent carries on with his own plans regardless of what is going on in the
hero’s life.

One of the things the hero often discovers at the midpoint is information about the
antagonist’s wicked plan. As well as showing the hero what he is really up against,
possession of this knowledge makes the hero a threat to the antagonist. As a
result, the antagonist will increase his efforts to capture or destroy the hero, so
he cannot reveal what he has learned or put it to use. Having obtained this
knowledge – which may be a ‘Macguffin’ such as secret plans or a person he has
rescued – the hero now has to keep hold of it and get it to someone or to somewhere
that it can be used. The hero may not yet fully understand the value of what he has
discovered, and the antagonist may want to silence him before he discovers the
importance of the information he has gained.

The hero’s actions during the First Attempt have gained the attention of the
antagonist: if the villain wasn’t gunning for the hero before, he is now. While the
hero is recovering from his defeat, the antagonist may attack, taking advantage of
his vulnerability. It may be the response to this attack that allows the hero to
redeem himself.

Given that the hero has just discovered the nature of the antagonist’s plan, we can
now introduce a deadline or countdown, increasing both suspense for the reader and
pressure on the hero. If the hero knows the villain plans to do ‘X’ on a specific
date, this limits the amount of time the hero has to put a stop to the plan. The
clock is ticking.

There are other sources of antagonism that may be active during Sequence 5. The
hero and the co-protagonist may find themselves at loggerheads. Or there may be
infighting within the hero’s team – problems of dissent, doubt, jealousy, or a
challenge for the leadership position.

8. Planning the Second Attempt

Having made a decision to continue with his quest, the hero makes a plan for the
Second Attempt to achieve the story objective. This takes place in a very similar
way to that detailed for the First Attempt in Sequence 3. Do not duplicate things
the reader or viewer has already seen, instead concentrate on showing things that
are different between than planning session and this one – what has changed?

9. Pinch Point II – ‘Page 75’

In Syd Field’s 120-page screenplay plot ‘paradigm,’ there is a second Pinch Point
at page 75. This turning point is related to the climax at the end of Sequence 3,
page 45 in the screenplay. These two ‘pinches’ – along with the midpoint – are
staging posts on the hero’s journey, each one providing a test so that we can see
how far he has progressed since the challenge was issued. It can also be that
something set-up on page 45 finally pays off at page 75; or page 75 could act as a
reminder that this thing was set-up, paving the way for it to pay off later in the
story.

10. Hero Tries to Convince Ally, Lover or Team to Give Him a Second Chance

In a story with a significant relationship subplot involving a co-protagonist or a

team, the hero may find himself having to apologise for his failure during the
First Attempt. His actions let them down and may have put them at risk, or even
caused them actual harm. An ally or a team might want to continue the story quest
without the hero. Or someone – possibly the lover or ally – may challenge the hero
for leadership of the team. The hero may have to fight to prove himself a worthy
leader. Or he may have to step down and allow someone to take his place – at least
until he can redeem himself (see above) in the eyes of the people around him.

11. Hero and Co-protagonist Bonding and Increased Intimacy

Following the hero’s new demonstration of commitment (see above), and aware how
difficult the action has been for the hero, the co-protagonist – the ally or lover
– may grow closer to him. A greater bond of trust and respect grows between them.
They may have had a falling-out at the midpoint, in part because of the co-
protagonist’s disappointment in the hero, but now they are reconciled. It may be a
little while before they feel able to fully trust each other, but the bond is
repaired.

As a result of the things they have been through together, they have formed a
strong working relationship – the initial antagonism has faded, and they have come
to respect each other. Trust is developing, but the hero – and possibly the co-
protagonist as well – does not have the emotional experience to be able to deal
with his feelings: particularly if their relationship is developing into a romance.

Eventually, their trust may develop into a more intimate relationship – either
platonic or romantic. There are several things that can occur during this part of
the story:

Co-protagonist Makes a Commitment to the Hero. Having accepted he hero’s apology

and seen him redeem himself through concrete action, the co-protagonist makes some
gesture of commitment. They say to the hero I trust you, I believe in you, and I am
going to support you through the remainder of your quest.

Co-protagonist Requires Commitment from the Hero. Having committed themselves to

supporting the hero, the co-protagonist wants a promise from the hero in return.
This is typically along the lines of ‘no more secrets’ – they are in this together
and they have to trust each other. Completely.

Sharing of Hopes and Fears. As the hero and co-protagonist spend more time together
and become more open with each other, we may learn more about the backstory of each
of them, usually in the form of some sort of memory or anecdote that gives us an
insight into how their life experiences to date have shaped their view of the
world, and influenced the way that they behave, and the way that they form
relationships. Each may tell the other something about the thing they fear most in
life, and may perhaps reveal the circumstances that gave rise to this fear. They
may also share details of their dreams – the ideal life that they hope to find some
day.

This period of bonding and increased intimacy is part of the ‘moment of grace’ that
Dara Marks talks about. It is a taste of the happiness that the hero could have if
he manages to complete his goal-quest successfully.

12. Hero and Co-protagonist Unite Against the Villain

The hero and the co-protagonist have made a commitment to work together from this
point on. ‘We’re in this together, no matter what.’ They are both aware that this
is going to mean that, at some point very soon, they are going to come face-to-face
with the antagonist and there’s going to be a fight. They have now agreed that they
will fight side by side.

The key outcome of Sequence 5 is that we have raised the stakes for the hero. One
of the most effective ways of doing that is through his relationship with an ally
or lover. By making the hero care deeply about someone else, we make him more
vulnerable. We give him more to worry about. He is no longer responsible for just
his own physical, emotional and mental well-being – he feels a duty to protect this
other person as well. And the feeling is mutual.

Going into Sequence 6, we should feel that the hero is now willing to fight to
preserve and protect his relationship with the co-protagonist. Being together has
become more important to him than surviving alone. He is also approaching a point
where he is prepared to risk his own safety and happiness to save the co-
protagonist. By the end of Act II, we need the hero to have reached a position
where he is prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice to protect the people and the
principles that he cares most strongly about. We need him to be at a point where he
will face and conquer his greatest fear. This point at the end of Act II is when
the A-story and the B-story converge. At the end of Sequence 5, he is not quite
there yet – but he is a good way along the road.

At the end of Sequence 3 (page 45), circumstances had forced the hero and the
protagonist together, but their personalities kept them apart – they mistrusted
each other and were antagonistic. At the end of Sequence 5 (page 75), a close
relationship has now developed so that they want to be together, but external
circumstances – the continued actions of the antagonist – mean that they cannot
concentrate all of their efforts on their relationship: they have to get the
business of the quest out of the way first.

After their brief respite and moment of reflection, the two characters are forced
to respond to the continuing actions of the antagonist. As well as demonstrating a
commitment to each other, they must also show a renewed commitment to achieving the
external goal. The revelations or discoveries made at the midpoint have provided a
new perspective on the external problem, which informs the new plan that the hero
determines to implement. This may or may not include a change in the nature of the
external goal, and/or a change in motivation. The midpoint revelation may have
shown the hero the nature of the forces of antagonism. He will have learned how
dangerous the opposition is, even if he may not yet have discovered the actual
identity of the main antagonist. Similarly, the failed attempt made by the hero
before the midpoint will have revealed his identity to the antagonist. Now that he
is known to the antagonist, the danger for the hero has increased. There may also
be an element of time pressure added – a deadline or a sense of time running out –
as the antagonist races to complete his evil plan before the hero can stop him.

The climax at the end of Sequence 5 is the hero being ready to take the first
action of the Second Attempt to achieve the external story goal. The major part of
the action of this attempt will be carried out in Sequence 6, and that will develop
into the crisis at the end of Act II (page 90 in our screenplay) when the Second
Attempt fails.

Sequence 6: The Second Attempt, The Fall, & The Crisis

The final quarter of Act II has been referred to as the ‘fall’ or the
‘unravelling,’ because this is where everything falls apart for the hero. At the
end of this sequence he ends up at the major crisis point in the story, sometimes
called the hero’s ‘darkest hour’ or the ‘dark night of the soul.’ This is a major
turning point in the story that marks the end of Act II and sets up the climax in
Act III. Sequence 6 builds to this crisis point. The hero made a major discovery at
the midpoint of the story, and in the scenes that followed this, he seemed to be on
top of the situation. Sequence 5 was a period of positive relationship building and
of planning the Second Attempt. But, there is still some problem that the hero
hasn’t tackled yet – he may be denying it, or ignoring it and hoping it will go
away, but it is waiting in the wings to trip him up. He is doomed to failure
because of some action – or inaction – on his own part.

Sequence 6 presents the second major test for the hero. He puts a new or revised
plan into action and expects it to succeed because he believes that the midpoint
revelation, and his improved relationship with his co-protagonist, gives him
everything he needs for success. The hero may not suspect that tragedy is looming,
but the audience will know – either because the danger has been made obvious to
them, or because they just feel that, on a subconscious level, something is not
quite right. Often there is something that the hero has ‘conveniently’ forgotten or
ignored – something that is going to come back and bite him in the bum. This may be
an unforeseen consequence of an action he took earlier or a delayed reaction. In a
teen comedy, the hero usually does something stupid in the first half of the story
– in either Sequence 2 or 3 – and then his life changes as a result of a new
relationship with the co-protagonist, but then this stupid thing comes back to ruin
everything in Sequence 6. To take our clichéd example, a new girl moves into the
area and a bunch of guys make a bet on who can get her into bed first – it’s the
sort of stupid, misogynistic thing guys in movies typically do. The hero gets to
know the girl, he and she really do fall in love, and the stupid bet is forgotten.
Until the moment when its revelation can do the most harm. She learns of the bet,
believes he’s only stringing her along so that he can win the bet, and so she tells
him to get lost: she never wants to see him again. Boy loses girl. End of Act II.

Sequence 5 offered the hero a glimpse of what his ideal life could be like. It
dealt mainly with relationship issues, and everything seemed to be going pretty
well. The external threat from the antagonist may have been forgotten for a while –
though, of course, the audience knows that he hasn’t gone away. The midpoint has
given the hero a new outlook on life. He learned something important about himself,
or about the way the world works, and possibly both. His relationship with the co-
protagonist helps him begin to adjust to this change. But whatever new insight he
has gained needs to be integrated into his life – or it may overwhelm the hero and
upset the balance of his life, like a pendulum that has swung too far in the other
direction. This integration requires patience and prudence – but he may not have
these qualities in place yet. He may become drunk on his new-found feelings of
freedom and power and, in an attempt to ‘seize the day,’ he may suffer poor
judgment and an inflated ego, and so engage in reckless and irresponsible
behaviour. Sequence 5 shows the hero the prize that could be his – but in order to
take it, he is going to have to give something up. Some part of his old existence
has got to be sacrificed. But he doesn’t have the wisdom to recognise this yet. He
believes that he can have everything he had before as well as this new thing: he
can have this new life without having to make any commitment to it by giving up his
old life. This sort of thinking isn’t going to end well.

The hero may end up in a kind of ambivalent fantasy world, where he is not fully
connected to either his old life or his new one, and the danger then is that he
could lose both of them and finish up with nothing. Sequence 6 is a test: is the
hero ready to sacrifice his old life and fully embrace his new one, accepting all
of the responsibilities that it brings with it? And the hero is going to fail this
test. He will lose everything – at the crisis point of the story – and then he will
have to decide what he is going to fight to recover and rebuild from the wreckage.
The beginning of Sequence 6 is where things begin to slip. The hero’s inability to
fully commit means that the idyllic situation in Sequence 5 cannot possibly last.
It is built on a poor foundation. The co-protagonist believes that the hero should
move on from his old life and fully embrace his new one, which includes the
relationship with the co-protagonist. But the hero is clinging to his old life, and
perhaps trying to keep this secret from the co-protagonist, perhaps even denying it
to himself. This level of dishonesty is not sustainable. His ambivalent attitude –
literally trying to maintain the old life and the new – means that the hero begins
to engage in half-truths and lies. Misjudgements and miscommunications occur.

The hero may have someone from his old life trying to encourage him to come back to
it. They will give the hero poor advice, perhaps deliberately, perhaps not. They
may try to sabotage the hero’s relationship with the co-protagonist. They may push
the hero into situations that will prove that he hasn’t moved on from his old life
– forcing the co-protagonist to see that the hero isn’t ready to commit to a new
life. Sequence 6 is a place where unfaithfulness or betrayal, duplicity or
treachery, take place or are imagined to be taking place. The co-protagonist may
come to feel that they cannot trust the hero. The hero may feel that the co-
protagonist is trying to manipulate him and force him to give up a way of life that
he doesn’t need to move on from. The sacrifice that the hero needs to make – giving
up the old and proving himself ready and ‘worthy’ of having the new – is something
that he is afraid to face. He may not know this consciously, but he certainly feels
it. Major life changes are scary, and we may avoid committing ourselves to making
them. We may try and deny that the change is even necessary. Remember the Kubler-
Ross change-curve?

The thing about change is that it often causes life to get worse before it gets
better. What prompts change is often an uncomfortable experience that prompts us to
risk trying something new. And often the hardest part about change is that it means
we have to let go and ride with it – we can’t control the journey or the outcome.
The desire for control belongs to the old way of life that we need to move away
from. Change means letting go. And we often have to be forced into doing that.
Things have to get worse before we are ready to let them get better. Sequence 6 is
going to take the hero from the happiness of Sequence 5 to the deepest trough of
depression, the darkest hour, that is the crisis at the end of Act II.

His fear of change makes the hero indecisive, and his commitment to the external
quest is all but forgotten. While he is distracted, the antagonist has a clear road
and can make progress unhindered. And the antagonist’s success is effectively
handed to him by the hero. Feeling that he is no longer in control of his own life,
and feeling that he is being pushed towards the kind of situation that he fears
most, the hero is likely to become angry and defensive. He will push the co-
protagonist away – either deliberately or inadvertently – because he sees them as
the cause of his present discomfort. He may unconsciously sabotage their
relationship. He may engage in the worst excesses of his old kinds of behaviour, as
he tries to regain the familiar feelings of comfort his old life gave him. He may
do things in an attempt to ‘punish’ the co-protagonist – effectively ‘cutting off
his nose to spite his face.’ And all this means that things begin to fall apart for
the hero. The unravelling occurs at the point when the hero has the most to lose.
When he is most vulnerable. And it drives him towards the kind of situation that he
is most afraid of. The ‘worst thing that could possibly happen’ actually happens at
the end of Act II. And it’s even worse than he feared it would be.

What we are describing here is the psychological, the inner experience of change.
In a novel or screenplay, we need to translate this into external actions. The
hero’s journey, as described in Chris Vogler’s book The Writer’s Journey, tries to
do this using the metaphor of the heroic quest. I should note here that although I
am lifting stages from the hero’s journey, I am placing them in a different place
in my ‘model plot’ than Vogler does. In his circular plot diagram, the supreme
ordeal occurs at the midpoint of the story: that doesn’t work for me, so I have the
supreme ordeal occurring as the ‘crisis point’ of the story at the end of Act II.

The Experience of Change in the Hero’s Quest

In the hero’s journey, the midpoint has the hero seizing a prize – which equates to
the midpoint discovery or revelation that we described in our midpoint chapter
earlier. The hero learns something about himself and/or the way that the world
works, and this discovery is going to be something that is vital in achieving his
external and internal objectives. But having gained this prize, what is the hero
going to do with it? In Sequence 5 we saw him effectively taking a breather and
coming to terms with what happened at the midpoint. He celebrated the positive side
of gaining the prize – while, for the most part, ignoring the consequences and
responsibilities that came with seizing it. Sequence 6 is where those consequences
and responsibilities have to be dealt with. But is the hero ready for them? Hint:
No, he’s not.

The hero’s journey model gives us a number of possible stages that we can include
in this part of the story:

Preparation for the Ordeal

Opposition

The ‘Underworld’ or Villain’s Lair

The Supreme Ordeal

Using the terminology of the hero’s journey model, Sequence 6 becomes the approach
to the inner-most cave or approaching the villain’s lair. This dark place is the
thing the hero fears most – his inner fears externalised as a terrible place. This
action is the equivalent of James Bond making his way into the villain’s secret
base in order to confront him and stop his evil plan. Or it can be seen as the hero
leading his team onto the battlefield where they will face the biggest battle of
the war. In other words, the hero may make the approach alone, or as part of a
group. Whichever works best for your story. When it comes to the crisis at the end
of Act II, the hero will be physically or figuratively standing alone, and having
to face the villain without a back-up or a safety net, but for now he may still
have people working with him.

(i) Preparation for the Ordeal

What we are seeing in this sequence of the story is the hero’s Second Attempt to
achieve the external story objective. The exact nature of this objective may have
changed as a result of what was learned at the midpoint so that the hero is no
longer going for the ‘wrong goal.’ Knowing his goal, the hero must formulate a new
plan. The steps involved in this will be similar to those that were required for
the First Attempt. Here they are as a reminder:

Identify the desired outcome

Set a goal that will bring about the desired outcome

Create a plan to achieve the goal

Identify resources to carry out the plan: knowledge, skills, equipment, people,
etc.

Conduct a review of available resources

Obtain resources identified as missing in the previous step, including recruiting

team members and/or carrying out training

Create a schedule for the individual actions in the plan

Perform the first action

I’m not going to go over these in detail again. In your story you should avoid
showing the reader anything that they’ve seen before – don’t make this ‘planning
and preparation’ sequence the same as the earlier one. Highlight things that are
different, highlight new conflicts, and gloss over anything that is identical,
mentioning it only in passing.

If the hero is leading a team, things will have changed between the first abortive
attempt and this second one. There may have been changes to the personnel that make
up the team. Some may have been wounded or killed in the first attempt, or may have
left the team for other reasons. Team members may be promoted to new roles, having
proved themselves in the earlier battle. Others may have to take on roles that they
are not trained or comfortable to assume as a result of the original incumbents
having been lost. The hero’s mentor may have been lost in the first major attempt,
leaving the hero to lead without his most valued advisor. Preparation for the new
battle may involve cleaning and testing weapons, and repairing and putting on
armour – or equivalent tasks. Team members may enjoy a meal together or share a
joke, knowing that dawn will see them taking to the battlefield.
(ii) Opposition

An individual hero or a team may face a variety of internal and external obstacles.
There could be a leadership challenge in a team. One or more team members may
abandon or betray the hero. Others may seek to escape their responsibilities or may
express misgivings. All of these things can affect and undermine morale in the team
as a whole. The hero will need to promote calm and confidence. The approach to the
villain’s lair is likely to be well-defended, making the journey towards it
challenging. These physical defences are also symbolic of the internal obstacles
that the hero and members of his team face. Overcoming these barriers provides new
information, experience and confidence, that can be used in the final confrontation
to come. Skirmishes fought during this part of the journey may rob the hero of
valuable resources, and even members of his team. These losses increase the odds
against success and dent the confidence of the team members remaining.

(iii) The ‘Underworld’ or Villain’s Lair

Depicted in mythology as a dark cave or the ‘land of the dead,’ the villain’s lair
represents the thing that the hero fears most. It is a situation that resembles
whatever traumatic incident in his past made the hero fearful of change. For
Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, it is recognising that he is still deeply in love
with Ilsa and faces losing her all over again. For James Bond, it is entering the
upside-down world of the super-villain, whose ambitions and moral values are the
opposite of everything that Bond is licenced to defend. The ‘villain’s lair’ is
something that threatens the hero’s physical well-being, his mental health, and/or
his emotional stability. It is an insane, mixed-up, and confusing place where the
normal rules do not apply. It is a place that will take your deepest, darkest fears
and use them against you. It’s Disneyland for psychos. Possibly.

The ‘underworld’ doesn’t have to be an actual dark place or even involve a change
of location. Though there is often some sort of symbolic crossing of a threshold,
perhaps even a challenge from a threshold guardian. What we really see is the hero
entering a situation that he is afraid to face. The situation that the hero finds
himself in now will usually be almost identical to a situation he faced earlier in
the story – or earlier in his life – and failed to deal with. This is a second
chance, an opportunity for the hero to redeem himself. But this time the stakes are
much higher.

The hero may have to pass a threshold guardian in order to enter the underworld, he
will typically be required to demonstrate different skills than were required to
pass the guardian at the end of Act I / beginning of Act II. Back then he used
force or trickery or charm – anything that worked to get across that threshold.
What he was doing then was proving a commitment to accept the challenge. At this
new threshold, he will need to demonstrate that he has learned as a result of his
experiences in the story so far. Crossing the threshold cannot be achieved by force
or a face-to-face encounter. Rather, it will require a more empathic approach. The
hero will need to demonstrate an understanding of the villain’s world – as with the
first threshold, he is trying to prove that he is ‘worthy’ of entering this dark
world, which requires an understanding of the qualities of the ‘demons’ who inhabit
this world. In action stories, the hero often gains entry to the villain’s lair by
disguising himself as one of the villain’s men. He has to be able to look like, and
behave like, a minor demon in order to enter. This requires an understanding of the
people who inhabit it. Christopher Vogler identifies another way that the hero can
pass this empathy test: he can demonstrate an understanding of the threshold
guardian’s position, and make an emotional appeal such that the guardian will allow
him to pass. Rather than trying to kill the guardian, the hero puts himself into
the mind of the guardian and asks himself: what would I be feeling in his
situation? What would persuade me to allow someone to pass? He has to prove himself
to the guardian in a non-violent way. Crossing this threshold, whether it is
physical or psychological, is a big step for the hero, as it is the first step in
facing and conquering the thing he fears most. Once he crosses this border, he is
trapped in the underworld and cannot go back – he must face whatever danger lies
ahead.

A feature of this stage of his quest is that the hero usually finds himself
isolated and facing his fears alone. His mentor will be gone – having bowed out
because he has nothing more to offer the hero or having been killed by the villain
or having proved himself no longer suitable as a guide. Members of his team will
have abandoned him or been taken from him. And now, like Gary Cooper in High Noon,
he stands alone, about to face the ultimate test. Having entered the underworld,
the hero now stands at the heart of the problem, he is in the centre of the
spider’s web, the treasure room of the dragon’s lair, the deepest, darkest cave of
the demon-lord’s realm. Which may only be the home of his lover’s parents, but it
is the most frightening situation he has ever faced. As the hero progresses deeper
and deeper into this shadowy realm, the spaces he encounters often get smaller, and
the passages he goes through gets narrower. This symbolic narrowing is like a noose
tightening: the forces of antagonism – both internal and external – are closing in
on him, and his options for action and gradually being reduced. He is being
funnelled towards an encounter with the thing he fears most.

Has the hero got what it takes to face this ultimate ordeal? Stay tuned to find
out...

(iv) The Supreme Ordeal

The hero squares his shoulders and steps forward, prepared – or so he believes – to
face the ordeal. He has done as much preparation as he can, he has all the
information he needs – he thinks he knows what it is he is about to face – and that
he knows what will be expected of him. All he has to do is take the correct ‘moral’
approach, and his success is more or less guaranteed. It’s going to be a tough few
hours, but it isn’t nearly as bad as he had always feared it would be.

Or so he thinks. The ordeal is the final part of the unravelling and is where
things really fall apart for the hero.

There are a number of stages that this part of the story can include – these have
been pulled together, for the most part, from the plot models of Christopher
Vogler, Dan Decker, and Rob Tobin.

The Hero Takes Action

The Antagonist Strikes Back

An Act of Desperation

A False Solution

Attack by the Co-protagonist

The Fall

Second Major Failure

Crisis – the Hero’s Darkest Hour

Meltdown – the Hero Reaches Breaking Point

The Antagonist Prevails

1. The Hero Takes Action. The hero puts his plan into effect, carrying out the
first action. At this point, he feels fairly confident because he knows that he is
doing ‘the right thing.’

2. The Antagonist Strikes Back. The antagonist, or his henchman, responds to the
hero’s first action, causing it to fail or weakening its impact. The result of this
action is usually that the antagonist increases his area of threat, and the hero
increases his area of concern. That is, the stakes are raised. Typically, the
antagonist retaliates and someone other than – or as well as – the hero is
threatened and/or suffers. As a result of the hero’s actions, someone else is put
at risk. This means that the hero must now accept responsibility for the fate of
this person or group.

3. An Act of Desperation. Responding to the increasing pressure, the hero breaks

his own rules of conduct and/or morality – trying to fight fire with fire and beat
the antagonist at his own game using the antagonist’s own methods. This is the
moment when the hero and the antagonist are most alike – with the only difference
between them being that the hero is breaking his own rules, doing what he knows is
wrong, while the antagonist is acting in accordance with his rules and doing what
he believes is correct and acceptable. Same actions, but different points of view.
This ‘immoral’ act by the hero fails. It may initially appear to succeed, providing
a false solution (see below), but if it does, this action will have unforeseen
consequences that will quickly make the hero’s situation much worse than it was.
The hero’s immoral act may result in harm to the co-protagonist or may result in
the co-protagonist being captured by the antagonist. The hero may be captured at
the same time or may attempt to rescue the co-protagonist and then be captured.

Breaking his own rules was a last resort for the hero – he now has nothing else
left. What can he do? He has run out of options. Except that he hasn’t. Abandoning
his principles was a desperate act, motivated in part by the fact that the hero
doesn’t want to face the ‘thing he fears most.’ But that is exactly what is
required of him at this point. He’s not yet ready to face this – things will have
to get even worse before he is prepared to accept this final challenge. Up until
this moment, the hero has been trying to destroy the antagonist – but what is
really required is for him to get inside the head of the antagonist and understand
him. But to do this requires the hero to accept the dark side of his own character
– which the antagonist symbolises – and that is too terrifying for him to
contemplate. He despises this aspect of his own character and refuses to
acknowledge it exists.

4. A False Solution. It may appear that the hero’s ‘immoral’ action has succeeded
and that he has put an end to the antagonist’s plan. This will only be a temporary
success, and the antagonist will soon be back stronger than ever and twice as
angry. Another form of false solution occurs if the hero’s ‘immoral’ action does
not succeed in ‘defeating’ the antagonist, but does cause the antagonist to come to
the hero and make him an offer. Having seen the hero act immorally, the antagonist
will say ‘we are not so different, you and I’ and then offer the hero a
partnership. They will rule together. Depending on his current state of mind, the
hero may seriously consider this offer. Perhaps for a brief moment, he enjoyed
behaving immorally. The freedom from his own self-imposed rules may have been
intoxicating. This is a moment of temptation, and one of the final tests the hero
has got to face. The hero may even be tempted to try and depose the antagonist in
order to seize the throne for himself – he will become the new crime lord or super-
villain. Overthrowing the antagonist is the right goal, but doing this simply to
take his place would be doing the right thing for the wrong reason.

The hero may join the antagonist for a while, until the real implications of the
immoral actions of the antagonist are brought home to him in a very real way. Or he
may pretend to join the antagonist, in an attempt to get stay close to him and hope
to find a moment when he can finally defeat him. Or he may say to the antagonist
‘I’d rather die!’ In which case, the antagonist will agree to grant him that wish.

5. Attack by the Co-protagonist. Whatever happens in 4 above, the hero is likely to

be confronted by an angry co-protagonist. His immoral action has caused him to lose
the respect of the co-protagonist, and possibly of other people around him. The co-
protagonist – his ally or lover – will challenge him over his ‘immoral’ actions.
Here the co-protagonist is acting as the hero’s conscience, like Jiminy Cricket.
The hero knows what he has done is wrong. He may deny this, even to himself. But he
knows. As a result, he may become extremely defensive and refuse to accept the co-
protagonist’s criticism. This response by the co-protagonist increases the pressure
on the hero, forcing him to question his values and behaviours. This additional
strain may be the final straw that damages the relationship between the hero and
the co-protagonist. The co-protagonist may give the hero an ultimatum. Or the co-
protagonist may decide that the hero is incapable of doing what must be done, and
so abandons him and sets off to try and defeat the villain without the hero. This
may result in the co-protagonist being captured, injured or even killed. This
further increases the pressure on the hero. Or the co-protagonist may say ‘to hell
with you,’ and end the relationship, leaving the hero standing alone and stunned.

6. The Fall. With the co-protagonist abandoning him or having been taken from him
by the antagonist, the hero has in the final stages of his unravelling. The
unravelling has been caused in part by the fact that the hero remains uncommitted –
he is trying to hold on to his old, comfortable way of life, while at the same time
wanting to seize the opportunity that his new life offers. But these two are
incompatible – to have the new, he must sacrifice the old. In his heart, he knows
this, but he is terrified by the prospect. He needs one final push – the fall – to
force him to make this choice. The hero is close to giving up his quest for good,
because his story objective seems impossible to reach. Everything that he used to
depend on – the people; the places; the behaviours; the skills, knowledge and
experience – have all been taken from him or been proved inadequate to the task. He
feels the earth crumbling beneath his feet and has nothing left to hold on to.

Things can’t possibly get any worse, can they? Of course they can! And they will.

7. The Second Failure. The hero’s Second Attempt at achieving his external
objective fails, even after he has made a last-ditch attempt to succeed by using
‘immoral’ actions. These actions either fail immediately, or they appear to have no
effect or even to have succeeded, and then have a delayed consequence that results
in failure. It appeared that the hero would finally achieve his external objective,
and it may even have appeared that he had done so. But victory is snatched from
him, and instead he suffers a disastrous failure. This is worse than the hero ever
feared, because not only is his own fate (or happiness) in the balance, but also
that of the people he cares about. And it is his fault. His choices and actions
have resulted in innocent people being put at risk. And he has lost not only what
he had in Act I, his old life, but also any chance of the amazing new life that he
was offered a glimpse of in Sequence 5, following the midpoint revelation.

8. Crisis – The Hero’s Darkest Hour. This failure – which is the thing the hero has
feared most right from Act I – has come to pass. And it is worse than he ever
feared. The hero feels lost, clueless, hopeless, and foolish. This is the lowest
moment of his life – he is devastated and believes that he has lost everything. In
an action movie, this is the point where the hero has been captured and is at the
mercy of the villain, with death only a heartbeat away. In a romance it is the
moment when ‘boy loses girl,’ and there seems no possible way that the two could
ever be reconciled. Both the hero and the reader should be convinced that there is
no possible hope of turning this situation around. This is part of the game – the
situation at the end of Act II must appear hopeless. We need the reader to be
willing us on, hoping that we will be able to get the hero out of this deep, dark
hole.

The hero has failed, and he must be aware that he has failed. He has to be brought
to this worst possible moment in order to (a) learn humility – that he cannot
control events and people by force of will; and (b) be forced to re-evaluate his
priorities in life. Only when he has lost everything is he able to see the one
thing that matters to him more than anything else. Only now can he possibly be
ready to make the sacrifice that needs to be made that will prove the thematic
argument of the story, and prove him worthy of having whatever has been lacking in
his life, his greatest need, finally fulfilled.

Note that the crisis is the opposite of the outcome at the climax of the story in
Act III. There will be a major reversal of the hero’s fortune in Act III. If you
are planning a happy (or an ironic) ending, the crisis at the end of Act II must be
a tragedy. If, however, you are planning a tragic end for your character at the
climax of the story, then this situation at the end of Act II will be the opposite
– it will appear to be a victory.

9. Meltdown – The Hero Reaches Breaking Point. Things have gotten so bad that the
hero loses control. And this loss of control frightens him. This is his emotional
response to the crisis. High emotion – laughing or crying or screaming in anger –
are a demonstration of his frustration and vulnerability. The hero experiences
extreme disappointment, and feelings of loss. He will feel disillusionment and
anger, and may feel that he has been betrayed or let down people the people and
situations around him. He will feel that the moment of happiness he experienced in
Sequence 5 was a cruel trick, because now any chance of achieving that happiness in
the long-term has been snatched away from him. He may want to blame others, but
deep down, the hero believes that this terrible situation is all his fault – it is
the result of his own actions, or his failure to act. He has allowed the antagonist
to win. He will believe that he has to fix the problem himself. Alone. This is the
last sign of him trying to dominate and control the situation by force of will,
rather than opening himself up to live in the moment and gain a real understanding
of what is required of him. He may push others away, refusing any offers of help,
saying ‘no, this is my problem.’ He is also so vulnerable and afraid, that he feels
unable to trust anyone else. He needs the support and understanding of the co-
protagonist at this point but will push them away if he hasn’t already lost them.
At this moment, he is overcome by self-destructive feelings. His situation is
hopeless, he believes, and nothing can be done about it. And this is true, unless
he can overcome this moment of self-doubt.

Note that the ‘meltdown’ can occur before the ‘act of desperation’ – losing his
grip could be what prompts the hero to undertake an ‘immoral’ action.

10. The Antagonist Prevails. The antagonist appears to have won. Everyone the hero
cares about is now in danger. The antagonist begins his final actions towards his
own (villainous) objective, seemingly assured of achieving it. The antagonist does
something that the hero must respond to. It is a new stimulus. But to respond to
this stimulus successfully, the hero will have to make an important decision.

I believe that Sequence 6, and Act II, ends with this cliff-hanger – the hero
defeated and faced with deciding what to do next. This may be regarded as
melodramatic, but subtlety isn’t really my thing. You may have noticed that. Other
theorists believe that Act II ends with the hero making his decision and ready to
take the next action. To be honest, it doesn’t really matter where you draw the
line that says end of Act II / beginning of Act III since the act breaks aren’t
real – they’re just something we use to help us plot out our stories. Since other
sequences begin with a ‘transition’ scene in which the hero reacts to the previous
sequence climax and makes a decision about how to respond, I reckon that means that
Sequence 6 ends with the crisis, and Sequence 7 begins with the hero’s decision. I
suppose, to some extent, it depends on how dramatic you can make the decision – is
it worthy of being a sequence and act climax? That is for you to decide. I’m
putting it in Act III.

The end of Act II is the Second Major Turning Point in the story. It sets up Act
III. This turning point must be something that is caused by the actions of the hero
and should be something that involves him directly. And it must lead logically into
Act III and the final climax of the story.

In case you blinked and missed it, this is the end of Act II. We made it through
the long haul. That’s the tough part over. All we have to do now is create the
climax – the highest point of the drama and emotion in our story – and we’re about
done.

Act III: The End – Climax & Resolution

“When the end of the movie is the most exciting or emotionally involving part, then
the audience troops happily out of the darkness and that’s how word-of-mouth is
born.” – William Goldman

In Act I you promised conflict, a clash of opposing forces, fireworks both physical
and emotional. The climax of the story is where you finally have to deliver on that
promise. The last thing you want to happen is for your reader to feel let down or
cheated by your ending. We also learned what the hero was most afraid of, and what
terrible fate awaited him if he failed to achieve his story goal.

Act II left the hero in a hole, effectively defeated – his whole world in tatters
and everything he cared for and hoped for apparently lost to him. His worst fears
have come true and the terrible fate has befallen him – or something even worse!
And now he faces the last and biggest decision of the whole story and possibly of
his whole life. As the smoke clears and the debris settles, whether physical or
metaphorical, he has to make a choice: will he make one more desperate, do-or-die
attempt to achieve his story objective? Everything you have written so far has been
leading up to this decisive moment. Are you feeling the pressure?

Act III is the end and is made up of Sequences 7 and 8. Sequence 7 is the climax of
the story, where the Major Dramatic Question is finally answered. Sequence 8 is the
aftermath of this climax, where any loose ends are tied up, and we return the hero
to the equilibrium of a new sort of everyday life. Assuming he survives the climax.

Your reader should be eager to read on and discover how the hero is going to get
himself out of the end of Act II hole. And you as the writer should be eager to
write it, so that you can discover how it finally turns out. If you see creating
this final clash as the last chore to get out of the way so that you can finish
this damned book, then you are not in the right place to write an effective climax.
Either you haven’t done the necessary preparation to get yourself into a position
to be able to write it, and write it quickly and well. Or something has gone wrong
earlier in your story, and your subconscious is telling you that you’re going to
need to fix it before you can properly write the big finish. If you’re bored with
the idea of the climax because you know what’s going to happen, then there’s every
chance that your ending is too obvious and the reader will see this ending coming
from a mile off. We will look at some different ways you can rethink your ending
and come up with something that will seem both inevitable and yet unexpected.

Act III needs to do four things:

Provide a strong, emotional climax that lives up to the promise of conflict that
was made in Act I and the anticipation that has built up during Act II;

Resolve the relationships established in Act I and developed in Act II;

Provide an emotionally satisfying resolution;

Answer the Major Dramatic Question and ‘prove’ the Thematic Argument.

In the final confrontation with the antagonist, at the climax of the story, the
hero must face and defeat the antagonist. This will require the hero to face some
near-impossible challenge, and he will have to make a sacrifice of some kind to
prove that he is prepared to pay any price in order to protect the thing – the
person and/or value – that he cares about most.

Don’t include anything new in the ending. No new characters, no new settings. There
is no time for setting up or for exposition during this part of the story. The
ending of a story must arise logically from what has gone before, but at the same
time should still be surprising: readers like to try and guess how a story might
end, but they do not want to be able to predict exactly how it will end. The reader
must find the ending emotionally fulfilling. This does not mean that an ending
needs to be happy, but it does need to be satisfying. A satisfying ending delivers
on the promises made in Act I. In Act I, forces were introduced and set in motion,
heading for a collision. During Act II, those forces were brought closer and closer
to collision – and now in Act III, we see the impact that everything has been
building towards. A satisfying ending must feature the same characters, situations
and conflicts that were introduced in Act I. There should be no new element
appearing at the eleventh hour – no cavalry riding over the hill to save the day.
This would just feel like a cheat. The situation must be resolved by the hero’s own
actions.

The ending builds on what has gone before. Robert J. Ray and Bret Norris, in The
Weekend Novelist, say that Act III should “... focus on echoes that resound –
echoing images, echoing lines, echoing incidents – repetitions that replay
themselves in your novel as you move, in the end, towards an effect not unlike a
symphony.”

And the ending must show the collision that has been advertised: it cannot evade
the collision by having the two opposing sides reach a mutually beneficial
compromise. You cannot have the final clash occur offstage and then cut to the
aftermath. Your reader bought front row tickets for a clash of the titans, and that
is what you must deliver. This does not mean that there has to be a physical battle
as such – but the climax must be filled with tension and powerful emotions. A
satisfying ending is also one in which the characters each get the ending they have
earned by their actions during the course of the story. James Frey, in How to Write
a Damned Good Novel, calls this issuing a verdict in the Court of Poetic Justice,
with punishments that fit the crime. And the ending should be decisive – we should
know who wins and who loses; we should see whether or not the hero achieves his
objective. We should see the major dramatic question answered. And as we shall see
later, it can be answered with one of four types of ending – one of which will be
most appropriate for the story you are telling.

To create a satisfying ending, one that delivers everything the reader is

expecting, you need to look back at what you promised to deliver back in Act I. The
choice of genre promises certain things – you will need to deliver a genre-
appropriate climax. Your choice of main character, with their particular hopes and
fears, promises certain aspects of the ending. The mood and style of storytelling
you began with should influence the ending – if you began with gritty realism, a
slapstick ending is unlikely to feel right to your reader. Did you promise the
reader a cold and harsh story or a warm and cosy one? The beginning also promises
an emotional experience, which the ending must deliver. Did you promise the reader
a love story? Terror? A fight for justice? The exposure of corruption? Exploration
of a fantastic other world?

If your story has turned out to be something other than you originally intended,
but this new ending is better, then you will need to go back and fix the beginning
– replacing your original promises with a new set that your ending can deliver on.
That’s one of the great things about being a writer: time travel.

Sequence 7: The Climax

Act II ended with the hero at crisis point, facing his ‘darkest hour.’ Sequence 7
begins with him having to make a decision: should he give up, or make one last
ditch attempt at his story goal? This decision scene is one of the most important
in the whole story – everything has been building to this moment. But it is also a
relatively short scene: we are close to the end of the story, and things need to
move more quickly – it’s downhill all the way now. Once the hero decides on a
course of action, effectively choosing to make a Third Attempt, his preparation
time will also be relatively brief. Time is almost always ticking away in Sequence
7 of a story, as the hero has to race into action to try and prevent the antagonist
from finally achieving his ultimate objective. From here on in, there will be no
pauses, no moments for reflection or relaxation. For this reason, the climax of
many stories consists of a single scene or closely-related sequence of scenes.

Things that can be included in this Sequence are:

Reaction to the Crisis – A Decision or Dilemma

Action by the Antagonist Forcing a Response from the Hero

A Discovery or Revelation

Highest Stakes

Reader Learns of an Increased Threat

Thematic Argument – Points of View Restated

The Final Battle

The Battle Begins Badly for the Hero

Hero Learns of Increased Threat

Hero Discovers a Way to Fight Back – Act of Self-Sacrifice

Outcome of the Battle

(1) Reacting to the Crisis – A Decision or Dilemma

“Crisis: a state of things in which a decisive change one way or another is

impending.” – Lajos Egri

At the beginning of Sequence 7, the hero stands battered and confused: he has lost
everything that is important to him – everything he had in Act I, before the
inciting incident, and everything that he has gained since. Even the co-protagonist
is gone – having been taken from him by the antagonist, or having abandoned him as
a result of his actions during the Second Attempt. He is in a state of shock and
this may quickly become depression – it is the Kübler-Ross change curve all over
again, but this time he must move through the stages pretty rapidly, as time is
running out. He must now make a decision about what he will do next. The crisis
decision is the moment that the whole story has been leading up to. It is our scène
à faire, our ‘obligatory scene.’ Everything – plot, character, and theme –
converges here. It is the final decision that the hero makes in the story, and
whatever choice he makes will determine the answer to the major dramatic, the proof
of the thematic argument, and the direction of the hero’s life going forward.

This turning point at the end of Act II is similar in nature to the inciting
incident in Act I. The hero is faced with a difficult choice – a dilemma. The hero
as we met him in Act I would not have been able to make the correct choice here. He
would not even have been able to recognise the opportunity. He must choose to give
up his old life and his old way of behaving – completely – and make a total
commitment to his new life. Now that everything else has been stripped away, he is
in a position – for the first time in his life – to be able to judge what is
genuinely important to him. His judgment is no longer clouded by trivial worries
and shallow concerns. The crisis has brought him so low that he is able to
experience and demonstrate humility. During the second half of Act II, the hero’s
life has been torn apart. His self-image – who he believed he was – has been proved
false. Friends have betrayed him. He has found love and lost it. Behaviours and
skills that he has trusted and relied upon have backfired. And his beliefs about
the way the world works have been proved wrong. Only when he reaches this place,
with his old self torn down, is he ready to rebuild a new, true version of himself.
Only now is he in a position where he could, if he makes the right decision, fully
embrace his new life. This point in the story is sometimes referred to as a ‘death’
experience, in which the hero’s old self must die to allow him to be ‘reborn’ as
his new self. His old beliefs and ways of behaving have outlived their usefulness,
and he needs to let go of them. This is the moment the story has been building to.
The hero is being offered an opportunity to change his life forever. Everything
depends on the choice he makes at this moment. The stakes are the highest they have
ever been – both in terms of his internal conflict and the conflict in the external
world. He stands naked and alone, filled with self-doubt. And he is invited to make
the biggest sacrifice he has ever made in his life. His physical and emotional
survival will depend on the outcome of this decision, and the action he takes as a
result. He must make a final leap of faith. But is he strong enough to go through
with it?

Borrowing from a list in F. A. Rockwell’s How to Write Plots that Sell, here is a
list of qualities that the main story crisis must have:

a dilemma, offering two choices of action where the hero is forced to make a
decision

two choices that each offer the hero something that he wants, but at the same time
they must each require him to sacrifice something that he also wants

high stakes – there must be something significant at risk for the hero – and it
must provide a highly charged, emotional experience for the reader

a decision that reveals the true nature of the hero, and profoundly alter his life
going forward

a decision that is related to the thematic argument

a situation that is the culmination of a series of crises that have risen in

intensity as the story has progressed

The nature of the choice the hero is faced with depends on the type of story you
are telling. In the most straightforward plot-centered story that depends solely on
external action, the hero’s first two attempts to deal with his story situation
have failed, and he must decide whether to make a third attempt, and if he does, he
will have to choose what action to take. In the whodunit, for example, the
detective typically discovers one final clue that appears – to the reader – to make
the whole investigation more confusing than ever (the ‘crisis’), but the hero takes
the clue and announces that he now knows the identity and motive of the murderer.
His decision is a fairly simple one – how to reveal the truth to the suspects and
to the reader. This could be the classic ‘drawing room scene’ or it could require a
plan to trap the murderer and trick him into revealing his own guilt. The theme in
this type of story is a fairly obvious one – justice prevails, innocence is
rewarded and guilt is punished – and the detective proves himself a hero by
demonstrating his skills as an investigator and his doggedness in ensuring that
justice triumphs.

In a story that features both external and internal conflict, the hero must make a
moral choice, and is usually faced with choosing between a selfish course of
action, where he gets what he wants, or a selfless course of action, where he
sacrifices what he wants in order to achieve something that benefits ‘society’ as a
whole.
Finally, in the flawed hero story, the hero is faced with the same moral dilemma,
but his decision is made all the more difficult because he is also battling to
overcome his own internal flaw – and this flaw will make him tend towards the
selfish decision, rather than the selfless one.

For the time being, let’s concentrate on the features of the story that features
both internal and external conflict, as this is the most common type found in genre
and popular stories today. The two together add depth to a story and work together
to prove the thematic argument.

The crisis point in the story is the moment of greatest opportunity, and of
greatest danger: there is everything to play for, and everything to lose. The
decision will be between two courses of action, both of which promise the hero an
element of loss as well as whatever he will gain. Each will require him to make
some kind of sacrifice, giving up one thing in order to achieve another. The choice
may be between the greater of two mutually exclusive goods – if he chooses one, the
other is automatically lost. Or he may have to choose between the lesser of two
evils, where eliminating one automatically enables the other. Once the crisis
decision point is reached, there can be no going back: the hero must make a choice,
there is no room for compromise, and he cannot say none of the above.

The two things that the hero has to choose between at the crisis are introduced, or
the choice is at least implied, in Act I. In a love triangle, the hero meets the
two people who will become his or her lovers in Act I. If the crisis choice is
between his relationship and his job, both of these will be introduced before the
end of Act I. If his final choice is between saving the life of his lover and
saving the lives of the people of a whole city, Act I will introduce us to the
lover and the importance that the hero places on helping his community. During Act
II we can explore and demonstrate the importance of these two things in the hero’s
life. The hero may spend time with each of the two lovers, taking part in fun and
enjoyable activities (and possibly sex) with each, and discovering that he or she
has much in common with each of them. Our hero may try and divide his time between
his partner and his job, sometimes giving his partner priority and sometimes his
work. Or we may see our hero engaged in a job or a voluntary activity where he can
help large groups of people, and we also see him falling deeply in love with that
one special person. Both ‘sides’ should be set up and shown to be equally important
to the hero so that when he is faced with having to choose between them, he is
genuinely faced with a difficult choice. The crisis choice should be the most
difficult test that he has faced in the story, and the reader should believe that
the hero’s decision really could go either way.

In Story, Robert McKee says that the scene in which the crisis decision is made
should be a ‘deliberately static moment.’ We should be there, suffering with the
hero as he wrestles with his decision. McKee likens it to a dam that holds back the
emotion, allowing the pressure to build before it is finally released in the action
of the climax. I like that image. As an example, McKee mentions Thelma & Louise,
where the two protagonists are sitting in their car on the edge of the cliff, about
to make their climactic choice.

Although both options should seem equally desirable (or undesirable) from the
hero’s subjective point of view, the story events should have been structured so
that the reader knows which one the hero should choose. An objective viewpoint
shows us that one of the choices is the selfless moral choice, and the other is a
selfish immoral choice. One choice benefits only the hero, giving him what he
wants; the other choice benefits his community or mankind as a whole, protecting
some value that is vital to human society. The reader should be willing him to make
the right moral choice, while at the same time worrying that he might choose the
selfish option. Often in a story, we will try and make it appear that the immoral
choice is much more likely to prevail and that the moral choice is highly unlikely.
This helps raise the suspense and emotional involvement of the reader. The decision
that the hero makes here tells us what sort of person he really is because we
reveal our true selves in the decisions that we make. Dara Marks calls it the
transformational moment because it is where the hero decides his own fate. Other
people may try to influence his decision one way or the other, but ultimately it is
a personal choice. The decision – his intention – is actually more important than
the outcome of the action he takes as a result of his decision. Whether he succeeds
or fails, he has taken the action for the right reasons. Or not, depending on what
you are trying to prove in your story.

In Narrative Technique, Thomas H. Uzzell provides a diagram to help us visualise

the two conflicting desires affecting the hero:

If that doesn’t help, try imagining your hero tied between two horses (or two
trucks) that are pulling in opposite directions.

When we reach the main crisis point of the story, something has got to give, and it
does. The hero could give up and admit defeat at this point – but he won’t because
our story wouldn’t have a climax if he did. Instead, he makes his final decision
and chooses a course of action that sets up the confrontation – the big showdown –
that constitutes the climax of the story. The hero’s situation is so bleak that it
forces him to re-evaluate his priorities. Having lost everything, he is finally
able to see the one thing – the person and/or value – that he cares about more than
anything else. His losses have provided him with a new clarity of understanding,
and – perhaps for the first time in his life – he actually has an understanding of
what he needs to do. His experiences at the end of Act II have effectively stripped
away everything that was unimportant, leaving him with a stark choice – and he
makes it. He performs an act of self-sacrifice that proves, once and for all, that
he is a hero who is committed to preserving and promoting the value that lies at
the heart of the story’s thematic argument. His actions say: This thing is so
important to me that I am willing to die to defend it. Or, I am willing to live
alone for the rest of my life to achieve it. Or, I am willing to give up everything
from my old life, in order to have this new life.

Following this decision, there may be a brief period of preparation as the hero
readies himself to make the Third Attempt – his final attempt. This time he is
likely to be acting alone, having lost any supporting characters that may have been
with him during the two previous attempts. Even the co-protagonist is no longer
there to offer support. As he takes his first action to put this plan into action,
the major dramatic question is raised one final time: Can the hero succeed?

(2) Action by the Antagonist Forcing a Response from the Hero

At the beginning of Sequence 7, the antagonist probably believes that the hero has
been defeated, and may even be celebrating his own success. If he is a rival or
opponent, rather than a villain, he may be presenting himself as the legitimate
victor and coming forward to claim his ‘prize’ – whether that be a valuable trophy,
a position of power, or the hand of the king’s daughter. If his diabolical plan has
not yet been completed, the antagonist will move forward thinking that he can do so
without opposition. Some action by the antagonist or his men will jolt the hero
into action, forcing his hand and causing him to make his final decision and take
action. The antagonist’s action is also likely to start the clock ticking on the
final countdown – the hero now only has hours (or perhaps only minutes) to stop the
antagonist succeeding and gaining his objective.

(3) A Discovery or Revelation

The hero discovers or is told something important. It is an important clue. In

action movies, this clue is often revealed while the antagonist is holding the hero
at gunpoint and delivering his backstory: ‘Do you want to know why I became the
most powerful supervillain on the planet, Mr. Bond? I will tell you.’ Believing
that the hero is no longer a threat, the villain may gloat and reveal details about
his plan. Though post-modern villains tend to be aware of the risk involved in
this, and so give nothing away. But the hero is able to gain the information some
other way – perhaps from a henchman who is bragging on behalf of his boss; or
perhaps from someone working for the antagonist who has begun suffering pangs of
conscience and wants to betray him. Sometimes this informant is the ‘threshold
guardian’ whom the hero treated sympathetically when he crossed the threshold into
the villain’s lair. However it happens, the hero finally understands the
antagonist’s motive. And because the antagonist is a dark reflection of himself,
the hero is able to empathise with the antagonist and understand his point of view.
This is a moment where the hero discovers that he and the villain have certain
things in common – aspects of their past lives that have caused them to adopt a
certain outlook on life. The antagonist is an extreme version of the hero’s shadow
side. This allows the hero to have an insight into the antagonist’s plan, and
seeing it from the ‘inside,’ perhaps he is able to see a weakness or flaw in it
that can be exploited.

This discovery or revelation may explain the mystery of the inciting incident: this
incident, which is what drew the hero into conflict with the antagonist, may turn
out to have been a mistake made by the antagonist. It accidentally drew attention
to what he was doing. If the inciting incident was a mistake, the cause of the
mistake may reveal to the hero another weakness that he might be able to use in his
final battle with the antagonist.

One area where the hero and the antagonist are very different is in the fact that
the hero is prepared to sacrifice his own happiness, or even his own life, for
someone that he cares about, and for a value that is important to mankind in
general. The villain would never sacrifice himself for another person or for a
cause or belief. All he cares about is achieving his own plan and gaining power or
wealth or whatever else it is that he is personally seeking. The antagonist, unlike
the hero, is not able to empathise with other people. He cannot put himself in
their shoes and imagine what they are feeling. This means that he cannot see how
the hero could be willing to sacrifice himself for others. And this blind side
gives the hero another weakness he might be able to exploit.

The hero should demonstrate that he has learned from his experiences during the
first two acts – that he has taken on board everything he has learned from his
mentor, the co-protagonist, threshold guardians, and the antagonist.

With this new information, the hero moves forward with his actions for the Third
Attempt.
(4) Highest Stakes

What is at stake at this point in the story? The answer is everything! The reader
must be clear about what ‘terrible thing’ will happen if the hero fails in the
Third Attempt. In some stories it is the life of the hero, and probably the life of
the co-protagonist, and possibly even the ‘fate of the free world.’ In other
stories, it is a relationship at stake, or a career, or a person’s self-respect. It
depends on the situation that has developed throughout the story. Usually, the
stakes have increased so that by the climax of the story it is not only the hero’s
fate that is in the balance, but also that of someone – or a group of people – who
are more important to him than his own health and happiness. The climax is the
point when the hero demonstrates that he is willing to pay any price to prove his
commitment to the person or people or to the value he feels strongly about. We
should also be made aware of what terrible fate awaits the antagonist if he fails –
we should see that he will stop at nothing to make sure that his own plan succeeds.
And we should see a demonstration of the lengths the antagonist is prepared to go
too – an example of his complete disregard for human life, for decency, and a
complete lack of mercy.

(5) The Reader Learns of an Increased Threat

The reader – but not the hero – learns of a new and greater threat that will
drastically reduce the hero’s chances of success in the coming battle. We apply
Alfred Hitchcock’s favourite method of creating suspense – dramatic irony – by
giving the reader information that the hero needs, and making the reader lean
forward hoping the hero will discover the new or increased threat before it is too
late; fearing the consequences if he doesn’t; and feeling frustration that they
can’t warn him. The climax of the story needs to be emotional as well as physical,
and this increased tension is one way that we deliver that.

The audience may learn that something that is important to the hero’s planned Third
Attempt has been in some way damaged, compromised, or removed. A vital piece of
equipment may be damaged or sabotaged. Someone the hero is relying upon may have
been killed or captured, or they may have betrayed the hero and be working for the
antagonist. A couple of additional possibilities: a character thought dead is
really still alive; and, two characters thought unrelated are in fact related in
some way (this includes the idea of one of the hero’s friends being a traitor who
is working for the antagonist).

(6) Thematic Argument – Points of View Restated

Just before the final battle begins, or during the early stages of this final
confrontation, the reader should be reminded of the two sides of the thematic
argument. We can do this by making it clear from the hero’s actions that he will
behave only in accordance with the positive ‘virtue’: we should see that he
believes that this value is important and is worth fighting for. There is a line
that the hero will not cross, and there are things that he will not do. From the
antagonist’s actions, we should see that he is prepared to act in a way that
demonstrates the ‘vice,’ and that there is no line for him: he is ruthless and will
do whatever it takes to prevail. The antagonist may mock the hero for his moral
values, pointing to them as a sign of weakness or a lack of free-will: he is
allowing other people to dictate his beliefs and behaviours. The villain will
believe that only ruthless self-reliance can bring success, and that namby-pamby
liberal values, rules, and conscience are a handicap that ties the hero’s hands and
will prevent him from succeeding.

(7) The Final Battle

Showdown. The hero and the antagonist go head to head, each committed to defeating
the other. At this point in the story, the hero knows the full extent of what he is
up against – or so he thinks: there is still the new or increased threat that he
doesn’t know about. This climactic action will decide who – if anyone – wins, and
its outcome will prove the thematic argument. This is the other half of the
‘obligatory scene’ that includes the hero’s crisis decision and his climactic act
of self-sacrifice. This will be an all-or-nothing, winner-take-all fight. There
should be the feeling of a headlong rush towards the final outcome, as well as a
send of intense pressure, and a concentration of forces – it should take place
somewhere where there is no way out, and no alternative routes: it is two opposing
forces, moving at high speed, heading for a collision in a space that is getting
narrower and narrower. It is like a funnel – everything has been squeezed down to
this one final confrontation.

(8) The Battle Begins Badly for the Hero

The antagonist is in a strong position, he is well-resourced, well-prepared, and

ruthless. In comparison, our hero looks small, weak, and poorly equipped. We want
the hero to seem hopelessly outclassed – because our readers will feel sympathy for
an underdog. We should also see that the antagonist is prepared to lie and cheat,
and do anything that will give him the slightest advantage and eventual victory,
while the hero is restrained by his own moral code. Almost from the start, the hero
will suffer physical and emotional attack from the antagonist’s men, and the damage
will have a cumulative effect.

The antagonist may engage in psychological warfare, denigrating the hero’s efforts
to date: if the hero had been a better opponent, the antagonist would not be in the
commanding position that he is now in. The antagonist’s success is thanks to the
hero’s mistakes, fear of taking action, or ignorance, and people have been put at
risk, harmed, or perhaps even killed, as a result of the hero’s actions, or his
failure to take action. The antagonist may also criticise the hero because of the
‘immoral action’ he took – his ‘act of desperation’ – during the Second Attempt:
where were the hero’s high moral values then? Who could take him seriously when he
abandons his ‘deeply held beliefs’ so easily? And if a member of the hero’s own
team has betrayed him, the antagonist has another stick to beat him with – offering
up the betrayal as proof that the hero’s beliefs can be easily cast aside; or as
proof that people leave his side because he can’t be trusted. If the co-protagonist
walked away from the hero because of his immoral behaviour during the Second
Attempt, the antagonist may use that too. Any possible weakness he can find, the
antagonist will exploit: no blow is too low for him.

The only response that the hero can make to this is to admit his culpability. He
admits his past mistakes – he has nothing to gain by lying or denial, and so is
quite prepared to be honest with himself and others. He will try to make amends for
past mistakes if he can, and one way he can do that is to try and uphold the values
he believes in. He restates his point of view and promises to stand by his
principles from now on.

(9) The Hero Learns of the Increased Threat

Just as his destruction seems inevitable, the hero learns of the increased threat
that the reader has been aware of for some time. Knowing about it, he can now
attempt some form of countermeasure. Whether the antagonist knows that the hero
knows at this point is a choice for you to make as the writer.

(10) Hero Discovers a Way to Fight Back – An Act of Self-Sacrifice

Just as the situation seems hopeless, the hero will discover or learn something
that could give him a chance to beat the antagonist. It is only a slim chance, but
it is the only chance he has. This should be something that demonstrates what the
hero has learned throughout the story, and it should be something that enables him
to demonstrate his moral behaviour. While it offers an opportunity, this potential
solution also requires that the hero perform an act of self-sacrifice.

In Plot and Structure, James Scott Bell says that at the climax of a story, the
hero can be called on to demonstrate either physical courage or moral courage. Or
perhaps both. Physical courage is necessary if the hero is prepared to sacrifice
his safety, possibly his life, in a final battle. Whereas moral courage is
necessary where the hero is faced with a final choice: he is on the horns of a
dilemma – he could choose to pursue his personal objective, but at a moral cost. Or
he can give up his personal goal, his want, and ‘do the right thing’ for the
greater good.

Self-sacrifice or selflessness – being prepared to suffer, or give up one’s own

needs or desires, so that others may survive or benefit – is regarded as a heroic
quality. British philosopher Jeremy Bentham said: “It is the greatest good to the
greatest number of people which is the measure of right and wrong.” Mr. Spock said
something similar: “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the
one.” This is a quality or value that the hero is able to demonstrate that the
antagonist is not. The antagonist is completely self-centered, ego-driven, and
would never dream of giving his own life for another person’s. Sometimes this
concept is so alien to an antagonist that he cannot foresee that someone else might
be prepared to risk everything in order to save someone else: this gives the self-
sacrificing hero a brief advantage – he can take advantage of the villain’s moral
blindness.
Of course, you have to set up your story situation so that all of the hero’s other
options have been removed, to the point where he is prepared to make this final
noble act. And you have to have established that there is something – some human
value or some human being – that he cares about more than he cares about himself.
It may be true that it is more heroic for a man to give up his life for a principle
and to die to save a stranger, than it is to give up one’s life for someone we love
– which still has an element of self-interest associated with it – but in terms of
drama, it doesn’t get much better than being prepared to die for a friend or a
loved one.

(11) Outcome of the Battle

The hero defeats (or is defeated by) the antagonist. The decisive action that
brings this about must be performed by the hero: he must not be passive, and he
must not be rescued by someone or something else (that just smacks of deus ex
machina). And we can’t have the villain defeating himself because of some mistake
or action that backfires – though Raiders of the Lost Ark sort of got away with
that one. The outcome must show whether the hero or the antagonist wins. And it
must show whether the hero succeeds in achieving his external story objective. As
we will see below, under Types of Ending, there are different ways in which the
components of the outcome can be combined in order to create a happy, tragic, or
ironic ending. The outcome of the final battle should also prove the thematic
argument – virtue is rewarded, vice is punished. William Goldman says that the
outcome should give the audience what it wants (usually meaning that the hero
succeeds), but not in the way that it expects it. We will look at some techniques
for doing this later in the chapter.

Types of Ending

Two questions have to be answered at the end of a story: Did the hero succeed in
achieving his external story goal? And: Did he manage to fulfil his need and
overcome the ‘lack’ in his life? In other words, did he resolve both his external
situation and his internal one?

This gives us four possible types of ending:

Happy Ending. The hero resolves both his internal and external situations. He
achieves his external objective and achieves personal happiness and fulfilment at
the same time.

Tragic Ending. The hero fails to resolve both his internal and external situations.

Personal Tragedy. The hero achieves his external objective but fails to resolve his
inner problem. He wins the prize, but it brings him no personal fulfilment, or he
has had to sacrifice so much to achieve it that his success is a pyrrhic victory at
best. The whole experience may leave him bitter, or sadder but wiser.

Personal Triumph. The hero fails to achieve his outer objective, or abandons the
quest for it, but achieves something that is more important to him. He may have
discovered that he was going for a wrong or unworthy goal, or been going after the
goal for the wrong reason. He discovers the error of his ways and achieves a more
meaningful kind of personal fulfilment instead.

(iii) and (iv) above are both ironic endings, in that the outcome isn’t what the
hero expected it to be. Ironic endings tend to occur in stories with a strong
character development arc. In Rocky, the hero realises that he cannot win the
climactic fight, but discovers that he can achieve something that is more
personally fulfilling. And in Casablanca, the Humphrey Bogart character sacrifices
an opportunity to be with the woman he loves in order that a more important victory
might be attempted. These ironic endings prove the thematic arguments of their
respective stories.

Tragic endings usually occur when the hero fails to learn an important lesson: he
doesn’t complete the journey of self-discovery which would allow him to ‘earn’ a
non-tragic ending.

Linear and Circular Endings

A linear story is a journey that takes the hero from point A to point B. A circular
story takes the hero away on an adventure but then brings him home again. A linear
story ends virtually at the point that the final destination is reached, with only
a brief resolution scene following it. Adventure stories and whodunits are
examples. Once the climax is reached, the main situation of the story is resolved
and there is little more to add. With this type of ending, subplots will tend to be
resolved before the climax, and there are usually few loose ends to tie up.

A circular story will usually have a longer resolution after the climax, as the
hero ‘brings home’ whatever knowledge, experience, objects, or ‘healing elixir’ he
has gained as a result of his quest. The place that a character returns to may not
be a literal homecoming, it may be a return to an emotional equilibrium he had
previously. Circular stories usually have an element of ‘before and after’ in their
resolution, as we see how the world has changed; or we see how the world has stayed
the same and the hero has changed. Where a hero has been battling to preserve a
world, or return it to health, this coming back is a way of demonstrating his
success. A birth or a marriage may be seen as symbolising the fact that the
disruptive elements have been taken care of, and normal life can be resumed.

Building a Climax

An effective climax should be the biggest scene in the story, where the final
battle is waged between virtue and vice. It should be dramatised – that is, shown
through action, rather than being talked about or happening offstage. The hero
faces the greatest obstacles he has faced so far, and when the scene is complete,
the major dramatic questions will have been answered. The climax will involve some
kind of dramatic reversal, from positive to negative or negative to positive – a
value swing at the maximum possible level, and one that will be irreversible. The
action by the hero that brings about this change is what proves the thematic
argument of the story. It effectively says: In a situation such as this, a hero
will behave in this manner. Conversely, the antagonist or villain will be shown
behaving in a contrary fashion, demonstrating an immoral value. These actions on
each side should be unambiguous and require no explanation. You want the reader to
be able to form their own judgment, and at the same time feel things emotionally:
this is right-minded behaviour, and this is wrong. The climax should be a scene in
its own right, in which the hero faces the greatest obstacles he has ever faced.
And these obstacles will come in the form of a direct, face-to-face confrontation
with the antagonist. The outcome of this climactic confrontation will be that one
of them wins and the other loses. There are no half measures.

The outcome of the climactic action should be brought about by the actions of the
hero. This means that the climax needs to be appropriate for this particular hero.
Just as the crisis was a crisis for this particular character, so too is the
climax. Nancy Kress, in Beginnings, Middles and Ends, asks: If the hero had been a
very different person, would this story still ended with the same sort of climax.
The answer, she says, should be no. The ending should grow naturally out of who the
character is. We choose our hero because of his ‘climax potential.’ The hero will
solve the problem at the climax using his own skills, knowledge and life
experience, including anything that he has learned during the course of his
adventures in Act II. At the climax of the climax, the antagonist is defeated and
the conflict ends. The hero’s external objective, the story goal, is achieved. Or
he fails to achieve it, depending on what type of ending you are creating.

The hero’s choice of action at the climax of the story – whether he acts in
accordance with virtue or vice – determines whether or not he deserves to be
rewarded. His reward will be success in achieving the overall story objective,
and/or success in fulfilling the ‘lack’ that he has experienced in his life up to
this point. The ending of the story reaffirms our belief that if we make the
‘right’ choices, and if we are prepared to sacrifice our own needs and desires,
perhaps even our own lives, then we are worthy of recognition. The climax itself
dramatises the action that the hero chooses to take, and its immediate
consequences. It is the final example of cause-and-effect that gives our story
meaning, and – by implication – reassures the reader that the choices we make in
our own lives have meaning.

The climax, as we have said, begins with a choice of actions. The hero is asked to
choose between two specific, concrete courses of action. The crisis of the story at
the end of Act II was a pivotal, life-changing event that has effectively used up
all of the hero’s reserves of strength, intelligence, and courage. All that he has
left to rely on at this point are his emotions. He must make his choice on what he
feels to be right. He responds on a much deeper level than thought, a subconscious
level where his true self resides – he is trusting to gut instinct and emotion.
This is the self that jumps into the water to save a drowning child or makes us
speak out when keeping our heads down would be safer. Or in a lesser man, it is the
part that allows us to take the treasure for ourselves, and to hell with everyone
else.

The crisis has removed all other options and all possible sources of strength, so
that the hero has only his true self to rely on. The whole of Act II was designed
to get him to this point so that he can prove what sort of person he really is. His
façade is gone, there is no room left for pretence, it’s just him and his
conscience. But it must be a choice. He must have an alternative. He must choose
between self-interest and principle. Between virtue and vice. It is making the
right choice that defines him. And it should not be an easy choice. There should be
obvious risks involved in making the right choice.

The film Casablanca has the hero, Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart), faced with just
such a decision. What he wants to do is get back together with Ilsa, the only woman
he has ever truly loved. And she offers him the opportunity to do just this. But
Ilsa’s husband, Lazlo, is a key figure in the resistance effort against the Nazis,
and he needs Rick’s help if he is to evade capture and continue with his vital
work. The right thing to do is to sacrifice his relationship with Ilsa and help
Lazlo escape, but to do so would be to put his own life at risk if the Nazis
discover he has helped the resistance fighters, and Rick has stated several times
during the story that he ‘sticks his neck out for no one.’ This choice at the heart
of the story is one of the things that makes Casablanca a classic piece of
storytelling.

The pressure was building throughout Act II, and the climax in Act III is where all
of that pressure is finally released. The moment that the hero makes his decision
to take action is the trigger for the release of built up tension, and the action
itself is the discharge. The reader must see that this is a difficult choice, so we
cannot make it something he can decide quickly or with a flip of a coin. We must
prolong the agony – for the hero and the reader.

Eventually, he must decide, which means we must do two things:

a) Force the hero to make a decision

b) Make the believe that the hero would make the right decision

We can force the decision by setting up the circumstances such that the hero must
make a decision and make it now. Someone holds a gun to his head. His ally is
hanging over a cliff and his fingers are slipping. The woman he loves is opening
the door to walk out on him. These are obvious and melodramatic examples, but they
show the kind of situation we need to set up here. You make the hero’s decision
believable by preparing for it much earlier in the story. You foreshadow or plant
something that will be echoed or used at this decision-making moment. Dwight V.
Swain suggests using a ‘gimmick’ or talisman: some object planted earlier in the
story which spurs the hero into making his choice. He gives the example of a St.
Christopher medal given to the hero by his mother: the sight of this medal
encourages him to make a decision that would make her proud of him. The audience
has been made aware of the significance of the medal, and so believes that it would
prompt him to do the right thing.

Less ‘gimmicky’ might be a line of dialogue that recalls an earlier scene in which
the hero was faced with a similar decision, though a less dramatic one. Or his
present situation may exactly mirror a situation earlier in the story. Perhaps in
the earlier situation, he made the right decision, and so we are not surprised when
he does so now. Or, better still, perhaps in the earlier situation he made the
wrong decision, and the consequences are something he feels guilty about. At the
climax we see him waiver – will he make the same mistake again? When he makes the
right choice – the choice we as readers want him to make this time – we believe it
because we see that he has learned his lesson and become a better person. This is
what we require of our heroes.

Once he was made his decision, we have to make the hero translate his choice into
an ‘irrevocable act.’ The climax has to be caused by the actions that the hero
takes. It cannot happen by accident or through the choices and actions of someone
else. The antagonist should believe that he has already won – that the crisis has
seen off the hero. At this point in the story, the antagonist’s actions only serve
to provide a ticking clock that increases the pressure on the hero to make his
decision now. The antagonist’s actions at the climax are a response to the stimulus
that is the hero’s action. If the hero did not act, there would be no climax.

The climax of a screenplay or novel must always be an external action. The action
may only be symbolic, but we need to see something happen. This climactic action
focuses everything that has gone before onto a single, decisive point. And the
action must be irrevocable. There can be no going back. This is a do-or-die moment.
A last desperate effort. A moment of ultimate commitment. For the final time, we
ask the major dramatic question: Will the hero succeed? And the answer to this
question will be provided by the action he chooses to take at this climactic moment
in the story. The outcome of the story is teetering on a knife-edge. This is a
moment of high tension in the story, as we hold our breath and wait to discover how
things will turn out. Will or hero prove himself a hero, or will he be crushed by
the antagonist?

Technically, the action taken by the hero does not have to be successful. He may
try to do the right thing and fail. It is his motivation at this point that is the
key thing. A heroic failure is still heroic. But we do need to see the hero take
action. And nobody really wants to see the hero fail – though an ironic, partial
failure can provide a satisfying end to a story (see Types of Ending above). The
outcome of a story doesn’t have to be a happy ending, but – as Christopher Keane
writes – there should be some kind of hope for the future. As someone once said,
readers don’t mind being told that life is difficult, but they don’t want to be
told that life is shit. You can use the idea ‘heroic failure’ to create a twist in
your story. You can have the hero’s action appear to have failed. Then he can
snatch victory from the jaws of defeat – or employ some other cliché – that brings
about the kind of euphoric ending that the reader craves.

The ‘action’ of the climactic action does not have to be noisy and violent, Robert
McKee says, but it must be full of meaning. It is meaning that provides the
emotional experience that we are seeking to create here. We create an ending that
turns from negative to positive, or positive to negative – with or without an
ironic element. It is a final, definitive and irreversible swing. This is the end.

William Foster-Harris, in The Basic Patterns of Plot, says that the answer to the
major dramatic question is a “diametric reversal of the question.” He gives as
examples the coward who finds courage; the reluctant lover who agrees to marry; and
the sinner who is redeemed. “It’s a reversal: things are somehow turned upside
down.” This relates back to what we said about the crisis and the climax being
specific to the hero involved. You make the decision that begins the climax a
difficult one by selecting a hero that would have difficulty making it. You make
the climactic action difficult by having a hero who would find the most difficulty
in completing this kind of action.

Robert McKee, in Story, says that if you know your climax, you can write your story
backwards from that point. Real life flows forwards from cause to effect, but when
we are plotting a story, we can work backwards from effect to cause; response to
stimulus. Knowing the climax – knowing what will happen, even if we as writers
aren’t yet sure exactly how – is the way we ensure that what we set up in Act I,
and everything in Act II, builds towards this single event. The reader wants a
story climax that fulfils their expectations – which means that we need to shape
their expectations so they are not disappointed by our climax.

Aristotle wrote in The Poetics that the ending of a story should be inevitable and
yet unexpected. William Goldman has said that the ending of a story should give the
reader what they want, but not in the way that they expect. As we have already
said, the ending of a Hollywood movie or a genre novel is usually not in much
doubt. The hero will win, there will be a happy ending. People prefer happy endings
– they are inevitable. The trick then is in how you deliver the happy ending so
that it occurs in a way that the audience did not expect. We will look at ways to
surprise the audience below.

The outcome of the climactic action demonstrates what the hero and the antagonist
deserve. They will be rewarded or punished in accordance with poetic justice. The
outcome also releases virtually all of the tension that was built up during Act II.
The meaning of this outcome should be visible and obvious, requiring no dialogue or
exposition from the author to explain it. It is left to the resolution of the story
to show the consequences of this action – what fate do the hero and antagonist gain
as a result of the outcome of this action? And there may still be the B-story
relationship to resolve.

How Big Should the Climax Be?

We have already said that the climax should be the biggest scene in a novel or
screenplay and that it provides a peak in terms of emotion. It should deliver
action and emotion at a level that is appropriate for the story that you are
telling. For a story about a family in crisis, it would be inappropriate to bring
in car crashes and explosions for the climax. There might be violence, even death,
but it will be handled at a level that is in keeping with what has been developed
during Act II of the story. The climax should be of a length that is in proportion
for the story. In a novel, it will occupy at least one chapter, and possibly
several. In a screenplay, it will occupy perhaps ten pages or so. We spent the
whole of act two setting up this moment – if it flashes by too quickly, the
audience is likely to feel cheated. You don’t want people to feel that if they’d
blinked, they would have missed it. In a screenplay, the importance of something is
denoted by the amount of screen time given to it: the climax is the most important
scene in the story, so needs to be of appropriate duration. Less than ten minutes
is likely to feel rushed, and if the film is two hours or more, you will be looking
at fifteen to twenty minutes.

How Do You Surprise the Reader?

In popular and genre stories, the ending will probably turn out to be the one the
reader has been hoping for all along. Yes, the hero will win. Yes, the hero and
heroine will get together at the end and live happily ever after. What will happen
is usually in little doubt, so the surprise must come in the how this ending is
brought about. But at the same time, this unexpected delivery must still be
plausible given what has gone before. Just because an event is surprising doesn’t
mean that it is dramatic. To succeed dramatically, an event must be emotionally
fulfilling for the reader. And to do that it must arise naturally from the actions
and personalities of the people involved in the story. The hero’s problem cannot be
solved by the equivalent of the cavalry riding over the hill, and they cannot be
solved by some coincidence or accident. These things all reek of deus ex machina,
which is a Latin translation of an Ancient Greek term describing a plot contrivance
whereby an actor dressed as a god was lowered on a rope – ‘by machine’ – into the
middle of a play to solve everyone’s problems. Stuart Griffiths, in How Plays are
Made, has this to say on the subject of endings: “The final reaction of an audience
to a dramatic action, perfectly rounded out and complete, is not really one of
surprise, however stunned they may be. In Arthur Miller’s phrase, it is: ‘Oh, God,
of course!’”
Twist Endings

Dwight V. Swain suggests a way of creating a twist ending in Techniques of the

Selling Writer. Instead of showing the hero ‘winning’ the final battle, despite
having made a moral decision and taken a self-sacrificing action, show him failing
and then apply the following technique to ‘twist’ the outcome:

a) The hero suffers an anguished ‘black moment’ after the climax

b) You reverse his situation with an unanticipated development

c) The hero receives his just reward

The Hero’s Black Moment. In the moment immediately following the action of the
climax, the hero stands dazed – and convinced that he has failed. He feels that
everything he cares about has been lost and that he is about to be destroyed
himself as a consequence of his failure. Let the reader share this moment with him
– let them worry for a little while longer. The stronger you can make this feeling
of loss, the greater the release when the reversal finally comes.

Reverse the Hero’s situation with an Unanticipated Development. Something

unanticipated happens that upsets the balance of the situation. According to Swain,
this reversal must meet the following criteria:

It must be desired. The reader must desperately want to see the hero saved. We must
care about his ultimate fate.

It must be unanticipated. The reversal will lose its impact if the reader can guess
what is about to happen.

It must be logical. The reversal must be believable, and the way to achieve that is
to make sure it has been properly prepared – the seeds for it must have been
planted during Act II. An effect without a legitimate cause will not be believable.

The Hero Receives His Reward. In Section 5, the hero often reveals to the co-
protagonist his hopes or dreams for the future. His reward is to achieve this
dream, or at least to have moved closer to achieving it. Or to have had it replaced
by a reality that is better than he had hoped or dreamed of. Whether you deliver
your hero a full, happy ending, or one of the two types of ironic ending – personal
triumph or person tragedy – depends on the type of story you are telling, and on
the moral argument you want to prove.

Subplots

If you can resolve one or more subplots with the climax of your main story, then
this is a good thing. With the exception of the B-story, the relationship subplot,
all other subplots should be resolved either at or before the climax. You can tie
up any loose ends in a brief denouement, but you don’t want to spend too much time
after the climax on anything that is going to detract from the impact of the
climax.

How to Get Endings Wrong

A successful ending has to be appropriate to the story that is being told, it needs
to be believable; there should be an element of surprise, and it must deliver an
emotionally satisfying experience to the reader. You can get this wrong if you
ignore reader expectations and try to deliver the wrong sort of ending, and you can
get it wrong if you don’t turn the emotional dials up high enough. In an article
titled ‘The Big Finish’ on www.wordplayer.com, Terry Rossio writes about two films
which he believes have unfulfilling endings because they failed to give the sort of
ending that the audience had been led to expect. Young Sherlock Holmes tells of the
early life of the great detective, whose greatest skills are problem-solving –
intellectually, he is a remarkable character. But the ending of this film involved
a physical battle that made no use of the hero’s abilities as a detective. It was
the wrong kind of ending. Similarly, The Witches of Eastwick set up the Jack
Nicholson character as smart, witty and cunning. But the climax consisted of a
bunch of pointless special effects. Again, it failed to live up to the promise of
the story that was set up in Act I and built up in Act II.

As we’ve seen, the ending of a story can make effective use of surprising twists to
provide an unexpected way of delivering the outcome. But tossing aside the
characters and situations you have developed in order to create some empty big
screen spectacle is a major mistake. Especially in a novel. Some stories deliver
the right kind of ending but fail because they do not deliver emotion at an
appropriately high level. The climax is meant to be the emotional peak of the
story, so we need to pull out all of the stops – a phrase that relates to the way
pipe organs work: pulling out the stops increases the airflow so that the
instrument can make the loudest possible sound. That’s what the climax needs to do.
But with emotion rather than noise.

There are a number of ways that you can screw up the ending of your story; the four
at the end I first saw defined in Ansen Dibell’s Plot:

Failure to ensure that the hero is faced with only two possible courses of action
at the end, and forced to choose one of them. There must be no compromise and no
third alternative: if any suggest themselves, you have to go back to an earlier
point in the story and somehow eliminate them. Too many teenage romantic comedies
are ruined if you ask an obvious question such as: Why doesn’t he just tell her he
lost the car in a stupid bet?

Failure to make choosing the ‘moral’ option sufficiently risky. Making the right
decision should not be an easy thing to do. It must involve self-sacrifice – the
hero must have to give up something that is important to him.

Failure to make the hero’s story goal important enough to him. The hero must be
strongly motivated to achieve this goal, right up to the end of the story. If he
could just give up his quest with nothing more than a shrug, there’s a problem with
the external goal and the character’s reason for needing to achieve it. If
achieving it is not of vital importance to him, you need to go back in your story
and fix things so that it is.

The build up to the climax is not sufficiently dramatic. The climax is supposed to
be the emotional peak of the story – Act II should build up to it, and the climax
should then deliver on that promise. Failing to focus the action toward this one
final decisive moment because of a lack of clear direction in the plot is going to
blunt the effect of the ending.

Shifting the focus from the hero. The climax should be caused by, and completed by,
the actions of the hero. If the hero is not centre-stage for this key moment of the
story, the ending will not be as strong as it needs to be.

Trick endings. Unexpected endings only work if they are prepared for, and if they
are appropriate to the story being told. Just pulling the rug out from under the
hero and the reader for shock effect is unlikely to be effective. Trick, or ‘O.
Henry-style,’ endings can work for a short story, but using a full-length
screenplay or novel to set up a joke on the reader is a very risky thing to do.
Even if you did pull it off, it would not create the sort of novel that someone
would want to re-read – or the sort of novel someone would pick up in the first
place the ending has already been leaked to them as a ‘spoiler.’

Deus ex Machina. We have already mentioned this, but it is worth repeating the
warning. The ending should be set-up during Act II, and it should be performed by
the hero. Anything that happens without proper motivation and foreshadowing is
cheating and will feel unsatisfactory.

No ending. The climax should be a dramatised scene and should end conclusively. If
you fail to answer the major dramatic question, the reader is going to feel that
they have wasted a good few hours of their life on your so-called story. We read
because we want to know what happens. So something has to happen. Inconclusive
endings and stories that just fizzle out aren’t worth anyone’s time. Leaving things
ambiguous and saying ‘I want to let the reader decide’ is a cop-out – you are
failing in your job as a writer by not delivering on the promise you made to the
reader in Act I.

There are probably dozens of other ways to ruin the ending of your story, but you
don’t need to worry about them because you already have the tools necessary to
create a successful ending. It would be a mistake not to use them.

Sequence 8: Resolution and Denouement

This part of the story is anything that happens after the climax. Its function is
to demonstrate the consequences of the climax, reveal the fates of any characters
that were not decided by the climax, and to resolve any subplots and other loose
ends.

It has been said that the beginning of a story should be designed to sell your
screenplay or novel and that its ending should be designed to sell your next
screenplay or novel. This isn’t to say, necessarily, that you should pave the way
for a sequel – though that may be an appropriate way to end your story – rather it
means that you need to craft a satisfactory ending to your story that delivers on
the promises you made back in Act I. You want to make the reader feel that he or
she got value for money and that reading your story or watching your movie was
worth the investment of their time. You should also aim to make the ending of a
story memorable. You can’t top what just happened in the climax, but you can help
the reader discover the significance of what they have just seen, so that they go
away feeling that your story was actually about something that was important to the
characters involved, to you the writer, and to themselves as the reader.

If you ever leave a movie that was all action and spectacle but which left you
feeling somehow unfulfilled, it will usually be because the story lacked any sense
of thematic depth. It wasn’t really about anything significant. It was, to steal a
phrase from Shakespeare, a tale “Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.” Don’t be that idiot. Give the ending of your story meaning.
But keep it short. This should be the shortest section of your story. Ten minutes
maximum in a screenplay, and half-a-dozen pages or so for a novel. But don’t short-
change the reader by making it too short – they need to be able to catch their
breath, consider what they have just witnessed, and savour the moment. We don’t
want to be shooed out of the restaurant as soon as we’ve finished dessert. An
ending should feel like an ending, rather than giving the reader a sense that the
story has just stopped.

It is possible to ruin an otherwise great story by botching the ending, so take

some time to think it through and get it right. Sometimes you read a story and get
the impression that the author has spotted the finish-line and is sprinting to get
the marathon over with. You want your reader to regret that your story is over, not
feel relief that they have survived the ordeal. Your resolution and denouement
should be dramatised in the same way as the rest of the story, and not be something
that has been tacked on as an afterthought. Show what happens to your characters by
showing them in action. A montage approach is fine, as long as it moves. You don’t
necessarily need complete scenes with their own climaxes – after all, at this
point, we’re indicating how life will go on now that the adventure is over. You
need a great climax, but you also need a satisfying resolution and denouement. This
can consist of a number of elements, though they’re all likely to be bound up in a
single scene or a small number of short scenes. Some of these might be covered by
the climax of the story and need not be repeated in this final section. And
sometimes you might want to add a final twist – but be careful with ‘trick’ endings
– don’t cheapen your story for the sake of a final laugh.

And for heaven’s sake, avoid those awful ‘freeze-frame on a grin’ endings that used
to end almost every American TV show after someone had made one final ‘witty’
comment. Avoid long speeches at the end of your story. This not the time for great
chunks of exposition – in a great story, there is never a good time for great
chunks of exposition. If you feel that there is a need to explain things to the
audience, then there is a problem with your ‘showing’ earlier in the story. There
should be no need for you to have characters talk about the resolution of the
thematic argument: that outcome should have been demonstrated in the action of the
climax and its immediate aftermath. In theatre, such explanations are referred to
as ‘curtain speeches. As Louis E. Catron says in Elements of Playwriting, ”... make
certain that the play’s action expresses its meaning. If it does, no curtain speech
is necessary; if it doesn’t, no curtain speech will correct the problem.”

The same applies to a stand-alone epilogue – unless your story really needs it,
avoid having one. The only real reason for having one is if you need to show
something that occurs in a very different time or place, or where you have a
prologue and an epilogue that frame your story. Personally, I think having your
main story in a framework or bracketed by another story, is a mistake as it is
difficult to pull off effectively because it draws attention to the artificiality
of the storytelling process.

What can be included in this final sequence of your story?

Reaction to the climactic events

Resolution

Validation and closure

New Equilibrium

Denouement

Final image or Paragraph

(1) Reaction to the Climactic Events

The aftermath of the climactic scene. This section may include a celebration of
success, if that is appropriate. Or a realisation that even though the outcome
wasn’t what people hoped for or expected, things have turned out for the best. The
physical or emotional battle is over, the hero stops and draws breath, looking
around him and taking stock.

(2) Resolution

The aim here is to resolve the important issues, giving the reader enough
information to fill in any missing details. Things that must be resolved include
the relationship between the hero and the co-protagonist – the ally or lover. What
will happen to the relationship between these two people? The reader also needs to
know the answer to the major dramatic question: Does the hero achieve his story
objective? People are also likely to want to know the ultimate fate of the opponent
– the villain or rival. This will be tied in with the outcome of the thematic
argument.

The resolution is the final payoff: the hero is rewarded (or punished) for his or
her actions, in accordance with the thematic virtue of the story. Other characters
may similarly receive their deserved fates, mirroring or counterpointing the fate
of the hero, as any subplots not resolved at or before the climax are brought to a
conclusion.

In his book Anatomy of a Screenplay, Dan Decker says that there are four elements
that go towards making an emotionally satisfying resolution for a story:

What is the outcome of the hero and co-protagonist relationship?

Does the hero achieve his story objective?

What is the fate of the antagonist?

Is the thematic argument of the story proved?

Resolving the hero and co-protagonist relationship is particularly important if

this is a romantic subplot in the story. We said that if the hero broke his own
code of conduct and used ‘immoral’ action during his moment of desperation, then
the co-protagonist might abandon him. In many romance subplots, there is some event
or misunderstanding that results in what Karen S. Wiesner, in First Draft in 30
Days, calls ‘the relationship black moment.’ Where this happens, part of the
resolution will show whether these two characters can be reconciled. The hero may
resolve the external story goal and achieve success but may fail to save the
relationship. Or you could use Dwight V. Swain’s ‘false defeat’ twist ending for
this part of your ending.

(3) Validation and Closure

Here we often have some external, objective person or event that verifies that the
thematic argument is, in fact, concluded and has been proved. There is something
that, by implication, demonstrates that the hero’s victory – if he has indeed ‘won’
– is valid. It’s the equivalent of having the officials at the Guinness Book of
Records verify your record-breaking attempt. Or having the Olympic anti-doping
people confirm that your pee is untainted and your victory fairly won. There is an
element here of showing that the successful outcome of the hero’s quest isn’t just
a personal or even selfish victory, but rather something that benefits all of
society. If the hero has corrected an injustice, then he has succeeded in a
specific instance, and also – by demonstrating a universally approved behaviour –
has helped to demonstrate that justice prevails in our society. His victory
receives the social seal of approval.

In the hero’s journey monomyth, this stage of the story involves the hero returning
home with artefacts. Knowledge, truth or experience that will help to rebuild or
mend the world. This might be an actual or a figurative ‘healing elixir.’ In other
types of stories, we see some evidence that the corruption that was damaging the
world has been uncovered and cut out so that our world can heal and become pure
again. It is not enough that the hero triumphs, he must also bring back something
that benefits his people. Closure means giving your reader enough information about
the fate of the characters and their world so that they feel the story is actually
over. An ambiguous ending might be okay for a short story, but the ending of a
novel or screenplay out to be decisive and clear. Arguing that you want the reader
or viewer to decide for themselves what happens to the characters is a cop out –
they are paying you to tell them a story, and will expect you to let them know how
it ends. You don’t want their last feelings about your story to be ones of
disappointment.

(4) New Equilibrium

Now that the destabilising element has been dealt with, what will the world and/or
the hero’s life be like going forward? What will everyday life be like from now on?
The instability introduced in Act I has been settled, and balance has been
restored. The world may be restored to exactly the same state it was in before. Or
it may have been changed in some significant way. In either case, the hero is not
the same person he was in Act I: he has been changed by his experiences. He has
learned something about himself and about the way the world works, and can never
see things in quite the same way again. He may have achieved personal fulfilment,
overcoming the thing that was lacking in his own life. Or he may have made the
first steps along a longer journey towards fulfilling that need. Or his need may
remain tragically unfulfilled – it all depends on what you want to say in your
story. This new equilibrium, the hero’s new life, may be exactly as he dreamed of
it and – perhaps – spoke of it in Section 5. Or it may be something radically
different – something much better, something much worse, or something of equal
value. Sometimes the fantasy life we wish we could have comes true, and we discover
that it is not all that we hoped it would be. An ironic ending to a story might
reflect this.

Sometimes there are rituals that need to be performed to demonstrate this return to
equilibrium. Or there may be physical or emotional healing that needs to take
place. A man returning from battle must take off the armour that he wore as a
soldier, and assume the mantle of a man of peace. There is a need for readjustment,
perhaps shown symbolically by a change of garments, or by washing the blood and
dirt of battle from the hero’s skin. In other types of story, there may be a
‘putting away’ of things that symbolise an old way of life, as a way of embracing
the new. The hero’s current adventure is over. This section of the story gives a
glimpse of the answer to the question: What is he going to do for the rest of his
life?

(5) Denouement

This is a tying up of loose ends – though technically it is a French word meaning

to unknot or untie. We don’t need to tidy up everything and show how every single
character will live their lives going forward, but we would normally give some hint
of what the future holds for those characters that the reader has been emotionally
involved with in some way during the story – both the good guys and the bad. Check
that you haven’t left any important character unaccounted for. But don’t feel that
you have to give every character a happy ending. Mark Twain referred to the ending
of a story as marryin’ and buryin’ which is as good a description of this section
as any.

Christopher Keane, in How to Write a Selling Screenplay, warns against ending your
story in a way that is too ‘tidy,’ and where all the strands are ‘tied neatly into
a little package of contrivance.’ This type of ending, he says, is flat and
predictable because they broadcast themselves early in the story. This reinforces
what William Goldman said about giving the audience what they want, but not in the
way they expect it.

I would advise against having your villain’s henchman have a change of heart at the
climax, and so ‘earn’ for himself a happy ending. At the end of Moonraker Jaws, the
assassin with the steel teeth, shares a glass of bubbly with his girlfriend Dolly,
and the audience reached for their sick bags.

Way back at the beginning of the book, I cautioned against using a prologue and
epilogue to bracket or ‘bookend’ your story – I think these are a bit fake and draw
attention to the artificiality of the storytelling process. And they’re ‘telling’
and not ‘showing.’ And I think they risk falling into Christopher Keane’s ‘too
tidy’ category. But, like everything else in this book, you are free to take my
advice or leave it. If you do go for the framing device, then you’ll need to create
something at the end that doesn’t make your story seem like story hour for
children. You’re on your own with that one.
(6) Final Image or Paragraph

The last image on screen or the last paragraph of a novel should be something that
sums up and concentrates the emotion of the ending of the story. It should visually
echo what has gone before. It may be the opposite of the opening image. It might be
exactly the same as the opening image. Or it could be the same scene, subtly or
radically altered. It could signal that, in terms of the world of the story, we
have come home. Or it could indicate that home no longer exists – there is no going
home. Ideally, you want the final image to be something that the reader will
remember long after they have finished reading your story.

Dwight V. Swain in Techniques of the Selling Writer says that in your final
paragraph, what you should strive for is euphoria – “... a sense of well-being and
buoyancy. It’s the feeling that follows the draining off of the last vestiges of
reader tension.” To achieve it, you search for a final paragraph, “... and a line
to end it, that will epitomise your character’s or characters’ fulfilment.” This
final paragraph should make it clear to the reader that the danger that the
character has faced throughout the story, and the tension and upset that it has
caused, are finally and completely ended.

Unless, of course, they are not...

The Series Novel or Screenplay

A story that is part of a series must succeed as a complete, satisfying, stand-

alone work, while at the same time leaving the way open for the next story. There
are a number of questions that you will need to consider before writing Act III
(Sections 7 and 8) of your story.

Which characters must survive and go forward into the next story? In a detective
thriller, the detective-hero must still be standing – if battered and bruised – and
ready to take on another case. In a horror movie franchise, it might be the villain
– or monster – that has to survive. Does the co-protagonist – the ally or lover –
belong in the next story, or do we need to find a way to move them on to another
life that doesn’t include our main series character? Are there other secondary
characters that are part of our franchise that have to go forward? Bond has his
boss, M, and the guy who gives him his gadgets, Q, and the secretary he always
flirts with, Miss Moneypenny.

What locations have to remain in place for future stories? If your series relies on
one or more specific locations, then you may not have the option of blowing them up
at the climax of your story. But having said that, I’ve lost count of the number of
times the Starship Enterprise has been destroyed, so there are ways around this
problem.

What aspects of the continuing story arc can you resolve? There may be an over-
arching storyline that continues throughout the series, in which case you need to
know what you can resolve and what you must leave open. This story arc may involve
an on-again off-again relationship with another character – or in the case of Janet
Evanovich’s Stephanie Plumb, with two characters! Or a detective may be involved in
a long-term investigation as well as his normal day-to-day cases.

If you are writing the first book in a series of novels, try and avoid cramming new
stuff into the last section of the book in order to set up situations that can be
developed in later stories. The elements are better set-up during Acts I and II and
then mentioned as ongoing and unresolved in Act III. That way they will look less
like blatant sequel set-ups. And remember that even if you are planning a sequel,
or a series of sequels, each individual book must have a complete and satisfying
ending of its own.

Symmetry and Plot Cohesion

We’ve said that the inciting incident sets off a chain-reaction of events, a series
of decisions and actions that all have consequences which must then, in turn, be
dealt with. This is one of the things that stops your story feeling like a series
of unrelated and unmotivated incidents. Stories are criticised for being episodic,
because they seem like a series of things happening one after the other, with no
apparent link between them. Why something happens is probably more important to a
reader or viewer than the event itself. Without an understanding of ‘what caused
this,’ the action is meaningless. For events to have meaning, we need to know why
someone did something – what did they hope to achieve; what was at stake for them?

But the linear and escalating chain reaction – the inverted check-mark in the
diagram we saw at the beginning – is only one of the ways that we can make our plot
feel like a cohesive whole. A second important structural device is symmetry:
things that occur in the second half of the story mirror or echo ones that occurred
in the first half. We’ve mentioned that the opening image and final image can
perform this function, but there are other key moments during the plot that can be
used to strengthen the sense of the story being a creative whole, rather than a
collection of elements. This mirroring helps the reader or viewer see how much
things have changed and how far the main character has come on his or her journey.

Often this symmetry occurs between events on either side of the midpoint:

If you plot the eight sequences on a circle, you can visualise other possible
links:

In his book The Screenwriter’s Workbook, Syd Field says that in a standard 120-page
screenplay, there is often a link between something that occurs at page 45 and
something at page 75 – the end of Section 3 and the end of Section 5 in our diagram
(see above).

You could draw lines from any point on the circle to any other point, and look for
echoes or reflections. The ‘inciting incident’ or ‘call to adventure’ at the end of
Section 1 is often mirrored in the situation that the main character must face at
the crisis/climax of the story at the end of Section 7: in 1 he was afraid or
reluctant to take action, but in 7 we often seem him prepared to risk everything.
The commitment and ‘crossing the threshold’ at the end of Section 2 is often
mirrored in a recommitment and ‘entering the lion’s den’ moment at the end of
Section 6, following the crisis.

These echoes in the story may take the form of actions taken or decisions made –
typically the decision or action in the first half of the story contrasts starkly
with the one in the second half. Or the echo can be a place or an image that gives
a sense of before and after; a line of dialogue that takes on a new meaning
(sometimes ironic) when repeated; or it can be in the form of the roles that
characters fulfil – a student may become a master, or he may become a teacher; a
child becomes the parent; a coward becomes the hero; or a trusted friend becomes a
betrayer. The echo may also be something less tangible, occurring on a thematic
level – good becomes bad, for example, or tragedy becomes hope. You can use irony
to make the same words or actions have a very different meaning in different parts
of the story.

You can also go beyond the idea of a before-after mirroring, and have the same (or
similar) thing occur at three or four points in the story (or perhaps more, but
don’t overdo it) – this gives an opportunity for the reader or viewer to reflect on
a more gradual change or an initial failure to change. This is another spot where
the ‘rule of three’ might come into play.

Look for these links in the novels and screenplays you study, and try to find ways
to insert reflections or echoes in your own stories.

Fade to Black...

It might seem like we’ve come a long way from ‘Once upon a time there were three
bears...’ but it isn’t really that far. What we have done is delved deep beneath
the surface of story and poked around at the underlying structure. The mechanics of
it all are pretty ancient, but I hope you’ve seen that there’s a great deal of
power in their simplicity. Four quarters and a midpoint; eight sequences.

Where do we go from here? I said back at the beginning that this structure
underlies novels and screenplays in all genres: the obvious next step is to look at
how to apply the eight sequences to specific genres. But that is a story for
another day. That’s all I have for you on the eight-sequence approach to plotting.

When you get to the end, stop – everything else is anti-climax.

THE END

Sources & Bibliography

I have divided the list below into two sections: items listed under Sources are
quoted in the text, or they had a direct influence on my thinking about plot. Items
in the more general Bibliography are items I read which broadened my understanding
of the subject.

Sources

Aristotle, The Poetics, 335BC

Bell, James Scott, Plot and Structure. Cincinnati, Ohio: Writer’s Digest, 2005

Burroway, Janet, Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft. Longman, 2006

Campbell, Joseph, The Hero With a Thousand Faces. London: Fontana Press, 1993

Catron, Louis E., The Elements of Playwriting. Collier Books, 1993

Decker, Dan, Anatomy of a Screenplay: Writing the American Screenplay from

Character Structure to Convergence. Chicago: The Screenwriters Group, 1998

Dibell, Ansen, Plot, in: How to Write a Million. London: Robinson, 1995

Dunne, Peter, Emotional Structure: Creating the Story Beneath the Plot. Quill
Driver Books, 2006

Egri, Lajos, Art of Dramatic Writing: Its Basis in the Creative Interpretation of
Human Motives. Touchstone, 2004

Field, Syd, Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting. New York: Dell

Publishing, 1979, 1982

Field, Syd, The Screenwriter’s Workbook. New York: Dell Publishing, 1987

Foster-Harris, William, The Basic Patterns of Plot. University of Oklahoma Press,

1959

Frey, James, How to Write a Damn Good Novel. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1987

Griffiths, Stuart, How Plays are Made. Heinemann, 1982

Gulino, Paul, Screenwriting: The Sequence Approach. New York: Bloomsbury Academic,
2013

Halperin, Michael, Writing the Second Act: Building Conflict and Tension in Your
Film Script. Studio City, CA: Michael Wiese Productions, 2000

Hauge, Michael, Writing Screenplays That Sell. London: Elm Tree Books, 1989

Herman, Lewis, A Practical Manual of Screen Playwriting for Theatre and Television
Films. New York: New American Library, 1974

Keane, Christopher, How to Write a Selling Screenplay (previously published as

Keane on Screen). Broadway Books, 1998

Kress, Nancy, Beginnings, Middles, and Ends. Chicago: Writer’s Digest Books, 1995
Kübler-Ross, Elizabeth, On Death and Dying. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1969

McKee, Robert, Story: Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of

Screenwriting. London: Methuen Publishing Ltd., 1998

Mariner Software, Contour: Step-by-Step Screenplay User Guide, v1.0 (2009)

www.marinersoftware.com

Marks, Dara, Inside Story. Three Mountain Press, 2007

Orr, Alice, No More Rejections: 50 Secrets to Writing a Manuscript that Sells.

Cincinnati, Ohio: Writer’s Digest Books, 2004

Ray, Robert J. & Bret Norris, The Weekend Novelist. London: A & C Black, 2005

Rockwell, F.A., How to Write Plots that Sell. Chicago: Contemporary Books, Inc.,
1975

Root, Wells, Writing the Script: A Practical Guide for Films and Television. New
York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1980

Rossio, Terry, “The Big Finish” - Screenwriting Column 13 www.wordplayer.com July

1997

Sargent, Epes Winthrop, Technique of the Photoplay (3rd ed.). New York: The Moving
Picture World, 1916

Seger, Linda, Making a Good Script Great. Samuel French, 1994

Siegel, David, The Nine-Act Structure Home Page archived at:

https://web.archive.org/web/*/http://www.dsiegel.com/film/intro.html

Snyder, Blake, Save the Cat! The Last Book on Screenwriting You’ll Ever Need.
Studio City, CA: Michael Wiese Productions, 2005

Sokoloff, Alexandra, Screenwriting Tricks for Authors: Stealing Hollywood. Sokoloff

/ CreateSpace, 2015

Soth, Chris, Million-Dollar Screenwriting: The Mini-Movie Method.

MillionDollarScreenwriting.com, 2014

Stefanik, Richard Michaels, The Megahit Movies. Fairfax, VA: RMS Productions
Company, 2004

Swain, Dwight V., Techniques of the Selling Writer. Norman: University of Oklahoma
Press, 1965, 1973

Tobin, Rob, The Screenwriting Formula. Cincinnati, Ohio: Writer’s Digest Books,
2007

Uzzell, Thomas H., Narrative Technique: a Practical Course in Literary Psychology.

New York: Harcourt, Brace and World 1964

Vogler, Christopher, The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers (3rd ed.).
Studio City, CA: Michael Wiese Productions, 2007

Wiesner, Karen S., First Draft in 30 Days. Cincinnati, Ohio: Writer’s Digest Books,
2005
Williams, Stanley D., The Moral Premise: Harnessing Virtue and Vice for Box Office
Success. Studio City, CA: Michael Wiese Productions, 2006

Bibliography

Archer, William, Play-Making: A Manual of Craftsmanship (3rd ed.). London: Chapman

& Hall Ltd., 1926

Ayckbourn, Alan, The Crafty Art of Playmaking. London: Faber & Faber, 2002

Berman, Robert A., Fade In: The Screenwriting Process (2nd ed.). Studio City, CA:
Michael Wiese Productions, 1997

Bickham, Jack M., Scene and Structure. Cincinnati, Ohio: Writer’s Digest Books,
1993

Bickham, Jack M., Setting, in: More About How to Write a Million. London: Robinson,
1996

Block, Lawrence, Writing the Novel: From Plot to Print. Cincinnati, OH: Writer’s
Digest Books, 1985.

Bonnet, James, Stealing Fire from the Gods: A Dynamic New Story Model for Writers
and Filmmakers. Studio City, CA: Michael Wiese Productions, 1999

Booker, Christopher, The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories. Continuum
International Publishing Group Ltd., 2004

Campbell, Walter S., Writing: Advice and Devices. New York: Doubleday, 1950.

Collier, Oscar & Frances Spatz Leighton, How to Write and Sell Your First Novel.
Chicago: Writer’s Digest Books, 1997

Epstein, Alex, Crafty Screenwriting: Writing Movies That Get Made. New York: Owl
Books, 2002

Freytag, Gustav, Freytag’s Technique of the Drama: An Exposition of Dramatic

Composition and Art (4th ed.). Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, 1908

Garrison, Roger H., A Creative Approach to Writing. New York: Henry Holt & Company,
1951

Gerard, Philip, Writing a Book That Makes a Difference. Cincinnati, Ohio: Writers
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Hall, Oakley, How Fiction Works: The Last Word on Writing Fiction - From the Basics
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Hamlett, Christina, Could it Be a Movie? How to Get Your Idea Out of Your Head and
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Harrison, Sarah, How to Write a Blockbuster. London: Allison & Busby Limited, 2003

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Kelner, Jr., Stephen P., Motivate Your Writing! Hanover: University Press of New
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About the Author

Paul Tomlinson is the author of novels in the mystery, crime, science fiction, and
fantasy genres. He has also published articles and author interviews in print
magazines and online.

Contact him via his website at www.paultomlinson.org or on Facebook

@PaulTomlinson.org

Books by Paul Tomlinson

Fiction:
The Great Vicari Mysteries series:

The Sword in the Stone-Dead

Murder by Magic

The Missing Magician

The Thurlambria series:

Slayer of Dragons

Fortune’s Fool

Dead of Night

Robot Wrecker

Who Killed Big Dick?

Non-Fiction:

Harry Harrison: An Annotated Bibliography

Plot Basics: Plot Your Novel or Screenplay in Eight Sequences