It’s Hard to Own What You Believe
By Lisa Cron | September 19, 2016 |
photo by Xygp via Flickr
This column is 11 days late. It should have gone up almost two weeks ago, on my normal date: the second Thursday of the month. But by that Tuesday, although I’d spent days on it and written thousands of words, nothing worked. I went in circles, I dove down rabbit holes, everything I wrote was confusing. I know because my brilliant coach Jennie Nash not only told me so, but pointed out why. And she was always right.
Panicked, I reached out to Therese, who gave me a reprieve, kindly arranging for someone to switch days with me, allowing me more time to write.
I’ve spent the past week writing failed draft after failed draft. Right now it’s Friday afternoon, and I’ve still got nothing.
Because – and it’s painful to admit this — I’ve been writing a column that would’ve been a lie.
And, apparently, I can’t do that – not, however, for lack of trying. I feel like a character in a story – fearful of owning what I honestly believe, feeling incredibly vulnerable. On the surface I want to seem calm, implacable, together. Inside, I’ve been a raging mess.
So here goes: I was going to write a column that softened my stance on the notion of pantsing and plotting. The column I wrote last month about the dangers of pantsing and plotting upset some people and I was trying to back-peddle because the last thing I ever want to do is alienate any writer. Or make them feel disrespected. Or unheard. Plus, I wanted you all to like me.
And I know that the common wisdom out there is that pantsing and plotting work – meaning, they’re methods that will help you to eventually write a story that will engage the reader. But my whole career has taught me the exact opposite of that. I believe that pantsing and plotting lead writers – especially fledgling, unpublished writers — in the wrong direction, ultimately locking them out of the story they want to write.
I believe that is at the root of why most self-published books sell fewer than 150 copies, and why surveys reveal that agents reject over 96 percent of the submissions they receive. In my experience the number is much higher — for instance, the FAQ page at Dystel & Goderich Literary Management puts it at 99%.
Yes, of course, there are some writers who can sit down and pound out 85,000 words and no matter what method they use, they will end up telling an engaging story. But in my 30 plus years of experience working with writers – in publishing, as an agent and a story analyst and a story coach — they are the elite members of the 1%. The rest of us are the 99% who are trying to make it into that top 1%, and it doesn’t work like that for us. If it did, we’d already be best selling authors.
But what those 30 odd years also taught me is that what gives those elite writers the edge isn’t “talent” per se – some ineffable magic something that somehow spins their words into gold — but a natural sense of the overarching layers that merge to create the “virtual reality” that makes stories compelling. And I have also seen that this “natural” ability isn’t something a writer has and never loses. It can go missing, and when it does, chances are those terrific natural writers don’t really know what, exactly, has gone wrong – because they’ve never had to deconstruct what “going right” actually consists of: that is, what is actually hooking readers. Which is why even Pulitzer Prize winning novels can have long dull patches (I deeply love The Goldfinch, but all that relentless description of the furniture in Hobie’s shop, and 200 pages in Las Vegas — okay, ’nuff said).
What we all need – even that 1% — is a way to envision the layers of a story that does not focus first on the formulaic structure of an external plot (plotters), and does not rely on the luck of finding everything as you go (pantsers).
What I’m talking about is not a formula at all, it’s a way to tap into the story you want to tell, by digging into the specific layers that make up the story. It’s based on what we’re wired to come to story for: inside intel on the real reason why someone does the things they do. And not what they do in general, but what they do under pressure, when hard, unavoidable decisions are being made.
Story is about the internal cost of an unavoidable external change. That external change – the plot – is designed to force the internal change. And so the first layer of story is always: what internal change, why does the protagonist need to make it?
Make no mistake: when you’re lost in a story this internal struggle is what you’re responding to – and this is what the 1% have, for the most part, captured.
But here’s the thing: that first layer — the most seminal layer — comes from one place and one place only: the protagonist’s story-specific past. You can’t get there if you start by creating an external plot, and you can’t get there by pantsing forward from page one. It simply doesn’t work, because you are writing towards the solution of a multi-layered problem that doesn’t yet exist — because you haven’t yet created it. And so your chances of success are very, very slim.
The most heartbreaking thing I learned from decades of working with writers is that almost always, the failure they were experiencing wasn’t because of some talent deficit – but because the process they’d been encouraged to use assumed that they already had the innate (read: tacit) understanding of the myriad interconnected layers that merge to create a riveting novel.
That’s why I spent ten years developing another way to come at writing a novel – one based on what really hooks readers, beginning in the very first sentence. And since then I’ve watched this method unlock stories and free writers, because writing a novel that will engage the reader really is a learnable skill.
But there is no way around the fact that we do this largely by doing things that pantsing and plotting don’t require. To wit:
- We make sure that we know what we’re trying to say about human nature, what the story’s point is, before we do anything else. The story itself is our exploration of how to make that point, and what we really believe.
- We start by digging for meaning in the protagonist’s past, asking why they are who they are, why they have the problem they have, and why they have not yet faced it.
- We answer these backstory whys in scene form so that we’re not just being theoretical, abstract, general; we are being concrete, specific and revelatory. The story is always in the specifics. And the good news is, specifics beget specifics – that’s where the power of this method lies.
- We make sure we know what the protagonist’s ultimate “aha” moment will be – so that we can craft a story that, beginning on page one, forces her to earn it.
- We make sure that everything that happens in the plot forces the protagonist to make the internal change they’ve needed to make since long before the plot kicked in.
- We dig into the protagonist’s story specific past throughout, so we always understand why they want what they want, why they’re doing what they’re doing, why they believe what they believe. Because like us out here in the real world, they have an overarching agenda that’s been in force since long before page one, and it drives their action from the first page to the last.
- We do the same thing for secondary characters.
- We don’t let anything happen if we don’t know why it’s happened. We don’t let anyone do anything if we don’t know why they did it.
As you can see, this is very different from pantsing and very different from plotting – but there is no reason on earth why one’s writing process has to be a binary choice: you’re either a pantser or a plotter. The problem is, that’s pretty much what we’ve been led to believe, and once you self select as one or the other, it becomes part of your self-identity. Your method becomes a kind of North star. It’s what you look to to guide you as you write forward. It’s what you hang onto when the going gets tough.
So if someone like me comes along and says, “Look out!” it feels personal. And so your reaction is likely to be, “I’m fine, thanks, go away, I don’t need your help.”
But here’s the thing: having watched so many writers walk over a cliff chasing that North star, I’ve realized that there’s no way I can stop screaming, “Look out!” But I’m not screaming at you. It’s the process itself that’s flawed.
To be clear: Giving up the familiar binary choice doesn’t mean that you won’t be creating a plot, only that you’ll first create the protagonist’s internal problem the plot is there to solve.
It doesn’t mean there won’t be times when you’ll sit down and write to see what comes out, only that when you do that, it will be within a specific context, and answering a specific question. Because creativity needs context; it turns out that the prospect of endless possibility isn’t freeing, it’s paralyzing.
All of this is why I can’t back down from what I honestly believe: that pantsing and plotting rarely work unless you’re a natural, the 1%, in which case at the end of the day it doesn’t matter what your process is because you will succeed anyway.
So if you’re part of that 1%, and are already very successful, carry on! But if you have the sneaking suspicion that your novel isn’t as engaging as you’d like it to be; if you’re writing and writing and not feeling like you’re making any progress; if you feel like there is something you’re just not getting, I invite you to try this other way.
And if you still think that I’m a misguided idiot, that’s fine too. We’re all better off owning what we believe, out loud — after all, that’s what we’re doing as writers with every word we put to paper. And we can still be friends, because we’re on the same side, fighting for the same thing: we’re Team Story. So even if we disagree on this, here’s hoping we can have a coffee sometime soon and bond over the unparalleled power of story – regardless how the hell it gets onto the page. [coffee]
Lisa Cron is the author of Wired for Story: The Writer’s Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers From the Very First Sentence and Story Genius: How To Use Brain Science to Go Beyond Outlining and Write a Riveting Novel (Before You Waste 3 Years Writing 327 Pages That Go Nowhere). Her video tutorial, Writing Fundamentals: The Craft of Story, can be found at Lynda.com. Her TEDx talk, Wired for Story, opened Furman University’s 2014 TEDx conference, Stories: The Common Thread of Our Humanity. A frequent speaker at writers conferences, schools and universities, Lisa’s passion has always been story. She currently works as a story coach helping writers, nonprofits, educators and journalists wrangle the story they’re telling onto the page; contact her here.
Glad to share a toast to the unparalleled power of story!
Thanks for sharing your erudite and compelling observations on the wondrous alchemy whereby words become story gold.
It is interesting to me (and I believe productive) to mine the thoughts and approaches of many writing authorites (writing wizards?).
For example I ffind the essence of your observations and those of Donald Maass and James Scott Bell (fellow wizards) to be compatible and synergistic. Not an ‘us vs them’ dynamic but rather each sharing slightly different perceptions of the same alchemical phenomenon. I believe my writing is enhanced by exposure to the mix of writing wisdom.
I much appreciate your sharing and formally nominate you as one of the WU “story wizards”😊
As I read your bullet points, I realize that this method is what I’ve been trying to do intuitively without realizing it during revision. I’ve been all over the place in method–I’ve written a ms by plotting first, & one by the seat of the pants. Either method requires massive revision.
I know some may view these discussions we writers have and they think “Geez, aren’t you overthinking this?” and sometimes I wonder that myself. But for me, getting at the heart of a character is hard work. We humans are complex beings. As writers, we have to synthesize 3D characters yet adding too much complexity & conflict in the characters seems to water them down and make them seem vague of purpose–even if they’re simply torn by multiple desires.
I like that term–excavation–because that’s what it is. That makes us fiction archaeologists. 8-) Maybe others find this process easy but I don’t. But it sure is fun to keep digging.
Thanks for this very insightful post.
Your post was worth waiting for, Lisa! After reading Wired for Story and now delving into SG, I am seeing a wild change in my writing. Asking ‘why’ has made all the difference. That word is a diamond-bit drill that had helped me penetrate to the bedrock of my story. I get weekly feedback, so I’m actually getting to see this in my editor’s comments.
“Giving up the familiar binary choice” is a powerful notion, both in the practice of the craft of writing and in life. I also love what you say about specifics begetting specifics. So much gold here today!
Now that’s a good description of story. My favorite way to pare extraneous items is to ask “why is this there?” I think I’ll share this one.
I’m glad that you stayed true to yourself and list the salient points to “defend” your position (not that we’re at war, but sounds like some might have interpreted your previous post as such). Then again, I’m highly biased towards you, Lisa. Disclaimer: Took your beta course, extension course, bought your book, etc.
Honestly not trying to be a suck-up, here. Just giving my testimony that nothing else worked for me. This method does. It forced me inside my character(s), way deep, to recognize and feel the good, bad, and ugly, and then to haul from this wellspring and splash it onto the page so the reader can feel it and experience the emotions alongside the character(s).
Thanks for keeping your integrity intact. I, for one, would have been disappointed had you not.
Bravo to you for sticking to your gut feeling about story and not backing down. I thought last month’s post was brilliant! I copied it and re-read it regularly. Chances are there are scores of other writers who think the same. But I didn’t write to tell you that and perhaps they didn’t either. When you are overwhelmed with criticism remember: your supporters are out there, silently nodding their heads.
Dido, Rita has it right, Lisa. No worries, it’s all good. :)
Dee
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT
Thank you so much, Rita! Ditto yourself, Dee! You guys made my day!
Yes, I was nodding my head right along with Rita last month. I started to write a comment but it was getting really long and then I still had to edit it (I generally revise every comment I post here) so I wound up just deleting it. I really enjoy your posts and feel even more respect for you and your message after reading you stick with your message and back it up, despite vocal naysayers and nodding yaysayers.
Hi Lisa. I’ve been a pantser for years and the novel I love and has gone through many changes is still–you guessed it–unpublished. Then I read STORY GENIUS and as I read it, I realized that I had the elements that you have so expertly laid out–the misbelief of the MC etc. I was excited as I began to take notes and find my way through my own work to make it all it can be. And that’s where I am now. I also recently wrote a blog about using STORY to get to truth in our lives. I missed your talk at my library in Thousand Oaks, CA. Please come back, would love to meet you. And thanks, Beth
I don’t see Lisa Cron replying to comments for her posts, so this is addressed to others.
I am feeling apologetic about being the person who writes what is often the only skeptical comment on posts at Writer Unboxed. Does this fact reveal a flaw I should “own”? A failure to realize that skepticism is a knee-jerk reaction with me, and not just an honest exercise of critical thinking? Perhaps.
But this weekend I watched Lisa Cron’s TED talk on the subject at hand today, and the contrast is un-ignorable with today’s post. In her talk, she tells effective stories to reveal her message–that human culture depends for its very existence on communicating through story, and that the heart of any story is the emotion created in the hearer/reader. In her WU post, though, Cron writes expository prose that is essentially devoid of story. What’s wrong with this picture?
“What those 30 odd years [in the story business] has taught me is that what gives … elite writers the edge isn’t ‘talent’ per se–some ineffable magic…but a natural sense of the overarching layers that merge to…make stories compelling.”
Wait a minute. What gives the handful of successful writers the edge isn’t “talent” per se– some ineffable magic–but a “natural sense” etc. Isn’t the natural sense of how to compel readers to read another way of describing talent?
I have to risk censure and say this: it is crucial to those who write craft books to put “talent” in quote marks, to suggest a kind of skepticism that talent in the usual sense means anything. That way, hope is maintained that talent is something that can be taught. If it can’t be, why would writers buy craft books?
If the ten years Lisa Cron says she invested in developing yet another “way to come at writing novels” has resulted in a useful craft book for writers, who am I to say it doesn’t? All I know is, my approach to craft is to read successful novels, first for the story, then for how the story “works.” And then I rely on capable editors to help me see what I’m missing in my work.
Hi Barry, you’re absolutely right, I usually don’t reply, not for lack of desire, but because I am an insanely slow writer (truly, it can take me 20 minutes to answer a 2 line email), and since it takes me an embarrassingly long time to write these posts, I’m usually miles behind by the time I finish (and this month, that’s true tenfold). BUT, I really wanted to reply to this very astute comment. Because this is something I want to clarify (and luckily for me, I had written something that goes to this point in those early drafts of this post). So, here goes:
My point is that what we see as “talent” in that 1% is not what their actual talent is. And you are absolutely right that THAT talent CAN be learned. The problem is that — I believe — both writers hoping to learn to improve their craft, and the 1% have missed what it is that is actually making those writers successful. Here’s what I believe on that score:
There are people who have a natural sense of story (not of writing, mind you, lots of people write beautifully and fail miserably because they haven’t told a story). The 1% could write a laundry list and you’d be sobbing over the plight of poorly sorted socks.
Does that make them more talented than the rest of us? No. Actually, it doesn’t. Because it’s not about what we tend to think of as “talent” – a scary word that, I believe, throws a shroud over what their talent actually is. The dictionary defines it as a “natural aptitude,” but what does that mean? In other words, what are those talented few doing that then results in their amazing novels? What is that thing?
I believe that it’s their uncanny ability to innately grasp (without having to think about it, or define it), and create, all the layers of story in one fell swoop.
And so when they write a scene, it’s automatically a fluid part of their novel’s one, single, overarching problem that grows, escalates and complicates from page one to “the end.” While rooted in present, the scene contains relevant info from the past, and is driven by the protagonist’s overarching internal agenda for the future. It deftly moves the story forward, forcing the protagonist to make a hard internal choice, without ever losing sight of each secondary character’s story-specific driving agenda. What’s more, it not only lets readers know what the characters are doing, it also provides insight into why they’re doing it. All of which is filtered through the protagonist’s internal lens – that is, her decoder ring, the one created by her past experience, which supplies meaning, and emotional weight, to everything that happens.
That is what each scene must communicate. In one fell swoop. That is what makes great writing. It’s the layers of meaning each sentence is able to communicate. That’s what makes stories compelling, and writing beautiful.
That is the tremendous skill the 1% innately has, and it’s a skill that’s largely unsung. Because when done well, all those layers merge into one, seamless narrative. And so when we read their novels, we don’t “see” any of that on the surface — what we see is the beautiful writing. And the plot. The implication is clear: learn to write well, and to create a plot, and – if you have the talent – the story will appear.
My point is that the “talent” that the 1% has is something very different than we’ve thought it is. And, I believe that by learning what those layers are, and how to create them, then we can all learn to write a riveting novel. And, I also believe that “natural writers” would benefit from learning them as well, so that when their natural “talent” goes momentarily silent, they can flip the controls to “manual” and carry on.
Thanks so much for your comment, and for letting me get this into the mix. It’s very much appreciated!
I just wanted to thank you both for having this clarifying conversation!!
Thanks, Susan, it was fun. Nothing more rousing than an exchange of differing opinions ;- ).
On the question of whether talent can be taught (or learned), Barry, see Matthew Syed’s “Bounce.”
His thesis boils down to this: in order to become an expert in your field, you need:
1) 10,000 hours of practice
2) an edge that differentiates you from your peers (you’ll have to read the book to see the outstanding examples he gives) and
3) an expert mentor, to challenge and chivy you along.
As to your assertion that Lisa disparages “talent” I think you’ll find she does quite the opposite, if you re-read her post. She’s trying to free writers up to learn their craft, rather than brow-beat them with a word which has been used (often, in my experience) to shut them down. If you, as a newbie, are told you don’t have “the gift” are you, honestly, going to put the 10,000 hours in to hone your craft? A few lucky (ego-strong) might, but most will hear “You don’t have what it takes…you’d best give up and get a sensible job.”
I see Story Genius as another brilliant tool in my toolbox.
If what you do works for you, fab. (Lisa said the same thing, more than once). I don’t understand the need to bash and belittle, as you’ve done in this thread. Do you — as in, do you understand why you had to make it mean and personal? It doesn’t read as “healthy skepticism” it reads as an ad hominem attack.
Respectfully,
Kate
Agreed, Barry. To demote talent to a secondary position behind one “method” or another is to disrespect the talent that storytellers have been utilizing for the thousands of years when methodology proselytizers didn’t exist. Somehow stories were told and readers engaged.
To declare that only 1% of all writers are able to tell a story without utilizing a particular method seems to me a bit self-aggrandizing. Only 1%? Really? 99% of all writers simply do not have the talent needed to successfully tell a story? And that those who strive to apply what little talent we have are doomed to certain failure unless we adopt a particular methodology? My way or the highway?
I applaud your long years of successful work with writers. I’m certain that you have helped writers achieve successful novels. It’s okay for you to believe that you have, through hard work, thought, and analysis, found powerful insights into the process of writing that makes a narrative acceptable to your particular and subjective tastes and standards.
But, Lisa, to disdain any writer in order to elevate your theories and practices to gospel doesn’t work for this writer. You have managed, again, to disrespect me and my work. You have 30 years of working at this? Well, I have 50 years of having made my living, year in and year out, day by day, as a writer and–imagine this–did it without following any method. What could possibly explain that, considering that I didn’t have your insights into my fatal shortcomings as a writer to help me along?
If you want to bond with me over the unparalleled power of story, if you want me to respect your method and opinions, you should consider not telling me how my approach to writing is such an abject failure. I’m not about to claim that I’m one of your hypothetical 1% who have the magic touch, but I do know that I can craft stories that engage readers. No, they’re not bestsellers, but is that your criterion for successful storytelling?
Ray–
I consider “Flog a Pro” a valuable contribution to the study of craft. You take a stand on the openings of commercially successful novels, and call on us to do the same. And you have something in common with others at Writer Unboxed who write on craft and have written craft books:
You, David Corbett, Donald Maass, Cathy Yardley, James Scott Bell, Steven James and others have all written novels. As far as I know, Lisa Cron has not. This seems odd to me: Lisa’s resume is both long and impressive. She has garnered much praise and developed a loyal following. But if I had spent ten years developing a breakthrough approach to novel-writing, I sure would put it to use myself.
It’s true that great coaches in sports have rarely been great players. But ALL sports coaches have played the sport they coach.
Just wondering if we can keep our comments on the “kind” end of the spectrum. There’s honesty and then there’s unkindness.
Seconded. If we want to see people attacking other people, we have only to turn on the news. Remember, attack the idea all you want, but not the person behind the idea, please and thank you.
I haven’t seen any unkind comments so far, just plain speaking.
Lisa, Barry and Ray walk into a bar. Without looking up, the bartended mixes a carefully constructed Vieux Carré, a plotter’s drink, throws a bunch of shelf items together in the sloppiest of pantser’s drinks, a kind of Long Island Iced Tea meets a Bloody Mary, and then, pauses for 15 minutes and slowly pours a Louis XIII cognac, the stuff of Victor Hugo’s dreams. Weirdly enough, they pass each other’s drinks around, and find there’s good stuff in all of them. Bottoms up, storytellers!
Exactly, Tom. All of the drinks were good, all were achieved by different methods, and there was no putdown of any particular drink/method. At least at that bar, anyway. Now where did I put that bottle of SciFi Brandy . . .
Hey Ray,
Lisa is a strong believer in the fundamental aspect of what drives characters into change, and thus into action. I am too. I describe it as what would drive a character forward even if the events of the plot were called off. It’s an aspect of story that some writers intuitively grasp, but others learn, and who cares how it comes about? It’s useful.
Does that aspect make all the difference to being in the 1%? Ray, there are so many aspects to fiction writing I think it’s impossible to say that any single one is *the* magic key. We all know that. I think Lisa is acknowledging the multi-layered whole of it too.
If Lisa is pushing hard this particular aspect, well, she’s passionate about it. I appreciate her focus on this point. Nothing is an absolute prescription of course, and knowing Lisa I’m pretty sure she that she would agree. Everyone’s skill set is customized. Take from here. Steal from there. Sift. Assemble your own methodology. But I take Lisa’s position to be, whatever you do and however you arrive at it, don’t skip this particular fundamental of story. It’s a big one.
My own methodology is close to Barry’s. I learn from fiction. For me, I then try to distill the methods, make them concrete and do-able, techniques not impulses, especially the ones that explain vague and slippery concepts like voice and wonder. I’m a top down thinker and a bottom up learner. In fiction I’ve been a plotter and a pantser and have concluded that each approach is useful depending on the needs of the piece.
Talent? Maybe. Learning? Slowly. Independence? Definitely. No one’s methodology is definitive, not even mine.
I am lucky enough to keep company with some story gurus such as yourself, Jim Bell, Chris Vogler, David Corbett, Lisa and others. I hate it when you guys come up with good ideas—why didn’t I think of that!—but I love it when you come up with good ideas. We all grow.
Thank you, Don. I so appreciate what you say here. You have captured exactly what I mean, and what I believe, and I can’t tell you how good — especially at this moment — that feels. I’m totally fine with people disagreeing with what I believe, but it’s far more productive when they really know what that is. You’ve clarified it here, more beautifully than I could have. I’m very much obliged.
Lisa,
Thank you for owning what you believe — I like to think of the many great books and lessons on craft as stars in the night sky and yours shines brightly for us.
The best way I’ve learned to improve my craft as a writer has been through assimilating ideas from how other writers do things. Plotting, pantsing, or one of many mixtures of the two, are but tools. What I love about your method is it’s a unique and neuroscience-based way to fixate on critical questions that simply writing a draft from start to finish might not cover. The same could be said of reading broadly from writing craft books. I improve when I become more informed and think beyond just the words in the draft, but the iceberg beneath the waters of that draft and how it works. My approach to this problem is to read and study as much as I can while continuing to write and apply what I’m learning to my writing (I’m a “learn by doing” hands on kind of guy and just can’t appreciate story until the words that knit it together live and breathe on the page). Occasionally, some books or lessons have drastically changed how I approach my practice, so I usually improve in quantum leaps, here and there, though personally, those lessons come from writing. I’ve yet to find I am able to study a method, then write a novel and end up in that top 1% — rather, I’m content to notice that, with every new novel I write, I’m likely bumping my way higher and, looking at my collection of yet-unpublished books, I’m content to know that any given novel is always worlds better than the one before it, with many a demonstration of the things I learned while writing it. I don’t think one need abandon one’s method to get the most out of the brilliant advice you’re giving, because what I’ve personally found great about it is how it’s customizable, an added dimension to think about and explore story as I’m going forward and bringing it to life.
You are the opposite of a misguided idiot. You are a rebel, a very smart and wise and experienced-in-fiction-writing rebel, and often times, rebels scare other people, and when people are scared they feel threatened and can lash out.
I loved your honest post, Lisa.
Write and Rebel on!
No need to angst. I liked you already. I think we all do.
Story–internal struggle and change–is indeed rooted in the past. How can it be otherwise? You and I have agreed about this over several lunches. Knowing one’s protagonist is a prerequisite for plot. It’s they key to a novel that grips.
What I’d reinforce today are some developmental questions and decisions that flow from that wellspring. How aware is your protagonist of the root of his or her struggle? Will its source in the past be a revelation? (You reference that in your post.)
More: How does this protagonist feel about this struggle? Is it a burden or a challenge? Does it entail self-loathing or self-liking?
I raise those last points because I’m increasingly aware that there is a dilemma built into this fundamental truth about story, and it’s this: As readers, we are asked to like and care about a character who is to some degree broken.
For authors, the challenge is twin-fold: find in the story-specific past what is driving a protagonist toward change, but also find what is good, positive, strong and self-aware in that character, even so.
Otherwise we may feel the inner drive at work, we may come to understand why its there, but we will not necessarily care.
Hi, Don (and Lisa, and all):
It took me a few pass-throughs to fully puzzle out and digest your comment, because it took me a while to understand what you meant by distinguishing being broken and being good, positive, strong, and self-aware. I don’t see these as at odds, and that seemed to be what you were implying.
I think I now get what you mean, but I also think that what makes a character “broken” can arise from many (often interconnected) things–what I refer to as weaknesses, wounds, limitations, or flaws — the story-specific past, as Lisa puts it. These are the internal reasons the character’s yearning is unfulfilled, the things holding her back from being the person she wants to be, living the life she dreams of living.
But these are eminently human, and I don’t see where they would naturally or automatically cause us not to care about the character — unless the character is rendered purely as a victim. This is why willfulness is so critical to a protagonist (and other main characters).
I think, along with willfulness, the other trait necessary to inspire empathy is, as you point out, some level of honest self-awareness. The clueless character can work to some extent in a comic novel (e.g., Candide) or for a time in a coming of age novel (where the coming to self-awareness forms the story arc), but otherwise it is, as Lisa notes, the character’s inner struggle with the challenge of the external problem that generates our bond with the character.
Anyhow, I think I now get what you’re saying, and I hope I haven’t just left a befuddling muddle in response.
David-
“…the other trait necessary to inspire empathy is, as you point out, some level of honest self-awareness.”
Yes, exactly. Couldn’t agree more. I’ve lately been reading fiction with that filter on and I’m astonished how pervasive that method is and how smoothly and skillfully it’s used by successful novelists.
If there’s a magic elixir for making dark characters lovable, that is it.
Usually I say give your potentially unlikable characters a kid or a dog. But I guess, in a pinch, yeah. Honest self-awareness.
It’s a trick used by Shakespeare — Iago, Richard III — now taken up by the writers of House of Cards/ If you have a truly vile and deceitful character, have him speak directly to the audience — honestly, intimately. By some strange magic, we’re enthralled.
David, check out the original House of Cards Trilogy, BBC version. It’s done to even more wicked effect, IMHO.
Lisa,
One of the most important things you’ve taught me about writing, is to take a step back and objectively analyze what I’ve written.
If I could best describe writing to myself after learning this, I would use the Robert Frost poem Fire and Ice. A paradox. But a necessary one in order to grow, both as a writer and a person.
Thank you.
You’re amazing, Lisa. I can’t thank you enough for both of your books and how they have helped me improve my storytelling skills. I stand behind your method 100-percent.
Lisa, you have been a blessing to me these past few weeks. I’ve been working my way through Story Genius, which I happened upon in an honest to goodness Barnes & Noble (I was taught to visit the sick and dying).
When I wrote the first book of my Navy Brat middle-grade series, I had a great backdrop–the loss of the USS Scorpion in 1968. That was enough to develop my protagonist and make an interesting story. But I wanted to move through the years, taking book #2 to 1972 Hawaii. Do you know what happened in Hawaii in 1972? Not a damn thing.
So I had a Navy brat without a story. Then I started reading Story Genius. Instead of concerning myself with the story backdrop, I concerned myself with my protagonist. She didn’t even have a name yet. But I began constructing her backstory (which is quite short for a 12 year-old, but equally important). And you were right! The plot is already forming in my mind, even a few pivotal scenes that just drifted into my conscious as I thought about my character and what I knew so far.
So, yes! You’ve nailed it. We can build a great story from the character out. And in the world of middle-grade, where character is king, this has been a life saver.
Thanks for all that you do!
LOL, a true act of mercy, visiting the sick and dying. I might have to do that myself.
When I was working on a new story, I was a nonplussed how to apply the misbelief to someone so young, but with some digging, I was able to do that.
Lisa,
I loved this post, just as I loved your last one. Without getting wrapped up in percentages or right vs wrong, I think your approach is an enormously valuable one. Although I’ve called myself a plotter, it’s true that I never start plotting until I’ve done the work you describe in your bullet points. It’s hard for me to imagine how either writing or plotting could be effective without doing those things first, but–pace, Ray!–everyone has their own process, and if a writer’s process is working, then that’s all that matters.
However, if your approach helps even one writer improve then that’s a plus. The one exception to my doing the work in your bullet points is that I never used to write out those scenes (#3). After taking your workshop, I’ve started to do this too. Thank you!
Very much appreciated this column Lisa. I have seen variations of the following line, “Story is about the internal cost of an unavoidable external change.” Still the way you phrased it struck me as right on the issue. INTERNAL cost. UNAVOIDABLE external change. And your short list of bullet points is very helpful. Neither pantsing nor plotting seems to dig deeply enough into the universal dilemma of our human nature, which, as you have pointed out, is at the core of the character. I see Barry Knister provided a rather prickly complement to this post. His approach and yours combined should go far in helping us “proletarian” writers.
I ordered Story Genius last week after someone else on this site raved about it. (I wish I could remember who it was.) Now that I’ve read this post, I can’t wait to dig in.
Thank you, Lisa for having the courage to post this and explain this concept so well. I’m always willing to learn from someone with so much experience who is willing to share what she’s learned with others instead of keeping it to herself.
Lisa, thanks for your honesty. Of course you have to say what you believe. But the people you coach and teach are a self-selected group, so perhaps your numbers are off. I cannot take publishing numbers as truth either. It’s just one metric that says agents are rejecting 99% of stories. I’m a relative newbie at all of this compared to you all, but I notice that storytelling is in our nature, and not only that, we are nonfiction people first, and later we learn to embellish the truth, trying out one version over another to see gives us the best response.
I adore books about structure because I have a methodical mindset. I like dissecting known books. The Story Masters workshop with Don, Chris and Jim was a huge blessing for me. I still refer to my notes, and of course, their books. I am also insanely jealous of people who can just sit down and write a story. I’ve never been able to do that, except for some short stories. My stories usually begin with a character in a pickle and it can take me a while to figure out why. I can immediately see that your book is going to help me write new stories much faster.
Right now I’m using Story Genius to revise a historical that has long given me problems, in how to structure it, how to insert the political backdrop without the dreaded info dump in what is essentially a very domestic story, but one that is so close to my heart it will not go away. Your book is helping me to get to the core of my story and I appreciate it. I’m only about halfway through because I am writing new scenes, but it is just another tool in my writing toolbox that I will refer to again and again, just as I do the books on structural elements. I encouraged my critique partners to buy a copy because I am not ready to part with my own copy. I love it because it’s another way to look at story that meshes very closely with how I work intuitively.
Earlier, Barry and Ray said (in essence) that having a new way to look at story doesn’t mean the other ways should be chucked, and I agree with them. And it is also my criticism of SG. Do stand by what you believe, but be open that other methods have value too.
Pax.
Gratias.
Thanks Lisa, for your unflinching integrity, even if what you say doesn’t resonate with everyone. It never will – we are all so very different, there’s no way we can all agree on any one thing. What’s great is that you’ve helped some folks, and opened up a discussion that is fruitful with all of us.
As I read through your post and your later comment the word ‘layers’ came up a number of times. The place where I’ve seen/heard the most brilliant example of layers is in the first-act finale of HAMILTON – Non-Stop.
By that time in the show, each major character has a musical theme that defines or expresses his or her goals/desires/being. Those are, one by one, woven into the song and it builds to an incredible crescendo which culminates in Hamilton’s musical themes (he’s the title character so he gets two). The sheer brilliance of it brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it. I listen again and again, knowing that I want to be able to do that in my writing.
I’ve spent the last 6-7 weeks working my way through the first chapter of my novel using Story Genius, and at times it was maddening. How could I be so close and still be completely off? What turned it around for me was the third scene in the past. I’d had the first two, but it was when I found the third that I was off to the races.
So yes, it works for me. And I’ve sung your praises and shared your book with anyone I think would be interested. And it doesn’t surprise me even a little that it isn’t for everyone. For those of us who find it a revelation and a gift – you have our grateful thanks. And for those for whom it doesn’t work, fair enough – we are all still writing. And that is also a gift.
Carol,
I’m fascinated by what you said about Hamilton. I found the same idea in the music under the credits for Anthony Minghella’s film The English Patient. Underneath the love story, set before and during World War II, the film is really about national identity, where it brings us together and holds us apart, what we owe to our country vs when we should transcend national boundaries. Gabriel Yared brought three of his themes together for the credits: a Hungarian melody, Bach (German), and an original English-sounding (think Elgar) theme. He orchestrated them in different combinations, always creating lovely counterpoint–an incredibly hopeful wish for the future of the three warring countries and indeed our world, that we could work together without sacrificing our national identities.
Though not a musician myself, I’ve learned a lot about writing from music.
Michael Langham, who was the Artistic Director at the Stratford Festival in Canada from 1956-1967, used to refer to the script as “this score we’re working on,” according to Nicholas Pennell. Nick was one of the leading actors at Stratford who worked with Langham from 1983-1994, when Langham returned to Stratford as a director.
Nick said on a radio interview that there were moments in acting Shakespeare when one felt the need to be able to break into song, yet there was always the need not to “sing” the verse.
I hadn’t thought about this before, but I think those moments Nick was talking about are, for the writer, the moments we write that we can’t write. It’s the place in the novel where the final element in the crescendo is supplied by the heart and soul of the reader.
Now that I write that, it’s rather daunting to think of trying to create such a moment. And I want more than ever to try…
“It’s the place in the novel where the final element in the crescendo is supplied by the heart and soul of the reader.”
I love this, Carol! Daunting indeed.
As an aside: I am grateful to all of the WU posters, moderators, tech folks, Facebook folks, commenters, Twitter team, artistic and advertising folks, readers and brave, dedicated Therese!!! who, month in and month out, work so hard to make this such an exceptional blog.
It’s a pretty amazing community we have access to.
Thank you, all, for making this a good and safe place to post, read and comment.
Lisa, I’ve bought both of your books, and am in the process of reading Story Genius, because I’m sure I will find some helpful insights. But I think it is the exclusivity you seem to attribute to your approach that is rubbing some readers the wrong way – myself included – along with the implication that any great books written before you codified this approach must simply be flukes and/or the lucky output of the “one percenters.”
I’ve always been a student of process. From the time I was young drummer, I was always looking for the “best” way to become a better musician. And as a professional musician who has been fortunate enough to study under and perform with some world-class musicians, I’ve always striven to keep my eyes and ears open, perpetually seeking ways to get better at my art. And the one constant I’ve observed is that there is no single path to musical greatness. Some are trained; some are self-taught. Some can read music; some play by ear. Some are devout and serious students of their craft; some are drunken jerks blessed with innate talent. And based on the authors I am fortunate enough to know (and whose vastly differing writing methodologies I am familiar with), as well as the many authors I’ve studied, I believe the same diversity of artistic pathways exists in the world of writing stories.
I admire your conviction, and I welcome your insights. But even if they completely transform my writing, I don’t think I’ll ever believe they represent the only way to write a good book. There are simply too many great books – and great writers – for that to be plausible to me.
Hi Keith, thanks for this thoughtful comment — I just wanted to hop in to clarify a couple of things, because we may be closer in spirit than it seems:
I am not saying that there is only one way to write a novel, not at all.
What I’m trying to point out is what is actually hooking us when we read (it’s not the beautiful writing, or the plot), and then to help writers begin to focus on that when they write.
Any method that gets writers there is gold. However, in my experience, both pantsing and plotting (often the binary choice writers are presented with) lead writers in the wrong direction, because neither focus on what it is that actually hooks readers — they can’t — because both of them focus on writing forward from page one.
My goal is to help writers focus in on what it is that really does rivet readers, and then figure out how to dig down to it, and get it onto the page. Whatever method they want to use to get there is great!
Hope that helps!
Aha. It could be that you are proceeding on a false assumption: “they can’t–because both of them focus on writing forward from page one.” I can only speak from a pantser pov, but there seems to be an assumption that the writing begins not only with a blank page but a blank mind that has to grope its way forward.
Not so. When I pantswrite, there’s a great deal of “backstory” on the characters and world in the well I draw upon. It’s already there, I just bring it out by writing. At the last UnCon there was a talk about connecting with your subconscious because of all the good story stuff that’s already there.
You bring it out with your backstory and layers method. That’s fine. I’m not going to put down your approach because it differs from mine. If we achieve the same goal through different methods, then the methods must be equally valid. Is there any reason to think otherwise?
That’s what’s tripping me up too. To me, all this stuff being discussed about protagonist development is part and parcel of developing a great novel, no matter how you choose to then write it, pantsing or plotting. The internal/external need and variations of same have been discussed since I began studying craft longer ago than I care to say. Ditto the character arc/journey/change.
Neither pantsing nor plotting precludes developing a rich character and backstory, whether through daydreaming or a system of charts and graphs. : )
I guess I’m also not clear on how Lisa sees people pinning down the elements she discusses. To me that gets back to the pantsing plotting thing. Either you discover these elements via play and daydreaming or you’re making notes and checking off things in a plotting approach.
It’s not really that I disagree with anything Lisa is saying, just that I don’t see how it’s a third option, or revolutionary approach. I say this as someone who enjoys her WU columns and purchased her first book.
I’m the same, Sheri. Maybe it’s that really intense education I received while belonging to RWA and all the emphasis they put on giving each character an extensive backstory. I always start a novel knowing almost everything about my characters; their hang-ups, their fears; in short, their GMCs. Debra Dixon’s book, GMC: Goal, Motivation, Conflict, really helped me with that. So now, whenever I start a new novel, I *always* make sure I have each character’s GMC.
I am thoroughly enjoying Story Genius. It’s methodology does not feel foreign to me because my “outlining” thus far had always been a series of emotional turning points that I knew the protagonist must undergo to complete her arc. I aim toward one, then the next, then the next. So I’ve always been focused on the inner journey.
What’s different for me is this notion of a misconception, and the way you can align it all the way through from the beginning. It took me eight years to fashion all of the layers in my debut, and seventeen years of thought so that I could build my second novel in a year. I feel certain that the work I’ve done with the Story Genius book—and it’s hard work!—will save me years of misguided meandering, since I very quickly found the story’s emotional core. I recommend Story Genius to all my writer friends who want to learn write a story that matters. Thanks Lisa!
I welcome more posts like this one, that get conversation — and stimulating debate — flowing.
Cheers to that!
Ray: I don’t know you. I have only this post to go on. It read as a personal attack, to this reader.
You called Lisa “self aggrandizing.” Seems pretty personal to me.
My question for you is: why take offense? This is just one craft expert giving her two cents about what she’s learned after YEARS of in-depth analysis.
Respectfully,
Kate
Hello Lisa-
I’m a big fan of you and so many other gurus here and have thought A Lot about pantsing, plotting, some hybrid of each, etc. When I had to write about process, I began in praise of plotting, then it evolved into praise of pantsing. I realized each of them are worthy in their own way. And I’ve learned from both and am not unhappy about what I’ve learned along the way.
I have learned a great deal from your TED Talk, Wired for Story, your other talks and various YouTube videos (I am a certified process junkie) and look forward to reading Story Genuis. Now that I’m in a place where I’m less focused on process and more on story, I’ve found that I use various methods I’ve learned over the years, and yes, yours in particular. I picked up a notebook a little over a month ago and began writing before the “story” begins. I’m still there, writing scene after scene exploring they why of my character. I’m not plotting, but what I’ve learned about plotting jargon (interior and exterior conflict) and pantsing (when a scene comes to mind I play it out on paper, but I’m angling for the “why” over the what and some sort of plot advancement).
My own backstory came to play in this new sort of serenity. Between my father’s cancer diagnosis and my own depression, I came to a place where I needed to understand they why of my own decisions, etc.. And when I was ready to write again, I had a clearer view of why this important in life, and yes, Story.
There’s been tremendous debate here in the comments, but my feeling is that we do all want the same thing. I don’t believe you were giving the finger to what others teach, but daring us all, as you did in your last post, for us to step back and give serious thought to something “other”. As for me, I’m groovy with that.
Also of note, I love what you said about creativity needing context. That’s another lesson I’m learning. I taught my first writing workshop over the summer, working with all new writers. They all seemed to struggle with this- where to begin with all their ideas, how to narrow it down, etc. And I found myself talking about how we do our best work within boundaries as creatives. Speaking it aloud helped me realize what a great truth it is, and I told them that it was honestly something I was only beginning to come to terms with.
You’ve helped this writer tremendously and I look forward to continue to learn from you, and others here. I’ve been shouted off various cliffs more than a few times in my life, and after the initial knee jerk reaction, I’m thankful for you and others who are willing to point us to other ways in following that great North Star.
Lis,, as a writer dealing with a massive blockage on my current WIP, I too often ponder the connection between writing craft learned and the natural storytelling ability. I am always looking to fill my writer’s toolbox with new techniques to help me blend both in my work. I think many of us are born with a natural storytelling talent that combined with craft, can help sustain a writing life.
That being said, I just want to thank you for your new craft book STORY GENIUS! It came at a desperate time in my writing life when I needed a new tool to help me get back on the writing train and finish this beast of a novel I’ve been tackling.
Story Genius helped me dig deeper with the story BEFORE the story, discover the third rail that drives my story and its main character, and inspired me to breathe fiery life back in my story and characters, where I had been stalled for weeks. Oh. Emm. Gee. I think I may actually finish this story and make something of it and have a new project to finally deliver to my agent.
There are many craft books out there (and many different kinds on my bookshelf as well from the talents of James Scott Bell to Twyla Tharp to Donald Maass ). We are all on our own unique writing journey and I believe that different techniques appeal to different kinds of writers –and whatever works for any given writer is all positive! For some it may be plotting, for some plantsing – and for some it may be looking back deep into the past of a character’s life to drive his story in the moment. This is what I needed right now – after my own plotting and plantsing.
I do know that YOUR technique of looking to the character’s past to drive his current story and every choice he makes, thought he has, conflict he feels, and turning point he experiences is deepening the emotional impact of my story and THIS works for me.
I am all about the character in books whether I write it or read it, and can forgive much in a book plot if the characters appeal to me. This is why your technique is so powerful for this writer – and helped me get back to the idea I fell in love with last year.
I have also discovered that I cannot replicate each story’s process from book to book – I have learned that each story speaks to me on how it wants to be written. AND most of all, as writers we are on a continuous journey of learning and being open to new ways to tell a story can only enrich what we have to say. There is no one way to tell a story which makes our jobs – and journeys – so unique.
Oh my goodness, I think this is the first time I was more intrigued by the comments rather than the post … and Lisa’s posts are my favorite! Wow, I would pay like 100 cups of coffee to see Ray, Barry and Lisa argue story on a panel at the Writer Unboxed conference. And maybe even do a little bit of fun-spirited mud wrestling afterward. I don’t know about you, but that put quite a visual in my head. No, not the naked kind…
On a serious note: I am learning about something called a ‘trigger’ in couple’s therapy, and when I get blast-off angry because my husband says I don’t do enough around the house, our therapist says that my anger tells her more about how I view myself rather than a surface-level of: who is or isn’t doing enough chores. I wonder if some of the stronger comments we’ve seen on Lisa’s post is the same thing: that it’s not REALLY about whether Lisa is right or wrong, but more about how the commenters’ see their own writing skills and abilities. Just like I get angry about the ‘external plot’ of chores, not because my husband is being an asshole, but I feel like I am not good enough because I don’t do or accomplish enough … and that’s how I wrongly view my sense of self worth … some posters are upset about Lisa because it’s forcing them (like a good story forces our beloved characters) to look at their own careers and way of doing things. I mean if I had invested decades of my life on something and wasn’t happy with the result, maybe I would be mad at someone who did it in ten or less (however, looking at it on a deeper level, I am really mad at myself), and maybe that would throw my sense of self into question… unless of course you are Donald Trump … then you would just stick to the mud-wrestling.
I LOVE Writer Unboxed. This community is great.
It seems to me that binary thinking — plotter or pantser — is keeping people from seeing what Lisa is saying: that whichever approach we actually employ to write the story (and either is fine) we should first consider what is driving our characters because that is the taproot of the story we wish to tell. Consequently, thinking about characters’ backstory first will save us time, and thinking about it at all will help us tell deeper, more layered stories. If you happen to be one of the writers who naturally does this, please don’t belittle Lisa for speaking to those of us who don’t. Consider instead that she’s simply endorsing a process you have already internalized.
Lisa, thanks so much for this post. I’m always looking to learn more about this crazy craft of ours. I loved Wired for Story (I’m partway through Story Genius). I consider it a crucial part of my toolkit. I was fortunate enough to have DGLM represent my first book (historical mystery), and the insights and edits Miriam gave me primarily focused on character development (this was before your first book was out). Those were lessons I’ve applied to writing other books. In the mystery genre, it’s easy for an author to over-focus on plot: clues, red herrings, false suspects, whodunnit, howdunnit, etc. But no matter how clever I might make the mystery and the solution, I’m coming to appreciate that the reader craves the character’s journey. I still plot with beat sheets and tables, but I start with my character and use it as my touchstone when something in the plot doesn’t seem quite right.
Lisa–
Definitely some interesting stuff here.
Look forward to reading your novel.
I wrote my first few novels as a pantser, then discovered how plotting can be easier, then went back to pantsing. I believe the author who said we don’t learn how to write novels, we just learn how to write the novel we’re working on.
But I have always started with my characters and my conflict, with setting the stage, with getting inside everybody’s heads and knowing them well enough to know they’re consistent and true to themselves throughout. Once I’ve got that down, writing the story is a whole lot faster, and it rings true.