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Story
How do we do it — put together a story that gets to you, one that causes you to live and feel the experience of the characters?
Well, it can be done in a couple of ways. I can give you a definition, a concept, or a model. But, stories aren't ideas. They're not concepts or definitions. They're experience.
So, rather than tell you how a story works, I'm going to show you — show you by giving you a little story to see how much of an experience I can cause you to have, how much I can get you to identify, to live through the characters.
Here's the story:
My wife and I have a friend named Larry who is going through a nasty divorce. His wife wants it. He doesn't. My wife ran into him at the mall. He looked terrible — sad and despondent. He sounded worse than he looked, so she invited him over for dinner to try to cheer him up.
Larry's an old friend, so we know what he likes. I bought a bottle of his favorite Scotch and some fancy cigars he likes after dinner. We had a few drinks and were feeling pretty good. My wife and I let Larry know we would be here for him whenever he needed us. We had a good time.
Larry felt better. We felt better. We renewed our friendship. He went home happy. We went to bed happy. It was a great night, all around, for everybody. That's the end of the story.
How was it? Moving? Compelling? Dramatic? Did you identify? Were you gripped? Did you have the kind of an experience you want from a story?
The answer, of course, is NO. You did not have an experience. You did not connect. You did not identify. You could not. The reason you could not was: I purposely beat the life out of it.
So, the effect was boredom and maybe irritation. The cause was a dead story. I presented you with an experience that left you cold, with a mistake.
Why?
Because mistakes are what we start with. We make mistakes, constantly. First drafts are loaded with them. Remember Hemingway: "The first draft is shit."
If Hemingway's first drafts were shit, you shouldn't be expecting any better from yourself. Expecting too much is the surest way to get blocked.
The other reason I started with a mistake is: We learn more from our mistakes than our successes — not from the mistakes themselves, but from correcting them.
So, if I'm right, if I know what I'm doing, I should be able to show you how to turn this mistake into an involving story. But, before I do, consider what's needed to make it happen.
Making It Work
What's needed to turn this dead story into something with some energy, some drama? Detail, dialogue, emotion, conflict? Well, I could give you reams of detail and keep it as dull as it is.
Dialogue? I could have them talking all night and far into the next day and you would be even more bored than you were. Emotion? Well, it has emotion. We're happy, satisfied, fulfilled. How much more could you stand of happy, happy, happy? That leaves conflict. Conflict? Now, why would we mess up a perfectly enjoyable dinner by stirring up trouble?
Before I give you my answer, you might want to think about it first. Think about what needs to be done do to give this dead story some energy. See what you come up with.
You might even want to take some time to rewrite it out. If you do that, you can either write it all out the way it needs to be. Or, you can write some general, summary statements about how it should go — plan it out without doing it word for word.
You've done yours. Now, I'll do mine. Here's another version of the same story. See if I can get you more involved.
In this version, I've got a touch of bronchitis or flu the day Larry is coming for dinner. I'm not feeling great, but I'm still up for dinner with Larry.
Now, the flu is a minor detail, but I want you to decide whether you want it in or out. You don't have to have a reason — just a feeling. OK--In or Out?
Most people, nine out of ten, prefer the flu in. Remember, this is not flu we're talking about. This is story and in story, everything counts. Nothing is along for the ride.
So, the flu is in. Larry comes over. We have a few drinks. He and my wife are both smokers. Before we get to dinner, they run out of cigarettes. "I'll go get them," I say. "I want to get out of this haze and clear my lungs." I head out for the corner store to get their smokes.
It's a nice walk. I get their cigarettes and head back, but instead of walking up the front walk, I decide to take the shortcut down the alley.
Point two: Alley in or out?
Like the flu, most people go for the alley. Flu and alley. Why? The answer to that is at the very heart of successful storytelling. It's not flu. It's not alley. It's story.
So, I'm walking down the alley, relaxing, breathing fresh air, looking at the yards. Now, our kitchen sticks out from the back of the house and is all windows along the side. I can see Larry and my wife in the kitchen. As I come through the yard, I see they're having a rather intense conversation. My wife is especially lively. I haven't seen her that spirited in months.
OK, what's on your mind right now? What are you thinking?
Let me guess. You're thinking, hanky-panky, fooling around, touching, embracing, kissing, etc. Not only are you thinking it, but you're wanting it.
Oh, yes. Not only do you give me the flu, make me walk down the alley, but you throw my marriage into a crisis by making my wife unfaithful.
Maybe not in reality, but in story, we prefer cheating to loyalty — always. We want chemistry, passion, fireworks! You don't go to the amusement park to ride the merry-go-round. You go to ride the roller coaster.
The Active Ingredient
I knew what you were thinking, not because I read your mind, but because I led you there — with story. I gave you an experience that hooked you in.
Fine, so far, but where do we go from here?
We left me standing there, watching my wife talking to Larry. What's next? Well, I've raised your expectations, so I have to give you what you want — or something better. Let's go with the kiss. My wife says something. Larry laughs, opening his arms. They embrace and have a nice long kiss.
What now? She kisses Larry. End of story. Yes? No? Why not?
I'm sure you know in your heart, it's not over. Your heart is a good guide, but it's not enough. To be a successful storyteller, you have to know in story terms, why it's not over. So, what has to happen to complete this story, to give it a bang — up ending?
How about this:
I figure, "Heck with it. What do I care? Everybody cheats. Look at Clinton." Then I go in, we have a nice dinner, smoke cigars, renew our friendship, and wind up good friends just like before. A satisfying ending? Maybe the characters are satisfied, but we are not and no reader will be either.
What I'm doing is playing around with the active ingredient, the one I'm trying to get you to see by putting it in and taking it out, by connecting you and disconnecting you — something you'll be able to do by the end of this chapter.
All right. If this story is going to hold anyone, I have to care, to feel betrayed and go in and do something about it. It could go like this:
"Hi, guy," I say happily as I come in. "Here's the smokes."
They thank me and both light up. Larry pours himself some Scotch.
"How'd it go while I was gone?" I say, flopping into a kitchen chair.
"Fine," my wife says.
"How about you, Lar? Enjoy yourself in my absence?"
He glances at my wife quickly. "I did," he says.
"Good. I was worried you might get lonely. But when I saw you through the window, I could see you didn't need me to entertain you."
"Well," Larry says. "We both missed you and we're glad you're back."
"That's right, honey," my wife says. "It's not the same without you."
"Of course not," I say. "Say, hand me the butcher knife, darling."
"Butcher knife, what for?"
"No reason. I just feel like holding it."
"Don't be silly," she says.
"No, really. Indulge me."
"Will you stop," she says.
"Stop what? You don't trust me with a knife? What is this: No sharp objects for the lunatic?"
"Very funny," she says.
Larry stares at me, smiling weakly.
"Afraid I'll hurt myself — slit my wrists — or my throat? What do you think, Lar? Can I be trusted with a knife in my own kitchen with my best friend and my loyal wife?"
"Of course, you can," Larry says flatly, then downs his Scotch.
"Damn right. Hear that, angel? Larry trusts me. He trusts you. We all trust each other. So pass me the knife, sweets."
The Crucial Difference — The Lifeblood of every story AND every writer
All right, let's stop. It's not over yet. It can go in many directions. Each writer will do it his or her own way. The possibilities are endless. But, no matter which way it goes, it must fulfill the basic story requirements or it will fail.
For now, the question is: What's the difference between this last version and the first. It's not details. It's not dialogue. It's not emotion. It's something else, something I mentioned earlier, but sidestepped so you could experience it first. The first version — happy, happy, happy — left us cold. The last — trouble, trouble, trouble — got to us. What does that tell us?
The difference between the first, dead version and the last version is conflict. Conflict made all the difference. And we all know what conflict is. Don't we? Well, we think we do.
Therein lies the trouble. Many things we call conflict in everyday life — disagreements, arguments, insults, even fist fights — do not qualify as conflict. If a man's wife calls him an inconsiderate slob in the morning, if he gets run off the road on the expressway, if his boss tells him he'd better improve his work or he'll be out of a job, and his mother disinherits him, we would think that's conflict. But, it isn't.
Those examples are troubling, disturbing, upsetting, but not one of them is what's needed to set a story in motion and carry it through to a satisfying ending. They're what I call false conflict. What's needed to make a story move is dramatic conflict.
Dramatic conflict is a very special kind of trouble. Confusing false conflict with dramatic conflict is the number one cause of failed stories. It also accounts for an enormous amount of wasted effort and frustration on the part of the writer.
Trying to create a story from false conflict is like dragging a dead horse around a racetrack. You may get to the finish line, but you'll never win a race.
Understanding dramatic conflict, what is it and especially what it isn't, is the trickiest and most elusive part of storytelling. It's also the heart of Immediate Fiction.
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