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Quick! You’ve got less than a minute to convince me your story is worth my time. What do you tell me? You’ve got to pique my curiosity with mystery and potential, while still conveying the bulk of the plot, theme, and general tone. “No problem!” you say. But when you sit down to actually figure out how to pitch your novel in such a stellar way, you may realize that conveying the parts that will most interest audiences isn’t always easily compatible with also conveying the technicalities of the plot—at least not within the confines of such a short description.

This is because your story’s hook and your story’s heart aren’t the same thing. What your story is really about—its heart, its core—may not be its hook at all. Fortunately, when you realize this, it suddenly makes the job of combining both into your pitch or back-cover summary much easier.

A story’s hook is the element that makes readers curious enough to pick up the book. A story’s heart is the deeper essence that makes the story matter after they do.

This revelation goes beyond just learning how to pitch your novel in the most effective way. The differences between your story’s hook and your story’s heart will affect every page you write. The sooner you figure out which is which—and how to best optimize them both—the better your book will be.

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What Is Your Story’s Heart?Your story’s heart is what it’s all about, way down at its core. This is the soul of your story. If it’s a love story, a thriller, a coming-of-age story—that’s going to be a fundamental aspect of your story’s heart.

But we’re talking more than just genre here.

The heart of your story is its essence. It’s the point. It is the meaning that shines through the technique. It is the reason this story will matter to readers after you’ve hooked them with your premise.

The easiest way to figure out your story’s heart is to ask yourself two questions:

Question #1: Why Are You Writing This Story?If the answer is, “I love romance” or “I want to make a difference in young people’s lives” or “I had an idea for a political drama set on Mars”—then that’s a great starting place for identifying your story’s heart.

But keep digging. Why this romance? Why these young people? Why Mars? Why this political drama instead of any other?

Question #2: What Is the Story Really About?Rikers High by Paul Volponi (affiliate link)

When a fellow writer asks what you’re writing, what do you tell them?

“It’s a story about a kid who ends up in the prison on Rikers Island, where he is inspired to turn his life around, thanks to the school there.”

Maybe that was the exact answer Paul Volponi gave regarding his YA novel Rikers High. It’s a snappy summary of his story’s main thrust. Other stuff happens in his book, but this is the point. This is the heart.

Examples of Story HeartsConsider the beating heart of a few more stories:

A man with the ability to jump through space to anywhere in the world is captured by people trying to harness his abilities. (Reflex by Steven Gould)

A weakling prince is sold into slavery, where he searches for faith and grows into a warrior while fighting as a gladiator. (Light of Eidon by Karen Hancock)

Edward Rochester’s first wife struggles to maintain her sanity in the face of his casual cruelty and their loveless marriage. (Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys)

A teenage girl is forced into a politicized gladiatorial gameshow, where her refusal to play by the rules challenges a corrupt system. (The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins)

A young girl’s anthropomorphized emotions must learn teamwork when a traumatic move to a new town coincides with the girl’s shift into adolescence. (Inside Out)

A laundromat owner is pulled into an endangered multiverse, which forces her to confront her fractured relationships with her family. (Everything Everywhere All at Once)

You’ll notice these are all streamlined descriptions of these stories. They don’t incorporate subplots or plot twists, because those things are ultimately extraneous trappings to the true heart of the stories. When you’re pitching your story, don’t worry about the extras. Just focus on the true essentials.

What Is Your Story’s Hook?Your story’s heart should also be specific enough to stand on its own. For example, “a story of star-crossed lovers” will never be as effective as “two star-crossed teenagers fall in love and, when their families object, end up committing double suicide” (which is, of course, Romeo & Juliet). But even when your story has a fabulously specific and unique heart, your hook will almost always be even more specific and unique.

Remember, a story hook is the element that makes readers curious enough to pick up the book. A story heart is the deeper essence that makes the story matter after they do.

In the Writer’s Digest feature “Meet the Agent” (March/April 2014), literary agent Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein encouraged authors:

Really think about your novel’s hook. What makes it stand out? How is it different from all the other novels in my inbox?

The hook is what grabs people’s attention. We’ve all read coming-of-age stories. We’ve all read ill-fated love stories. We may even have read stories about kids in juvenile detention or teenagers killing themselves for love. These ideas may be at the heart of some really stupendous stories, but without a hook to grab curiosity, readers will never take a deeper look.

To identify your story’s hook, ask yourself these questions:

Question #1: Why should audiences care about this story?If audiences were automatically going to be interested in anything you wrote, you wouldn’t need to bother with the hook. You could tell your tale and trust that audiences would share your interest just because. Sadly, it doesn’t work that way.

So why will audiences think this story is interesting? What will make it stand out from the rest of the coming-of-age stories and tragic love stories?

What question will audiences want answered? What will make them think, “Okay, I haven’t seen this version before”?

Question #2: What is the single most interesting and unique element in this story?You may be stumped after that first question. Lots of us are. We don’t always start writing a story because it’s unique or has a built-in hook. We start writing because we love its heart. But to find your story’s hook, you have to look past the surface.

Why did you need to write this story? Why couldn’t you just re-read Romeo & Juliet and call it good?

Start looking for the single most interesting element your story has on tap. To narrow that down even more, consider what’s unique about your story. More often than not, that’s where you’ll find your hook.

Your hook may be:

• An unusual character
• A fresh character relationship dynamic
• A high-concept premise
• An ironic situation
• A unique POV voice
• A subverted trope

The hook needs to create a spark of curiosity.

Examples of Story HooksSo what are our original example stories’ hooks?

Reflex: A man can jump through space. That’s relatively unique (especially compared to, say, super-strength). Even better? This potentially super-powered story doesn’t follow any of the obvious plot tropes from the comics. It’s not about a superhero using his powers to save the world. It’s about a freak being hunted, tortured, and having to figure out how to save himself.

Light of Eidon: Consider the elements this story offers: a prince, a weakling, a gladiator, a warrior, a faith crisis. In themselves, none are unique. But combined, they create interesting mashups. A weakling prince as the hero? Don’t see that one very often. A captured prince fighting as a gladiator? Nope. Throw in that crisis of faith (which is really the heart of the story), and suddenly some extremely interesting possibilities begin to surface.

Wide Sargasso Sea: This one has an instant built-in “unique factor”: it’s a prequel to Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, told from the perspective of the mad wife in the attic. The hook is built right into the premise.

The Hunger Games: Here, the story’s elements include a teenage girl, a gladiatorial gameshow, a corrupt government, enslaved performers, a love triangle, and a revolution. Of course, we’ve seen dystopias. We’ve seen survival stories. We’ve seen oppressive regimes using spectacle to control the masses. But children forced to kill each other on live television? That’s new. Even better, the theme isn’t just about whether Katniss will survive the arena; it’s about whether she can survive without her humanity intact.

Inside Out: Again, this one starts with a high-concept hook built in to its premise: the story takes place inside a girl’s mind, where her emotions are literal characters running the show. Immediately, that gives writers all kinds of possibilities for everything from comedy to symbolism. But that is just the stage on which the story can then ask deep questions such as, “What if sadness is necessary?”

Everything Everywhere All at Once: The hook is obvious here: an immigrant laundromat owner discovers she can access the skills and memories of infinite alternate selves across the multiverse. The story takes all that chaos and weirdness—hot dog fingers, googly eyes, talking rocks, bagels of doom—and roots it in the relatable ordinariness of a mother who doesn’t know how to understand her daughter. Although the multiverse is the hook, the fractured family beats at its heart.

Once you’ve got your story’s hook figured out, you may be able to work it right into the description of your story’s heart (as in the descriptions of Rikers High and Romeo & Juliet above). If you can, so much the better, since that practically answers our next question for us…

How to Combine Your Story’s Hook and Heart in a Novel PitchNow that you’ve differentiated your story’s heart and its hook—and narrowed them both down into short and specific tags, which should come first in your sales pitch to an agent or audience?

The hook always comes first.

Remember: nobody cares about the heart of your story until you first hook their curiosity. Present the most interesting and unique thing about your novel right up front. Don’t save it. Give it to them immediately. If you can’t grab them right away, you’re sunk. So bring out the big guns!

Depending on the medium you’re working in (query letter, synopsis, back cover copy), you may be limited by how much space you’ll then have to share the heart of your story. In some instances, it might not be necessary to include it all. All you really care about is reeling people in. They can discover your story’s heart when they read the book!

However, although the best novel pitches often lead with the hook, they are anchored by the heart. If you are required or have the opportunity to share your story’s heart, do it as pithily as possible. Always try to phrase it as a hook of its own.

• Never tell people what a story is about: “It’s a tragic love story.”
• Always show them: “Two teenagers fall in love at first sight and turn suicidal when their parents object to their getting married a few days later.”

Once you have your story’s heart and your story’s hook well in hand, you’ll be ready to meet any potential agent or reader with confidence. But don’t wait until then! Figure this stuff out before you start writing your first draft. Doing so will help you focus on what your story is really about and empower you to build a heart and a hook that will live up to any sales pitch.

Want More?If you’re looking for even more writing instruction, I’m excited to be participating in the WorldShift Summit for Speculative Fiction Writers, a free online conference running August 17–22.

WorldShift brings together 30+ authors, editors, and writing teachers for presentations on story structure, character, worldbuilding, revision, publishing, and much more. Registration is completely free, with each day’s classes available to watch for 24 hours.

I’ll be teaching The Hidden Architecture of Meaningful Fiction: 7 Elements That Give Stories Weight, a brand-new class exploring practical ways to create greater depth, cohesion, thematic resonance, and meaning in your stories.

→ [Join me at WorldShift for free]

There’s also an optional All-Access Pass if you’d like lifetime access to the entire conference, including all presentations, transcripts, speaker bonuses, and live events. See you there!

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! How do you balance your story’s hook and heart when learning how to pitch your novel? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast or Amazon Music).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post How to Pitch Your Novel: The Difference Between Your Story’s Hook and Heart appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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For years, in my book Creating Character Arcs and elsewhere, I’ve taught the Lie the Character Believes as the central premise of character arc. The Lie the Character Believes is the limited perspective that prevents characters from embracing the thematic Truth until the events of the story force them to grow. In a Positive Change Arc, characters will move past the Lie to embrace the more expanded perspective of the story’s thematic Truth. In a Negative Change Arc, the characters’ failure to embrace that growth will cause them to devolve into a more constricted or warped perspective.

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

Basically, the Lie references a state of being that characters must outgrow in order to positively change their circumstances.

The Lie the Character Believes Isn’t Really a LieBut if we really look at what’s happening in transformational fiction, it turns out… the Lie the Character Believes really isn’t a “lie.”

Now, I’ve always liked the pithiness and accessibility of this terminology. We can all immediately understand how a character’s mistaken understanding requires a character arc.

• We see Jane Eyre’s explosive and inspiring growth from mousy, repressed orphan to fully sovereign woman, thanks to the unraveling of childhood programming that told her she was unlovable.

Jane Eyre (2006), WGBH/BBC.

• We watch the protagonist of Everything Everywhere All at Once awaken from the numbing belief that life is meaningless to discover that meaning is something we create through our choices to show up and show love.

Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022), IAC Films.

• We see Feyre in A Court of Thorns and Roses gradually release her survival-based self-belittlement to embrace her power as a keeper of community in a larger world.

Court of Thorns and Roses series by Sarah J. Maas (affiliate link)

But as I’ve come to recognize over the years, the Lie is not just a Lie. I’ve come to emphasize it specifically as a comparatively limited belief that exists in a continuum with a comparatively expansive Truth. Because here’s the thing: at the beginning of a story, the Lie starts out as the character’s Truth. To some degree, it was a Truth that worked for them up until the story begins.

For Example:

In Book 1, Feyre’s zoned-in focus on survival skills are exactly what supports her family for years… until she kills the shapeshifting wolf in the woods, is pushed into the larger world of the Fae, and must grapple with the fact that her perspective of herself in that world must evolve and expand if she is to adapt.

The Truth a character reaches in any one story is just the beginning. In life, we are constantly leveling up along this continuum. Yesterday’s Truth becomes tomorrow’s Lie–or, more accurately, yesterday’s expanded perspective becomes tomorrow’s limited perspective as the horizon grows ever broader before us.

For Example:

At the end of Book 1, Feyre learns love is worth sacrifice, but Book 2 quickly proves the limitations of this perspective as well. From there, she must expand that Truth to recognize that authentic love cannot require the perpetual sacrifice of one’s own identity.

The rabbit hole goes still deeper. Recently, I was once again contemplating the Lie the Character Believes and thinking about how I have engaged with this continuum of growth in my own life. What I realized was that many of my greatest revelations and expansions haven’t really felt like a dramatic shift from “something that wasn’t true” to “something that was true.” Rather, what they’ve always felt like is clarity. They’ve felt like coming into alignment with something that, at some level, always felt true, but that had been blocked in some way.

And so, I would posit that the Lie a character overcomes really isn’t so much a wrong belief they must correct (or at least not always and not at its deeper levels). Rather, it is a fissure in consciousness—a place where the conscious self is inhabiting an ego identity that has created separation between its surface-level understanding and the deeper Truth of our being.

Three Ways to Understand the Lie the Character BelievesWithin this philosophy of the Lie the Character Believes, we have three different models of increasing complexity.

Three ways to understand the Lie the Character Believes: as a mistaken belief, a limited perspective, and an ego identity.

First, we have the Lie as simply a mistaken belief or even an outright deception that must be seen through.

Second, we have the Lie as a point within a continuum from a comparatively limited perspective to a comparatively expanded perspective. Both “Lie” and “Truth” are qualified here; they are not black and white, good or bad. They are just reference points for where characters may find themselves along the continuum at any point.

And third, we have this deeper understanding of the Lie as an ego identity or a comparatively limited consciousness. It is ultimately a separation between the conscious self and the unconscious self. When we zoom back from the minutiae of any specific character arc to look at the movement of human growth, what we are really tracking is the larger expansion that becomes possible as we release the limitations of our ego identities, allowing us to embrace our capacity for deep alignment with the truths of life.

The Lie the Character Believes as SeparationWhat does it mean to identify with the ego? The ego is a limited awareness of the self. It tells me I am my name, my job, my gender, my ethnicity, my trauma, my roles. It then reflects the world back to me in equally limited terms: simply, the world is what I perceive—whether I am idealistic or cynical. But none of these things are, in fact, true.

I am not K.M. Weiland—those are just letters and sounds my parents passed on to me. I am not a writer—that is just something I do. The world around me is neither good nor bad just because I perceive it so (not least because my certainties change with my moods).

I am not a genius just because I get a good review, any more than I am stupid just because my inner critic tells me so. But to the degree my ego latches on to the importance of either as an identity, it separates me from the larger continuum of my own greater consciousness and immediately creates a limited perspective. Worse (or not, since this is a writer’s bread and butter!), it now tells me I must defend that identity to the death. And, of course, the super-sneaky part is that we don’t even recognize this is happening.

In opposition to the Lie the Character Believes in a story, we find the thematic Truth. In a specific story, the Truth will also be something specific. If a character believes the Lie that she is only valuable if she wins a competition, then the Truth might be that her family will love her even when she loses. But underneath that specific Truth is always the larger Truth, which is “because our perspectives are always limited, our identification with those perspectives is often what is causing us pain.”

Different stories will choose which model makes the most sense for their thematic and psychological complexity.

For Example:

• In The Truman Show, Truman’s arc is built around the first model: he has literally been deceived about the nature of his world and must see through that deception in order to become free.

The Truman Show (1998), Paramount Pictures.

• In Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennet’s arc illustrates the second model: she is not overcoming an outright falsehood so much as expanding beyond a limited perspective to recognize a more nuanced understanding of herself and others. In fact, we see a layering here, in that her initial prejudice of Darcy (aka, her limited perspective) actually does cause her to believe Wickham’s specific falsehood about Darcy’s character.

The scene structure here answers its opening question with a resounding, “Yes. Elizabeth does encounter Darcy.”

• In The Lord of the Rings, Frodo’s deepest arc points toward the third model: although his journey challenges mistaken beliefs and expands his perspective, its ultimate movement is the gradual surrender of an identity rooted in self-reliance, allowing him to participate in something infinitely larger than himself.

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001), New Line Cinema.

How the Backstory Ghost Creates the Lie the Character BelievesWhere does this limiting ego identification come from?

Within the theory of storyform, it originates with the Ghost in the character’s backstory. Often a wound, the Ghost is the specific catalyst that either formed the ego identity or created a defensive need to cling to it. By the time a character arc grows beyond simple Lies and Truths into an expansion of consciousness, the Ghost is often simply what we now recognize most commonly as childhood coping mechanisms. It is whatever created the first severances of inner wholeness in an attempt to meet early needs.

Habits of a Happy Brain by Loretta Graziano Breuning (affiliate link)

And as Loretta Graziano Breuning speaks about in her book Habits of a Happy Brain, our early experiences of such hormones as dopamine, serotonin, endorphins, and cortisol wire our entire perception of the world. How our brains develop creates our personalities, which in turn influence the stories we tell about ourselves and others, which in turn become our identities.

In short, we might just as easily recognize the Lie as a coping mechanism. Just as a Lie isn’t a Lie for your character until it stops proving effective, a coping mechanism is never something we question—until it stops helping us cope and/or starts creating more problems than it’s solving (i.e., more mad or sad hormones than happy or safe ones).

That’s the point at which the story begins. It’s the point at which characters begin the slow journey toward the consciousness that perhaps they are more than whatever limiting coping mechanism they’ve been identifying with all this time.

As character arcs bear out over and over, this is often a painful journey. Even when characters are moving toward a better, more expanded, healthier place of being, everything inside screams that this transformation is dangerous. The ego is built to help us survive, but its programs are limited. It doesn’t always adapt as quickly as life demands. And when life insists that what the ego believes will keep it safe is, in fact, a “lie,” the ego will exert all manner of painful tactics to return to the status quo.

The Gene Keys by Richard Rudd (affiliate link)

In The Gene Keys, Richard Rudd comments on this:

The suffering we feel, though real within the context of our physiology, is an illusion when it comes to our minds. And our minds hold the key to its release…. As we see at the shadow frequency, the mind automatically collapses into confusion when faced with the pain underlying life…. All it takes is willingness to feel the pain, and the miracle begins.

For Example:

• Jane Eyre’s childhood rejection teaches her to survive by making herself small and emotionally self-sufficient, until that very strategy prevents her from accepting the love she most longs for.
• Feyre Archeron’s years of poverty and neglect teach her that her worth depends upon sacrifice and survival, until those same coping mechanisms become prisons she must outgrow in order to embrace a fuller identity.
• Woody in Toy Story builds his identity around being Andy’s favorite toy, and every perceived threat to that identity triggers fear, jealousy, and defensiveness until he learns his worth apart from his status.

Why Character Arc Is Alignment Rather Than TransformationAlthough I dearly love the idea of character arc as being about transformation, I think this expanded model reveals it might be more accurate to instead think of character arc as being about coming into alignment. It’s less about a change to the character’s fundamental self and more about the removal of the false self. It’s not the addition of a new perspective, but the stripping away of what isn’t true so the character may see more clearly.

Writing Masterclass: Ego-Driven Character Arcs vs. Soul-Driven Character Arcs

In my class earlier this year Ego-Driven Character Arcs vs. Soul-Driven Character Arcs, I talked about how the soul-driven (or dharmic) character arc demonstrates an advancement from the ego-driven (or karmic) arc, in that these characters undergo transformation with less resistance. Even if they may struggle with the specifics of the change required of them, they at least embrace the understanding that this movement toward Truth is unavoidable and even beneficial.

This is why we may see arcs that feature more “advanced” characters—such as the Mage archetype—engaging in comparatively little plot conflict. They are willing to embrace the suffering of further initiation and understand that non-reactivity is a surer path. They don’t have to force the change any more than they want to resist it; it will come to them if they let it. Rudd puts it:

As your inner spirit decides to face who you really are for the first time ever, the mind tricks are witnessed.

Even characters struggling through extremely egoic Lies will (if their arcs are successful) eventually reach a moment when they recognize that embracing the Truth means being non-reactive to the Lie and the confusion it creates now that it is no longer proving effective. Instead, they must allow the Truth, as Rudd says, “to enthuse and fire your mind with inspiration.”

Man and His Symbols by Carl G. Jung (and others) (affiliate link)

In the multi-author book Man and His Symbols, Jungian scholar Marie-Louise von Franz speaks of how:

…this creative active aspect of the psychic nucleus can come into play only when the ego gets rid of all purposive and wishful aims and tries to get a deeper, more basic form of existence. The ego must be able to listen attentively and to give itself, without any further design or purpose, to that inner urge toward growth.

For Example:

• In Kung Fu Panda, Po’s greatest breakthrough comes when he stops trying to become someone else’s idea of the Dragon Warrior and simply inhabits his own personal genius.

Kung-Fu Panda (2008), DreamWorks Animation.

• In The Matrix, Neo becomes “the One” by finally releasing his identification with the limits he believed defined him.

The Matrix (1999), Warner Bros.

• In Return of the Jedi, Luke’s final victory comes through refusing to continue fighting from within the rage-fueled identity the Emperor is trying to impose upon him.

Star Wars: Return of the Jedi (1983), 20th Century Fox.

• In Everything Everywhere All at Once, Evelyn’s breakthrough comes when she stops reacting to the chaos around her and instead chooses compassionate presence, allowing love rather than fear to guide her actions.

Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022), IAC Films.

• In Jane Eyre, Jane’s crucial act of transformation isn’t choosing Rochester, but rather refusing to choose him until she can do so without betraying herself.

Jane Eyre (2006), WGBH/BBC.

The Lie the Character Believes as Social RealityWhen we consider the Lie the Character Believes to be this sense of separation from our deeper selves, we can see it played out at many different levels within the metaphor of story.

Characters may face Lies that are internal (identity), external (social), or both. In either case, the Lie always represents some version of the status quo that has grown stagnant and therefore malignant.

The Social Construction of Reality by Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann (affiliate link)

Ego identities are not simply personal. They are reinforced through collective social consensus. Society itself can be seen as an ego identity. In their seminal book, sociologists Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann posited that reality, as we think of it, is a social construction. Customs and traditions are dictated by varying societies. That America or Columbia or Italy are countries at all is a social convention. Indeed, the conventions of language are a social construction, with (mostly) agreed-upon rules.

Although we each, in our own small way, influence society, society bears a tremendous influence upon our own ego identities—not just in how we operate socially but also in how we understand ourselves internally. Arguably, the vast majority of our ego identities are inherited. We all entertain outer Lies (aka, limiting beliefs) about what we believe reality to be and inner Lies about what we believe our identities within that reality to be.

Many of these beliefs are useful. These identities are uniforms we wear that allow us to function in various roles in the world—as parents, children, construction workers, politicians, artists, neighbors, citizens, etc. This status quo holds our world together and wards off the chaos at the door.

The Hero With a Thousand Faces Joseph Campbell (affiliate link)

But it is also stultifying. It is what Joseph Campbell termed “the tyrant-ogre Holdfast, Keeper of the Status Quo.” Symbolically, it is the central antagonist in the Hero’s Journey and every other archetypal character arc. Although there is a time and place within character development to celebrate the integration of the status quo, every Positive Change Arc is ultimately a movement away from the confines of social reality toward the initiation of individuation.

As von Franz notes, individuation is a movement of the smaller egoic consciousness into relationship with the larger self:

Jung … described [the Self] as the totality of the whole psyche, in order to distinguish it from the “ego,” which constitutes only a small part of the total psyche.

She went on to explain:

It even seems as if the ego has not been produced by nature to follow its own arbitrary impulses to an unlimited extent, but to help make real the totality—the whole psyche. It is the ego that serves to light up the entire system, allowing it to become conscious and thus to be realized. If, for example, I have an artistic talent of which my ego is not conscious, nothing will happen to it. The gift may as well be non-existent. Only if my ego notices it can I bring it into reality. The inborn but hidden totality of the psyche is not the same thing as a wholeness that is fully realized and lived…. Strictly speaking, however, the process of individuation is real only if the individual is aware of it and consciously makes a living connection with it.

The transformation at the heart of character arc is an awakening to consciousness (to whatever degree) and a movement away from the ego’s identification with social reality. It is this movement that allows the character to come into greater alignment with self-responsibility and accountability.

In many ways, the great Lie under all the smaller lies a character may believe is simply that circumstances dictate their lives—which allows for a great deal of irresponsibility. With awareness comes responsibility, with responsibility comes accountability, with accountability comes pain—but also freedom and the deep health of alignment.

That is character arc in a nutshell.

Character Arc as the Union of Consciousness and the UnconsciousIsn’t it interesting that the very elements that make a good story are the same elements that direct us into the deeper truths of life, growth, healing, and conscious expansion?

The hidden structure of story and character arc is itself a thematic arc toward truth. Not all stories will explore these deeper themes. But they don’t have to; the shape is always there.

Archetypally, character arc is the quest for union between conscious awareness and the unconscious self.

Also in Man and His Symbols, Joseph L. Henderson wrote:

[A] sense of completeness is achieved through a union of the consciousness with the unconscious contents of the mind.

As we’ve been talking about all year, this movement is exactly what allows us, as writers, to create myth from the inside out. Any story that resonates with this primal shape of the psyche’s journey taps the archetype for anyone who reads or watches it.

Rudd, in closing, once again:

All natural energy or life force has one inbuilt program: to grow and evolve. This is the nature of life.

Perhaps that’s why stories matter so much. Every Positive Change Arc reminds us of something we instinctively recognize in our own lives: that growth is really about finding out who we are beneath the fear, the defenses, and the identities we’ve accumulated along the way.

Want More?Shadow Archetypes Course

If this post resonated with you, you might enjoy my Shadow Archetypes course!

If the Lie the Character Believes can ultimately be understood as an ego identity or coping mechanism, then the shadow archetypes offer a powerful way of recognizing how those patterns show up in our characters’ coping mechanisms, fears, defenses, temptations, and opportunities for growth.

Throughout this eight-week email course, we explore the passive and aggressive shadow expressions of the six character arcs in the Archetypal Life Cycle to show how they can help you create richer inner conflict, more resonant themes, and ultimately more transformative stories. If you’re interested in exploring the deeper psychology behind character arc and the limiting beliefs that create the Lie the Character Believes, this is a great next step.

Available as an eight-week email course.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! How do you think of the Lie the Character Believes in your own stories? Is it a mistaken belief, a limited perspective, or something even deeper? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast on YouTube, Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post The Lie the Character Believes: A Deeper Look at Consciousness and Character Arc appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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A flawed character becomes likable when audiences trust the character’s honesty more than they judge the character’s mistakes.

Memorable characters come in many shades—everything from Heathcliff’s murderous manipulation to Steve Rogers’s aw-shucks idealism. Sometimes, the not-so-likable characters end up being all the more interesting and enduring for their inner darkness. But, generally speaking, most authors are on a mission to write a likable character.

We want readers to become fascinated with these characters. We want them to wish our protagonists lived next door so they could go out for coffee once a week and chat about saving the world. But how can we be sure of creating personalities that are lovable—or at least so compelling that audiences can’t look away?

The answers are as vast as the personalities we know in our own lives. We might like one person for his wit, another for her kindness, another for his daring, and yet another for her virtue. And when it comes to characters, the truth is: we also like them for their flaws—to a point.

So the new question becomes: How do we create a character who is flawed enough to avoid the Goody Two-Shoes Award, while still being likable in spite of those flaws?

Audiences Forgive Flaws—But Not HypocrisyIt’s important to recognize a distinct difference between likability and perfection.

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

Audiences neither expect nor desire perfect characters. (If nothing else, you’re not likely to get much of a character arc.)

Even though we often desire morally heroic or courageous characters, we crave those same characters to be flawed.

Audiences will forgive an array of personal flaws—everything from pettiness to bravado to cowardice and even brutality—as long as they can still sense a core of authenticity within the character’s self-awareness. Audiences can forgive moral failure. What they can’t forgive is hypocrisy—particularly if the hypocrisy is unintentionally created by the author.

Unintentional or unaddressed character hypocrisy destroys trust and suspension of disbelief. This means one of the easiest ways to anchor audience empathy for even deeply flawed characters is to allow those characters even just one moment of self-recognition.

How Honesty Makes Flawed Characters More LikableIn short, make your characters honest.

I don’t mean never-fish-for-spare-change-in-a-vending-machine honest. I mean tell-it-like-it-is-and-own-up-to-it honest.

Audiences will forgive characters any number of flaws if the characters are honest about who they are and what they’re doing.

This does not mean characters will tell others the truth all the time. They can deceive, coerce, and keep secrets.

This also doesn’t mean characters must always be self-aware. Indeed, character arcs require the Lie the Character Believes to be prominent at some point in the story. In a Positive Change Arc, the characters will arc toward their capacity for self-awareness. By contrast, beginning a Negative Change Arc with at least some modicum of self-awareness can increase the ironic poignancy of the character’s descent into deception (of self or others).

3 Examples of How Honest Characters Earn Audience TrustThis post was originally inspired by an excellent moment in an otherwise forgettable Golden Hollywood movie that you’ve likely never heard of…

Sylvia Scarlett: Why Honest Characters Win Audience EmpathySylvia Scarlett is an early Katherine Hepburn/Cary Grant vehicle, in which Hepburn plays a young girl masquerading as a boy to help her crooked father escape the police. Out of its otherwise chaotic storytelling, we have a beautiful example of how to “show” a character’s honesty even in the midst of otherwise unlikable actions.

Early in the movie, the originally virtuous Sylvia finds herself talked into being a thief despite her convictions. In short, she’s a hypocrite—potentially the most dislikable of all character types. But she saves herself from viewer disdain. How?

You guessed it. She’s honest.

Sylvia’s willingness to admit the truth about herself transforms a potentially unlikeable hypocrite into a character audiences can empathize with. (Sylvia Scarlett (1935), RKO Radio Pictures.)

Tipsily, and still in her guise as a boy, she reveals the truth to a young housemaid who was about to unwittingly take the fall for a crime committed by Sylvia and her companions.

Sylvia points at her father, their traveling companion, and then herself, saying, “He’s a crook, he’s a crook… he’s a crook.”

And just like that, despite her multitude of sins, she wins viewers back. She’s struggling. She’s tempted. She’s fallen. And… she knows it. In admitting the truth about herself in an unguarded moment, she invites viewers into her relatability.

Tony Stark: Why Transparency Creates Reader TrustTony is the poster child for a flawed but likable character. Right from the start, he proves himself arrogant, reckless, provocative, and disrespectful. And yet, one of the reasons audiences rarely resent him is that Tony almost never pretends to be someone he’s not.

When Steve Rogers challenges him in The Avengers by asking what he is without his Iron Man suit, Tony’s famous reply—“Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.”–is subversively transparent. In conversation with someone who is in many ways his polar opposite (i.e., humble, sincere, genuinely likable), Tony unapologetically owns his flaws. Tony shows the ability to arc over the course of the series, but right from the start, his often reckless honesty (“I’m Iron Man”) subverts his arrogance into authenticity.

Iron Man (2008), Marvel Studios.

Raylan Givens: How to Get Audiences to Trust Morally Gray CharactersFinally, we can also consider Raylan Givens from the show Justified.

Justified (2010-15), FX.

As a deputy U.S. marshal, Raylan regularly skirts into the gray area of the law. His shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later approach makes him a throwback lawman more than a socially acceptable hero.

In the pilot episode, after Raylan shoots a suspect, his ex-wife questions what happened. Raylan’s earnest response is simple: “I was justified.”

Throughout the rest of the series, Raylan operates according to this personal code of “justification,” which he never attempts to gloss over. He understands his moral grayness and doesn’t try to convince either himself or others that he is otherwise.

Ironically, his honesty often makes his flawed behavior all the more stark. Although he lacks self-awareness in many areas, it is his integrity to his own code that allows viewers to connect with him even when he leads them into the gray.

7 Questions to Ask About Your Flawed CharactersIf you’re worried your characters may be crossing the line from flawed to unlikable, here are some questions you can explore:

1. Are they honest with themselves about their own weaknesses?
2. Can you create a scene in which they are honest with at least one other person?
3. How can you “show” the characters’ self-awareness rather than just “telling” it through dialogue or internal narrative?
4. Do they acknowledge (at least to themselves) when they’ve crossed a line?
5. Do they believe they are better than they really are?
6. Can you identify any scenes in which characters self-justify consequential actions or refuse to acknowledge culpability when others are hurt? (If hypocrisy is not your intention, consider changing or deleting such scenes.)
7. Are characters living by an internally consistent personal code?

A little well-dramatized self-awareness and honesty is more than enough to make even the most flawed character surprisingly likable. When characters prove able to face the truth about themselves, this is what sets the groundwork for strong character arcs. It also means that, even at the lowest moments in those arcs, audiences will be able to forgive seemingly unforgivable flaws. This is because honesty gives your characters’ imperfections context, humanity, and credibility.

And that’s what keeps readers turning pages.

Want More?One of the reasons I love using the Enneagram in character development is that it helps authors create believable flaws. Every Enneagram type carries its own core fears, desires, strengths, blind spots, and coping mechanisms. When you understand those deeper motivations, your characters’ weaknesses stop feeling like arbitrary quirks and start feeling like natural expressions of who they are.

In the Enneagram Character Arc Worksheets Bundle, each worksheet explores one Enneagram type and shows how its defining personality traits can develop through either a Positive Change Arc or a Negative Change Arc. If you’re looking for authentic flaws and psychologically consistent motivations, these worksheets offer a practical way to create personality-based character arcs that feel realistic and authentic.

Available as an instant digital download.

Enneagram Character Arc Cheat Sheet Full Bundle

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What are your favorite examples of flawed characters whose honesty makes them more likable? Tell me in the comments!The post Why Honesty Makes Flawed Characters More Likable appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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What is a story? One easy answer is that it is a narrative composed of a beginning, middle, and ending.

Today, we’re talking about how to write satisfying endings, but allow me a quick rabbit trail: A while back, someone asked me to write a post about why the Second Act was even a thing. Admittedly, my first response was a sort of spluttery, “Uhhh… because it is.” I managed to be somewhat more articulate in the actual post, in which I detailed why the middle of the story provides an absolutely necessary psychological core. It does more than just bridge the beginning and the end; it is where the drama of the story’s argument is explored.

The beginning asks a question; the middle explores it; the ending answers it.

Together, we can see how all three components are necessary. If we leave one off, something integral is missing. There’s a psychological hole.

Although we can’t necessarily single out any of the three as more important than the others, I feel it’s obvious that the idea of skipping the ending is particularly problematic.

And yet… if you think about it, there is a huge modern push toward “endless” stories—aka, series, in which story arcs are sometimes never given a satisfying ending.

When story is viewed less as merely an entertainment vehicle and more as a symbolic conversation with the deeper parts of our humanity, this modern impulse toward endless stories suggests we’ve strayed from one of story’s most important psychological functions. Endings complete the transformation that gives the story its meaning.

Here’s the whole problem in a nutshell: no endings, no transformation. And without transformation, we arguably also endanger fiction’s great power for catharsis and initiation.

For us to write stories of true power, one of the most important skills is understanding the role of a satisfying ending.

• What is the ending of a story actually accomplishing on a psychological level?
• Why does the ending so often make or break the entire story?
• Why do anticlimactic or random endings feel so frustrating?
• Why do cohesive endings often give us such a powerful experience of satisfaction or even catharsis?
• What does it mean for society if we are addicted to stories that never end?
• How can we create stories of cohesion and resonance that end in profoundly satisfying ways?

Let’s explore.

The Meaning of a Story Is Found in Its Ending

The ending is in the beginning.

I’ve talked about this principle for many years. Basically, it means that however the story ends, the first seeds will be planted in the beginning. At its simplest, this is foreshadowing. At its deepest, it is chiastic or “ring” structure, in which the two halves of the story mirror each other to create profound layers of symbolic resonance.

Most important is the truth that a story’s ending tells us what it’s about. It’s the capstone on all the context we’ve been gathering throughout the previous acts. Until that final moment, no matter how much has happened and how definitively, we don’t know exactly what the story is trying to say. The ending shows us the final thematic motif. It’s the last puzzle piece slotting into place.

Often, by the time we get to it, this final piece is expected; it’s a natural progression of the pieces immediately preceding it. Think about how Frodo’s inability to willingly destroy the Ring in Return of the King feels both surprising and inevitable, perfectly completing the story’s exploration of the corrupting nature of power and the necessity of grace.

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003), New Line Cinema.

Other times, the final piece changes everything by offering a surprising or jarring note that completely changes the final impression of the story, as in Sixth Sense, in which the final revelation of the protagonist’s being a ghost forces us to reinterpret every scene that came before.

The ending of The Sixth Sense doesn’t just surprise audiences, it reveals the story’s true meaning by recontextualizing every scene that came before. (The Sixth Sense (1999), Buena Vista Pictures.)

How different could the meaning of certain stories be if the ending were changed?

• What if Rick had left Casablanca with Ilsa?
• What if Frodo had willingly cast the Ring into Mount Doom?
• What if George Bailey had managed to leave Bedford Falls?

Writing Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

The ending of a story does more than simply end the conflict between the protagonist and the antagonistic force. It is about much more than whether or not the protagonist gains the plot goal. The ending is, most importantly, where a story’s theme is finally commented upon.

Without a proper ending, we may be left with plenty of context, but not necessarily a final sense of closure and meaning. Endings give stories their shape—and shape is what allows a story to move from a recitation of events to an archetypal experience.

Endings Complete the Cycle of TransformationStory is the archetype of transformation. It is ourobourus—the ancient symbol of the snake eating its tail. It is the life cycle, over and over and over again. It is life, death, rebirth.

Chiastic (or ring) story structure visualizes story as a cyclical pattern of transformation rather than a linear progression. (Graphic by Joanna Marie. From the book Next Level Plot Structure by K.M. Weiland.)

Even in its many different trappings of genre and trope, the fundamental arc of story is about transformation, because it is fundamentally about character arc.

Alchemizing Plot, Character, and Theme Masterclass

Story follows a character through a series of external events (plot) that require an internal reckoning (character arc), from which new meaning emerges (theme).

There are so many ways we see this play out:

• Sometimes the transformation is more internal (as in character-forward or milieuistic stories).
• Sometimes, we see an almost equal balance between the internal transformation and its symbolic impact on the external events (as is most common in plot-forward or Hero-based stories).
• Sometimes the transformation is entirely external, as in stories with Flat Arc protagonists or those that emphasize a detached focus on setting.
• Sometimes the transformation is only hinted at or questioned.
• Occasionally, it is subverted in a sort of ironic attempt to explore meaninglessness.

Regardless the shape, it is inevitably there. It is a circle and a cycle. No matter from what fractal perspective we examine it, the archetype of story reveals itself at work. The turn of the planets and the seasons is the same cycle that is ultimately revealed in the turning of the human life cycle—in the revelation and growth of expanding perspectives and even in the all but invisible and often unconscious shiftings that move us through every moment of every day.

But here’s the thing about transformation: it’s the end of the tale.

Although the word “transformation,” in itself, hints at the whole galaxy of a story, the noun is ultimately about the completed moment of transformation—wherever it ends. Without a structurally and archetypally sound ending, the shape of story remains incomplete—and the psychological resonance for audiences will be lost.

Why We Need to Witness the Entire ArcThe psychological truth of this completed transformation is, I think, one of the prime ways stories grant us their great gifts of catharsis and initiation. When we get to, not just witness, but experience the completed circle of a story’s transformation, it feels to me that something within our psyche also finds resolution. Ideally, we too get to experience a transformation; an awakening or at least a quickening within ourselves—either in our conscious perspective or, most potently, up from the depths of our deepest selves in a flash of symbolic recognition—a sense both of recognizing and of being recognized.

Why is this important?

I think there are several reasons, not least that story is a representative of and catalyst for growth. And growth is a kind of death. It is the dying of an old way of being, so a new way may be born—and on and on the cycle turns.

As such, it is inherently life force energy—and life force energy can never be denied. Without the cathartic and initiating power of stories that give us this experience of death and rebirth, I think it likely that this energy must be faced in perhaps more costly ways.

The Fourth Turning Is Here by Neil Howe (affiliate link)

Earlier this year, I read The Fourth Turning Is Here by generational theorist and historian Neil Howe (who coined the term Millennial). His premise suggests modern society follows a cycle of four archetypes, each of which can be seen as the protagonist of a particular season in generational history. Most pertinently, his theory suggests we are entering another “Fourth Turning,” or the ending of the cycle. This fourth and final part of the cycle has historically been heralded by significant outer-world crises (which demand sacrifices from a “Hero” generation). Past iterations of this Fourth Turning have included such colossal human tragedies as the American Civil War and World War II.

Pondering this cyclical theory has given me a sense of perspective and context for the seemingly increasingly troubled times in which I have come of age. It helps me see them as part of a cycle that will turn—that, indeed, will renew itself.

However, it also gives me tremendous pause. If this theory reflects truth, then how can humanity bear the burden of increasingly costly climactic wars? Howe would posit that these moments of crisis have, so far in our history, been unavoidable due to the social evolutions engendered by previous turnings in the cycle. But they have also continually increased in scope and damage—not just to the generations directly involved but perhaps equally in the very fact that the cycle continues to repeat.

I believe the sense of ending provided to us by stories interact with this in two ways. When the archetypal shape of story is properly executed, it gives us a safe way to practice necessary endings. Done with enough power and psychic resonance, it is perhaps enough to prompt inner crises (and resolutions) on a scale that can mitigate the explosion of shadow energy into costly outer crises.

Transformation is inherently about ego death. This is true whether we are witnessing the explicit ego death in a character arc evolving from a Lie the Character Believes into a more expanded thematic Truth. It is also true when the primary ego death is, in fact, the audience’s.

In societies, the equivalent of ego death is the death of outdated structures, social identities, and cultural narratives that no longer match reality. Indeed, these moments usually trigger individual ego deaths en masse—which is often what prompts destructive outer crises.

The catharsis engendered by a story’s ending arises from its ability to influence the audience’s relationship to their own ego death. Sometimes it has the power to change the individual, but it also has the power simply to contextualize the general experience of change. When viewed through the archetypal lens of story, change is something to respect, but not something to fear or resist. It is inevitable, and it is good. It is the movement of life. It is only in our resistance to the change—to the transformation—to the ending—that we interrupt the cycle and encounter the fearsome backlash of repressed life force energy.

The Modern Push Toward Endless StoriesWith all of that said, I find it interesting so much modern storytelling is pushed toward “endless” series. Particularly, we see this with franchises, television, and long-running series. Some of them do eventually “get an ending” when they are canceled or run out of steam—and sometimes those endings end up being perfect. But, often, there is more of a sense of endless (and often mindless) churning toward… nothing.

In pondering how the human psyche interacts with story, I think the effects of this are worth consideration—and in the spirit of “there is no such thing as just a story,” I can’t dismiss this tendency as not mattering because the stories in question are “just entertainment.”

I do believe every story we interact with has a psychological effect. Perhaps sometimes that effect is just nullity where there could have been something. Other times, I think it is a numbing or even distorting of the underlying archetypes. Certainly, we know that as writers we learn so much about story osmotically. Some of this arises from the deep relationship to story that is our birthright. But a lot of it also comes from the media we consume. When so many stories subliminally tell us there are no endings—and therefore no ego deaths, no transformations—I can’t help but wonder if that is more problematic than we sometimes think.

Now, to be clear, there’s a huge difference between a looooong story and a story that refuses to end. Series that do indeed end, even after a long and winding journey, still give us all the power (sometimes even amplified) of the archetypal experience. There is also middle ground here for series in which each installment is a complete story arc unto itself. Even when the arc isn’t very deep, at least it psychologically completes with each installment.

For example, I often think of the beloved show Supernatural, which created a strong and cohesive story and character arc over the course of five seasons, after which the initial showrunner Eric Kripke left. The show’s tremendous and enduring popularity allowed it to air for an additional ten seasons (which I admittedly quit watching after, I think, the seventh season). Although fans clearly enjoyed spending another decade with the Winchester brothers, many still consider Season 5 to be the story’s true ending. For me, I couldn’t keep watching because every episode after that felt like a dilution—and sometimes even a reversal—of the satisfying ending that was delivered to the original story arc.

Supernatural (2005-2020), The CW.

We saw this again with another beloved franchise—the Marvel Cinematic Universe. In this case, I remember approaching the final installment in the initial storyline—Avengers: Endgame—with trepidation, fearing that the ongoing nature of the series wouldn’t allow for a solid ending to the existing story arc. I was delighted that my decade-long enjoyment of the series was paid off with solid and thematically cohesive endings for most of the main characters.

The Avengers: Endgame (2019), Marvel Studios.

The series has continued from there in increasingly chaotic fashion, with little sense of overarching character arc or theme. Notably, one of the primary characters who did not receive a solid ending in Endgame—Thor—returned for a particularly egregious and character-undermining turn in Taika Waititi’s embarrassing Love & Thunder.

None of this means every story should be short or that series ultimately dilute the archetypal experience of transformative storytelling. It simply suggests that the satisfaction of a story’s true power is anchored in a thematically pertinent ending to the story’s core transformative experience. Without that completion, audiences may continue enjoying the characters and the world, but they are no longer participating in the same archetypal experience.

5 Tips to Write a Truly Satisfying EndingThe best story endings don’t happen by accident. They arise naturally from everything the story has been building toward from its opening pages. Here are five ways to ensure your ending delivers on that promise.

1. Connect Your Ending to Your BeginningIf the ending is in the beginning, then equally the beginning is in the ending. If you know your ending before you begin, this may help you craft the kind of beginning that sets it up. But even if you have to go back and rewrite the beginning after writing the final scene, make sure it is in resonance with the ending.

Next Level Plot Structure (Amazon affiliate link)

One way to do this is to apply chiastic or ring structure to your story. This approach recognizes certain symbolic symmetries between the two halves of the story and particularly between the specific beats in each half. I’ve written about this at length in my book Next Level Plot Structure, but for the purpose of this discussion about beginnings and endings, you might want to particularly think about how your story’s Inciting Event raises a question or creates a conflict that will be resolved in the Climactic Moment. The link between these two structural beats is arguably the most important axis for creating a story whose narrative action feels cohesive and resonant.

1. Let Your Story’s Ending Reveal Its MeaningTry as authors might, we can’t always make our stories mean what we want them to. A story’s meaning does not emerge solely from the author’s intent or even from explicit statements in dialogue and narrative about “what this was about” or “what characters believe.”

Meaning emerges, inevitably, from the consequences characters face for their actions throughout the story. Whether characters are rewarded or punished for their choices—and, most importantly, how this affects their inner state—is the ultimate revelation of meaning. Sometimes this may be explicitly revealed or stated. But even when it is, it is the undeniable sense with which audiences are left that ultimately comments upon the meaning.

Ask yourself:

• What in your story is going to die?
• What is going to be reborn?

• How are these two things dramatized throughout the narrative (i.e., shown, not told)?

• Complete the Character’s Transformation Instead of Simply Resolving the PlotAs noted, the fundamental transformation in a story can incarnate in many ways. It need not always be the protagonist’s transformation or even any of the characters (as in heavily symbolic stories). But there should be some sense that something has changed, whether grandly or subtly.

If nothing has changed, then the plot literally has not moved (and was also probably pretty boring). Even if you’re quite sure things have changed, double-check that the change rendered in the Climactic Moment aligns with the plot’s and character arc’s structural throughline throughout. Endings will feel anticlimactic or even random when they emphasize transformations that were not at the center of the plot.

1. Use the Story’s Structural Ending to Complete the ArcAlthough a transformative ending will depend on the strength and alignment of every structural beat, those in the final act deserve particular attention.

From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

Structurally, the final act begins with the Third Plot Point (around the 75% mark). This is, critically, a beat of Death/Rebirth. It is the Low Moment. The Dark Night of the Soul.

From a plot perspective, this is often where characters must face up to significant consequences. From a character arc perspective, this is ego death. In a Positive Change Arc, this is where the character must grapple with the last remnants of the Lie and fully reject it and its associated ego identity in order to fully embrace and grow into the wider perspective of the story’s thematic Truth.

From there, the character’s choices will prove what fruit they will bear in the Climactic Moment. Here, the conflict ends definitively. Either the protagonist wins the plot goal or loses. Either way, something dies, and something is reborn.

The Resolution is then a final scene—a final commentary on what has gone before. It leaves audiences with a final bit of context for what it all meant. Although it may allow for loose ends to be tied off in the plot, it is ultimately a thematic statement—a subtle and perhaps largely unspoken contextualization of all the emotions the story experience has stirred up.

1. Know When an Arc Is Thematically Complete—and Have the Courage to End ItFinally, once you have some idea how your story will end, what will be transformed, and what it may all mean, it is worthwhile to consider how to construct the best story vehicle for that experience. Perhaps you will realize the strongest archetypal experience is a standalone story. Perhaps you will create a series that uses its length to deepen the exploration of theme and character development.

Whatever the case, a satisfying ending is the final proving ground for all the powerful imagery, symbolism, and archetypal resonance your story will have brought forth for your audience. Creating a satisfying and even powerful experience for your audience “ends” here.

Want More?Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

When I first started studying character arc, I had no idea how far-reaching that exploration would turn out to be. I thought I was learning just another aspect of story structure. Instead, it ended up changing the way I understood almost everything about storytelling. Once I could see the underlying shape of transformation, I began to understand why some stories feel so deeply meaningful—and why endings have to be much more than simply the place where the plot stops.

In my book Creating Character Arcs, I share the principles that completely changed the way I approach story—in the hope they will help you create stories whose transformations (and endings) feel cohesive, resonant, and true.

Available in paperback, e-book, and audio.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What do you think makes story endings truly satisfying, and how do you approach writing an ending that completes your story’s transformation? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Multiple POVs—should you use them or should you not?

That’s a question with huge implications for your story. It will influence everything from structure to pacing to character arcs. Most importantly, it will have a huge influence on your readers’ experience of the story—for better or worse.

More genre books than not use multiple POVs to present multiple protagonists—or sometimes just to give readers a glimpse at what’s happening behind the protagonist’s back. There can be many drawbacks to multiple POVs, not least that readers may significantly enjoy certain POVs more than others, which can in turn contribute to a poorly-paced plot in which comparatively little happens.

Although I am personally a huge fan of single-POV stories, today I want to talk about something I love about multiple POVs, and that’s what I call the Vicarious Love Factor. Sounds complicated (and maybe a little kinky), doesn’t it? But it’s not!

What Is the “Vicarious Love Factor” Offered by Multiple POVs?The Vicarious Love Factor is the phenomenon in which readers’ feelings about one character are shaped by other characters’ perspectives.

One of the inherent limitations of a single-POV story is that readers experience the protagonist almost exclusively from the inside out. They know what the character thinks, but they don’t often get to see that character the way everyone else does.

After all, most characters aren’t especially objective about themselves.

For example, a protagonist may genuinely believe he or she is ordinary, incompetent, or even unlikable. Another character, however, may recognize courage beneath that same person’s self-doubt, kindness beneath the reserve, or integrity beneath the flaws. That outside perspective can reveal dimensions that the protagonist’s solo POV can’t convey as easily.

Thanks to a glimpse through the objective eyes of another character, readers are able to better understand the protagonist. When a protagonist is loved by another character (whether or not that love is deserved), readers are also given a major subconscious incentive to love that character too.

And, of course, the reverse is also true. If another character distrusts, fears, envies, or even hates the protagonist, those emotions become part of the lens through which readers interpret the story.

This isn’t just because multiple POVs give readers more information about a character. They create emotional investment by inviting readers to participate in the relationships between characters. When readers witness one character’s love, loyalty, admiration, or heartbreak for another, they share in those emotions.

For example, if one character grieves, readers are more likely to grieve. If one character desperately wants another to succeed, readers often find themselves wanting the same thing. In many ways, the emotional connections between characters become the emotional connections between readers and the characters as well.

How Multiple POVs Deepen Reader EmpathyReaders naturally understand characters through relationships.

Think about the people in your own life. Rarely do you form an opinion of someone in complete isolation. You also notice how others respond to them:

• Are they respected?
• Are they dismissed?
• Do people trust them with their secrets?
• Do people turn to them when life falls apart?

One of the most useful things about multiple POVs is that they allow readers to experience a protagonist from both the inside and the outside.

Internally, readers witness the protagonist’s doubts, fears, rationalizations, and private struggles.

Externally, they see aspects the protagonist may not have the self-awareness to recognize (e.g., courage, kindness, leadership).

Or, vice versa, readers may witness the character’s unwitting hypocrisy. Either way, readers may come away with a richer understanding than either viewpoint could have offered alone.

Writing Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

More importantly, every relationship says something about both characters. When one POV character admires another, readers also learn something about the admirer. The emotional currents flowing between characters deepen characterization on both sides, often reinforcing the story’s theme without ever calling attention to it.

Should You Add Another POV?This effect can, of course, be achieved without multiple POVs, and sometimes the pitfalls of multiple POVs won’t balance out their advantages.

Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

Before deciding to include a new POV, always consider its overall effect on the story’s cohesion and resonance, not least in the plot structure. Every POV should earn its place by deepening conflict, revealing new dimensions of character, advancing the plot, or illuminating the theme in ways no other perspective can.

If the POV’s only purpose is to provide commentary on the protagonist or to reveal plot events that otherwise would happen offstage, the effect can often feel empty. But when another viewpoint genuinely deepens or advances the story, that character’s perspective of other characters will influence your readers’ feelings about all of them.

Note: This article has been revised and expanded from an earlier version.

Want More?Outlining Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

If you’re deciding whether your story really needs multiple POVs, that choice is often easiest to make before you begin drafting. In Outlining Your Novel (and its companion workbook), I help writers think through big-picture questions like POV, character relationships, and story structure while it’s still easy to experiment. A little planning up front can save countless revisions later!

Available in paperback, e-book, and audio.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Do you feel that multiple POVs help readers connect more deeply with your characters? Tell me in the comments!The post Why Multiple POVs Can Make Readers Love Your Characters More appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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A hill I will die on: we need heroic stories.

That may seem super obvious. After all, the word “hero” has become all but synonymous with “protagonist.”

They are not, however, the same thing. A protagonist is the structural driver of the plot (just as the antagonist is the structural obstacle to that driving momentum). There is no moral or even postural indication implied by the word “protagonist.” There is no inherent structural demand that a story must feature someone of moral courage or virtue. Indeed, antiheroic stories are very much in vogue.

We’re all about the “morally gray” these days. And to the degree, that means “morally complex,” I’m there too. There is so much variety in story, as there should be in its reflection of life. We need the stories that explore and expurgate the shadows. We need the tragedies that cathartize our suffering and confusion.

But in our sophistication, it feels like sometimes we denigrate the truly heroic.

Genre stories like action-adventure and romance—with their all but guaranteed Happily Ever After—are often dismissed as lower forms of art than their more ambiguous or critical brethren. But my view is that the hidden symbolic structure of the story arc is inherently heroic—it is inherently about the clarifying transformation of shedding what is false, walking through trials, and emerging reborn like the phoenix. As we discussed earlier this year, the arc of story works when it walks us through the darkness of the night and back to the dawn.

When that cycle is allowed to complete itself, story offers us a remarkable gift. It shows us what is made possible with hope and courage. And however much we may need the pungent clarity of disillusionment (something that is also inherent to the arc of story), we deeply need stories that ignite the archetype of heroism within our own deep imaginations.

So to that end, today I want to tell you a personal story—about a scary night in my own life and the impact of a heroic story.

How I Just Fell in Love With Asian DramasLet’s start with the announcement that I have officially discovered Asian dramas, and I get what all the hype has been about (and, yes, I know many of you are saying, “Girl, finally!”).

On Netflix, I tentatively started the first installment of the 40-episode Pursuit of Jade (which is apparently taking the world by storm right now), and I was immediately swept away. The show is literally everything I love and have been struggling to find anywhere else lately.

Pursuit of Jade is the Chinese historical drama that inspired this reflection on why heroic stories stay with us—and why they matter. (Pursuit of Jade (2026), Tencent Video.)

Set in a slightly fantasy medieval China, it is the story of a young commoner, Fan Changyu, who continues the family business of butchering pigs (an ignominious trade for a young woman) in order to care for her young sister after the recent murder of her parents. She stumbles over a desperately wounded man who is dying in the snow. Out of the depths of her own sincerity and goodness, she risks taking him home and nursing him back to health.

Pursuit of Jade (2026), Tencent Video.

Unbeknownst to her, he is Xie Zheng, a powerful general and nobleman. Keeping his identity secret, he eventually agrees to repay her goodness to him by “marrying into” her family, in name only, in order to get around legalities that would otherwise allow her home to be inherited by her worthless uncle.

Pursuit of Jade (2026), Tencent Video.

Of course, as the story progresses, they fall in love, they get separated, war descends, Changyu goes on an epic quest to become a hero in her own right, she eventually reunites with Zheng and learns his true identity in gorgeously dramatic fashion, and then they must both rebuild their relationship, all while discovering the interwined conspiracy against their murdered parents and saving the empire.

Pursuit of Jade (2026), Tencent Video.

It offers gorgeous visuals, a sweeping soundtrack, humor, charm, an achingly slow-burn romance, and sweeping wartime epicness. I liked literally every character, laughed, cried, swooned, and geeked out multiple times. I binged it all in three days (and then immediately started over).

It’s not a perfect show; it has some structural and pacing issues in the second half. But it sucked me in and gave me a story high like I haven’t had in probably a full decade.

It also gave me a reminder of why stories like this are so much more than just entertainment.

The Night a Wildfire Reminded Me Why Heroic Stories MatterThe night I finished the show, I went to bed like normal, happy and buzzing from the pleasure of the story.

Then at 12:30AM, my phone rang. It was my dad, telling me, “You’ve got fires around you.”

For reference, I live at the edge of a high-risk wildfire area in the hills of one of Nebraska’s relatively few timbered areas. Although fire is always a risk here, this year we’re in the midst of an extreme drought, after a winter with little to no snow both here and in the Colorado mountains. For perspective, some estimates as of mid-June suggest we would need 14 inches of rain in a month to break the drought. If the predicted super El Niño doesn’t positively change weather patterns through this winter, we could reach historic comparisons to the Dust Bowl.

Fire is very much on Nebraska’s mind right now, having already experienced the Morrill Fire—the worst fire in state history in March—and the South Fork Fire—another horrible fire in the Ft. Robinson National Park area that was finally contained in June. Almost a million acres have burned here so far this year.

So when my dad tells me there’s fire nearby, especially on a windy night—I go.

Thankfully, the story gets anticlimactic from here. Although the fire was in the hills just two miles from my house with flames higher than the nearby structures—and on a Red Flag Day, with the wind blowing directly toward my canyon neighborhood—the wind unexpectedly died down for about an hour at dusk, giving neighbors and firefighters just enough time to put it out. It had been out before I even went to bed. My dad only knew about it because he happened to be up at his house some ten miles away, smelled smoke, and checked the local news on the Internet (my fire app never registered the fire or sent me an alarm). By the time I was leaving my house ten minutes later, he had called my neighbor and verified the fire was contained. I left anyway and went over to my parents’ house for the night.

I’ve always had a fear of fire, and living where I do, especially this year with this drought, has pushed and stretched me in many ways. But as I took that call from my dad that night and calmly executed my “go plan” (in what I hope is its only iteration), what kept running through my head was… Pursuit of Jade.

Pursuit of Jade (2026), Tencent Video.

How Stories Shape Courage Before We Need ItAt this point, after about 40 hours of the show, my brain was well steeped. I could hear the music. I could see the characters as they faced their hardships and stood up to them with courage and steadfastness. I could feel the legacy of their epicness running in my blood as I faced what, as far as I knew in that moment, could be a huge threshold in my own life.

And… I was so thankful. Even in the midst of it, before I knew everything was going to be okay, I was so grateful that this story was what I was carrying with me into the uncertainty and pressure of that moment. The images, the emotions, and the archetypes it gave me that night were a portal to my own courage and steadfastness. In the days afterward, as I processed the adrenaline and what was now a very real experience living in my nervous system (versus just a vague fear), I felt the power of what this story—and other unabashedly heroic stories like it–give to us.

They give us a vision of the hardships we may have to walk through—and they imprint upon us the promise that we can walk through.

I’ve been talking a lot lately about mythic storytelling and trying my best to explain exactly what I mean by that.

For me, my experience that night perfectly sums up the ultimately ineffable experience of “mythic fiction”—of stories that bypass the rational mind and mainline into the imaginal unconscious—that portal to the prelinguistic, perhaps even pre-conscious, archetypal experience underlying all of life.

Man and His Symbols by Carl G. Jung

The power of these stories is not in their mastery of technique or form—or even of symbolism itself. As Jung would tell us,

[A] symbol always stands for something more than its obvious and immediate meaning. Symbols … are natural and spontaneous products. No genius has ever sat down with a pen or a brush in his hand and said: “Now I am going to invent a symbol.” No one can take a more or less rational thought, reached as a logical conclusion or by deliberate intent, and then given it “symbolic” form. No matter what fantastic trappings one may put upon an idea of this kind, it will still remain … linked to the conscious thought behind it, not a symbol that hints at something not yet known.

The power is in the direct ability to communicate with a deeper part of ourselves.

It was not my rational understanding or even my deep appreciation for Pursuit of Jade that gave me courage and resolve that night. It was a sense of archetypal recognition of the capacity for heroism within myself that resonated with the symbolic imagery. Like a tuning fork calling forth the same resonance in other instruments, the story had strummed a chord in me.

I suppose the bottom line is this: stories evoke and activate archetypes.

They are an inevitably subliminal technology.

Even though a heroic throughline underlies the shape and structure of story itself, individual stories may evoke evil as well as goodness. They may evoke cowardice and cynicism and nihilism; or they may evoke heroism and courageous hope and the sincerity of goodheartedness.

I believe these things are part of story’s greatest gift to us–because we all need these things. We need them in the weariness of the everyday grind, and we need them on those rare and scary nights when the alarm goes off, and danger seems to be at our door.

6 Ways to Write Heroic Stories That Inspire ReadersWe’re all writing different stories (both in our lives and on the page). Some of those stories are blatantly archetypal: “adventures in which good triumphs over evil, and they all end in a kiss.” Some of them are heroism even in the face of hopelessness. Some of them end triumphantly; some of them end with only the glimmer of defiance as a howl against tragedy. Some of them are answers; some are questions. Some are redemption, and some are resolve.

All stories have the capacity, if their authors choose to exercise it, to tap that symbolic resonance within readers and raise them into their own archetypal experiences of heroism, courage, steadfastness, and grace. Here are six perspectives I think are helpful in getting there.

1. Channel Heroism Before You Write Heroic CharactersUltimately, the ability to create stories of this resonance depends first and foremost on our capacity as authors to face and tap these forces within the flow of our inspiration. Often, we find our relationship with some of these archetypes in the actual writing—the daydreaming, dreamzoning, outlining, plotting, drafting, even the editing sometimes.

This isn’t a relationship we can always cultivate consciously. The true primal force of these archetypes is something we contact from the backs of our minds and the sides of our vision. It comes to us not so much because we intend it, but when we are an empty vessel, waiting to be filled.

1. Write Heroic Archetypes, Not Just Heroic ActionsCreating heroic characters is not a simple matter of writing people who do “heroic” things. Although the “form” of heroism can create good stories that impact readers, there is a different caliber of storytelling that happens when the character is a Hero (or whatever other archetype) versus just someone doing heroic stuff.

Certainly, one of the reasons Pursuit of Jade touched off something raw and real in my response was that even though it offered many of the same heroic elements as other similar stories, it felt like it embodied those elements in a way that otherwise too often feels like a checklist. Pursuit of Jade is full of tropes, but (at least for me) most of them felt like they were presented with a sincerity and honesty that returned them to the deeper territory of archetype.

1. Remember Heroic Characters Come in Many Archetypal FormsWriting Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)

Amidst all this talk of heroic archetypes, let me be clear that I’m not saying all moving stories must feature Hero archetypes. The Hero is but one archetype among many.

The Archetypal Life Cycle system that I share in my book Writing Archetypal Character Arcs focuses on six central transformation archetypes—Maiden, Hero, Queen, King, Crone, Mage. Every one of their arcs requires tremendous courage and heroism, as do steadfast archetypes such as the Child, Lover, Parent, Ruler, Elder, and Mentor.

And, of course, there are many archetypes besides that touch off deep and powerful experiences with audiences. Even dreadful archetypes such as the Tyrant or the Tempter—when truly tapped as part of the story arc—can ignite valuable responses within those who witness them.

1. Focus on the Feeling Readers Carry AwayHeroic stories need not always be happy. They need not offer answers. The truth of a story isn’t in the words. It isn’t even in what the characters believe at the end. It is in the feeling readers are left with at the end of their own experience.

Long ago and far away, Aristotle taught that “tragedy” (aka, drama) purged the audience through a powerful experience of catharsis. Even today, stories remain a powerful source of spontaneous initiation.

Although we watch and read many stories that do little more than entertain us for a while and perhaps add more clutter our already busy minds, there are other stories that change everything—that descend upon us, in ways large and small, and engage with us like a flashbomb tossed into our own symbolic depths.

To some degree, this experience is subjective. My own resonance with Pursuit of Jade may not be what most viewers take away. But there are stories that seem to sweep through us culturally and leave us all with a universal agreement that this was powerful. Lord of the Rings, of course, always tops that list for me. But I also think of stories like Children of Men. When I think about this tragic and in some ways deeply unpleasant story, what I always remember is the ending—Clive Owen, dying, hunched over the oars, a newborn miraculously crying in its mother’s arms as he watches the sun rise over the ocean. The ending is about the feeling I am left to take away.

The closing moments of Children of Men remind us that even in a broken world, sacrifice can still point toward a future worth believing in. (Children of Men (2006), Universal Pictures.)

1. Take Readers Through Death to Reach New LifeStory is a life, death, rebirth cycle. Stories must confront death if they are truly to offer life. Truly heroic stories, at whatever scale, are ultimately about facing down something within us that must die.

Heroism rises from the darkness of our despair in the face of death. If there is no death, no darkness, then there is no heroism. One is the shadow of the other. And while not every heroic story needs to plumb the depths, I think it is a true statement that the darker the pit, the greater the heroism—the starker the archetype.

1. Let Goodness Be Genuinely GoodSometimes—not always, but sometimes—complexity is overrated.

This isn’t to say dimensionality is overrated. We want to see characters we can believe in as real people, not just goody-goody caricatures. But sometimes we just want to see a good person making the right choices in the face of hard consequences.

In many ways, archetypes are very simple things. They may arise from complexity; they may demonstrate dimensionality. But they simply are what they are.

And sometimes, it’s just nice to root for someone whose archetype is also that of goodheartedness and sincerity and devotion. There’s power in seeing that goodness tested and strained by the harshest realities—and watching it still win out in the end.

I watched Pursuit of Jade because I wasn’t feeling well and sat down looking for something to help me pass the time for a few days. What I found was a delightful experience that entertained me, touched me, delighted me. That would have been gift enough.

But thanks to the synchronicity of my having binged it right before something memorably frightening (if thankfully anticlimactic), it has become more than that to me. It moved from entertainment to experience.

Like other stories before it, it met me where I was and reminded me that story was, is, and has always been my language. It is our language. It is the language with which we speak to and (sometimes) encourage one another. But it is also the language that lets us speak beyond ourselves.

Through the stories we tell and receive, we speak to each other beyond our simplistic and often limited capacity to engage and interface with the strangeness of existence. When we tell stories, one archetypal imagination speaks to another—and sometimes that is a transformative gift beyond anything either teller or listener can predict.

Want More?At their deepest level, heroic stories invite us into an inner way of being that chooses courage, integrity, and growth even when the path is difficult. This is what I explore in the Ego-Driven Character Arcs vs. Soul-Driven Character Arcs masterclass I taught earlier this year.

In it, we look at two fundamentally different models of transformation: stories in which change is forced upon a character through crisis, and stories in which characters consciously choose growth because they’re already in relationship with a deeper Truth.

We also explore how these two arc types diverge structurally, how they integrate with the Lie/Truth model, and how they can deepen both your story’s theme and its mythic resonance. This class offers a practical framework for writing the kind of heroic journeys that can impact people in same way I talk about being impacted in this post.

Available on-demand here.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Why do you think we need heroic stories, and what are some of your favorite heroic stories or characters that have stayed with you long after you finished them? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post Why We Need Heroic Stories: The Courage We Borrow From Fiction appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Note From KMW: Over the years, I’ve learned there is a difference between cultivating discipline as a writer and forcing it. Like many writers (especially those of us who came of age during the early years of the indie boom), I spent much of my career believing success required constant hustle. Push harder. Write faster. Do more.

That approach works for a while. But eventually, many of us discover the cost. As we’ve talked about before, burnout has become an increasingly common conversation among writers, and it’s one I’ve spoken about from personal experience. I’ve become increasingly interested in what makes a sustainable writing routine—not just one that helps us finish books, but one that supports a creative life over the long haul.

What life keeps teaching me is that creativity has its own rhythms. The older I get, the more I find myself paying attention to natural cycles rather than trying to override them. There are seasons for effort and seasons for rest, seasons for producing and seasons for replenishing. Honoring those rhythms allows discipline to work in partnership with something deeper.

When Brian Hicks approached me with the idea for today’s post, we had a conversation about why finding the motivation to write is really about understanding how to create a writing life that is sustainable over the long haul.

In today’s post, Brian explores this idea through the metaphor of the seasons and a farmer’s relationship to the land. He offers a framework for thinking about drafting, revision, publishing, and rest as distinct parts of a larger creative cycle.

Whether you’re struggling to finish projects, feeling exhausted by the pressure to constantly produce, or looking for a more sustainable writing routine, he offers plenty of food for thought.

I’ve found that most authors—particularly Indies—mistakenly believe there are two types of writers: the hard-driving, rapid-release, all-gas, no-brakes writer versus the slow-grinding, perpetually drafting, angst-ridden, soon-to-be former writer.

The implication is that Type 1 will always be successful and Type 2 can never be.

I humbly submit that neither type is built for success. Type 1 burns out while Type 2 never heats up—but the eventual result for both is the same.

There’s a third, saner, author type, one that doesn’t require you to write at such a manic pace or beat yourself up when you don’t.

Both types are missing a reliable, consistent writing rhythm. I’d like to share my writing routine with you today in the hopes it will restore your sanity (and confidence) the same way it did mine.

I call it Writing the Seasons.

The Four Seasons of Writing: A Sustainable Writing Routine for AuthorsWe often write inconsistently because we’re managing multiple calendars: day job, kids’ activities, church responsibilities, book club, and on and on it goes. We tend to write with a snatch-and-patch process that has us grabbing a few minutes late at night and early in the morning, between calls at work, and while sitting in the bleachers at ball practice.

We’re trying to write in the margins of our already bloated schedules, and we look up a decade later, wondering why we can’t finish… or maybe it’s just me.

It’s not just me.

When we write without a consistent, reliable rhythm, we shouldn’t be surprised when the results are inconsistent and unreliable. When, however, we create a consistent, reliable rhythm, our results will be… wait for it… consistent and reliable.

And you know what’s the most consistent and reliable thing I know? The laws of nature.

We all know there are four seasons. We know this because, weather jokes aside, every year we experience all four of them—and in a very specific order.

How often does summer follow spring? Every time. For how many years? Every one, for all of recorded history. We don’t get to order two springs, a fall, and one good snow at Christmas, which is good, because we need all four seasons to make this thing work.

So, the seasons teach us the value of order. Although it may not necessarily mirror the natural calendar, our seasonal writing calendar follows that same rhythm to keep us focused and productive without burning us out.

Here’s how it works.

Spring: Drafting Your NovelNothing happens until seeds go in the ground, but they must go in the ground in spring. Spring doesn’t last forever though. It’s measured in mere weeks.

This is why farmers don’t vacation in the spring. They can’t just “plant later.” If they miss their window, they can tell you exactly what October will look like, and it isn’t pretty.

There’s an urgency to the spring.

And so it is for you and me. Nothing happens until words go on the page, and if we don’t create a spring for ourselves, we’ll keep finding excuses—and another year will pass without a novel.

Spring is your busy season. In spring, you lock in. No distractions. You delay that volunteer opportunity. You let the screen door squeak.

You ignore everything nonessential, and perhaps most importantly, you inform your family and friends that spring has sprung, and they won’t be hearing from you until “summer.”

Outlining Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

You’re outlining, crafting backstories, setting your writing schedule for each week, and, at the end of the season, you will have a completed first draft.

This begs the question: How long is spring?

The natural seasons are essentially 3 months each. But should your writing seasons be 3 months each? Not necessarily.

You may be a fast first drafter with no day job and an empty nest. Your first draft may take one month, max.

Conversely, you may be working two jobs, have four kids under age 8, and volunteer at the local food bank twice a week. You probably need a much longer spring. Regardless, the secret to making this work is putting an end date on the calendar.

Summer is coming. You must plan accordingly.

Summer: Revising and Strengthening Your ManuscriptSummer on a farm is equally serious but for different reasons. In summer, the seeds have been planted, and now the real work begins. You have to weed the garden, water it, and fight off all kinds of pestilence.

Sounds like the middle of your novel, right? This is where many of us get in trouble. The drought comes, and beetles show up—and we start to think, “I’ll just plant a new field over there and start fresh. Maybe I’ll come back to this one later…”

But on this farm, we don’t have that luxury. We planted soybeans in the spring. We’re getting soybeans in the fall.

I can hear my pantsers, “Are you saying I’m locked into this thing? Because ew, rules.”

Of course not. Your novel, your call. But at some point, we must commit to the story we started and see it through.

Summer will be hot and dry. It will test us. We’ll get beta reader feedback we don’t like. We’ll have to kill that darling that is possibly the finest prose ever put to paper.

But we have to trust that when we tend the crop we planted in spring, the miracle of the sun and the seed and the soil will produce something of which we can be proud.

How long is summer?

This is tough because the revision season isn’t as exciting as the drafting season, is it? It’s a slog, and often you’ll come to sort of hate your manuscript, calling it all manner of unflattering names. You’ll be tempted to take an extended break, which will turn your story into a perpetual WIP instead of a finished novel.

Again, that’s a personal decision, based on your process, but you must set an end date for summer before you start, and keep it sacred, no matter what.

Autumn, Publishing, Querying, and Sharing Your WorkAutumn is the culmination of all your hard work. It’s your reward for staying committed in the summer. It’s the time you query agents or publish your novel. I am well aware those things don’t always feel like rewards, but hear me out.

First, you’ve done it! Take a moment to celebrate. Frame the cover and hang it on your wall. Go out to a nice dinner. Do something to mark the moment.

Then acknowledge this fundamental law of life:

The reward for hard work is more work.

But just like a farmer wouldn’t plant and then not harvest the crop, we didn’t write all those words just to stick them in a drawer. We asked for this moment. It’s time to take the crop to market.

How long is autumn?

Autumn doesn’t have the hard end dates that spring and summer do, because we query and market until we see results. That’s a different topic for a different day, but please know the autumn continues even as next spring rolls around and you plant a new crop.

Winter: Resting, Learning and Preparing for the Next BookWinter is when we rest. We take time to reflect on the crop. We catch up on podcasts, courses, and books on craft. We learn more about advertising and attracting readers.

Again, we’re still running campaigns or continuing to query, and we’re probably thinking about the next novel, though we’re not actively writing it. We’re taking some time to rest that part of our brain so we can go into next spring with renewed enthusiasm.

How long is winter?

And yes. Winter has an end date. Spring is indeed coming again, and the next crop will need to be planted.

How to Create a Seasonal Writing Routine Personalized for Your LifeThe key to making this work is creating your seasonal calendar on a cycle that works with your real-life schedule. Start with your spring. The remaining seasons simply flow from that.

When setting your writing spring, you want to start at a time when your other calendars are slower. Consider the following:

• Do I have a busy season at work? (The classic example is the accountant during tax season.)
• Does my family calendar heat up/slow down at certain times of the year?
• Am I a fast drafter or a slow drafter?
• If I start my writing spring now, will it be over when my family/work calendars heat back up?

The goal is to start your spring at a time that naturally works with your current calendar. If your kids’ activities slow down in winter, for example, your writing spring might be January to March.

My wife is a teacher, so I would never set my writing spring during the actual summer months. When the school year ends, the energy in our house shifts, and everything slows down. It makes no sense to attempt a period of hyper-focused productivity during a time when I’m already off my game.

Once you’ve determined your spring, it’s time to consider how long each season should last. We touched on this earlier, but this is a very personal decision. I know some people who can run two full sets of seasons a year. I can’t pull that off. I need more time to draft and revise, so my spring and summer tend to be a solid 3 months each, like the natural seasons. You likely know what works for you. Don’t fight it; just create a calendar that puts deadlines on it.

Why a Sustainable Writing Routine Helps Authors Finish More BooksThe 7 Laws of Motivation by Brian Cagneey

My hope for you is that before today ends, you’ll create your next seasonal writing calendar—literally. Your phone has a million different ways to set up recurring appointments. Pick one. Schedule your spring activities, then your summer, and so on.

Get specific. At the very least, schedule the start and end dates for each season. Put them on your calendar, with alarms and the whole nine yards.

Farmers are consistent and reliable producers because they have a consistent, reliable, sustainable process.

Let’s decide today to become more like farmers. When we do, we’ll stop quitting and start finishing.

P.S. Brian has a special FREE GIFT for Wordplayers! He’s recorded the audio version of this post, with extra content that takes a deeper dive into Writing the Seasons. Hope you enjoy! Claim your free audio here.

Want More?Outlining Your Novel Workbook

One of the biggest reasons writers struggle to maintain a sustainable writing routine is that they begin drafting without a clear roadmap. When we’re uncertain about where a story is going, it’s much easier to lose momentum, get stuck in revision loops, or abandon projects altogether.

For help during the “spring” stage of your writing routine, the Outlining Your Novel Workbook offers a practical, hands-on way to develop your their stories before drafting, so you can move into the writing process with greater clarity, confidence, and purpose. Whether you’re a meticulous planner or a discovery writer looking for a stronger sense of direction, the workbook offers guided exercises designed to help you build a story that can carry you all the way from first idea to finished manuscript.

Available in paperback, e-book, and as a desktop app.

Wordplayers, tell us your opinions! What strategies have helped you create a burnout-free writing routine and stay consistent with your writing goals? Tell us in the comments!The post The Four Seasons of Writing: How Authors Can Build a Burnout-Free Writing Routine appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Truly resonant stories give us the feeling that nothing about them is accidental. The plot, character arc, theme, symbolism, and even the setting all belong to the same deeper pattern. Everything connects.

This is what I’ll be exploring in my Story School class Alchemizing Plot, Character, and Theme, which originally premiered during last year’s WorldShift Speculative Fiction Writers’ Summit and which I’m now making available independently through my Story School.

Lately on the blog and podcast, we’ve been talking quite a bit about mythic storytelling and the deeper psychological dimensions of fiction. So you might be wondering… what are the practical steps to creating stories with that kind of depth and staying power? This underlying foundational structure is one of the key answers.

In the class, we’ll explore how plot, character, and theme function not as isolated craft categories, but as interconnected expressions of the same deeper narrative movement—and how understanding that relationship can help writers create stories that feel more cohesive, emotionally resonant, and alive.

Register here → Alchemizing Plot, Character, and Theme

The Foundation Beneath Powerful FictionMythic resonance emerges when a story’s parts are unified—when the external journey, the inner transformation, and the thematic meaning are all moving in the same direction. This “sacred triangle” of plot, character, and theme sits underneath almost every aspect of powerful storytelling.

Over time, I’ve come to believe one of the biggest differences between stories that feel emotionally unified and stories that fall flat is the relationship of plot, character arc, and theme.

In weaker stories, these elements too often function independently from one another. The plot moves in one direction while the character arc tries to move in another. Or the theme exists mostly as an intellectual idea the writer is trying to communicate, rather than something arising naturally from the protagonist’s transformation.

However, in stories that feel deeply alive, all of these layers are reinforcing one another constantly. The external conflict pressures the protagonist into change, and the character’s transformation reveals the story’s thematic meaning. The structure itself echoes the deeper movement underneath everything else.

When all of those pieces begin working together, audiences feel it. They may not consciously identify why the story feels powerful, but they experience the cohesion instinctively.

The Stories We Carry With UsCan you think of a story you know will stay with you for the rest of your life?

I’m talking about a story that reached you at exactly the right moment and somehow became part of your inner landscape—a story that changed the way you saw yourself or the world. If you’re a writer, I imagine that at least part of the reason you write is because you hope to create that experience for someone else.

For me (as for so many others), one of those stories was The Lord of the Rings. During an extraordinarily difficult season of my life, when much of what I thought I understood about myself and my world seemed to be collapsing under me, I was struggling with a level of despair I had never experienced before. Around that same time, my local theater happened to be showing the extended editions of The Lord of the Rings.

So I went.

Sitting there in that dark theater, watching that story unfold, I experienced one of the deepest moments of catharsis I’ve ever had. As I’ve pondered that experience over the years since, what I always come back to is that the reason this story touched me so deeply was not simply because it was emotional or epic or beautifully written. What touched me—transformed me, even—was the fact that every part of the story was participating in the same deeper truth. Because the external conflict, character arcs, symbolism, and thematic movement were all unified in service to the same emotional and psychological journey, the story was not only willing to descend fully into its darkness, but it also knew how to lead us back out again.

That story will stay with me until the day I die. And, honestly, it changed the way I thought about storytelling. After that point, I realized more clearly than ever that the plots and themes that most deeply affect us never take place in isolation. Their power is grounded in every layer of the narrative, reinforcing the same deeper movement.

Why Stories Feel FragmentedOne of the things I’ve noticed over the years is that when writers talk about “powerful stories,” we are often talking about very different things. Sometimes we mean emotionally intense stories. Sometimes we mean stories with beautiful prose or compelling characters or profound themes.

But when I think about the stories that have most deeply affected me personally—stories like Lord of the Rings—what I notice is the incredible cohesion and resonance. Everything in these stories is working together. Nothing feels random.

The relationship of plot, character, and theme is perhaps the key foundation for writing fiction that is indeed meaningful, true, and alive. This isn’t because these are the only elements that matter, obviously, but they are arguably the most improtant elements—and when they are aligned, so many other aspects of storytelling suddenly become clearer.

• Theme stops feeling forced.
• Symbolism arises more organically.
• Character arcs feel emotional weighty.
• Scenes flow organically.

Stories stop feeling like collections of separate parts and start feeling like a cohesive and resonant whole.

This is why I wanted to bring back the class I originally taught last year as part of the WorldShift Speculative Fiction Writers’ Summit. For anyone who wasn’t previously able to attend the class, I am now making it available independently through my Story School.

What We’ll Explore in the ClassIn the class, we’ll explore how plot, character, and theme function not as isolated craft categories, but as interconnected expressions of the same deeper narrative movement—and how this is the foundation to creating stories that feel archetypal, mythic, and psychologically powerful.

We’ll talk about:

• Why some stories feel fragmented even when they’re structurally sound
• How theme naturally emerges from character arc
• How external plot movement mirrors inner transformation
• How greater cohesion creates greater emotional resonance
• And how to weave all of these elements into a seamless whole

Although the class ventures a bit into archetypal and philosophical territory, it’s an extremely practical discussion about craft. This is very much about learning how to strengthen the connective tissue within your own stories so that every major narrative element reinforces the others.

How to Join the ClassIf you missed it during its original WorldShift Summit run last year, you can join me June 24, 2026, at 1PM EDT for the live chat and Q&A.

Here’s how it works:

• The class is pre-recorded and will premiere on June 24 at 1PM EDT.
• I’ll be in the live chat during the showing if you’d like to attend and participate in the discussion. There will be up to 20 minutes at the end for freeform Q&A in the chat—something I’ve fixed since the last class (which bumped everyone off the call immediately after the presentation—whoops!).
• If you can’t attend live, the replay will be available in your account afterward.

You can read more and register here:

Register Here

I feel like this topic is deeply connected to the conversations we’ve been having recently—not only here on the blog, but also through the Story School classes I hosted earlier this spring. I was so excited by your response to those classes and by the depth of thoughtfulness everyone brought into the discussions! It reminded me again how many writers are searching not merely for formulas, but for ways of understanding story that feel meaningful, psychologically true, and creatively alive.

I’ll also be teaching another Story School series this fall (can’t wait!), but before then, I wanted to make this class available again because I think the topic itself is perhaps the key foundation for writing fiction that is indeed meaningful, true, and alive.

And for those interested, this class also pairs naturally with my previous classes, “Ego-Driven Character Arcs vs. Soul-Driven Character Arcs” and “The Villain as Aspect of the Hero’s Psyche.” The two classes are available together as a bundle at a 15% discount.

See you at the class!

The post Writing Masterclass: Alchemizing Plot, Character, & Theme for Powerful Fiction appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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What is mythic fiction, and how can we write it?

Earlier this month, I shared a post about how to write mythic fiction, in which I discussed the difference between adapting inherited myths (i.e., just retelling the old symbolic stories over and over in “new” ways) versus creating our own myths. My suggestion was that truly mythic fiction is not merely a process of imitating epic structures (such as the Hero’s Journey) and populating them with a list of character archetypes (i.e., Hero, Dragon, King, Mentor).

Rather, mythic fiction is a generative creative process that arises from our deepest and most intimate journeys into the unknown wilds of imagination and intuition—from the same energetic authenticity and integrity that birthed the old myths, fairy tales, and folk tales, which continue to matter so much to our culture. Mythic fiction is something authors must discover for themselves through the integrity of their own creative processes.

But how can we actually access that same deep imaginative creativity? How do we write mythic fiction?

What Is Mythic Fiction?Mythic fiction is not myth itself, but it shares resonance with the old myths in that both contain truths that transcend factualness. Both communicate in the language of imagination—the imaginal language; the language of image; the language of symbol, archetype, and shape.

Not least because the medium of story is itself mythic and archetypal, I believe this mythic energy is the true magic of story—no matter what genre you’re writing in. Although we may most easily think of “mythic fiction” as fantasy and magical realism, all genre stories (such as romance and mystery) are inherently archetypal and symbolic.

What Mythic Fiction Is NotMythic fiction captures a quality that bypasses the audience’s conscious mind to speak on a deeper level. Although archetypal symbols and story structure are certainly part of this, this mythic quality is not a formula. It is something we experience as truth through our own unique imaginal wanderings. It cannot be taught—although it can, in a sense, be learned.

Mythic fiction can sometimes have a dreamy or otherworldly quality about it; but it can also be extremely modern and plot-based. It is not defined by voice, tone, or aesthetic. A story can be “mythcore” without being mythic. Putting a dragon or a sorcerer in your story does not make it mythic. Although speculative fiction often lends itself to myth, every speculative story is not mythic.

Although some mythic stories may be very right-brained or obviously mythic in their motifs (such as James Joyce’s Ulysses), this is not a requirement. The requirement is that the author is not telling the story so much as the story is telling itself.

This does not mean authors don’t make important technical choices in order to communicate the story to their audiences. The profound skill of writing is that of somehow wrangling the wild genius of storytelling into a format accessible enough to engage the consciousness of the left brain. This is no mean feat.

What Mythic Fiction IsMythic stories speak truths even their authors may not have known they knew. They are stories with the depth and capacity to guide—not through “morals” or agenda-driven plots, but through the inspiration of the deep visual imagination.

To the degree any story is resonant, it is mythic.

Although many stories contain mythic qualities and elements, examples might include everything from Beloved to Once Upon in the West to The Road. Of course, we would include Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter, but we can also add in everything from It’s a Wonderful Life to The Godfather to Secondhand Lions to Pride & Prejudice. Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus. Studio Ghibli. Early Pixar. Children of Men. True Grit. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Groundhog Day. Wicked.

If it moves you—if it transcends something within you—then it has touched that mythic quality that lives in all of us.

The Lost Art of MythmakingAll of storytelling is, to some degree, an attempt at mythmaking. Although some stories are more obviously successful at reaching their mythic capacity, all stories arise from that dreamplace of what if?—from the corner of the imagination’s eye where we catch sight of parallel realities and strangers who sometimes seem more known to us than ourselves.

In a world that is both increasingly left-brained and an art form that is increasingly subject to conflation with the pressures of content creation, it is worth looking back to our ancestors—to the shamans around their campfires and the medieval bards singing their tales—and both remembering and rediscovering how we may best maintain the clarity of our connection to the archetypal imagination that is our birthright.

We don’t need the old stories retold one more time. We need stories that have a living, generative connection to deep mythic, lived, dreamed creativity. To that end, here are seven practices you can use to move your stories out of the formulas of “write what sells” and into the territory of mythmaking.

1. Practice Dreamzoning and Enter the Flow StateThe mythic quality in fiction arises from the deep imagination. It is pure creativity. It is our imaginations telling us stories.

This is the flow state, from which we can encourage natural and unfiltered right-brained creativity. Writers are accustomed to accessing this deep well in many different ways—not least the tried and true daydreaming. Freewriting is another—which is one reason so many writers prefer discovery writing (or “pantsing”), in which the writing itself becomes a tool for entering the flow state.

My personal favorite tool for accessing and entering this flow state is what I call “dreamzoning.” Dreamzoning is the practice of purposeful daydreaming. I’ll put on some music and, when possible, light a fire or find some other visual to help me zone out and float away.

Outlining Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

As an outliner and a plotter, I like putting myself in a space where creativity can happen by itself, without my needing to write it down yet. For me, this feels like it creates less work, since I tend to write cleaner copy that doesn’t require the same amount of revision as if I were freewriting my inspiration (I do more of my freewriting in the outlining phase when I don’t have to worry about my prose making sense to others).

I’ve written more about the specific practice of dreamzoning here, and I’ve also created a series of Archetypal Character Guided Meditations for a more structured approach.

But really, it doesn’t matter how you access the state of creative flow, just that you find space in which to interact with the symbols and the characters that come to you, so you can watch them and feel the resonance of what they’re doing.

There’s a difference between “just imagining” (i.e., more or less consciously thinking about characters doing something interesting) versus accessing symbolism that feels personal, with meaning and depth behind it. For me, that moment always comes with a distinct physical response, a surge in my solar plexus and a tightening in my chest. It’s like everything inside me suddenly comes to attention.

1. Clear the “Shoulds” That Block Archetypal StorytellingFor most humans, and certainly most storytellers, this archetypal dreamspace is a natural habitat for us to hang out in. Sometimes learning how best to access it is mostly about learning what may block it.

Not all the voices a writer hears are actually the voices of creativity and the muse. Some of the loudest voices can be those shouting “shoulds” at us.

Get rid of the shoulds. Clear out the voices that are not, in fact, the voices of the story spirits. Clear the clutter of the voices telling you, “this is what you have to do to write a book that sells” or “somebody else has already done this idea” or “you’re not good enough.”

Giving too much credence to the inner critic is usually the heaviest block to the purity of whatever’s trying to come through. This doesn’t mean that whatever is trying to come through isn’t messy, but it does mean you’ll never find the gold in the stream if you listen too closely to the voice telling you “should” stay out of the mud.

1. Ask Questions Instead of Arriving With AnswersWriting is such a specialized skill set these days. Everyone tells us how a story is supposed to look and how we’re supposed to write one—which, inevitably, can tend to shape not just our finished products but our dreams themselves. Instead of entering the mythic dreamspace with eyes and hearts wide open, we can arrive with a preset container into which everything is supposed to neatly fit.

When I was a child, the dreamspace was my natural habitat. I didn’t arrive there with the agenda of acknowledging and harvesting only what was useful for my job as a writer. It wasn’t even that I arrived there and waited patiently to be shown something. Instead, I knew myself to be an active participant and denizen of this dreamspace. I arrived to play in that space because I was the story.

However, it’s also worth acknowledging that, however personally vivid and precious my childhood ramblings in the dreamspace may have been, they weren’t necessarily stories that would have communicated their power to anyone but me.

The great challenge and skill of being a mythic writer is the ability to slip into the right-brain as a dreamer with imagination wide open and then come back out with pieces so beautiful and clear they can be shaped into a communication others can recognize and take with them back into their own dreamspaces.

1. Study the Deeper Shape Beneath Story StructureAlthough I’m trying not to, I’ve inevitably been talking about mythic fiction as if it is something different from just regular old fiction. Really, what I mean by “mythic” fiction is “bloody good” fiction.” The surest path to writing deeply mythic fiction is to understand the underlying shape and structure of story itself—its natural movement, arc, and intent.

Insofar as you can write a story that really, really works, you’re almost undoubtedly writing a story that taps the frequency of mythic resonance.

Take a peek beneath all the trappings that we associate with mythicness. Look at those old stories or at any story that particularly moves you. Take note of the shape and structure that form these stories, upon which all the characters dance their epic dance.

We so conflate the idea of story with the act of writing—with language and words—but in fact, story preexists language and words. We only use the words as a metaphor in our attempt to explain what’s underneath.

No matter how good we are with words, our words are always a step behind the primal awesomeness of story itself.

1. Study the Stories That Create Mythic ResonanceStudying the stories that create mythic resonance can be an access point to your own connection to that resonance. This isn’t so much about studying actual myths or folk tales or learning symbolism or archetypal systems. It’s about studying yourself.

It’s about studying anything that resonates with you—stories from any time. You’re looking for whatever creates a frisson of recognition. You’re looking beyond just a simple reaction of “that was entertaining” or “that was fun” or your logical, intellectual mind’s interpretation of something.

You’re looking for stories that create a visceral pull. When that happens, study it. Study where and how you’re feeling it in your body. Study what’s evoking it. These experiences hold a portal of inspiration. If you can find the doorway within someone else’s story, it can lead you down the rabbit hole to what is yours in the experience so that you can, if you choose, bring it forth and continue the cycle.

Studying stories, symbols, and archetypes can also be helpful in understanding and orienting what comes through in your own creative wanderings—so that when something wild and unexpected shows up, you have a sense of what it is and where it belongs within the larger context of story, dream, and myth.

Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card (affiliate link)

I always think of the famous line from Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card, in which Ender brilliantly wins a zero-gravity training exercise by taking control of his team and orienting them and their goalpost (the “gate”) within the spacelessness of their environment. He instructs them:

The gate is down.

Exactly because our most vivid story dreams often feel like they are coming through us rather than from us, it can be helpful to have some preexisting archetypal catalogue by which to orient. In other words, to help us know “the gate is down.”

Nowhere is this more true than when venturing into mythic shadows…

1. Be Fearless Enough to Enter the Shadows by Recognizing Mythic Fiction as Transformational and InitiatoryShadow Archetypes Course

True myth-making is equally capable of venturing into the shadows as it is of rising with the sun. What makes it so powerful and so healing is its ability to access all the many states of being human.

Our forays into mythic territory will only be as bold and as true as our own courage in facing whatever truths we are shown. Creativity and catharsis go hand in hand.

There’s a sequence in the movie King Arthur: Legend of the Sword that I’ve always felt beautifully illustrates shadow work. In it, Arthur is unable to master the intensity of repressed childhood memories that flood back whenever he grasps the fated sword Excalibur. He is sent to the Darklands to try to master himself, and when he returns, the mage asks him:

Mage: Did you look away? You want to know why you still can’t use [the sword].

Arthur: Why don’t you tell me?

Mage: I think you know the answer. You will face it when it’s worth it to you. Don’t get me wrong, I look away. We all look away. But that is the difference between a man and a king.

Arthur confronting the memories bound up in Excalibur—an allegory of mythic shadow work. (King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017), Warner Bros.)

Deep connection with one’s own mythic interiors can be a fearsome thing. If we embrace it fully, it can take us anywhere—but sometimes to get to the really good stuff, we have to be willing to let it take us through Darklands first.

All humans have the capacity to access this level of storytelling (although the skill of the telling is its own rite of passage). However, I think those who are truly in service to it and are able to make it their life’s work by accessing it consistently are those who are willing to follow wherever it takes them.

Archetype is initiation. It changes us. It burns us down and raises us back up.

1. Approach Archetypal Storytelling With Humility and ResponsibilityThere needs to be a certain level of humility in doing this work, especially since we don’t always recognize the profound power it carries. Although we usually enter these realms as a playground—a place to relax and have fun and perhaps to heal—the imaginal realm is the gateway to one of the most powerful interfaces of the human experience. The work of the storyteller is magical work. As part of that process, there needs to be humility and respect for the archetypes themselves.

If nothing else, I don’t think we can ever truly understand what we’re writing or exactly how it will affect others. It’s always possible to write something that has the opposite of our intended effect. To the degree we’re too egoic or try too hard to control what we’re trying to do, we can not only make it less powerful and symbolic, but also potentially more harmful.

Mythic fiction matters because it taps an aliveness that (ironically) transcends realism. At its strongest, it is shared from the author’s symbolic brain to the audience’s in a way that feels less like communication and more like revelation. The magic in these stories does more than just entertain audiences or convey an idea; it touches us on a subconscious level that may stay with us forever, even if we can never explain just why or how.

The only way to write stories of such dimensionality is to learn how to “imagine better”—to learn how to find the mythic and symbolic pathways within ourselves and how best to channel them into stories that feel strong and true on every level—from our rawest inspiration all the way down to the finest points of technique.

Want More?One of the reasons I care so deeply about mythic fiction is because I don’t believe powerful stories emerge just from isolated craft techniques. Truly resonant stories feel unified at every level. In these stories, plot, character arc, theme, symbolism, setting, and emotional movement all belong to the same deeper pattern because everything connects.

This is why I created my class Alchemizing Plot, Character, and Theme, which I originally taught last year as part of the WorldShift Speculative Fiction Writers’ Summit and am now making available independently through my Story School.

Although the class ventures into archetypal and philosophical territory, it is an extremely practical discussion about craft. We explore how plot, character, and theme function not as isolated craft categories, but as interconnected expressions of the same deeper narrative movement. We talk about why some stories feel fragmented even when they are structurally sound, how theme naturally emerges from character arc, how external plot movement mirrors inner transformation, and how greater cohesion creates greater emotional resonance.

In many ways, the class is about the deeper architecture underneath mythic storytelling—the connective tissue that allows stories to feel meaningful, psychologically true, and creatively alive. If today’s post resonated with you and you want a more concrete framework for how to actually construct stories that honor these mythic principles, this class was designed to help writers do exactly that.

The class is pre-recorded and will premiere June 24, 2026, at 1PM EDT. I’ll be live in the chat during the showing, with time afterward for freeform Q&A and discussion. And if you can’t attend live, the replay will remain available in your account afterward.

You can read more and register here!

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What practices have helped you learn how to write mythic fiction or access deeper mythic storytelling in your own work? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post How to Write Mythic Fiction: 7 Practices to Reconnect With the Lost Art of Mythmaking appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Learning how to choose the right character arc is one of the most important decisions you’ll make for your story. Whether you’re writing a Positive Change Arc, a Flat Arc, or a Negative Arc, the arc you choose will shape everything from plot structure to theme to emotional resonance.

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

Choosing the right character arc is every bit as important a decision as choosing the right plot or honing the right theme (indeed, all three decisions are linked). Some stories will pop into your brain with an obvious character arc already intact. Other stories require a little more forethought.

What Is a Character Arc?A character arc is the internal transformation characters undergo over the course of a story. It’s the difference between who they are in the beginning and who they are by the ending.

Sometimes that transformation is positive. Sometimes it’s tragic. And sometimes the protagonist doesn’t change much at all, but instead the supporting characters and rest of the story world transform around them.

At its core, character arc is what gives stories emotional resonance. It allows plot events to matter on a deeper level than just external action.

Here’s a quick breakdown of the three major categories of character arcs:

• Positive Change Arc: Protagonist overcomes a Lie and embraces a thematic Truth
• Flat Arc: Protagonist already possesses the Truth and uses it to change the story world and supporting characters
• Negative Arc: Protagonist struggles with the Truth and falls deeper into a Lie

Within the broader Negative Arc category are additional variations such as the Disillusionment Arc, Fall Arc, and Corruption Arc.

3 Questions to Help You Choose the Right Character ArcFortunately, picking the perfect character arc for your story requires nothing more than answering three questions.

1. What’s Your Genre?Genre won’t always be the deciding factor in the type of character arc you portray, but it should definitely be a consideration. As Harold Crick learned in Stranger Than Fiction, stories follow certain patterns:

Tragedy you die. Comedy you get hitched.

Harold Crick seeks help understanding the shape of his own story–a perfect example of how character arc and ending are deeply connected. (Stranger Than Fiction (2006), Sony Pictures.)

Positive Arcs get happy endings. Negative Arcs get sad endings.

The Moral Premise by Stanley D. Williams (affiliate link)

In The Moral Premise, Stanley D. Williams explains:

Genre films create certain audience expectations for the protagonist. Often the protagonist’s arc is known by the audience before the movie begins. Such expectations about the construction of the genres may predetermine how the protagonist reacts to the story’s moral premise and conflict. This is because, as Thomas Schatz explains in Hollywood Genres, genre movies deal with fundamental cultural conflicts that can never be ultimately solved but yet offer a solution, if only temporary and idealistic.

Broader “umbrella” genres such as fantasy and historicals can tell just about any kind of story. But most romances, for example, require a Positive or Flat Arc.

Audiences come to genres with built-in expectations about emotional outcomes. Romance readers generally expect emotional fulfillment. Mystery readers expect resolution. Tragedies often lean toward Negative Arcs.

This doesn’t mean you can’t surprise readers, but it does mean you should understand the emotional contract your genre naturally creates.

1. Where Does Your Character Arc Begin?Character Arc Quick Guide: All 5 Types of Arcs

Here’s the equation for choosing the right character arc for your story: Character arc is always the final sum of your story’s ending minus your story’s beginning.

If you can figure out who your characters are in the beginning of your story, you’re already halfway to writing their arcs.

• Are characters in a comparatively good place in the beginning?
  • If so, then they’re either in a Flat Arc (in which they’ll have to leave that good place and fight for it when it is threatened) or a Disillusionment or Corruption Arc (in which they will leave the good place and never return).
• Are they in a less-than-good place?
  • If so, they’re either in a Positive Arc (in which they’ll journey toward a better place) or a Fall Arc (in which things get even worse).
• What do your characters believe in the beginning?
  • If they start out believing a Lie about themselves or the world around them, then they’re either at the beginning of a Positive Change Arc (in which they’ll overcome the Lie and reach a positive Truth), a Disillusionment Arc (in which they’ll overcome the Lie and reach a negative Truth), or a Fall Arc (in which they’ll never grow into the Truth, but instead embrace an even worse Lie).
  • If they believe the Truth, then they’re starting out on either a Flat Arc (in which they’ll use that Truth to transform the world around them) or a Corruption Arc (in which they’ll fall away from that Truth).

One of the easiest ways to identify your characters’ arcs is simply to ask: What incomplete understanding of themselves or the world are they carrying at the beginning of the story?

The answer to that question often reveals both the thematic conflict and the direction of the arc itself.

1. Where Does Your Character Arc End?This brings us right back to the old “happy ending or sad ending?” question.

If you know your characters start out believing a Lie, but end up happy, then you know they’re going to be following a Positive Change Arc.

Plot vs. Character by Jeff Gerke (affiliate link)

In Plot vs. Character, Jeff Gerke writes about figuring out this type of story:

Now it’s time to imagine what the alternative [to the Lie] could be. If you are Fate in this story and you’re not going to let [your character] remain in her miserable stew, what are you going to try to get her to change to? What is the happy other possibility you’d like her to see and possibly seize?

In other words, a story with a Positive Change Arc will always end with the characters in the opposite situation to the one in which they found themselves in the beginning. The characters will have changed, and the world around them will reflect that.

Same goes for a Negative Arc, but in reverse. Characters in Disillusionment and Corruption Arcs will end in a place that’s a darker reflection of their beginning, while characters in Fall Arcs will end up in a place that’s the same as the beginning, only worse.

Flat Arc characters won’t change themselves, but the world and the characters around them will be drastically different from how they were in the beginning of the story.

Writing Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

One useful thing to keep in mind is that character arc and theme are always connected. The ending of your story doesn’t just determine what happens externally. It also reveals what the story ultimately believes to be true.

Double Check You’ve Chosen the Right Character ArcBased on your answers to these three questions (and their sub-questions), you should be able to identify which arc you want your characters to follow and to start plotting accordingly.

But before you rev your engines too much, stop a moment to double-check yourself.

• Is the arc you’ve identified your strongest possible option?
• Do your story’s beginning and ending contrast each other strongly enough?
• If your protagonists had to face the events of the Climactic Moment in the beginning of the story, would they react to them in the same way they do at the end?

If they would take pretty much the same action at both the beginning and end of the story, you know their Change Arc isn’t strong enough.

This holds true for Flat Arcs as well. Although the characters’ personal Truth and integrity may hold fast throughout the story, they shouldn’t have the motive or understanding to act in exactly the same way at the beginning as they will in the end.

Here are a few quick questions you can use to test whether your character arc is working:

• Does the ending strongly contrast the beginning?
• Have the characters’ worldviews shifted in a meaningful way?
• Do the external plot events pressure the internal transformation?
• Would the characters make different choices in the Climactic Moment than they would have in the opening?
• Does the ending reveal a thematic Truth?

The general question of “which character arc is right for your story?” is every bit as important as the specific story details of the arc itself once you start plotting.

Before you ever put pen to paper, take a moment to figure out your characters’ arcs and make them as strong and memorable as possible.

Frequently Asked Questions About Character ArcsWhat are the main types of character arcs?The three major categories are Positive Arcs, Flat Arcs, and Negative Arcs. Within those broader categories are variations such as the Disillusionment Arc, Fall Arc, and Corruption Arc.

Does every story need a character arc?Most stories benefit from some form of character arc because transformation is often what creates emotional resonance. However, not every story requires dramatic internal change. Some stories intentionally use Flat Arcs in which characters change the world around them rather than changing themselves.

What’s the difference between character development and character arc?Character development refers to how much readers learn about characters throughout the story. Character arc refers specifically to internal transformation.

Can a story have more than one character arc?Absolutely. Many stories feature multiple character arcs for protagonists, supporting characters, and antagonists. Often, contrasting arcs deepen theme and conflict.

What’s the difference between a Flat Arc and a Positive Arc?In a Positive Arc, characters personally transform by overcoming a limiting Lie and embracing a thematic Truth. In a Flat Arc, the protagonist already understands the Truth and instead uses it to transform people and the story world.

Note: This article has been revised and expanded from an earlier version.

Want More?One of the reasons I care so deeply about character arc is because I don’t see plot, character, and theme as separate. The most resonant stories happen when all three begin working together as one cohesive structure.

That’s why I created my class Alchemizing Plot, Character Arc, & Theme. It’s one of the most foundational and inspiring frameworks I teach, exploring how plot, character, and theme work together to create stories with emotional resonance, narrative momentum, and deeper meaning.

If you’ve ever felt like your story has all the right pieces but still somehow feels disconnected or lifeless, this framework can reveal what’s missing.

I originally taught this class for the Worldshift online summit last year, and I’ll be re-premiering the recorded class on June 24th with a live chat and Q&A alongside it. We’ll explore how to align inner and outer arcs, how to let theme emerge naturally rather than forcefully, and how to create plots that feel meaningful from the inside out.

Register here!

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What type of character arc are you writing right now, and how does it shape your story’s ending? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast or Amazon Music).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post How to Choose the Right Character Arc for Your Story appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Note from KMW: I’m taking a short break this week to hang out with my brand-new niece! While I’m off getting cuddles, here’s a quick post you can read in just a couple of minutes. No podcast today, just a bite-sized look at an important storytelling choice.

One of the biggest questions novelists face is whether to use a single narrator or multiple narrators. Multiple POVs can broaden perspective and heighten tension, while a single POV offers intimacy and focus. Today, I’m breaking down the pros and cons of each approach and sharing my own surprising realization about the books I tend to love most.

And don’t forget! To help you dig even deeper into the building blocks of strong stories, you can now pre-order the e-book version of the revised and expanded second edition of the Structuring Your Novel Workbook on Amazon. (The paperback and a deluxe fillable PDF version will become available next week on the official launch day, October 6th—along with an epic giveaway. See you then!)

A lively debate among writers and readers often centers on the number of narrators in a novel. Should a story be told through a single narrator’s voice or unfold through the perspectives of multiple narrators? A few years ago, I hosted a discussion on Facebook and Twitter/X where most authors favored two or more narrators. Yet several readers argued their favorite books were those written from the perspective of just one character.

Today, let’s take a quick look at this question: what are the advantages and disadvantages of single-narrator vs. multiple-narrator novels?

The Benefits of Multiple NarratorsAt first glance, the benefits of multiple POV characters are obvious. Telling a story through several narrators allows us to give readers a broader perspective. Not only can we share first-hand accounts of different events, but we can also layer contrasting perspectives—such as when characters observe one another and offer commentary we wouldn’t get inside the head of any one character alone.

This approach can also increase tension and suspense, since readers often know more than the characters do. For example, one narrator may walk blindly into a trap that another narrator has already warned us about.

The Benefits of a Single NarratorCreating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

The advantages of a single POV novel aren’t always as obvious, but they’re powerful. A one-narrator structure tightens the plot focus, prevents unnecessary rambling, and reduces extraneous subplots. More importantly, it provides space to deeply develop the protagonist’s character arc.

A single narrator also creates intimacy. Readers are invited to experience the story through one lens, fostering a strong bond with the main character. That said, the limitations are real: single POV books can feel narrow, and readers may become frustrated if they’re locked out of crucial events happening offstage.

Which POV Is Right for Your Novel?Ultimately, neither approach is wrong. Writers must analyze the needs of their story structure to decide which technique best serves it. Before making a decision, reflect on your own reading experiences.

For example, although I’ve used multiple POVs in all my novels, I realized most of my favorite books rely on the precision and intimacy of a single narrator (which was one of the reasons I decided to go with a single POV in my most recent novel Wayfarer).

That insight may help you decide which POV strategy best supports your story’s goals.

In SummaryYour choice of POV, whether single or multiple, will completely change the way your story unfolds. By weighing the pros and cons of each narration style, you’ll be better equipped to craft a novel that delivers the exact reading experience you want.

Key Takeaways: Multiple narrators broaden perspective, layer tension, and offer contrasting viewpoints. * Single narrators tighten focus, streamline the plot, and strengthen the protagonist’s development. * The “right” choice depends on the story* you’re telling and the experience you want your readers to have.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Do you prefer reading (or writing) novels with a single narrator or multiple narrators? Why? Tell me in the comments!The post Single vs. Multiple Narrators: Pros and Cons for Novelists appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Not every story needs a protagonist who undergoes a sweeping, life-altering transformation. Many memorable tales hinge on smaller, quieter shifts in perspective—or even on characters who stay true to themselves from beginning to end. Writers often hear that character arcs must be dramatic to be meaningful, but the truth is arcs exist on a spectrum. Big character arcs can redefine a protagonist’s entire worldview, while small character arcs can reveal subtle but powerful growth that shapes the story in more understated ways. Understanding when to use a big arc, a small arc, or even a Flat Arc can help you choose the right level of change for your characters and keep readers invested from page one.

When I write about character arcs, I use sweeping terms about overcoming the Lie the Character Believes in pursuit of the thematic Truth. We talk about your character encountering Doorways of No Return, Moments of Truth, and Dark Nights of the Soul. All of these terms sound epic because they are symbolic. This means they can be applied in different stories to varying degrees of intensity. Just as in our own lives, some character arcs will rock the very foundations of the earth, while others may only offer a comparatively tiny realignment of perspective (perhaps as a building block toward one of those earth-shattering changes later on, but perhaps not too).

A while back, Tom Dell’Aringa emailed me with the following observation and query:

I’ve been following your stuff for a while. I was watching one of your videos on beginnings because I write a series, where the main character and his sidekick don’t change (like Jack Reacher or Jack Ryan, etc., although SF). While I always try to have some issue the main character is working through, he can’t go through some amazing transformation each book. Part of the joy of a series is sticking with a character you like, with all their pros/cons…. I wonder if you had thoughts on how to approach a series while living into the structure you have set out….

First of all, it’s important to recognize not every story will feature a Change Arc. Particularly in series, many characters demonstrate Flat Arc characteristics in each episode. This allows the story’s primary structures to remain unchanging, which allows steadfast characters to represent the story’s Truth to other characters—and therefore to be the one who prompts change rather than the one who changes. (If you’d like a hands-on tool for identifying and planning these different types of arcs, take a look at my Character Arc Worksheets.)

Character Arc Quick Guide (Bundle of 5 Worksheets)

It’s also possible to write stories that really don’t present much of an arc at all, although this is trickier since if the characters do not change, then it is difficult to create any true sense of movement or meaning within the plot itself. Most of the time, if you really look for it, even in tricky stories, you can still identify the underlying symbolic landmarks of some kind of arc, either in the protagonist or the supporting characters.

With all of that in mind, it’s important to remember you can feature a Change Arc without it necessarily having to offer tremendous transformation. When we speak of a Change Arc (whether Positive or Negative), we are simply referring to the fact that the character changes perspective in some way. Sometimes this can be a life-changing paradigm shift, but sometimes the change can be quite small (although it must still be consequential to the story). Particularly in plot-forward stories, the thematic Truth a character learns might even be something practical about the plot mechanics (e.g,. whodunit) rather than a deep personal or social insight. (For my money, however, stories are easily upleveled when the two go hand in hand.)

In short, character arcs in different stories won’t all look alike or carry the same weight. From here, we’ll break down the difference between big arcs, small arcs, and Flat Arcs, and explore how you can choose the right degree of change to best serve your story.

In This Article:* Big Character Arcs and How Transformation Redefines the Protagonist * Small Character Arcs and How Quiet Shifts Can Still Grip Audiences * Flat Arcs and How Characters Stay True While Still Driving the Plot

Big Character Arcs and How Transformation Redefines the ProtagonistWhen we think of “thematic” stories, they are usually ones in which the character arcs are so big they completely redefine the characters’ worldviews and perhaps even the world itself. Like all character arcs, these changes are founded upon the central polarity between a Lie the Character Believes and the opposing Truth. At its simplest, this Lie is a limited perspective, while the Truth acts as a corrective by providing at least a slightly more expanded and functional advancement on that perspective.

In big Change Arcs, this conflict between Lie and Truth tends to be dramatic. This raises the stakes because the transition into the new perspective will all but demolish the character’s previous perspective. This inevitably involves a personal ego death and a transformation of personal identity (i.e., how characters view themselves). Likely, it will also play out in dramatic fashion in the external plot. Characters will have much to gain or much to lose depending on which perspective they end up embracing.

For Example:

A clear example of a dramatic Positive Change Arc can be seen in Schindler’s List. At the beginning, Oskar Schindler believes the Lie that his worth and power come from wealth, status, and self-interest. His identity is bound up in being a profiteer who exploits the war for personal gain. Over the course of the story, he is confronted with the Truth that real value lies in human life and moral responsibility.

Embracing this Truth demolishes his former worldview and forces him through a profound ego death, reshaping how he sees himself and his place in the world. Importantly, this transformation is not just personally dramatic: it also plays out against the larger system of Nazi Germany, where Schindler’s new Truth is in direct conflict with a regime fighting to assert its own destructive “truth” as socially preeminent. His decision to resist this system is not only perilous to him personally, it also highlights how a big Change Arc reverberates outward. The character’s internal shift becomes a force of external opposition in a dangerous world, raising both personal and thematic stakes to their highest pitch.

Oskar Schindler’s transformation in Schindler’s List is a powerful example of a big character arc. (Schindler’s List (1993), Universal Pictures.)

These dramatic personal and social stakes are true whether the character ends up in a Positive Arc from Lie to Truth or in a Negative Arc from Truth to Lie.

For Example:

The Banshees of Inisherin shows a powerful example of how a Negative Change Arc demolishes identity and spirals outward into destruction. At the start, both Pádraic and Colm have perspectives that, while limited, still allow for human connection: Pádraic clings to the Lie that being “nice” and “happy” will guarantee him love and belonging, while Colm seeks significance by isolating himself to pursue art, believing the Lie that human relationships are expendable in the quest for legacy.

As the story progresses, each man is drawn deeper into his respective Lie. Pádraic’s desperation to hold on to friendship corrodes his innocence, while Colm’s rejection of the relationship becomes increasingly violent and self-mutilating. These internal disintegrations don’t remain private. Just as in big Positive Arcs, in which the Truth collides with the larger world, here the embrace of the Lie clashes with the community, escalating conflict and despair. By the end, both characters have been transformed by the loss of whatever humanity and hope they once held. Their Negative Arcs show how a shift from Truth to Lie can unravel not only personal identity but also the fragile social bonds of an entire world.

In The Banshees of Inisherin, Colm and Pádraic’s relationship shows how Negative Change Arcs can unravel both identity and community. The (Banshees of Inisherin (2022), Searchlight Pictures.)

Small Character Arcs and How Quiet Shifts Can Still Grip AudiencesMany stories feature smaller character arcs with lower stakes. In these stories, the Lie/Truth will be less obviously mind-bending and ego-threatening. The thematic premise might span the gamut from “learning a moral lesson” (e.g., “be more loving”) to simply “seeing something in a new light” (e.g., “maybe my life is more interesting than I thought”) to even just “learning a practical lesson” (e.g., “mad scientists shouldn’t play god” or “the dangerous monster can be defeated if we work together” or even “karate makes me powerful”).

In smaller arcs, characters will not necessarily need to experience a dramatic ego death or shift in personal paradigm or identity. They may end the story simply feeling slightly more whole or affirmed. Bigger arcs tend to speak more obviously to our deeper psyches and to the audience’s own inner experience of symbolic life. This is because their scope allows them to draw down bigger and more powerful symbolism, since they often deal with high-stakes situations that are relatively rare in day-to-day life, allowing them to offer important cathartic experiences.

Meanwhile, smaller arcs can be extremely satisfying for audiences in their ability to recreate the sort of relatable situations we all regularly encounter and work through. Major ego deaths are threshold experiences that only happen a few times throughout our lives; smaller perspective shifts, however, happen on a daily basis. The best small arcs are those that intentionally lean into the verisimilitude and reliability of daily evolution.

For Example:

The show Gilmore Girls thrives on micro arcs that bring satisfying movement to each episode without fundamentally altering the characters. Mother and daughter protagonists Lorelai and Rory are defined by strong personalities and consistent worldviews, and the series’ charm lies in watching those traits play out in different circumstances. Most episodes introduce a conflict rooted in family dynamics, town politics, or personal relationships, such as Lorelai needing to smooth things over with her parents or Rory stumbling in balancing academics with friendships. By the end of the episode, the tension is usually resolved with a small shift in outlook: someone apologizes, admits fault, or simply sees a situation from a slightly different angle.

These micro arcs don’t reinvent the characters. Lorelai doesn’t stop being witty and independent, Rory doesn’t stop being studious, their mother/grandmother Emily doesn’t stop being controlling. But the little tweaks in understanding provide the story’s sense of movement while keeping the characters familiar and dependable, which is exactly what makes viewers want to return to the town of Stars Hollow week after week.

In Gilmore Girls, Lorelai and Rory show how small character arcs—tiny shifts in perspective or relationships—can carry a story’s emotional heart. (Gilmore Girls (2000-2007), The CW.)

Writing Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

Often, however, small arcs are less advantageous in bigger stories. In neglecting to pair meaty character arcs with the high stakes of plot-driven spectacles, stories often gut their very soul—theme. Theme arises directly from the interplay of external events challenging characters to change—not just on an external, practical level, but on a deep, personal level. When episodic high-tension stories fail to match their plot events with commensurate character evolution, they are not only missing out on their best potential, but also presenting an ultimately dissatisfyingly out-of-sync presentation of reality. They often ring hollow and become all-too-forgettable for the simple reason that their bluff and bluster isn’t allowed to mean anything.

For Example:

Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom heightened its spectacle even further than its predecessors, escalating the stakes to include not just an island of dinosaurs but the potential weaponization and global spread of these creatures. Yet despite the apocalyptic implications, the characters’ arcs remain small and underdeveloped. Claire softens slightly from her corporate-minded pragmatism into a more openly compassionate activist, but this shift is incremental compared to the world-shattering events around her. Owen, meanwhile, remains essentially unchanged—an action hero stereotype who doesn’t evolve in any significant way.

The mismatch between the immense external conflict and the modest internal growth means the film struggles to generate any thematic depth whatsoever. Its bluff and bluster never quite land because the story neglects the deeper resonance that comes when characters’ internal journeys rise to meet extraordinary stakes.

By contrast, the original Jurassic Park paired its high-stakes dinosaur spectacle with a heartfelt internal arc: Alan Grant’s begrudging discomfort with children gradually transforms into protectiveness and affection as the high stakes demand he bond with the two children in his care, giving the story an emotional anchor that elevates its thrills into resonance.

Alan Grant’s quiet transformation in Jurassic Park shows how small arcs can give big stories their emotional heart. (Jurassic Park (1993), Universal Pictures.)

Flat Arcs and How Characters Stay True While Driving the StoryA final consideration for your story is the Flat Arc. The Flat Arc represents, basically, the next level a character may reach after a Change Arc. The Flat Arc is a story about a character who already “gets” the Truth. However, because stories still require the engine of internal change in order to generate meaning, these stories will still feature characters who change. The difference is that here, the Flat Arc protagonist acts as an Impact Character who represents the thematic Truth and inspires Change Arcs in the supporting characters—whether those arcs are large or small.

So much can be done with a Flat Arc character. Not only can they be used to create a stable axis for an ongoing series, in which potentially everything changes except the protagonist—they can also develop tremendous complexities in their own right. The most important thing to remember about Flat Arc characters is that just because they’ve figured out the thematic Truth at the center of the story, this doesn’t mean they understand all truths—or even any other truth. In short, they can be wonderfully limited and flawed characters while still acting as catalysts for the changes that need to happen in the external story world.

For Example:

Sherlock Holmes remains firmly grounded in the series’ central Truth that rational observation and logic can uncover reality. He doesn’t need to undergo a sweeping personal transformation from story to story; instead, he acts as the stable axis around which the mystery turns. This doesn’t mean Holmes is perfect or even well-balanced. His arrogance, addiction, and emotional blind spots remind us that a Flat Arc character can be deeply limited.

What makes him fascinating is precisely this tension: he embodies the thematic Truth that reason exposes deception, but he does not grasp (or refuses to engage with) many other truths, such as those of empathy, humility, or human connection. His steadfastness allows him to be a catalyst for the story’s external resolution, while his flaws keep him vivid and complex, preventing him from collapsing into a lifeless stereotype.

Sherlock Holmes demonstrates a Flat Arc: he already embodies the thematic Truth of reason and logic, shaping the story world without undergoing major change himself. (Sherlock Holmes (2009), Warner Bros.)

This makes Flat Arc characters excellent choices for many types of series, especially episodic series, in which the central premise remains the same (e.g., a detective solving a mystery) while the plot details change (e.g., new murderer and new suspects in each installment). Flat Arc characters tend to be particularly archetypal. In their unchangingness, they represent a single symbolic catalyst. While this can create striking depth, it can also become stereotypical and, yes, flat very quickly.

Used with discretion and awareness, Flat Arc characters stand as extremely powerful and inspirational (or cautionary) figures. Fundamentally, they represent characters who are a step ahead on the path. They are characters who have emerged from the comparative ignorance of a previous Positive Change Arc (even if it is never referenced) in order to embody a particular Truth (i.e., a slightly more expanded perspective than that of the surrounding story world). Their seeming simplicity can actually make them quite tricky to write well, but when executed skillfully, they provide all kinds of versatility for the author.

For Example:

Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird is a quintessential example of a Flat Arc character used with tremendous discretion and power. He has already moved beyond the ignorance of believing society’s Lie—that prejudice and inequality are acceptable—and now lives firmly in the Truth of justice, empathy, and human dignity. Because he stands a step ahead of the rest of Maycomb, his role is not to transform internally but to act as a moral catalyst, challenging the community and inspiring his daughter Scout.

His apparent simplicity (i.e., he is calm, principled, unwavering) makes him seem almost mythological, which is precisely what gives him his symbolic force. He embodies a Truth others must grapple with, and the drama arises from how his world reacts to his steadfastness rather than from any change within him. Written well, such Flat Arc characters can serve as luminous figures, offering readers a vision of what it looks like to live by a deeper Truth even when it comes at great personal cost.

Atticus Finch shows how Flat Arc characters embody moral truth and inspire growth in others without needing to transform themselves. (To Kill a Mockingbird (1962), Universal Pictures.)

Whether you’re writing a sweeping epic or a cozy slice-of-life, remember: the heartbeat of your story lives in the character arcs. Big arcs grip us because they reflect the rare, seismic changes of real life, while small arcs and Flat Arcs resonate because they reflect the daily steps of growth, resistance, and steadfastness we all experience day to day. When writers understand the spectrum of arcs available to them, they gain the power to craft stories that feel meaningful and true while also choosing the approach that makes the most sense for any particular story.

In SummaryCharacter arcs exist on a spectrum—from dramatic transformations that shatter identity to small but satisfying shifts in perspective,to Flat Arcs that anchor the story’s thematic Truth. Each option brings different opportunities and challenges, and the best choice depends on the kind of story you’re telling.

Key Takeaways Big Arcs: Redefine a character’s worldview through dramatic conflict between Lie and Truth. * Small Arcs: Mirror everyday perspective shifts that create relatability and subtle growth. * Flat Arcs: Provide a stable axis through embodied experience that inspires change in others. * Balance matters:* The scale of the arc should align with the scale of the story’s stakes to create resonance and theme.

Want More?Need a fast, reliable roadmap for mapping out your characters’ journeys?

Check out my Character Arc Quick Guide Pack, featuring five fillable worksheets that break down the essential beats of every major arc type (Positive, Flat, Disillusionment, Fall, and Corruption). Whether you’re outlining a brand-new protagonist, testing alternate possibilities for a supporting cast, or just looking for a quick-reference checklist during revisions, I designed these worksheets to give you a streamlined way to develop arcs that work. Instantly downloadable, printable, and reusable, they’re designed to save you time while making sure your characters’ inner journeys stay just as compelling as your plot twists. Grab the Character Arc Quick Guide Worksheets here.

Plan your story with the Character Arc Workbook Quick Guide—5 templates, 45 questions, and a cheat sheet to help you choose the right arc.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What kind of character arcs do you most enjoy writing—or reading? Do you prefer the catharsis of big transformations, the relatability of small shifts, or the steadfast power of Flat Arcs? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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When it comes to creating memorable, emotionally resonant characters, your character’s personality may seem like it’s just a “flavor,” but in many ways it’s actually the foundation of the story itself. Your character’s personality influences everything: the character arc, the voice in both dialogue and the narrative (if the character has a POV), and the goals that shape your entire plot.

In many ways, your characters’ personalities can determine whether or not the story works. This is most obviously true when it comes that special “it” factor that creates unforgettably quirky or nuanced characters, but it’s even more true when it comes to the cohesion of your story’s deeper workings—where character, plot, and theme all come together.

In short, understanding personality might just be one of the most powerful tools in a writer’s toolbox.

In This Article:* 3 Reasons Why Personality Is the Secret Ingredient to Strong Characters * 4 Ways a Character’s Personality Drives Your Storytelling * 10 Practical Tips for Weaving Personality Into Character Arc, Plot, Dialogue, and More * FAQs About Character Personality

3 Reasons Why Personality Is the Secret Ingredient to Strong CharactersThe concept of personality brings a number of different connotations.

1. Personality Is a Consistent Set of TraitsFor starters, we recognize the technical definition of personality as a consistent set of traits, behaviors, emotional patterns, and motivations that shape how someone perceives the world, makes decisions, and interacts with others. Personality influences not just what people do, but why they do it, how they react under pressure, form relationships, pursue goals, and confront internal or external conflict.

2. Personality Is CharismaThere is also a certain sense of je ne sais quoi—that special sauce that makes an individual unique and interesting. When the word “personality” is brought up in a fictional context, we generally tend to think of characters with big, interesting (read: complex), and memorable personalities. They’re not beige; they’re intriguing in their relatability but also because of their unique ways of viewing and responding to the world.

3. Personality Is the Ego or False SelfHowever, personality can also be understood as the “false” or “egoic self”—a persona honed throughout our lives to allow us to move functionally through society and relationships, but which is ultimately limiting to the bigness of our true selves.

Writers can make good use of all three of these definitions. Thinking intentionally about a character’s personality allows us to craft a container in which we can sift through potential traits, reactions, and goals to find those that offer the most cohesion for the entire story. From there, we can explore ways to create characters with inherently entertaining or intriguing personalities—ones with the potential to join iconic classics such as Michael Corleone, Jo March, Tony Stark, Sarah Connor, Gandalf the Gray, and Hermione Granger (their names are as famous, if not more, than the stories they play in).

4 Ways Personality Drives StorytellingMost of the time, when writers consider a character’s personality, they focus primarily on outward traits. However, in so many ways, a character’s personality is the story. Here are four key considerations.

1. Personality Shapes the Character ArcThe Complete Enneagram

Although some personality systems offer static descriptions of traits, others like the Enneagram go deeper to point out specific transformational paths that can help people break past the ego-based facades and personas that limit us and create dysfunction. From this perspective, personality is all about the character arc!

Although most personality systems worth their salt (including MBTI, Human Design, Socionics, love languages, attachment styles, even astrology, and more) ultimately offer pathways of growth, the Enneagram is somewhat unique in its focus on specific paths of evolution (or devolution as the case may be) for each type. As I’ve explored before, this makes the Enneagram perhaps the most useful personality system for not just identifying and fleshing out a character’s personality, but for using that personality to create a cohesive character arc and, from that, plot and theme as well.

If you’d like more guidance, I’ve talked here about the Positive Change Arcs inherent in each of the nine Enneagram types and here about the Negative Change Arcs inherent in each type. I’ve also just released a full set of worksheets for each of the nine types. Each bundle includes questions to guide you in planning either a Positive or Negative Arc for each of the types, which will help you ensure your character’s arc, Lie vs. Truth, and Want vs. Need are aligned with the character’s personality, while also helping you brainstorm ways to make your character’s personalized arc consistent with the overall plot and theme.

Enneagram Character Arc Cheat Sheet Bundle – Square for Etsy

1. Personality Informs Voice and DialoguePerhaps nothing in your story is more obviously influenced by personality than character voice. When we think of personality on the page, we think about voice more than anything else. How a character communicates—whether in dialogue or directly through the narrative in a tight POV—directly communicates personality. In my own experience, I’ve found that if my narrative is struggling, it’s often because I’m trying to write in the POV of a character whose voice just doesn’t have enough personality.

Personality will also directly influence your character’s dialogue style. This isn’t just about word choice. It’s also about the character’s preferred “style” of arguing or engaging in conflict. For example, a more aggressive personality type like an Enneagram 8 or an MBTI ENTJ will have an entirely different style of attack and defense (aka, initiating desires or responding to others’ desires) than will an Enneagram 9 or a Human Design Reflector.

Writing is all about the words, and nothing influences word choice, tone, emotional reactions, dialogue style, conflict resolution, or argument styles more than personality.

(You can find questions to help you uncover all of this is another of my hot-off-the-presses worksheets—the Character Interview, featuring 113 questions, many of them about personality.)

Character Interview Digital Worksheet for Writers

1. Personality Determines Shadow and Subconscious Goals“Personality” literally refers to what we see on the surface, and yet personality is formed by what is unseen—by what has been banished to the “shadow” or the unconscious. What we see in a personality is really just what’s left after certain traits, energies, beliefs, and identities have been deemed dysfunctional (usually unconsciously early in childhood) and “cut off” from the conscious personality.

This is important for storytellers because uncovering your character’s shadow will likely be an intrinsic part of the character arc. Character arc, at its simplest, is about expanding a limited perspective. Ultimately, this perspective is always about one’s self. Even if it seems to be a change in perspective regarding others or the world at large, ultimately this new “Truth” reflects upon the self’s place in relationship to others. This means the “limited perspective” (or Lie the Character Believes) is a product of the necessarily always limited personality, while the “expanded perspective” (or thematic Truth) is, at least in part, a restoration of some piece of the self previously lost to the shadow.

From here, we can see how character goals are almost always driven by this deeper subconscious motivation. A character’s personality isn’t just traits. More deeply, personality is what the character fears, represses, and unconsciously chases. Right there, you already have an entire story!

1. Personality Reveals Core Strengths and WeaknessesOnce we recognize personality as not just someone’s (presumably functional) persona, we can see the deeper truth that personality is, in fact, as much about inherent weaknesses as inherent strengths. Understanding this about your character’s personality gives you a fast track to the central internal conflict.

Stories run on the tension points between polarities—between strengths and weaknesses, between Lies and Truths, between delusions and epiphanies, between cowardice and courage, between mistakes and successes. All of these are inherent to your character’s personality. What is a stressful internal dissonance for one personality (e.g., balancing an Enneagram Five’s need for connection against the fear of overwhelm) is already a natural integration for another type (such as a Two, who struggles with different tension points).

A firm understanding of a useful personality type system can help you double-check your character’s development arcs for consistency and realism. When you’re in the early throes of writing, it can be easy to scribble things onto the page that, in the big view, don’t actually create the necessary and realistic tension points that arise from a consistent portrayal of human nature. An understanding of personality can guide you to which arcs are most natural to your characters.

10 Practical Tips for Weaving Personality Into Plot, Dialogue, and ArcAll right, enough theory! Let’s get practical. How can you use personality more intentionally to develop not just a better character, but a more cohesive and resonant plot and theme as well?

Let Personality Shape the Story1. Choose a Personality Framework Early in Your Planning Process— Use a system like the Enneagram or MBTI to explore internal motivations and potential arcs.

— I recommend focusing on one primary personality system to avoid overcomplication.

— Once you know your character’s personality, examine the system as a guide to help you find the most resonant growth path.

1. Use Personality to Predict Conflict Style— Start working on your plot by considering what conflict style (e.g., competing, avoiding, collaborating, etc.) best fits your character’s personality.

— Think about how your character argues, avoids, or escalates conflict based on type.

— This adds nuance to both dialogue and plot tension, while showing you what types of scenes are most likely to emerge when your character’s goals are met with obstacles (i.e., conflict).

— Your character’s conflict style is one of the richest places to mine for entertainment opportunities.

— For example, consider Han Solo’s classically sarcastic but often off-point retorts: “We’re all fine here now… how are you?”

Star Wars: A New Hope (1977), 20th Century Fox.

–Ask: How can your character’s conflict style create dynamic, unusual, or larger-than-life scenes?

1. Let the Shadow Reveal the ThemeWriting Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

— Use the subconscious fear or flaw inherent in your character’s personality to point toward the story’s deeper thematic question.

— For example, a character with an avoidant attachment style might prompt thematic explorations of self-isolation or self-sabolage, such as Elsa in Frozen.

Frozen (2013), Walt Disney Pictures.

— If you’re unsure what might be in your character’s personality shadow, remember shadow theory’s simple guideline: “Whatever is visible in a person’s external personality is an indication that the exact opposite resides in the shadow.”

— For example, an MBTI INTP character—who relies most heavily on mental functions—may resonantly create a story about exploring the underworld of grief or the bewilderment of falling in love, such as R in Warm Bodies.

Warm Bodies (2013), Lionsgate.

1. Design Key Plot Beats Around Transformation PointsPersonality Types by Don Richard Riso and Russ Hudson (affiliate link)

— Personality systems like the Enneagram particularly lend themselves to narrative arcs, since they suggest specific steps on a path to growth (in addition to my worksheets, you can check out Personality Types by Russ Hudson and Don Richard Riso for in-depth studies on this).

— For example, if you know your Enneagram Type Three character’s Lie is “I’m only worthy if I succeed,” you can shape the Midpoint or Third Plot Point to directly challenge that belief.

Let Story Reveal Personality5. Reverse-Engineer Personality From Your Plot— If your story idea came to you as a plot instead of a character, you can use what you know about the story’s external events to create the most resonant personality for your character.

— Ask: Based on the choices the plot indicates the character will need to make, what traits or fears will be likely to emerge in the character arc?

— From there, you can identify the most resonant personality type. +However, be sure to use the story events to discover (not dictate) who the character is.

— Character and plot should influence each other, but character should be the more dynamic force. This is to ensure that the plot feels organic and natural rather than contrived.

1. Analyze Plot Points to Discover Your Character’s Internal Values— Take a look at what your character sacrifices or clings to when the stakes are high. That alone can reveal your character’s personality type or predominant internal struggle.

— For example, as an Enneagram One, Jane Eyre always returns to the central question of right and wrong (as she sees it). When confronted by Rochester’s pre-existing marriage at the Third Plot Point, she decides to leave him less because she feels betrayed and more because she believes it would be morally wrong for her to illegally marry him.

Jane Eyre (2006), WGBH/BBC.

1. Refine Your Character’s Type After Writing the First Draft— Sometimes, you won’t really know who your character is until after you’ve written the story.

— After finishing the first draft, you can go back to revise voice and dialogue to more clearly reflect a unified personality for your character.

Bonus Implementation Tips8. Create a Quick-Reference “Personality Snapshot”— Character personality—like most things in storytelling—can get complicated fast. Not only can relying on a personality system provide shortcuts to identifying and remembering character traits, but so can keeping a sort of “personality outline.”

— You can include your character’s personality type, dominant traits, shadow fear, core desire, communication style, and more.

— When writing, I always try to review at least a small portion of my notes every day before I begin to keep them fresh in my mind.

1. Use a Worksheet or Interview to Stress-Test Alignment— Although beat sheets and character interviews should only be used to create a flexible guide, they can be helpful for nailing down the big picture of your character’s personality and arc.

— You can find the free version of my character interview here, and you can grab the updated fillable pdf of the worksheet here.

Character Interview Digital Worksheet for Writers

— If you’ve chosen to use the Enneagram as your primary personality typing system, you may also find some help in my brand new Enneagram Character Arc Cheat Sheets to check whether the story beats align with the character’s internal journey. (Each bundle contains both Positive and Negative Change Arcs for each type.)

Enneagram Character Arc Cheat Sheet Full Bundle

1. Treat Personality as Dynamic, Not Fixed— I’m a big fan of the aphorism (usually attributed to George Box),

All models are wrong, but some are useful.

— This is true of so much in storytelling, and it is certainly true when it comes to personality systems.

— Although incredibly useful in helping writers distil the eminently complex topic that is the human personality, systems such as the Enneagram, MBTI, and more, are ultimately still limited and should only be used insofar as they are useful.

— Growth (or regression) in your character’s arc should always reflect believable changes in personality expression, and you should always listen to your own deep and instinctive understanding of the human ego, shadow, and persona above and beyond any fixed model.

Why Knowing Personality Unlocks Your Whole StoryYour character’s personalities aren’t just one layer of who they are. Personality is the central lens through which characters interpret the world, make decisions, and pursue goals. Personality is also the bridge between plot, theme, and character. Or perhaps we might think of it as the container that holds all three.

Personality shapes not only what your characters want, but why they want it, what’s standing in their way, and how they express that tension through action, voice, and internal conflict. That’s everything you need for your plot right there. When you understand your character’s personality, you gain access to the deeper psychological and thematic forces driving your story forward.

It’s important to remember there is no one “right” framework to use. Whether you gravitate toward the Enneagram, MBTI, Human Design, or something else, the most important step is simply choosing a system that resonates with you and then using it to stress-test your characters and their arcs.

FAQs About Character PersonalityWhat is the best personality system for writers to use?There’s no single best system, since each offers a different perspective. For instance, the Enneagram is ideal for exploring inner conflict and transformation, while MBTI is great for understanding cognitive wiring and behavior. The only thing that matters is choosing one that complements your writing style.

Can a character’s personality change throughout the story?Characters won’t change to a different personality, but how they relate from within the containers of their current personalities can dramatically evolve. A well-crafted character arc doesn’t usually change the core personality, but does change how the character expresses it. For example, withdrawn characters might learn to stay connected under pressure, without losing their introspective natures.

How does the Enneagram help with writing character arcs?The Enneagram maps core fears, desires, and defense mechanisms—all of which tie neatly into a character’s Lie, Want, Need, and Truth. Each Enneagram type also suggests likely growth paths and shadow pitfalls, which makes the system especially useful for writers when building Positive and Negative Change Arcs.

How do I figure out my character’s personality type?You can start by asking what your characters fear most, how they handle conflict, and what motivates their choices. Consider how they act under stress and in growth. Then compare those traits to personality types in your chosen system and adjust based on what best supports the arc you want to tell.

Want More?If you’re ready to dive deeper into using personality to guide your character arcs, check out my Enneagram Character Arc Cheat Sheets. Each worksheet bundle walks you through both Positive and Negative Change Arcs for all nine Enneagram types to help you align your character’s internal journey with your story’s external plot beats. You can use these digital worksheets when you’re outlining or revising to create arcs that are psychologically authentic and thematically resonant. Available now in my Etsy shop or via the Store tab above!

Enneagram Character Arc Worksheets

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What role does personality play in how you approach your characters? Do you start with a personality type, or does it emerge from the story? Do you use a system like the Enneagram or MBTI in your process? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post How a Character’s Personality Shapes Arc, Voice, and Goals appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Stories are more than just entertainment. They’re also more than just reflections of real life. This is because, at its core, narrative is myth. Whether you’re crafting epic fantasy, gritty crime drama, or cozy rom-coms, deep archetypal patterns always echo through your characters, plots, and themes. Story is the theater of the psyche. It is a dream we collectively dream, in which each character and conflict embodies a part of ourselves. When we recognize this hidden foundation, we can tap this archetypal power to access the kind of storytelling that not only captivates readers but also transforms both their inner lives and our own.

A few weeks ago, I shared a post that struck a chord with many of you—about my deep desire to witness the return of “soulful storytelling.” Specifically, I wrote about my personal dissatisfaction and even boredom with contemporary filmmaking. In that post, I talked about wanting to return to stories of subtextual depth, emotional earnestness, and goodheartedness (among other qualities). In pondering on this further via the many thoughtful exchanges I got to have with all of you in the comments section on that post, I realized there are more layers to the shifts we have seen in modern storytelling—and the next shift I believe we will soon see.

One of those layers is the tension we often feel, but perhaps do not always recognize, between hyper-realism in fiction and storytelling’s inherently mythic foundation. I’m talking about the differences between stories that dutifully mimic or even exaggerate the causality of everyday life and those that draw upon the timeless archetypal patterns of the psyche.

When asked to define “story,” we may reach for the convenient answer that story is a replication of real life. But this, I will posit, is not actually true. Throughout history, we have increasingly dressed our stories in the verisimilitude of realistic details and the self-consciousness of our minds’ inner workings. But underneath all the hyper-realism, the true and archetypal shape of story itself remains something quite mythic. It is much less a product of our conscious minds—our conscious and scientific understanding of the world’s workings and our place in it—and much more a product of our unconscious minds—our symbolic and dreaming selves.

Recognizing storytelling (no matter the genre) as inherently mythic allows us, as storytellers, to walk onto a much bigger stage. We exit the relatively small stage of the self we know—the conscious self—and enter the vastness of the self that lives beyond consciousness and therefore beyond the restricted understanding allowed by the ego.

When we approach story as something inherently mythic—an archetype that exists outside and beyond humanity’s “creation” of it as an artform—we regain the capacity to create stories that touch the deepest parts of ourselves to create not just transformation, but initiation.

In This Article:* Story as a Primordial Force: The Mythic Foundation of Narrative * The Theater of the Psyche: Every Character Is You * Archetypes as Living Forces in Storytelling * Story as a Living Dream: Why All Stories Are Myth

Story as a Primordial Force: The Mythic Foundation of NarrativeFrom the far depths of human memory, story comes to us as a primordial force. Indeed, human memory itself is a story. Before we packaged stories for $20 mass consumption—before movies, before novels—story came to us as oral myths, ritual dramas, stone etchings, and catalysts of initiation.

Nowadays, storytelling is a highly specialized skill set. We come to sites like this one to study beat sheets and timing. We divide stories into highly specialized genres and check tropes off a list. We come to story as if it is something we can master. But in approaching story like this, we risk missing not just the deeper initiation story wants to offer each of us. We also risk missing out on the best possible stories we could be sharing with our own audiences.

I want to talk about one trend in particular that I see in modern storytelling. In itself, this trend is not problematic. But when too much emphasis is placed on it, it can create a polarized experience of story that can weaken its deeper impact. This trend, as I hinted previously, is hyper-realism. It is the trend—all but ubiquitous now—of faithfully recreating modern life on the page or the screen. In some ways, we might say it is “showing” rather than “telling.”

Again, I’m not saying this approach is wrong. I love detailed fiction that shows me the story world with such dimensionality that I’m there. I love deep POVs that faithfully mine and recreate the complexities of human interiority—everything from memory to motive.

But my feeling is that when this hyper-realism is not founded upon the deeper mythology of story itself, we often risk losing the forest for the trees. I will even go so far as to say this approach is a driving force behind the type of modern storytelling that carries characters and audiences to destinations awash with sophisticated despair or, at best, ambiguous apathy.

This is not to say mythic stories do not confront their fair portion of darkness and despair. But as I continue to study story as an archetype, it is my belief that these old stories (everything from the creation stories to The Odyssey to old folk tales like Little Red Riding Hood) speak to us, first and always, in metaphor and symbol. Certainly, as we explore the continuity with which the shape of story comes to us over the eons, I believe we can see that story itself is much more than simply a mirror of life. It is an initiatory force.

Becoming Supernatural by Dr. Joe Dispenza (affiliate link)

At the end of his book Becoming Supernatural, Dr. Joe Dispenza defined initiation:

I believe we are on the verge of a great evolutionary jump. Another way to say it is that we are going through an initiation. After all, isn’t an initiation a rite of passage from one level of consciousness to another, and isn’t it designed to challenge the fabric of who we are so we can grow to a greater potential?

Story is a symbolic map of transformation. It is a blueprint for growth and change. I wrote in the previous post about how I will never be satisfied with even one single story that does not challenge me in some way—because, for me, that is what I look for in a story experience. I look for that frisson of electricity, that tinge of awe, as I sense however faintly that I am entering an uncanny space—a wyrd space.

In the old Norse, the concept of “wyrd”—from which we get our word “weird”—indicated not just the uncanny, but the fated. In story, what I seek for myself are fated encounters. I seek shatterpoints of destiny that fracture, however slightly, reality as I know it.

The Theater of the Psyche: Every Character Is YouEvery story holds the seed of this transformational power. It doesn’t matter the medium or the genre. This potential is latent in all stories—whether about hellbent mobsters or romantic HEAs or comedic farces or historical reproductions or fantastical allegories. However, whether and how well this potential is realized depends on the author. To some extent, it depends on the author’s conscious awareness of and ability to empower the story’s mythic sub-structure. But I would say, even more perhaps, it depends on the author’s personal touchstone with the mythic subconsciousness that lives within them.

If we think of story as being like a dream, we are not too far from the truth. Story—true, deep, initiatory story—is something that arises from an inner depth existing beneath and beyond egoic consciousness. We are more likely to find these stories by “channeling” them than by trying to brainstorm them.

Like dreams, stories are innately symbolic—even, and perhaps especially, when we do not realize it. As authors, we cannot always explain where our best work comes from. Often, it may seem it does not come from us. It was given to us. We are the first to be changed by it. Indeed, we may spend the rest of our lives not quite understanding it.

Also like dreams, I believe it is useful to take one more step back from the hyper-detailed and hyper-realistic showing of fiction. Until we do so, we are likely to think our stories are peopled by a varied and dimensional cast, perhaps purposefully created by us to showcase a vast number of perspectives and lifestyles. When we go deeper, we may see instead that the deepest and most mythic stories represent a single psyche—perhaps the author’s, perhaps a bit more specifically the protagonist’s, but ultimately the collective psyche.

Some schools of dream interpretation remind the dreamer to consider that everything that shows up in a dream is you. That is, it is not your father in the dream; it is some aspect of your own psyche wearing the face of your father. The same can be said of a story. Every character in the story—indeed, everything in the story—is an aspect of one psyche. The hero, the antagonist, the love interest, the mentor—all are representations of a unified psychological perspective and experience.

The deep resonance of stories that work—stories that initiate us—is the result of this inner unity. Audiences resonate because they’re watching externalized inner conflicts of the self. If you start examining stories from this perspective, you may be amazed at what you discover.

A quite obvious example is The Lord of the Rings. I particularly remember the first time I saw the scene in Fellowship of the Ring, in which the characters flee underground into the Mines of Moria, where they awaken goblins and trolls in the darkness. In so many ways, this can be seen as a descent into the unconscious and a confrontation with the shadow monsters who reside forgotten there.

The Balrog confrontation symbolizes the psyche’s descent into shadow.” (The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001), New Line Cinema.)

Another vivid example of this inner-psyche theater can be found in Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away. Nearly every character in Chihiro’s journey can be read as an aspect of the self.

• Her parents’ careless greed is the egoic appetite that abandons her to the unconscious.
• The enormous baby, Boh, is the unruly inner child who must be reparented before growth can occur.
• Yubaba, the domineering mistress of the bathhouse, embodies the controlling authority of the superego.
• Haku functions as the animus—an inner guide and companion who helps Chihiro navigate transformation.
• No-Face represents the shadow self: a ravenous, distorted self that can only be healed through compassion and reintegration.

In this light, Spirited Away becomes not simply a fantastical coming-of-age tale, but a symbolic map of psychological wholeness.

Miyazaki’s Spirited Away shows how every story is myth: each character symbolizes an aspect of the self, from the shadow in No-Face to the inner child in Boh. (Spirited Away (2001), Studio Ghibli.)

And in a more realistic example, we can see how the various characters in Pride & Prejudice represent facets of a single psyche:

• Elizabeth and Darcy embody the central tension between pride and humility, shame and love.
• Jane reflects openness and generosity.
• Lydia personifies unchecked impulse.
• Mr. Collins plays the part of obsequious conformity.
• Lady Catherine stands as rigid authority.

Read this way, Austen’s novel becomes not just a social comedy but an archetypal drama of the self learning to reconcile its contradictions and move toward wholeness.

Lizzie and Darcy reflect the psyche’s struggle with pride, shame, and connection. (Pride & Prejudice (2005), Focus Features.)

Archetypes as Living Forces in StorytellingWriting Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)

For writers, one of the most useful tools for enlivening the power of mythic storytelling is to access the innate power of character archetypes.

With all things archetypal, it is crucial to interact with archetypes not as simplistic stereotypes but as living forces. Put simply: we don’t get to dictate what archetypes do. When we have truly accessed them, they tell us what they will do. When we have truly understood them, we feel it all the way down to our bones. Archetypes are dynamic energies peopling initiatory arcs. They surface in different guises but always point to universal human epochs.

As writers, we can access these forces consciously to deepen our character arcs, themes, and story arcs. The most obvious way we can work with these archetypes is to learn about them through the old stories. But they are found everywhere. I would go so far as to say they are found in every story that works. More than that, they are inherent—if perhaps latent—within each of us.

As human beings (and especially as human beings with active imaginations), we already have a deep understanding and recognition of these archetypal forces—if we are brave enough to face them. This cannot be taken for granted. It can often feel much easier to ignore the call of initiation and transformation. Cutting the journey short before we finish the Dark Night of the Soul can often seem wiser. Ironically, remaining cozy and cynical in the affirming arms of despair can feel much safer than daring to keep walking into the unknown of transformation.

What archetypal storytelling—mythic storytelling—demands of us as storytellers is that we face the archetypes themselves with authenticity and with humility. Mythic storytelling demands that we listen to the deepest, loudest, softest truths within us. We know when what we are writing is mythic and archetypal—whether we call it that or not. We know when what we are writing is the truest thing it is possible for us to write. We know in our hearts. And I do not say “hearts” lightly. The heart is a much better storyteller than the head.

The head, however, remains a worthy ally on this journey. It is not, as it so often thinks, the protagonist. But it is a helpful sidekick. To that end, studying the mythic journeys in literature can be extremely helpful—whether the Hero’s Journey or the five further archetypal journeys I discuss in my book Writing Archetypal Character Arcs. (Writers can apply these insights practically through my Archetypal Character Arc Worksheets. This worksheet bundle is, in essence, a companion workbook to Writing Archetypal Character Arcs. If you’d like help charting any of the six archetypal character arcs—Maiden, Hero, Queen, King, Crone, and Mage—you can check out the worksheets I just released. If you want them all, be sure to check out the discounted bundle.)

Story as a Living Dream: Why All Stories Are MythStory is not just “about life.” It’s a dream we dream together. It is a map for transformation. If we look into the past, history tells us our storytellers were our seers, our shamans, our wayshowers, our most respected elders.

Now, we are all storytellers. We all bear this great burden to look beyond what everyone else can see and to hone the transformative truths that are meant to initiate not just us but every member of our tribe.

To do that, we must start by remembering what story really is. It is not just entertainment. It is not just escapism. It is not just pleasure. It is not just a source of income.

What is story? I believe the archetypal shape of story is, fundamentally, a truth. Perhaps even the Truth. It is the power to change the world—over and over and over and over again. It is the power to change us. It is the power to bypass our limited egoic perceptions of ourselves, others, and our world and to show us into the wyrdest depths of what it means to be human. It is a dream we dream that also dreams us. It is initiation. It is transformation. It is change. It is myth.

Frequently Asked Questions What does it mean to say all stories are myth?
It means that beneath every plot and genre lies a universal archetypal pattern. From epic fantasies to contemporary romances, all stories echo mythic structures that reflect the psyche’s journey of transformation. * Can hyper-realistic stories still be mythic?
Yes. Even the most realistic fiction carries symbolic depth if the writer taps into archetypal storytelling. A courtroom drama or slice-of-life novel can still follow the mythic blueprint of initiation, transformation, and return. * Why do archetypes resonate so deeply with readers?
Because archetypes are not stereotypes. They are living psychological forces. When writers use archetypal character arcs, readers feel as though they are watching their own inner conflicts dramatized on the page. * How can writers use archetypal character arcs in their stories?*
Writers can use arcs like the Maiden, Hero, Queen, King, Crone, or Mage as blueprints for character development. These journeys help ensure stories resonate with mythic power and emotional authenticity.

In SummaryAt their core, all stories are myth. No matter the genre or style, narrative always springs from the archetypal blueprint of the psyche. Story is not simply a mirror of everyday life but a symbolic map of transformation—a dream we dream together. When writers embrace this mythic foundation, they create stories that not only entertain but initiate both writer and reader into deeper self-awareness and lasting change.

Key Takeaways All stories are myth. Beneath plot and genre lies the archetypal blueprint of transformation. * Story is psyche. Every character and force reflects a facet of the self. * Archetypes are alive. They are not tropes but dynamic psychological energies. * Hyper-realism needs myth. Realism alone risks losing depth; archetypal foundation restores resonance. * Story transforms.* Writers and readers alike undergo initiation through narrative.

Want More?Archetypal Character Workbook (Full Bundle of 6)

If you’d like to put these insights into practice, explore my Archetypal Character Arc Worksheets—a series of six fillable, downloadable guides designed to help you chart mythic journeys for your characters. Each worksheet breaks down one of the six archetypal arcs—Maiden, Hero, Queen, King, Crone, and Mage–into structural beat sheets, reflective questions, and story prompts. Whether you’re writing epic fantasy or modern literary fiction, these tools will help you harness archetypal storytelling, deepen your characters, and unlock the mythic power within your narrative. Find the full set (including the discounted bundle) in my Etsy store.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Do you see your own stories as mythic at their core? How do you think recognizing the archetypal foundation of storytelling might change the way you write? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post Why All Stories Are Myth—and How They Transform Us appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Sometimes the “quick little projects” are the ones that surprise me the most! Back in the spring, I thought it might be fun to put together a few simple printable writing worksheets—something light and easy, just a side project before the second edition of my Structuring Your Novel Workbook comes out this October.

Of course, you know how that goes. One idea led to another, and before long my “tiny project” turned into a whole collection of 20+ digital writing resources. And honestly? I had a blast making them. (Seriously. I had to make myself stop!)

Now, after months of work, I’m excited to share them with you!

Why I Created These Worksheets for WritersWhen I was in grade school, I had a “Write Your Novel” kit that came with worksheets. I can still remember how excited I felt sitting down with those pages—answering questions, filling in blanks, and dreaming up characters and stories. Secretly, that early love of worksheets has never left me. To this day, I still find them ridiculously fun.

Of course, worksheets should never be about ticking off boxes or forcing your story to fit into rigid rules. Writing begins and ends as discovery. But sometimes we all hit blind spots:

• An arc that feels flat
• A theme that won’t come together
• A character who just isn’t coming alive

This is where worksheets shine. Worksheets are tools to help you spark fresh insight, troubleshoot weak spots, and unlock ideas you didn’t know you had.

My goal was to design practical, easy-to-use tools that:

• Give you direct access to the writing techniques I teach
• Spark new insights into your characters, themes, and plots
• Offer flexible, fun ways to brainstorm and outline your stories

Whether you’re working on a novel, screenplay, or even an RPG campaign, these fillable PDF worksheets for writers are designed as creative companions for your storytelling journey.

Browse the entire collection of 20+ worksheets here: [Grab the Worksheets!]

Which Worksheets Should You Choose? (Hint: Check Out the Discounted Bundle)If you’re not sure where to start, I’d recommend checking out two special bundles:

• The Archetypal Character Arc Cheat Sheets – Provides quick-glance guides to all six of the major archetypes in the Archetypal Life Cycle. For those of you have been asking, this is really a companion workbook for Writing Archetypal Character Arcs. (And, who knows, if you love the digital worksheets, my next project may be collecting them into a paperback!)
• The Enneagram Character Arc Cheat Sheets – An 18-worksheet collection for creating powerful arcs (both Positive and Negative) for all nine personality types.

Both bundles are steeply discounted so you can grab them at the best value, rather than purchasing each worksheet individually.

After that, here are a few standouts I think you’ll love:

• Character Interview Worksheet – 100+ questions to dig deep into your protagonist’s psychology, habits, and quirks. Perfect if you want to truly know your character inside and out.
• Supporting Character Interview Worksheet – 30 targeted questions for side characters, because your story world comes alive only when all the characters feel real.
• Character Arc Quick Guide – Beat sheets for all five major arc types (Positive, Flat, Disillusionment, Fall, and Corruption). A handy way to clarify your character’s journey at a glance.
• Story Structure Beat Sheet – A step-by-step breakdown of the classic seven-beat structure. Use it to tighten pacing or map out missing beats.
• Theme Worksheet – A 12-page guided exploration of your story’s thematic heart, with resources on character arcs, core elements, and dozens of bonus links.

What’s Inside the Worksheets for Writers (The Bonuses!)These aren’t just worksheets—they’re mini writing toolkits. Each one comes with an extensive PDF resource guide packed with links to my most helpful blog posts, podcast episodes, and free tools. That way you can dig deeper into the craft while putting ideas directly into practice.

You’ll also find extras like:

• Quick-reference infographics to keep story structure principles at your fingertips
• Expanded guidance for flexible worksheet use
• Tips and curated examples to inspire your process

Since this is a brand-new launch, your support means so much! You can purchase the worksheets directly from my store, but I’d especially appreciate if you order through my Etsy shop [temporarily closed]. Every purchase there helps me build credibility and visibility on the platform.

And if you find the worksheets helpful, leaving a quick review on Etsy would be an enormous help in boosting the shop’s ranking!

I made these worksheets with you in mind, and I hope they give you the same spark of excitement I felt while creating them. I can’t wait to see what stories they help you bring to life!

Explore the new worksheets here: [Worksheets Here!]

The post New Worksheets for Writers: Fillable PDFs to Spark Your Story appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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I’ve been feeling it for a while now—that dull, uninspired thud when the credits roll on modern storytelling. More and more, movies in particular leave me feeling unmoved and oddly detached. Bored, really. Once upon a time, I’d walk out of the theater buzzing. I’d carry that story around with me for days, sometimes weeks. I called it a “story high.”

Now? More often than not, I’ve forgotten the movie by the time I reach the parking lot. Actually, most of the time I’m lucky if I remember whatever it was I watched on Netflix last night.

I keep asking myself, “Is it me who has changed?” Because God knows I have. This past decade has transformed almost everything about my life, including my relationship to my own storytelling. So perhaps what I’m experiencing is just “taste drift.” Or has something in the very DNA of our storytelling shifted? Is the drift I’m feeling really that the tilt toward spectacle, franchise maintenance, and safe, surface-level beats has taken all the magic with it?

I’ve been pondering this for a long time now, and I’ve been dancing around this post for a while too—wondering if it’s too shaded by my own subjectivity or, perhaps more tellingly, my own nostalgia and idealism. But you know what? I’m just gonna say it: I miss the way movies used to be.

I’m tired of feeling bored by something that used to delight me to no end. I’m sick of feeling a lack of engagement. I’m exhausted by the magnetism movies fail to hold for me. I used to get butterflies watching movie trailers. Now sometimes I can’t even be bothered—because even if the trailer looks good, will the movie really live up to expectations? Do I really even have expectations any longer???

The bottom line is this: it’s been a long time since more than the occasional and very random new movie (and I’m lumping in all TV and streaming content here) actually made me feel something. I know it’s not just me, because when I go back to the oldies, the difference is palpable. And in my very subjective opinion, it’s time we got back to telling stories the way we used to.

In This Article:* What’s Happened to Modern Storytelling? * The Impact Movies Have on Books * The Storytelling Cycle 1970–2025 * 6 Qualities Storytelling Is Ready to See Again

What’s Happened to Modern Storytelling (Especially Movies)?Well, COVID happened, social media happened, streaming happened, the writers’ and actors’ strikes happened. All those things have massively affected the bottom line of how this very expensive medium is constructed to reach its audience.

But you know what? I don’t even think that’s really it.

When I examine the filmmaking landscape of the last 10–20 years in comparison to the decades that came before, what jumps out at me is the tone.

For a long while now, so much of what we’re offered to consume as storytelling audiences has been overlaid with tones of:

• Snark
• Irony
• Meta-commentary
• Hyper self-awareness
• Nihilism
• Deconstructive narratives

Now, admittedly, we’re living in an era of deconstruction, and I don’t necessarily see that as a bad thing. Cycles are made to turn. We need the sour with the sweet. We need the bracing cold against the lazy warmth. Idealism needs a sharp shot of cynicism every now and then. But by that same principle, cynicism eventually needs idealism to take its shot right back. Just as we cannot construct endlessly, neither can we deconstruct ad infinitum.

The Impact Movies Have on BooksBefore I go on, let me say a word about our other important storytelling medium: books. Most specifically in this post, I am referencing the current filmmaking culture in the U.S. However, because of the undeniable influence this visual media has on art of all kinds, we can’t fully separate its struggles or trends from those we find in literature.

In no small part, writing is “monkey see, monkey do.” Even those of us writing novels and short stories are inevitably influenced not just by the books we read, but I would argue perhaps even more so by the visual media we consume. Visual media is not only pervasive, it’s also unparalleled for its memorability. I suppose this is particularly true for visual learners. Speaking for myself, I can say with certainty that the visuals I consume are perhaps the single greatest influence on my storytelling.

More than that, as a comparatively snack-sized consumable, movies and even limited series are, in my opinion, unquestionably the greatest influence upon storytelling structure and techniques for modern writers. In short, what begins in the movies will eventually affect literature.

That said, I don’t feel these concerning trends are as obviously prevalent in literature as in film. Part of the reason for this is that salable literature is a vast landscape in comparison to salable visual media. Mostly, this is because the stakes aren’t as high. Strictly speaking, it costs nothing to create a book in comparison to the staggering millions dropped on visual spectacle. This alone makes books a far more forgiving medium in which to experiment and stretch the bounds of convention or audience expectation.

The book-reading experience can also be much more subjective in its personalization. People are far more likely to be watching the same movies and shows than they are to be reading the same books. Those books we have all read—whether classics or bestsellers—have sometimes been baptized in the fires of public scrutiny a bit more thoroughly than the latest film we’ve “all” seen.

So with all that said, although my own recent experiences with modern novels have been largely more positive than with modern movies, the general downturn in the filmmaking industry certainly crosses over to some extent—making these concerns more about “storytelling” in general than simply “filmmaking.”

The Storytelling Cycle: 1970–2025Click for larger view.

Although I am undeniably nostalgic for the movie landscape of my teenage and young adult years, the changes I’m picking up on point to more than just that. If we look back just fifty years or so, at the overall storytelling cycle, we can see a clear oscillation:

1970s – Grit & DisillusionmentTone: Cynical realism, moral ambiguity, personal stories.

Examples: The Godfather, Taxi Driver, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

Drivers: Post-Vietnam, Watergate, social upheaval. Audiences suspicious of authority. Anti-heroes dominate.

The Godfather (1972), Paramount Pictures.

1980s – Mythic Optimism & Pop EscapismTone: High-concept, archetypal, sincere adventure.

Examples: Star Wars, E.T., Back to the Future, The Princess Bride

Drivers: Blockbuster economics, Reagan-era optimism, VFX advances. The rise of the Hero’s Journey as mainstream glue.

Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back (1980), 20th Century Fox.

1990s – Irony & DeconstructionTone: Quirky realism, meta-humor, genre-bending.

Examples: Pulp Fiction, Fight Club, The Matrix, The Truman Show.

Drivers: Post-Cold War uncertainty, Gen X skepticism, indie boom. Themes interrogate reality and authenticity.

The Matrix (1999), Warner Bros.

2000s – Earnest Epic ResurgenceTone: Sweeping, sincere myth for a new millennium.

Examples: The Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Gladiator

Drivers: Pre-/post-9/11 yearning for unity, moral clarity. Large-scale adaptations brought back allegory and grand stakes.

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003), New Line Cinema.

2010s – Meta-Franchise EraTone: Connected universes, quippy self-awareness, formula mastery.

Examples: MCU Phases 1–3, Frozen, Game of Thrones.

Drivers: Social media feedback loops, globalization, IP exploitation. Themes (and conclusive arcs) are often secondary to brand continuity.

The Avengers (2012), Marvel Studios.

2020s – Saturation, Fragmentation, & CautionTone: Brand maintenance, “safe” messaging, heavy serialization, frequent irony to preempt critique.

Examples: MCU Phase 4, Disney’s Star Wars, Rings of Power, The Witcher, Disney’s live-action reboots.

Drivers: Pandemic shifts viewing habits, political polarization, streaming war economics, strikes. Thematic depth appears in pockets (e.g,. Dune), but most mass-market fare is either spectacle-first or message-first.

The Witcher (2019-), Netflix.

6 Qualities Storytelling Is Ready to See AgainSo are we at the end of the current cycle? Are we ready for a resurgence of idealism, hope, wonder, and optimism? Hard to say. Ultimately, I believe these things take as long as they need to take to work their archetypal and energetic perogatives within the overall cycle. But, personally, I think we’re ready. I think it’s time. God knows I’m ready for it as a viewer. More than that, I know this is what I want to write. If I get to have a contribution to the never-ending story of this cycle, then I know this is what I want it to be.

If you’re ready to hop on this train as it’s getting ready to leave the station, here are six qualities I think it’s past time we bring back to mass media.

1. Subtext, Metaphor, and AllegoryWriting Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

If I think about one element that is the hallmark of every movie I’ve ever loved, it’s this: it’s subtext. So much of we’re seeing today is either on-the-nose or deliberately subverting its own subtext to create meta references or irony. Story’s richest depths live in subtext. The best stories are about more than just the text. Their subtext offers thematic symbolism with the capability of turning even the simplest story into something deep and true. This is the power of allegory. It is the power of thematic metaphor. Even though all stories offer the potential for this, it actually takes a tremendous amount of courage for a storyteller to resist the urge to simply spell it all out.

When I speak about this, I think about movies like The Legend of Bagger Vance, The Lion King, and Forrest Gump. But even obviously blockbuster stories such as Jurassic Park and The Terminator elevate themselves into timeless and unforgettable experiences through their subtextual expertise. This stands in such blatant contrast to their resurrected franchise sequels—most of which, despite all their bling, are heartless, soulless, and (because you don’t get the first two without this one:) brainless.

Forrest Gump (1994), Paramount Pictures.

1. Mythic Structure and Archetypal ResonanceWriting Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)

Mythological and archetypal underpinnings lay the foundation for stories of effortless truth. They point to what is most real, and they supply the kind of symbolism that takes audiences deep without even trying. Solid plot structure and character arcs start this off (as they are themselves rooted in myth and archetype), but there is so much more depth we can explore.

It’s true the old stories need to reinvent and resurrect themselves from time to time—or more strictly, culture needs to reinvent its relationship to these stories. We can get so close to them, we begin to think they are “tame lions” and we forget that what they really represent is something terrifyingly beautiful in its raw and primal power.

Our relationship to these structures evolves. But really it is us who evolves more than the structures themselves. I was reminded of this in recently viewing StudioBinder’s excellent retrospective of the Hero’s Journey (in which I was honored to appear):

It is arrogance that lets us think, in all our perky snark and world-weary cynicism, that we write the stories. No, the stories write us. We forget that at our peril, and as storytellers we, above all, safeguard the chthonic depths of our deepest, most terrifying, and most transcendent truths.

The great myths of our age have been movies (either first or perhaps most prevalently): Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter. And they have changed us utterly. For this reason, if no other, I will never be content with even one single story that does not confront me, does not make me feel something, does not transform me.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part 2 (2011), Warner Bros.

1. Emotional Sincerity, Vulnerability, and EarnestnessThis one isn’t always popular. But, honestly, I feel the truth of it deep in my bones: we are missing stories that confront us with emotional sincerity, with vulnerability, and, yes, with earnestness. We’re so jacked on sarcasm and skepticism. Perhaps it began as a tool to transform structures that had seen their day. But now, it’s starting to feel like a defense we’re just hiding behind.

There’s no hiding from hope—the hope that we will be seen, accepted, loved—not for who we are supposed to be, but just as we are in all our messy glory. Think about how hard it is to show up with your heart in your hand.

Although we certainly do see many films these days striving for this (and kudos to them), I can’t help feeling many are still hiding a bit behind their own weariness and tragedy. Sometimes simplicity and innocence and even happiness can feel the most vulnerable of all. I’m thinking of films like Big and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. These are simple—and in some ways very disruptive—comedic romps that reach far beyond themselves through their willingness to show up in the full earnestness of the human capacity for hope and faith.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986), Paramount Pictures

1. Moral Clarity (With Nuance)Oh, yes, movies today have a certain moral clarity. At least, they like to tell you exactly what they think (see above about no subtext) and probably exactly what you should think too. Examples abound, from all perspectives. And, frankly, they’re all bad. But then we’ve also got a lot of post-modern confusion going on, and literally a slew of stories whose ambiguity leaves you wondering at the end if there even was a thematic message.

I’ve always liked to say, “Stories are better as questions than as answers.” I still stand behind that. Heavy-handed moralism goes hand in hand with no subtext, and it never works out well. But that doesn’t mean stories can’t (and shouldn’t) have something to say and to say it with all the conviction and nuance they can muster.

Think about Schindler’s List, Amadeus, every John Hughes film ever made, even Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure for crying out loud. These stories know what they are and what they’re trying to say about the world. They say it with assurance, and they offer the package up for us to have our own experiences and make our own judgements.

Schindler’s List (1993), Universal Pictures.

1. Joy and WonderShadow Archetypes Course

Here’s another one that isn’t always praised in our modern film-going culture. But, by God, we need it. Of late, we have been in a time and a place where we have needed to stare down our shadows. But I think it’s time to remember why. Why do we face our shadows? What’s the point? Why is it worth it?

Every story faces its Point of No Return, its Moment of Truth, and its Dark Night of the Soul so it can emerge at the end transformed. The shadow transformed is always light.

I mentioned at the beginning of the article that it’s been a while since I’ve seen a film that really made feel something. If I’ve felt anything at all, it was probably some type of catharsis—grief, anger, shock, disgust. It’s been much longer since a film has taken me to that place of joy and wonder—that revelry just in being alive.

Star Wars did that for me, some of the early MCU movies did that, Secondhand Lions always does that. But these stories don’t have to be romps. Joy is always waiting for us at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, just as wonder waits for us at the end of Princess Mononoke.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

1. GoodheartednessThe Hero With a Thousand Faces Joseph Campbell (affiliate link)

Finally, I am reminded of what Joseph Campbell had to say about the quality of goodheartedness as a necessary quality of anyone who would succeed upon the Hero’s Journey. He spoke of the Irish folk hero Niall, who won his crown through the simplicity of goodheartedness as demonstrated in his kindness to a seeming old crone who was then transformed into the beautiful archetypal force capable of granting him the “Royal Rule.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am a friend to the shadows. I believe wholeheartedly in the necessity and courageous importance of facing our shadows—which, in so many ways, is what we are being called upon to do in this moment in time—and reintegrating them into a greater wholeness. All stories reflect humanity’s never-ending struggle with this transformative process. Some parts of the storytelling reflect one aspect; some another.

But even in the midst of our darkest shadow work, may we never forget the crucial piece that is goodheartedness. As storytellers, we bear the great burden of the world’s catharsis—the grief, the anger, our most violent and abhorrent proclivities. But part of that, too—and I would say the most important part—is also the tether to something deeper and truer and better and kinder.

May we write stories like Lord of the Rings and Anne of Green Gables and The Breakfast Club and E.T. and Little Women and Star Wars and Driving Miss Daisy and Harry Potter and Groundhog Day. May we write stories about the heroes we wish we were, the compassion we wish we had, the courage to transform, and the supreme gratitude with which to accept all the glory that is life.

Those are the movies I want to watch again. That’s how you put the whole world on a story high.

In Summary: Why Stories Must Find Their Heart AgainOver the past fifty years, storytelling has swung like a pendulum—from grit and cynicism to myth and wonder, and back again. Right now, we’re in a season of fragmentation, irony, and surface-level spectacle. But history suggests the cycle always turns. What’s missing today (and what audiences are aching for) is a return to sincerity, subtext, allegory, and stories that dare to make us feel something real.

Key Takeaways Modern movies often feel hollow because spectacle has replaced subtext. * Storytelling moves in cultural cycles: grit → myth → irony → sincerity. * We’re likely on the cusp of another turn toward earnest, mythic storytelling. * Writers and filmmakers can be part of that shift* by embracing sincerity, allegory, and goodheartedness.

Want More?If this resonates, check out my Shadow Archetypes email course. Over eight weeks, we’ll explore the passive and aggressive shadow polarities of the six main archetypes in the Archetypal Life Cycle. It’s a deep dive into how the darker sides of our characters (and ourselves) shape narrative truth. You can sign up here.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What do you think happened to modern storytelling? Do you feel the same hollow note I’ve described, or do you think the magic is still out there if we just know where to look? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post What’s Happened to Modern Storytelling? (+ 6 Ways Storytelling Can Find Its Soul Again) appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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In fiction, every clash between characters comes down to a conflict management style. This is true whether you’re writing a heated argument or a quiet standoff. In real life, psychologists group these into five main approaches: competing, collaborating, compromising, accommodating, and avoiding. Understanding how each works can help you write richer, more realistic character conflicts.

It is a common axiom in the writing world that conflict drives story. Although the simplicity of this advice is necessarily limited, what it means is that plot is created from a series catalysts that cause characters to respond. Basically: cause and effect.

This is what then creates the chain of story events (aka, scenes) that engenders the larger story. At its simplest, story conflict is nothing more or less than some kind of obstacle interfering with a character’s forward progression. That said, the word “conflict” itself does tend to most readily connote interpersonal conflict—whether in the form of a fistfight or a passive-aggressive argument. Indeed, most people find this aspect of conflict to be the most obviously entertaining and useful for plot, since it tends to inherently combine all three of a story’s major engines: plot, theme, and character.

This means that much of what writers need to know about conflict in general comes down to character conflicts. The more nuanced your characterizations, the more interesting the conflict will be and the more realistic and compelling your characters will be.

So how do you create nuanced character conflict?

One way is to study and understand conflict management styles. If you can figure out which conflict management styles best fit your characters, you not only have the opportunity to create instantaneously complex relationship dynamics (since every character’s approach to conflict will be different), but also conflict that naturally arises from the management styles themselves (e.g., characters with opposing styles can sometimes spark conflict just because they clash with each other’s approaches).

In This Article:* Take the Test: What Are the 5 Conflict Management Styles? * Using the 5 Conflict Management Styles to Build Character Conflict * The Competing Style: High-Stakes Showdowns * The Collaborating Style: Win-Win Solutions * The Compromising Style: Meeting in the Middle * The Accommodating Style: The Peacemaker’s Path * The Avoiding Style: Delaying the Battle * Tips for Mixing Conflict Styles in Your Story

Take the Test: What Are the 5 Conflict Management Styles?The idea of five distinct conflict management styles comes from the Thomas-Kilmann Conflict Mode Instrument (TKI), developed in the early 1970s by psychologists Kenneth W. Thomas and Ralph H. Kilmann. Originally designed for workplace and organizational settings, the model maps how people handle conflict along two dimensions: how a person pursues one’s own goals (i.e., a spectrum of unassertiveness and assertiveness) and how one considers others’ goals (i.e., a spectrum of uncooperativeness to cooperativeness). From there, they used these two axes to map five core approaches to conflict: competing, collaborating, compromising, accommodating, and avoiding.

To discover which style best fits your characters (and yourself!), you can purchase the official test here. Below is a short version that can get you started by giving you the general idea:

Character Conflict Style QuizDiscover how your characters naturally handle disagreements, tension, and power struggles. Start by choosing a single character you want to assess. For each statement below, imagine how this character would respond in a variety of situations (e.g., with friends, rivals, strangers, etc.).

Rate each statement on a scale of 1–5:

1 = Strongly Disagree

2 = Disagree

3 = Neutral / Sometimes True

4 = Agree

5 = Strongly Agree

At the end, follow the scoring guide to discover your character’s dominant conflict style(s).

The Statements1. My character pushes hard for his/her own way, even if it risks upsetting others. 2. My character seeks solutions that work for everyone involved in the disagreement. 3. My character will give up part of what he/she wants if it helps resolve the conflict. 4. My character often lets others have their way to keep the peace. 5. My character avoids bringing up issues unless there’s no other choice. 6. My character enjoys finding creative solutions in which everyone feels satisfied. 7. My character is willing to settle halfway if it ends the argument quickly. 8. My character puts the other person’s needs first when harmony matters most. 9. My character changes the subject or withdraws to avoid escalation. 10. My character insists on his/her own position, believing he/she’s right.

ScoringAdd the scores for each style category:

• Competing = Q1 + Q10
• Collaborating = Q2 + Q6
• Compromising = Q3 + Q7
• Accommodating = Q4 + Q8
• Avoiding = Q5 + Q9

Highest Score → This is your character’s dominant style in conflict.

Close Second(s) → These could be secondary style(s) your character may use in certain situations.

Lowest Score(s) → These are the styles your character is least likely to use.

Use the dominant style to shape your characters’ dialogue, body language, and choices in tense scenes. From there, you can play with your story’s conflict by putting your characters in situations that force them into their weakest styles. Not only does this usually create more conflict, but it’s great for growth arcs and plot twists. Also, look for ways to combine different styles in ensemble casts to create natural friction between characters.

Understanding conflict management styles for your characters can provide a solid foundation that influences many aspects of your story. This lays the groundwork for realistic personalities, while also contributing to how you manage each scene’s tension, pacing, and tone. It will influence how character relationships play out, and—since this is usually the heart of any story—from there it can end up creating the plot all by itself.

If you realize any one character lacks a strong conflict style and/or many of your characters share the same style, you can easily troubleshoot for a stronger narrative by mixing things up or strengthening the accuracy and consistency of how a particular conflict style is showing up in your story.

Using the 5 Styles Conflict Management Styles to Build Character ConflictLet’s take a deeper look at each of the five styles and how each one might show up in your fiction.

5 Conflict Management Styles for Writers Graph (click for larger view).

1. The Competing Style: High-Stakes ShowdownsCharacters with a Competing style go all in to get what they want. They score high in both assertiveness and uncooperativeness, which means they tend to prioritize victory over relationships. This can be a great way to raise the stakes, since it creates scenarios with clear winners and losers.

Although these characters often come across as selfish, they can also be excellent leaders since they are ultimately all about efficiency. Their focus is entirely on getting results, which can actually be on behalf of someone else (i.e., protecting or providing for the group) even if relationships are often not factors in the decision making.

For Example:

• Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada relentlessly pushes her own agendas, regardless of how it impacts others. When she demands Andrea obtain an unpublished Harry Potter manuscript for her twins, Miranda exerts total control, making it clear her needs come before anyone else’s.

The Devil Wears Prada (2006), 20th Century Fox

• Captain Ahab in Moby-Dick obsessively pursues his own goal (killing the whale), even at the cost of his crew’s safety. He rallies the crew to join his hunt for Moby-Dick, overriding the ship’s original mission and dismissing the first mate Starbuck’s concerns.

• The Collaborating Style: Win-Win SolutionsWhen two characters team up to find a solution that works for everyone, they’re Collaborating. Unlike the Competing style, the Collaborating style can often serve to strengthen connections even while highlighting differences. Like Competitors, Collaborators score high in assertiveness. They’re there to get the job done, but because they also score high in cooperativeness, they wish to do so in a way that doesn’t clearly define themselves as winners and everyone else as losers.

These characters make great leaders, although usually more heart-based than the head-based Competitors. Sometimes their downfall can be trying to make situations work for everyone when that isn’t possible or desirable (which can ironically cause everyone to “lose”).

For Example:

• As she becomes a leader, Moana works to find solutions that honor her people’s traditions while also solving their urgent needs. When she realizes the antagonist is actually the goddess Te Fiti, Moana does not seek to defeat her, but rather restores her heart, resolving the conflict in a way that benefits everyone.

Moana (2016), Walt Disney Pictures.

• Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird strives to seek truth and fairness by balancing empathy with justice and involving others in the moral conversation. During his courtroom defense of Tom Robinson, he appeals to the jury’s conscience and shared values in an attempt to gain a resolution that serves both justice and his community’s moral integrity.

To Kill a Mockingbird (1962), Universal Pictures.

1. The Compromising Style: Meeting in the MiddleThis style desires both sides to give a little and meet in the middle. Compromisers tend to create a partial resolution that still leaves some tension in play. Compromisers ride the middle of both axes—assertiveness and cooperation—landing somewhere betwixt and between. Because they lack as much assertiveness as Competitors and Collaborators, they tend to fill leadership roles only reluctantly and in the absence of someone more decisive. This isn’t necessarily because the more decisive types are better leaders, but because those types can sometimes fill the role faster, while the Compromising type is still examining all the options.

The Compromising style can often lend itself to indecision. Because their greatest desire is for everyone to be happy, they can get stuck in pursuit of an impossible ideal. They can be frustrating to both assertive types, but offer valuable and necessary perspectives.

For Example:

• Marty McFly in Back to the Future consistently seeks middle-ground solutions to avoid outright confrontation, like persuading George to stand up to Biff so he doesn’t have to directly fight Biff himself, or finding a way to get the time machine running without demanding perfection from Doc.

Back to the Future (1985), Universal Pictures.

• Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games often negotiates partial agreements with allies (like Peeta or Haymitch) to survive, while still holding to her values. Although she will fight if pushed (indicating a secondary conflict style), she generally prefers to find workaround solutions.

The Hunger Games (2012), Lionsgate.

1. The Accommodating Style: Seeking PeaceSometimes a character will give in to keep the peace, a choice that can alternatively reveal loyalty, fear, or quiet acts of self-sacrifice. This conflict style scores low in assertiveness and high in cooperativeness. Although this style often lends itself to characters who can get run over by more assertive types, it also represents the most empathetic of the five. This is usually a person who is highly tuned in to others.

However, their conflict aversion can make it difficult for them to get what they want or to pursue (or sometimes even acknowledge) their own desires. If they don’t have a strong secondary style to help them out, they can (ironically) struggle to create enough conflict to drive the plot.

For Example:

• Samwise Gamgee in The Lord of the Rings shows Accommodating tendencies in his dedication to putting Frodo’s needs and safety above his own desires, even when it’s hard, such as on Mt. Doom when he gives Frodo the last of their water instead of taking it himself, prioritizing Frodo’s needs over his own survival. However, Sam also shows a strong secondary Competitive style, especially when confronting Gollum.

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003), New Line Cinema.

• Beth March in Little Women consistently yields to her sisters’ wishes in order to maintain family harmony, even at personal cost. For instance, when Meg is invited to a party, Beth encourages her to go even though it means Beth will left be alone.

Little Women (1994), Columbia Pictures.

1. The Avoiding Style: Delaying the BattleFinally, instead of facing the issue, a character might dodge the conflict entirely. Although this can totally deflate a scene’s conflict, it can also lend itself to subtextual passive-aggression as the tension builds in the silence and unresolved emotions linger. Notably, although this type scores low in assertiveness, it scores high in uncooperativeness.

This style often lends itself to loner characters who prefer to go their own way rather than engage with others. It is separate from the Accommodating style in that it is more concerned with protecting itself than placating others. The true Avoidant style will also do almost anything to avoid conflict. It would rather slip away (either physically or by disassociation) than bond or fight in order to end the dispute.

For Example:

• Christopher McCandless in Into the Wild consistently sidesteps the deep conflict of his strained family relationships, instead physically removing himself by leaving home and embarking on a solo journey into the wilderness. His avoidance defines not just isolated moments, but his entire approach to life’s tensions.

Into the Wild (2007), Paramount Vantage

• Bruce Banner in The Avengers keeps a low profile in Calcutta, tending to patients and dodging any situation that might trigger his transformation. His alter-ego, the Hulk, of course, displays the opposite conflict style of Competitor.

The Incredibles (2004), Walt Disney Pictures.

Tips for Mixing Conflict Styles in Your StoryAlthough most characters will demonstrate a primary conflict style, this doesn’t mean they can’t utilize secondary tactics as well. Usually, secondary tactics will represent a less well-developed (and therefore less “mature”) approach that kicks in when the primary style proves counter-productive.

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

You can use conflict styles as a central fulcrum in creating a character arc. For example, a character who relies exclusively on a Competing style might have to learn how to become less aggressive and more Cooperative. Likewise, as in Into the Wild, your story could focus on the dangers of taking any one conflict style to a tragic extreme.

One of the single best ways to utilize conflict styles in your story is to focus on the interplay between how the styles show up in different characters.

For Example:

• Two Accomodating characters will probably cancel each other out, creating a scene that lacks conflict (and probably nobody getting what they want either).
• Two Competitive characters will be entertaining, but unless one of them arcs otherwise, their story will always end with clear winners and losers.
• Competitive and Collaborative leaders can create interesting stories that start with sparks and end with mutual growth.
• Compromising characters can often struggle in confronting other types, but offer both balanced perspectives and room for growth.

With deep roots in psychology, conflict management styles make for powerful storytelling tools. By giving each character a clear, consistent approach to conflict, you can create authentic tension, natural relationship dynamics, and plot turns that feel inevitable. You may want to see your characters locking horns in a showdown or finding creative win-win solutions or slipping quietly out the back door. Whatever the case, the way they handle conflict will shape everything from pacing to theme. Mastering these five styles can help you write stories that feel more real, more layered, and far more compelling.

In SummaryThe five conflict management styles—Competing, Collaborating, Compromising, Accommodating, and Avoiding—offer writers a structured way to design believable interpersonal conflict. Each style is defined by how characters balance assertiveness (pursuing their own goals) and cooperativeness (considering others’ goals). Assigning conflict styles to characters adds depth, realism, and tension to your scenes and relationships. Going further, to mix different styles in your cast can then naturally generate friction and plot momentum. You can even shift a character’s style over time to create satisfying character arcs.

Key Takeaways Conflict drives story. Knowing your characters’ conflict styles makes that conflict richer and more organic. * Different styles = different sparks. Pairing contrasting styles creates built-in tension, while matching styles can either cancel conflict or amplify it. * Extreme reliance on one style can be a flaw that drives an arc or downfall. * Use the Character Conflict Style Quiz to quickly identify how your characters approach disagreements. * Incorporating real-world psychology models into fiction* can boost authenticity and reader engagement.

Want More?Creating Character Arcs Workbook

If you’d like to take your character development even further, check out my Creating Character Arcs Workbook. Packed with guided exercises, prompts, and structure templates, it will help you chart your characters’ journeys from start to finish. It covers Positive Change Arcs, Flat Arcs, and Negative Change Arcs. Learn how to weave plot and character together seamlessly so every scene feels purposeful and emotionally resonant. It’s available in e-book and paperback.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinion! Which of your characters has the most clearly defined conflict management style, and how has it shaped relationships or the plot? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post Writing Better Character Conflicts With the 5 Conflict Management Styles appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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From KMW: I’ve always loved writing by hand. There’s something about the feel of pen on paper that just makes the creative process click for me, especially when outlining and brainstorming. However, between the wrist pain, bad posture, and the fact that I can’t read my own handwriting half the time, I’ll admit there are certain downsides—just as there are to typing. I’ve dabbled with dictation off and on over the years, but I always hit the same wall: it just didn’t feel like “real” writing. If I wasn’t typing or scribbling, was I actually creating?

But as I read Sarah Elisabeth Sawyer’s guest post this week, I had to rethink that a bit. She breaks down some of the myths and mental roadblocks around dictating fiction in such a grounded, compassionate way that it made me realize something kind of obvious (but also kind of profound): storytelling was originally oral. We had voices and listeners long before we had keyboards or pens!

So if you’ve ever felt curious about dictation but haven’t been sure where to start (or, like me, have gotten frustrated after trying it), I think you’ll find Sarah’s approach refreshing. She’s been where you are, and she’s mapped out a path forward that’s both practical and encouraging. Enjoy!

Have you ever read about an author who dictates 5,000+ words while taking a walk and thought to yourself, “If dictation is so amazing, why isn’t everyone doing it?”

Maybe you’ve tried dictation. You opened a voice app, started talking, and… froze. It felt awkward. Disjointed. The transcription was a mess.

After working with hundreds of authors making the transition from typing to speaking their words of fiction, I know this story well. It was my story when I first tried dictation. And failed. Again and again.

Dictation is one of the most misunderstood tools for authors, yet one with potential for powerful transformation in your author life.

In This Article:* 4 Myths About Using Dictation to Write Fiction * How to Get Started With Dictating (Even if You’ve Failed Before) * The Next Step: Making Dictation Effortless

4 Myths About Using Dictation to Write FictionAs someone who has dictated 14 books and trained hundreds of authors in how to dictate fiction, I want to say this: dictation isn’t a magic shortcut that will solve all your writing challenges. But it tackles a great many of them.

And dictation can absolutely be learned, just as you learned how to handwrite and type. I want you to get there without getting overwhelmed.

Let’s start by eliminating common myths around dictating fiction.

Myth #1: Dictation = Talking Fast = Writing FastWhen you think about dictation, speed is probably the first thing that comes to mind. Speed is what drew me and countless authors to give it a shot.

Dictation can help you draft faster. I doubled my writing speed from 1,500 words of fiction per hour to 3,000 words, and with less strain on my body.

But when you only see dictation as a way to supercharge your productivity, you might experience frustration and even disappointment before you’ve trained yourself to do it well.

Dictation isn’t a race to speak as fast as you can. I talk slower when dictating fiction than when I’m having a conversation.

If you find yourself slowing down to dictate, that’s normal. In fact, I encourage it. Take your time. Pause. Breathe. When you’re ready, tackle the next sentence.

Speed will come with practice.

But dictation isn’t just writing faster. There are health benefits since dictation frees you from your desk.

It can also help you break through mental blocks around your plot, develop better dialogue, and get words squeezed into the little spaces of life: doing the dishes, sitting in the car pool line, or walking the dog.

While dictation can lead to faster drafts, I’ve seen these other benefits outweigh speed.

Myth #2: “I Tried Dictation, It’s Just Not for Me.”This is the one I hear most. It was the myth that held me back for years.

Maybe you tried dictation while walking. Or you spoke your story into your phone one morning and felt completely disconnected from the words. Maybe the transcription came back such a mess, you decided it wasn’t worth the hassle.

I hear you. My first shot at dictation, I thought I was on to something. In 2013, I posted on social media how I dictated a few words of fiction, and how it could be epic. And it was.

An epic failure.

I couldn’t get past the mental and technical hurdles of speaking my words instead of typing.

I went through it all: staring at a blank screen with an equally blank imagination. I stumbled over words, dreaded hearing my voice, and had no idea how to clean up my transcriptions.

I didn’t know what I was doing and made a mess of everything.

Dictation just wasn’t for me.

But then I realized something: I needed to train myself to dictate just like I trained myself how to type. You need to dig new neural trenches in your brain to allow the words to flow through your mouth as naturally as your fingertips.

I came back to dictation in 2020. I released the pressure on my brain to dictate fiction. I started practicing by dictating my morning pages and text messages. Then I experimented with apps and methods until I found what worked for me. I stopped expecting it to immediately “feel right.”

Slowly, it started to work. I found my rhythm. I dictated a full (backstory) scene. Then a full chapter. Then a full novel.

Now, dictation is how I write my first drafts. I write faster and enjoy the process of creating fiction even more than when I typed (much more enjoyment through the “muddy middle” of a first draft where I always got stuck when typing).

Myth #3: You Need Fancy Software or EquipmentBack in the day, your only option to dictate fiction was to hire a private secretary or transcriptionist at hundreds or thousands of dollars per novel. Then it became more affordable with the entrance of Dragon Dictation at under $1,000 for unlimited novels.

I’ve never used Dragon to dictate my novels.

Nowadays, you don’t need expensive software to start. You likely already own what you need to dictate fiction at little to no cost:

• A smartphone or computer
• A free transcription service (the one built into your device works just fine)
• A quiet space (optional, but helpful)

Yes, there are other tools and methods out there (I dictate on my phone directly into my Scrivener iOS app. You can get a free mini-course on my methods here.). But when you’re starting out, I found it’s best to keep it simple. In fact, adding too much tech too soon is one of the fastest ways to get overwhelmed.

Start easy. Get comfortable with the feel of speaking words and having them transcribed. Once that’s second nature, you can develop methods and experiment with tools that fit your process and lifestyle.

Myth #4: Dictated Drafts Are Too Messy to Be Worth ItYes, dictated drafts are messy.

But so are most first drafts.

I’ve developed a cleanup process that’s fast and gets my dictated drafts reading as well as a typed first draft. It’s still a mess to deal with in the editing phase, but I’m starting with the same type of messy first draft.

Dictation helps you let go of perfectionism and get your messy first draft on the page so you can edit it later. When you type, it’s easy to backspace, rewrite, and tweak every sentence endlessly. Dictation makes that harder, which helps you get to “the end.”

Instead of editing as you go, dictation invites you to get the story out of your head and onto the page. The refinement comes later, during revision.

How to Get Started with Dictating (Even If You’ve Failed Before)After working with hundreds of authors on making the transition from typing to speaking their words, I’ve found three keys that make all the difference:

1. Embrace the DiscomfortDictating fiction will feel awkward. As the sign over my desk says, “I know I’m in my own little world, but they all know me here.”

To speak “their” worlds out loud feels more vulnerable than typing. At least at first.

But remember, discomfort is a sign of growth. It’s a sign of learning. Lean into that feeling, knowing that’s what will get you to the other side in developing the skill of dictating your fiction.

Give yourself permission to be a beginner.

1. Start With Low-Stakes ScenesInstead of launching into dictation in the middle of your current work-in-progress (WIP), remove the pressure from your brain by picking a scene you can write with a familiar character’s backstory. Have fun with it. Let your imagination run free while you speak your words.

It may come out looking more like a scene outline than an actual scene. That’s okay. You are training yourself to speak fiction instead of typing it.

Everything is progress.

1. Set a TimerI have a power habit I call 5 Minutes of Fiction. This helped me get back into writing after a recovery sabbatical I took in recent years.

As I’ve taught this habit, writers have shared with me how it’s helping them practice dictation. The main idea is that you dictate for just 5 minutes every day.

It can be on a “throwaway” story, backstory, flash fiction, or your current WIP. Set a timer or check the clock before you start, and only go for 5 minutes. Don’t judge what you wrote. Just move on with your day (which may be typing the rest of the words for your writing session).

I created the 5-Minute Fictation Club for authors to tackle this habit together.

Once you start, you’ll be surprised at how confident you begin to feel each time you do your 5 minutes.

The Next Step: Making Dictation EffortlessI’m a big fan of finding ways to make things easier and more fun. Effortless.

That’s part of what dictation has done for my author life, along with a host of other benefits. It’s why I’ve developed ways to make learning dictation as effortless for you as possible.

If you’ve tried dictation and failed, or if you’ve wanted to try but felt overwhelmed, I’ve created something for you: a free Dictation Quick Start Guide for Fiction Authors designed to help you take your first steps in dictating your fiction.

Download it (free) here.

As one author told me,

Dictation can free you.

Let it free you to live your best creative lifestyle.

In SummaryDictating fiction isn’t a magic fix, but it is a learnable skill that can transform your writing process by boosting your word count and freeing you from your desk. If you’ve tried dictation and felt awkward or overwhelmed, you’re not alone and you’re not doomed to fail. With the right expectations, a simplified approach, and a bit of patience, you can develop your own voice (literally) and discover a writing method that works with your lifestyle instead of against it.

Key Takeaways Dictation isn’t just about speed. It can improve your health, productivity, and even creativity. * Initial discomfort is normal. Like any writing skill, dictation requires practice to feel natural. * You don’t need fancy tools. A smartphone and basic transcription software are enough to start. * Messy drafts are part of the process. Dictation helps you overcome perfectionism and get words on the page. * Ease into it. Start with low-stakes scenes (like backstory) and short 5-minute sessions to build confidence. * Training your brain to speak fiction is possible.* Dictation is a skill anyone can learn with the right approach.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Have you ever trying dictating your fiction? Does it sound helpful? Tell us in the comments!The post How to Start Dictating Fiction (Even If You’ve Tried and Failed Before) appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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There’s nothing quite like a scene that ends with a bang—or at least a purposeful beat that pulls readers deeper into the story. A well-crafted scene ending doesn’t just wrap things up, it launches momentum into the next scene, tightens your pacing, and deepens the emotional arc. Your scene might close in any number of ways, everything from a victory to a setback or a plot twist to a moment of quiet revelation. Whatever the case, scene endings create the impression that will (hopefully) carry readers into what comes next. Really, your writer’s toolbox doesn’t contain many tools more powerful than scene endings, yet they can be easily overlooked when it comes to tightening tension or strengthening overall story structure.

Classic scene structure breaks scenes into two broad halves: scene (action) and sequel (reaction). The scene half further breaks down into three primary pieces:

1. Goal(drives the action and intent of the scene as the character moves toward something).

2. Conflict (creates drama and complications by inserting obstacles that divert the smooth course of the character’s progression).

3. Outcome (shows the conclusion of the character’s efforts and reveals new complications leading to the next scene’s goal).

From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

I have always emphasized the usefulness of two particular types of scene endings: the disaster (“no, and”) and the “yes, but” disaster. Today, I want to go deeper by breaking down five key types of scene endings—“Yes,” “Yes, But,” “No,” “No, And…,” and “No, But…”—and exploring how choosing the right one can keep your story flowing and your readers hooked.

In This Article:* Why Ending Your Scenes Well Is Crucial for Pacing and Tension * The 5 Types of Scene Endings Writers Must Know (With Examples) * “Yes” – Characters Get What They Want * “No” – Characters Are Shut Down * “Yes, But” — Small Victory With Complications * “No, And…” – It Gets Worse, But There’s Hope * “No, But…” – The Danger of False Progress * Ending Your Scenes With Intention

Why Ending Your Scenes Well Is Crucial for Pacing and TensionFirst of all, let’s consider why we have scenes in our stories at all. Why not just one mad rush of action leading to the end? Although we could perhaps argue this a few different ways, the ultimate reason scenes are important in storytelling is the same reason any kind of structure is important: it creates and controls the pacing. And pacing, as I have shared before, is basically the writer’s version of the cool Jedi trick of mind control.

More than almost any other technique in fiction, pacing allows us to guide the audience’s experience. This is perhaps nowhere more true than of scene endings—which give audiences the opportunity to put the story down… or keep going. If you convince them to keep going, that means they’re enjoying themselves—and the more they’re enjoying themselves, the more likely they will stay all the way to the end.

Two Ways to Think About Scene Endings1. The outcome taking place at the end of the scene structure (discussed above). 2. Any obvious break in the narrative—such as a chapter or commercial break or even just the subtle division of a scene break on the page.

It’s important to notice that the two may be the same, but don’t have to be. A structural scene is defined by the pieces that make up its whole (scene and sequel, with all their smaller parts), while chapters and “scenes” (as dictated by visual scene breaks on the page) can be of whatever length is most useful to the pacing. A structural scene may expand across many chapters or a single chapter may contain multiple structural scenes.

>>Read more here: 7 Questions You Have About Scenes vs. Chapters

For our purposes today, we’re mostly focusing on the outcome of a structural scene. Why? Because these moments move beyond simple hooks or tricks used to tease audiences. Importantly, structural scene outcomes are always important turning points that advance the plot. The only way the plot is ever advanced is by something changing in the narrative—i.e., whatever scene goal the character just enacted cannot be enacted once again in exactly the same way. Something has changed. This could be simply that the character learned how to try again in a better way, or it could be that a major setback or achievement was reached that significantly altered the goal itself.

It’s also worthwhile to note that the idea of a scene “goal” does not necessarily insist that characters know exactly what they want and move toward it with single-minded focus. Sometimes the forward momentum implied by the idea of a “goal” is better recognized as simply an “intent” on the characters’ parts. They may be moving in a particular direction, but they may also (depending on the needs and tone of the story) simply be leaning in a certain direction.

Either way, what is most important is that this forward intent is met with some level of conflict. Here, too, it’s important to understand conflict in its broader sense. Conflict need not necessarily mean a confrontation or any hint of violence (i.e., something so slight as a disagreement on one end of the spectrum escalating into physical chaos on the other). Rather, conflict is best understood simply as something that impedes the scene’s forward momentum. Conflict is an obstacle creating the further complications or consequences that eventually change the character’s position within the narrative—thus changing the plot.

This change of situation is what then leads into the end of the scene—the outcome—which can show up as several different possibilities. Each possibility will impact your story’s pacing, flow, and function in different ways, which is why it’s important to understand all of them, the consequences they create, and which is best suited to any particular scene ending in your story.

The 5 Types of Scene Endings Writers Must Know (With Examples)So what are the best types of scene endings in fiction? Some endings slam the door shut. Others crack it open. Some fling it off its hinges and send your characters stumbling into the next chapter! What’s most important is that the scene’s outcome matters. It creates consequence, change, and momentum.

Let’s break down the five primary types of scene endings and explore how each one functions in your narrative (and why some are stronger choices than others).

The five types of scene endings are “Yes,” “No,” “Yes, But,” “No, And,” and “No, But.”

1. “Yes” Scene Ending — Characters Get What They WantThis one’s straightforward: characters set out to achieve a goal in the scene, and they succeed. (Yay!) Sometimes “yes” endings can be deeply satisfying. However, they must be used with caution and awareness as they risk deflating tension. Usually, ultimate success is reserved only for the end of the story. This is for the simple reason that once the character has definitively succeeded (or failed) to reach the overall story goal, the plot is over. If your characters’ progress toward that ultimate goal is left unimpeded for too long, the plot will quickly run its course.

Of perhaps even greater concern is that “yes” scene endings don’t always generate new questions or consequences for the characters to explore in subsequent scenes. Usually, “yes” scene endings are most appropriate later in the plot when you’re wanting to show characters getting closer to achieving their final success. “Yes” scene endings can also be used for catharsis late in the story to relieve some of the tension you may have built—such as when romantic couples finally get together in a positive and love-affirming way (even if their struggles in the main plot haven’t yet been fully resolved).

Ironically, “yes” scene endings can be more appropriate in Negative Change Arc stories than in Positive Change Arc stories. This is because when a character is headed for a bad end, the successes achieved on the scene level ultimately lead to greater accumulated consequences down the line.

For Example:

In The Great Gatsby, when Gatsby finally reunites with Daisy at Nick’s house, he achieves his goal of finally meeting with her. The scene ends with Gatsby glowing in his long-awaited triumph. No real conflict derails the scene goal, and Gatsby doesn’t have to pay any immediate price. He gets exactly what he wants, and in that moment, it feels like success.

The Great Gatsby (2013), Warner Bros.

1. “No” Scene Ending — Characters Are Shut DownBy contrast, in a “no” ending, characters are stopped cold. The movement toward the goal isn’t just complicated, it’s outright blocked. No progress whatsoever is made. “No” scene endings can be effective for shooting the stakes sky-high. However, they should also be used with caution. Too many in a row means the plot can make no progress since characters never get any closer to the overall story goal. More than that, the absoluteness of “no” endings can make it difficult for characters to regroup or gather enough context to try again in a different way.

“No” endings often bring the narrative to a screeching halt. This is rarely a good plot device, since it actually kills tension instead of building it. In essence, if a “yes” ending deflates conflict by giving the protagonist a win, the “no” ending kills the conflict by instead giving the antagonistic force the win. There aren’t a lot of options for the protagonist after a solid “no” ending.

One of the only times a hard “no” ending might be desirable is when you do, in fact, want to screech the plot to a halt for a bit, as would be the case if you wanted to return to deeply traumatized or disillusioned characters after a passage of time in order to watch as they pick themselves back up.

For Example:

The Empire Strikes Back ends with a pivotal “no” when Luke Skywalker confronts Darth Vader in Cloud City. Luke’s goal is clear: defeat Vader and save his friends. Not only does he fail to defeat Vader, he loses his hand and is hit with the devastating reveal that Vader is his father. Physically, emotionally, and psychologically, he is stopped cold. The scene doesn’t just complicate things, it shuts the door completely. He escapes only by falling into the void. And after this moment, the plot does screech to a halt for a time between episodes, which allows the necessary space for Luke to reflect, regroup, and build into a new approach in Return of the Jedi.

Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back (1980), 20th Century Fox.

1. “Yes, But” Scene Ending — Small Victory With ComplicationsOne of the most useful scene endings is the “yes, but” outcome. This one mixes elements of victory and defeat to deepen the narrative. On the one hand, the characters’ efforts achieve a “yes”—they get some or all of what they wanted in the scene. On the other hand, they are met with a “but”—their gain comes with complications or consequences.

This approach is particularly effective since it allows the plot to move steadily forward thanks to the characters’ achievement of scene goals on the path toward the larger story resolution. It also ensures the plot can’t end too quickly, thanks to the complications that prevent a clean victory. For instance, perhaps the characters get half of what they want, but that means they also don’t get half of what they want. Or perhaps they get exactly what they sought in this scene, but doing so raises the stakes or gets them into trouble, which can then prompt a new goal in the next scene.

From a pacing perspective, the “yes, but” scene ending is great since it gives the audience little hits of satisfaction as the characters receive yummy rewards, but it also ramps tension and keeps readers reading since these rewards complicate either the characters’ lives or their forward progress toward the ultimate catharsis of the Climactic Moment. In truth, this type of scene ending is so useful and versatile, you could easily use it for every scene outcome all the way to the end.

For Example:

The Fellowship of the Ring offers a great “yes, but” during the Council of Elrond when Frodo volunteers to take the Ring to Mordor. Although Frodo’s goal in that moment isn’t fully conscious, his intent is clear: he wants to do the right thing, stop the Council’s squabbling, and take responsibility for the burden he’s been given. He succeeds when the Council accepts his offer in a definitive “yes.” The complications, however, are enormous as this decision definitively turns the plot by launching Frodo onto a long, dangerous road filled with escalating threats.

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001), New Line Cinema.

1. “No, And…” Scene Ending — It Gets Worse, But There’s HopeWhat’s the difference between a “yes, but” and a “no, and” scene ending? The “no, and” scene ending is similar to the “yes, but” ending, but flips the script. Here, instead of mostly succeeding, characters mostly fail. However, the failure is not complete. Out of the rubble of failure, scraps of insight or hope emerge. Some small bit of ground is gained.

The “no, and” scene ending is the classic “cup half full.” Everything’s gone to pot, yet characters are still able to salvage some small win. They find a way forward through the mess or latch onto the bit of knowledge learned from their mistakes. Whatever the case, the most important thing to leverage about a “no, and” ending is that it moves the plot. The only way it can do that is by changing something for the characters. Even though they may have spectacularly failed to gain what they wanted, they now have some tool or clue that allows them to try again but in a different way.

“No, and” endings can’t be used as exclusively as “yes, but” endings (unless your story leads to your characters’ ultimate failure), but they can be used liberally, especially in the Second Act, to increase tension, raise the stakes, and create interesting dynamics for prompting characters to evolve.

For Example:

The Martian by Andy Weir features a great “no, and” scene ending when protagonist Mark Watney tries to make water to grow his crops and accidentally blows himself up. His goal was simple: create a livable environment using chemistry and ingenuity. The scene ends in failure. However, in the aftermath, he figures out what went wrong, recalibrates his approach, and gains critical information about how to proceed more safely next time.

The Martian (2015), 20th Century Fox.

1. “No, But…” Scene Ending — The Danger of False ProgressThis is the trickiest one. In a “no, but” ending, characters fail to get what they want, but walk away with something that seems helpful—until it turns out it’s not. “No, but” scene endings creates the illusion of movement without true momentum. As a plot device, this is never particularly useful since it never actually moves the plot, no matter how much it may look like it does. It creates dead ends in which characters spend time working on a seeming solution—only to end up exactly where they started back before the original “no, but” scene. The result can be a “busy” plot that actually goes nowhere.

The “no, but” outcome may be used very occasionally with purposeful effect to emphasize a character’s current refusal to learn and/or to face consequences or personal blind spots. It can also be used to deepen tension and despair in certain situations, in which a character is clinging to false hope—such as in disaster stories in which characters think they have found a way out of their peril only to realize it was a mirage. Used sparingly, this kind of scene can underscore a character’s stuckness or false sense of growth.

For Example:

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade features a solid “no, but” scene early on when Indy fails to recover the Cross of Coronado from the treasure hunter who stole it. He’s given a token “win” when the local authorities thank him and the museum director tells him, “At least you tried.” However, although it may feel like he’s accomplished something or at least clarified his purpose, the artifact is still gone. He’s no closer to recovering it than he was before. This isn’t progress. The “but” gives the illusion of development, but the narrative is effectively paused until the real plot kicks in with the Grail storyline.

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989), Paramount Pictures.

Ending Your Scenes With IntentionAs with most writing techniques, the power of scene endings lies not simply in recognizing the options, but in knowing how and when to use them. The way you close a scene determines how your story moves forward. This is true whether you’re building tension, paying off a moment of catharsis, or giving your characters one more reason to grit their teeth and keep going. If your scene endings feel flat, confusing, or disconnected, chances are your plot is suffering too. However, when you choose your outcomes with intention by aligning them with character goals, story structure, and pacing, you can create a reading experience that feels cohesive and alive with momentum.

In SummaryScene endings are structural turning points that determine your story’s pacing, tension, and sense of movement. Choosing the right type of outcome, whether it’s a clean win, a total failure, or something sneakier in between, can keep your plot evolving and your readers fully engaged.

Key Takeaways Every structural scene ends with an outcome that determines the story’s forward momentum. * The five main types of scene endings are: “Yes,” “No,” “Yes, But,” “No, And,” and “No, But.” * “Yes” scene endings create character success but can flatten tension if overused. * “No” scene endings end in total failure and must be used sparingly to avoid stalling the plot. * “Yes, But” scene endings are the most versatile, combining satisfaction with escalating tension. * “No, And” scene endings emphasize failure but give characters new tools or insight to try again. * “No, But” scene endings* create only the illusion of progress and should be used sparingly to avoid plot dead ends.

Want More?Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

If you’re ready to take a deep dive into the mechanics of scene structure, including how to seamlessly integrate your scene and sequel halves, check out my book Structuring Your Novel. Not only will it teach you how to structure a solid plot, it’s packed with practical tools and intuitive frameworks to help you build scenes that keep readers reading. It’s available in e-book, paperback, and audiobook.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Which of these five scene endings do you find yourself using most often? Are there any you tend to avoid? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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In a world flooded with stories—books, shows, films, and endless social content—it’s easy to fall into passive consumption. But as writers and creatives, what we take in matters just as much as what we put out. To write with depth, clarity, and resonance, we must first learn to read more intentionally and watch with greater awareness. Intentional consumption isn’t about being rigid or “highbrow.” Rather, it’s about choosing stories that challenge us, feed us, and reflect the kind of storytelling we want, in turn, to create.

Earlier this month, I offered a post about “Why Intentional Storytelling Matters in an Era of AI and Algorithm-Driven Content.” It was an exploration of all the reasons intentional storytelling has always mattered and perhaps matters more than ever in our modern era of ultra-speed and convenient shortcuts. The first comment on that post (amongst many in a wonderfully rich discussion) was from Heather J. Bennett who wrote:

It’s also a problem with lazy readers who aren’t taking the time to slow down and read the story as it’s written. … Their attention spans for reading for the nuance of the storytelling is shorter with understandable life priorities and needing to get things done.

This immediately spoke to something I was already thinking about, which is that intentional consumption—reading and watching—is just as important, if not more so, than intentional creation. However, this isn’t to separate writers from consumers or suggest “others” should bear the blame for “bad” stories being all too acceptable to the market. After all, we as writers are first and foremost members of that same audience. To the degree we seek to create intentional art—art that that is “on purpose” and for a reason—then this is a reminder that our reading/watching choices not only inform the general market, but also the quality of what we’re inputting into our own experiences and how that that affects the output in our writing.

In This Article:* How Does What You Read and Watch Shape Your Writing? * How Reading and Watching Low-Quality Content Affects Your Writing * Do Stories With Agendas Harm Good Storytelling? * What Does It Mean to Read More Intentionally as a Writer? (7 Tips)

How Does What You Read and Watch Shape Your Writing?Which is more important: writing intentionally or reading intentionally?

It’s kind of a chicken-and-egg question, but ultimately I believe intentional media consumption is more important. Why? Because the personalized landscape of our individual media consumption is the fertile ground out of which grows everything we might hope to create. Someone who chooses media with the utmost intention is unlikely to then create without intention. Even if they did, I have to believe the careful attention to input would still favorably impact the output.

In short, we are what we read (and watch).

No doubt, you’re familiar with the suggestion that you are the average of the five people you’re around the most. Your media consumption impacts you just as greatly. It’s worth examining five of the shows you watch most often and five of the series you most like to read (or perhaps for simplicity’s sake, the type of shows and books you most enjoy) and considering how they have “made” you—for better or worse.

You can also think of it like this: your writing is unlikely to rise above the average quality or thematic messaging of what you read and watch. More crucially, consuming low-quality media risks the dulling of yourself. And if nothing else, even if the effect is neutral, you must contend with the fact that in not asking more of your media, and therefore of yourself, you are missing potential opportunities to raise yourself.

How Reading and Watching Low-Quality Content Affects Your WritingIntentional media consumption affects everyone, but as writers, our interaction with media has the potential to create a greater ripple effect. Not only do our media choices affect us personally (which, of course, necessarily affects our writing), they also directly shape our own works of fiction.

The single greatest rule of thumb when it comes to questioning whether you’re reading and watching critically is to consider whether or not you are reading or watching with your soul.

Fundamentally, what I mean by this is that engagement should bring a certain spark of aliveness. What you read or watch should make you feel alive.

Media is nourishment for our minds and souls. Just as with the physical nourishment of food, we have to consider whether we’re getting enough quality nutrients. Are we consuming junk content or “real” content? Just as with junk food, it’s true enough we all tend toward a soft spot for junk entertainment.

What is junk entertainment?

• Empty calories that are satisfying-but-not-satisfying.
• Adds nothing of real value.
• Possibly leaches valuable nutrients (i.e., time, happiness, contentment, positivity).
• Strangely but inarguably addictive.

This isn’t to say the occasional cheat day isn’t a worthy part of our lives, but a steady diet of anything that isn’t actively adding value is, at best, a waste and, at worst, actively harmful to both ourselves, our potential readers, and inevitably the collective.

Do Stories With Agendas Harm Good Storytelling?We tend to blame much of our current dissatisfaction with modern media on the fact that storytelling has become ever more polarizing and political. It is not uncommon for the release of even the most popcorn-y of all entertainment—the summer blockbuster—to be bulldozed by political rants of all persuasions. It can be difficult to engage with modern media without guarding against intrusive messaging (and that may even be before we know what the messaging may be).

Many people cry out that stories should not be vehicles for political and social agendas and should get back to being “just for fun” or “just entertainment.” (But maybe you already know what I think about the “just” word in front of stories…)

I do not believe this is the problem. Stories have always been political. By their very nature as an inherently transformational experience, they can’t be anything else. (Never mind that the simple act of reporting on the human condition is also inherently—and often dangerously—political.)

Neither is the problem that “real” stories and “important” stories shouldn’t be fun. Indeed, I can’t help but think that the most wildly entertaining genre stories are those with the most potential for impacting humanity—not only through their sheer accessibility but also through their natural tendency toward the simple depth of the archetypal experience.

No, in my opinion, what we are ultimately reacting against—and, out of sheer exhaustion, increasingly putting up with—are specific trends that have taken us away from the true heart—the true soul—of what story really is.

Problematic storytelling devices we should be conscious of when consuming (and should not excuse) include:

• Plot-driven stories that neglect character arcs (i.e., characters made to serve plots rather than plots made to serve characters).
• Entertainment-first storytelling vs. artistic integrity (i.e., seeking stories that will supposedly sell vs. writing stories of originality and personal intensity).
• Flat stereotypes vs. rich archetypes (i.e., writing tropes and plot formulae vs. meeting, understanding, and mining the deeper archetypal wisdom of story transformation).
• Storytelling instead of story channelling (i.e., creating stories primarily or entirely from our left brain’s logic vs. listening to what wants to come through the right brain).

What Does It Mean to Read More Intentionally as a Writer? (7 Tips)In many ways, I think reading and watching critically is actually more difficult than mindful storytelling. Partly, this is because we often feel we have less control over what media is placed before us to consume versus what we can consciously choose to create. Mostly, however, it is because consumption is a relatively passive action—we simply sit and accept what we are given, even if we don’t necessarily like it—whilst creation necessarily demands our entire active participation and therefore choice.

As such, and because watching and reading as a writer is such an intrinsic part of the larger storytelling process, upping the ante on media literacy for writers becomes a deeply important topic. To that end, here are several suggestions for nourishing your creative mind, all of them straight from my own practices in intentional media consumption.

1. Stop Consuming Content That Doesn’t Spark CuriositySo, yes, the first step is to just: stop watching and reading.

If there’s no spark, turn it off. Don’t consume mindlessly just because it’s there. Just say no.

Although I have always had the habit of watching a hour or two of TV or movies in the evenings, recently I decided to take an indefinite break, for the simple reason that I was spending upward of two hours every day watching stuff that, for the most part, I didn’t even like. Part of this reaction is due to my own moods and tastes at the moment, but part of it is the very real scroll of doom on Netflix and other streaming services.

By stepping away from habitual viewing, not only can I spare myself from increasingly unintentional media choices, I can also devote those two hours to more productive pursuits—like reading a (good) book or working on my own writing. If a movie or show comes along that I’m actually excited about (Stranger Things 5, looking at you!), I’ll watch it.

Until then, impress me. I’ll wait.

1. Make Space for SilenceI have always felt (with no small amount of satisfaction) that watching movies and reading books was just part of my job. But amidst the ever-increasing cacophony that is my (almost) 40-year-old brain in the year of 2025, the need to step back and hear myself has become perhaps an even more important part of that job. As writers, we are (and, I think, should be) influenced by the media collective. But our stories ultimately come from us, and the only way to truly find them is to make sure we can hear our own inner whisperings louder than whatever junk-food TV might be playing in the background.

2. Practice Reflective Watching and ReadingWhen you do read or watch, take the time to think critically about what you consume.

For a writer, this may begin by critically analyzing technique.

As a 21st-century human, this demands noticing where we might be copping to habitual and ingrained responses (either for or against).

Perhaps most important, it should mean noticing how you feel.

Questions to ask about intentional reading and watching:

• How are the feelings that are coming up (whether big or small, for or against, happy or angry) a mirror for you?
• What do you think the author wanted you to experience>
• How did your actual experience line up with this?

These are first and foremost soulwork questions, but inevitably also questions about honing writing technique.

1. Challenge Yourself With Unfamiliar StoriesReading with intention often means going off the beaten track. Instead of simply choosing the latest show available on streaming or the newest bestseller in your favorite genre, take your autonomy in your hands and make the commitment to be bold. Read things that are edgy.

Edgy stories are those that push you because:

• They require skillful comprehension,
• They ask you to step beyond what it is triggering, confronting, or uncomfortable.
• They beckon from outside your current comfort zone or personal interests.
• They represent something strange, frightening, or “other.”

• They scare you (just a little bit).

• Revisit Books and Films That Moved YouReturn to some of your old favorites—those that spoke to your mind, heart, and soul. Sometimes I have to go back to the books and movies that made me want to be a writer in the first place—just to see if the old magic is still there. And it is. And it always gives me hope, because it means story is still there. It’s still alive—on the page, on the screen, and in me. Story is just as vibrant and moving and exciting as it ever was, as long as we’re looking in the right places.

• Create Intentional Reading ChallengesA good reading (or watching ) challenge is always a good way to mix things up, to make sure your choices are intentional, and to explore story terrain you may otherwise have missed entirely.

Three of my ongoing challenges are:

• Reading the classics (which I define as any famous book written prior to 1980).
• Reading the Pulitzer winners for fiction.
• Watching all the movies in my collection in reverse order starting in the 1930s.

Here are a few ideas for reading or watching challenges:

• An author who challenges you.
• A genre you’ve never read.
• A book you know sits across from your current ideological fence rail.
• A movie from each decade.
• A foreign film.
• Something you used to love and something you used to hate—just to see if anything has changed.

The point is to detour from comfortable ruts and to rouse curiosity for the unknown. You never know what you’ll find—probably your next story idea!

1. Read for True Fun, Not Passive DistractionFinally, it’s worth saying that intentional media consumption is not about forcing yourself to become a highbrow literary elitist (unless you want to be). Rather, I believe the single greatest sign we’re on track with our reading and watching is that we are having fun.

Not mindless semi-satisfaction.

But true heart-pounding, gut-clenching, laughing-out-loud, squealing-in-the-theater, delighted, ignited, enlivened fun.

Yes, story is indeed entertainment, but it is never just entertainment. It is engagement. True fun is never mindless because it shows us the core of our own passions and truths.

So perhaps the best rule of all for reading and watching with intention is to ask: “Am I having fun?” And if you’re not: don’t.

If stories are nourishment, then writers are the cooks who must taste every ingredient before serving it up. What we take in becomes the flavor of what we offer the world. Choosing to read more intentionally is more than a personal practice—it’s a creative responsibility. When we consume with care, curiosity, and courage, we elevate our own craft and influence the stories being told around us. The world doesn’t need more noise. It needs storytellers who are listening first.

If writers don’t read/watch with intention, who will?

In Summary:Intentional media consumption isn’t just about watching “better” shows or reading “smarter” books. It’s about aligning your media choices with your creative purpose. When you engage with stories that challenge, inspire, or even unsettle you, you’re nurturing the very soil from which your own stories grow.

Key Takeaways: You are what you consume. Your media habits shape your inner creative landscape. * Junk content dulls creative potential. Just like food, low-quality stories leave you hungry for meaning. * Reflective consumption enhances storytelling. Asking why something moved you (or didn’t) sharpens your writing instincts. * Challenging content helps you grow. Step beyond your comfort zone to discover new perspectives and storytelling techniques. * Fun is a compass.* True fun—joyful, engaged, soul-stirring fun—is the best indicator of intentional story alignment.

Want More?Next Level Plot Structure (Amazon affiliate link)

If you’re feeling inspired to not just consume stories more intentionally but to write them more intentionally too, check out my most recent book Next Level Plot Structure. This one’s for writers who are ready to move beyond just hitting plot points to really exploring the deeper architecture of story—including plot structure’s mirror-like symmetry, the four symbolic “worlds” found within every story, the pacing beneath the beats, and the powerful emotional logic that makes a plot resonate. It builds on what I taught in Structuring Your Novel, but goes further into the soul of structure itself. If you’ve ever sensed there’s something deeper going on in great stories—even if you couldn’t quite put your finger on it—this book will help you tap into that, shape it, and use it with purpose. It’s available in paperback, e-book, and audiobook.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Do you think writers have a responsibility to read more intentionally—and if so, what’s one story that changed the way you think about your own writing? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post 7 Ways to Watch and Read More Intentionally appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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One of the most exciting challenges in storytelling is writing characters who grow over time—not just within a single story, but across several. Whether you’re working on a series or revisiting a familiar protagonist in a new standalone, the question inevitably arises: How do you create different character arcs for the same character without repeating yourself? How do you honor what’s come before while still offering readers something new? In many ways, this is where character development becomes the most rewarding—when you’re not just building a compelling arc, but an evolving journey.

Last month, we did a bit of exploring about how to vary your character arcs by using the Enneagram system to identify different internal conflicts for characters with different personality types. We also talked about how pairing Enneagram insights with the archetypal Life Cycle can generate arcs that are not only distinct but also deeply resonant. However, as I mentioned last week in the first installment in this two-part series, the more I sat with that discussion, the more I realized there was another layer we hadn’t fully uncovered: what happens when you’re writing different character arcs for the same character?

The reader question that originally inspired these discussions (about how to use the Enneagram’s nine types to avoid repetitive Lies the Character Believes) sparked a larger reflection, not just on personality theory, but on long-term character development. If you’re writing a series or revisiting a character across multiple stories, you’ve likely asked yourself: How do I keep this arc feeling fresh? What else can this character learn, face, or become? The challenge isn’t just variety for its own sake. Rather, it’s about honoring the integrity of your characters while continuing to push their evolution in meaningful ways.

Last week, I offered six progressive systems you can use to help you chart long-term serial character arcs. This week, I want to dig into some general principles for approaching a character’s journey as an unfolding process that stretches beyond a single arc.

In This Article:* How to Write Different Character Arcs for the Same Character: Write Different Themes * Using Robert McKee’s Thematic Square * Exploring Different Archetypal Roles (Beyond the Life Cycle) * Exploring Different Backstory Ghosts * How to Deeply Develop a Single Theme: Listen to Your Characters * Exploring Different Inner Facets * Changing Up the Supporting Cast * Exploring Consequences From Previous Books * Emphasizing Different Emotions

How to Write Different Character Arcs for the Same Character: Write Different ThemesLet’s start by exploring the two different approaches you might find yourself in when writing multiple books. The first is the possibility that you are writing totally different character arcs for each new story. This might be because you’re writing an entirely new cast of characters and don’t want to repeat yourself; or it could be because you’re writing an episodic series in which you want to explore new plots and arcs in each installment.

In either case, the simplest rule of thumb when wanting to write different character arcs for the same character is to focus on exploring different external aspects. Basically: write a different plot. A relatively good example of this is the MCU, which featured dozens of stories set in the same story world. The series often succeeded in creating varied character arcs by offering varied or unexpected plots.

>>Click here to read The Do’s and Don’ts of Storytelling According to Marvel

For Example:

Tony Stark’s themes of escapist irresponsibility created very different themes from Peter Parker’s mistakes of teenage naivety.

Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), Sony Pictures, Marvel Studios.

Here are a few more tools you can use to help you accomplish this variation.

1. Robert McKee’s Thematic SquareStory by Robert McKee (affiliate link)

Plot is tied to character arc which is tied to theme. The Thematic Square is a storytelling tool created by Robert McKee in his book Story that helps writers explore theme from multiple angles by identifying not only the central value (e.g., love) and its opposite (e.g., hate), but also a contrary value (e.g., indifference) and its negation (e.g., self-hatred). In a single story, this can help you create layered moral complexity and richer character conflict. However, by exploring a different quadrant of the square in different stories, you can visit various thematic neighborhoods within the same world from story to story.

1. Explore Different Archetypal Roles (Beyond the Life Cycle)Writing Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)

In addition to the continuity of the archetypal Life Cycle (which I mentioned last week and which you can read more about in my book Writing Archetypal Character Arcs), you can also focus on other ancillary archetypes. For example, exploring how your protagonist manifests the Trickster aspects of persoanlity in one story, the Rebel in another, and the Caregiver in still another can create opportunities for wildly different character arcs. Here’s a quick list of possibilities:

• The Trickster – Brings chaos, humor, and unexpected change, often disrupting the status quo.
• The Ally – Supports others through trials as a loyal companion.
• The Shapeshifter – Changes form or allegiance, often creating doubt and intrigue.
• The Innocent – Seeks happiness and safety, often symbolizing purity or naiveté.
• The Orphan – Craves belonging and connection after experiencing loss or abandonment.
• The Rebel – Challenges norms and fights against injustice or oppression.
• The Sage – Pursues truth and knowledge, often as a detached observer.
• The Creator – Builds, innovates, or brings visions into reality.

• The Caregiver – Protects and nurtures others, often sacrificing personal needs.

• Explore Different Backstory GhostsFinally, as you seek to generate new and different character arcs throughout your series, remember that the catalyst for any character arc is the character’s backstory Ghost (sometimes called the wound). To explore different character arcs for the same character, look at different catalyzing events in your character’s past. This is a common (although often overdone) approach for TV series. When they finish one story arc and need to pursue a fresh angle, they will often reveal new and unexpected events in the characters’ pasts that link them to new conflicts.

For Example:

After wrapping up its initial storyline and associated character arcs in Season 5, Supernatural extended its run by introducing new backstory elements, notably the main characters’ reaction to secrets in their family’s past, including the fact that their mother had been a Hunter before meeting their father.

Supernatural (2005-2020), The CW.

How to Deeply Develop a Single Theme: Listen to Your CharactersWhat if you’re writing a series with an overarching plot that goes deep with a thematically cohesive character arc for your protagonist? In that case, how can you keep each story’s exploration of this overarching theme fresh and interesting, while also advancing the bigger arc?

The first thing to remember is that, in any story or series of stories, the thematic Truth a character learns (and therefore the successive Lies the Character Believes that must be overcome) exists along an ever-evolving spectrum. Therefore, even though the character may learn some version of an “ultimate” Truth by the story’s end, that Truth will be built of many smaller realizations and epiphanies along the way.

To progress that thematic throughline in a way that feels both realistic and also deep and nuanced, the most important trick is simply to listen to your characters. Really, this means listen to yourself. Listen to your own deep, innate knowing of how personal change occurs and what questions, roadblocks, sacrifices, and triumphs are likely to feel resonant along the way.

Here are a few tips and tricks for deepening your theme from book to book in a series.

1. Explore Different Inner FacetsIn any dramatic personal change (and therefore in any dramatic character arc) many different facets of the person will be affected. Depending on the length of your series, you have the opportunity to go deep with many different ways your characters are affected by the changes they are undergoing. For example, in one story you might explore how the change impacts the protagonist’s relationships, while in another you might explore how it impacts the protagonist’s experience of hope versus despair, while still another might delve into issues of ongoing personal integrity in the face of the changes the character is confronting.

2. Change Up the Supporting CastOne of the easiest ways to open new opportunities for exploring different facets of your characters is to change up the supporting cast. The thematic elements that arise from your protagonist’s interaction with a parent will be very different from the thematic elements that arise from your protagonist’s interaction with a love interest or frenemy. The only caution here is to make sure that in changing up the cast dynamics, you are not shortchanging the screentime of any key relationships that may, in fact, be the primary reason readers are there in the first place.

3. Explore Consequences From Previous BooksThe juiciest part of any series is its unparalleled ability to go deep with its own consequences. If you’re uncertain how your character’s arc might be different in a subsequent book, start by asking yourself:

4. What’s changed?

5. What did the characters do or have done to them in the previous book that has consequences?
6. How did the conclusion of the character arc in the previous book change how the character views the world or him/herself?

Start pulling threads and exploring what new thematic avenues may now be open to you.

For Example:

The BBC show Poldark was particularly good at this from season to season. Its protagonist, Ross Poldark, rarely made a decision that didn’t have unforeseen but still realistic consequences. One example is his secret purchase of his cousin’s widow’s shares in his then-worthless mine, in order to gift her with needed money. When that mine later became profitable, he was accused by his nemesis of underhanded dealings in “stealing” from her.

Poldark (2015-2019), BBC One.

1. Emphasize Different EmotionsFinally, one of the easiest ways to tap into new and different character arcs for the same character is to explore different emotions. If anger predominated in one book, then perhaps joy or love may be the focus of another. If confidence and self-realization showed up in one book, then despair or disillusionment may follow. Particularly, think about how the “positive” or “negative” charge of one emotional theme can arc into its opposite. For example, in a long series, a defeat may follow a victory may follow a defeat.

Obviously, no one book should focus exclusively on a single emotion. But you can go deep with one emotion as a way of shining its particular shade of color onto the larger stage of your story’s and series’ themes.

Exploring different character arcs for the same character invites writers into some of the richest possibilities storytelling has to offer. It asks you to think deeply about the long-term consequences of change, how different parts of a character’s psyche can take center stage at different times, and how transformation itself evolves. Whether you’re crafting a series, revisiting an old character, or simply playing with the idea of continuity across your stories, this kind of narrative layering can open up new creative depths for both you and your readers.

In SummaryWriting different arcs for the same character requires more than just inventing new external conflicts. It demands an understanding of how transformation can unfold in complex, realistic, and meaningful ways across time. By focusing on how plot, character, and theme create and influence one another, you can gain deeper insights into how to naturally and resonantly evolve your character through multiple different character arcs.

Key Takeaways* Different arcs for the same character are best built around new thematic focuses and inner conflicts, as well as new plots. * Tools like the Thematic Square and archetypal roles (such as Trickster and Caregiver) can offer helpful variety and depth in mapping believable inner change. * Long-term character growth feels most authentic when arcs build on each other through a deep understanding of personal transformation and thematic intent. * Revisiting a character can offer opportunities to explore consequences from past books, new emotional outlooks, and different relationship dynamics.

Want More?Writing Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

If you’re fascinated by the deeper structure behind character arcs—and especially how they connect to theme—check out my book Writing Your Story’s Theme. In it, I explore how character change is naturally intertwined with plot and theme. These “big three” naturally work together to create cohesive and resonant stories. Whether you’re writing standalone stories or weaving a multi-arc journey across a series, your characters’ emotional evolution is most impactful when it’s inextricably tied to the thematic heart of your story. Writing Your Story’s Theme offers a step-by-step approach to identifying, developing, and integrating theme at every stage of your story’s structure and your characters’ growth. It’s the perfect companion for writers who want their stories to resonate on every level. It’s available in paperback, e-book, and audiobook.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Have you ever written different character arcs for the same character across multiple stories? What challenges or discoveries did you encounter in keeping those arcs fresh and meaningful? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post How to Write Different Character Arcs for the Same Character (Part 2 of 2) appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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One of the most interesting challenges of writing a series is figuring out how to create different character arcs for the same character, without it feeling repetitive or forced. Whether you’re writing a progressive arc that unfolds over several books or you’re exploring entirely different arcs in each installment, the goal is always to keep the character’s journey fresh and meaningful.

Last month I shared a post about developing different character arcs using the Enneagram personality system. However, after writing that post (and its follow-up about how to unite the Enneagram with the archetypal Life Cycle for even deeper character arcs), I realized I hadn’t quite got to the heart of the question that inspired that original post, from Zoe Dawson:

What is your take on using the Enneagram nine personality types and constructing their Lies so that it’s not repetitious for each story?

Although Zoe’s question was specifically about the Enneagram, the deeper underlying dilemma is one any author writing more than one story will eventually face: How can you make sure you’re writing varied and interesting character arcs—rather than just repeating yourself?

This quandary may ring true in a number of different scenarios:

• You’re writing a series in which each book features progressive character arcs that all tie into a larger overarching arc.
• You’re writing a series that features a thematically new and independent character arc for each story.
• You’re writing multiple unrelated books and want each one to be fresh and different.

Writing Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

Today, I want to dig deeper into the big picture of how to construct Lies the Character Believes, character arcs, and themes that don’t repeat from story to story. This week, we’ll dig into some specific tools and frameworks that can help you shape varied arcs; next week, we’ll explore some general principles to keep in mind.

To get us started, here’s an idea I’ve always found resonant and that can be helpful to keep inmind when seeking to vary your writing:

We all have one story to tell and we just go on telling it in different ways.

Now, is that explicitly true?

Certainly not.

I, for one, have written one novel after another that is completely different from one another. And yet, I do feel that every story in an author’s body of work must ultimately point to the deeper truths and themes of the foundational story that is the author’s own life. No matter how much you may (or may not) change the outer trappings in your story (genre, setting, plot focus, etc.), the underlying thrust and focus will always be you.

Click to enlarge.

I don’t see this as a drawback. I see it as the most compelling offering every author brings to their readers. In fact, I would suggest you might be most successful in varying your character arcs across books once you can realize the thrust of your own underlying interest and intention. For example, no author was perhaps more famous for writing a legion of staggeringly quirky and unique characters than Charles Dickens, yet even a cursory familiarity with his stories shows the underlying cohesion of the author’s focus on social issues, particularly the plight of the city’s poor. As you brainstorm new and different character arcs for your stories, it might be worthwhile to start by first identifying what actually makes them the same.

Little Dorrit (2008), BBC / WGBH Boston.

In This Article:* 6 Progressive Personalities and Development Systems to Write Different Character Arcs * The Five Foundational Character Arcs * The Life Cycle of Archetypal Character Arcs * Enneagram Map of Health * Spiral Dynamics * The Four Stages of Alchemy * The Four Stages of Knowing

6 Progressive Personality and Development Systems to Write Different Character Arcs for the Same CharacterLet’s start where this question is trickiest: How to write different character arcs for the same character?

One powerful way to write different character arcs for the same character is to ground the character’s growth in a larger developmental framework. Just like real people, characters evolve through recognizable stages—emotionally, psychologically, and even spiritually. Mapping your characters’ journeys to a progressive system can offer a shortcut for creating arcs that feel both fresh and cohesive across a series.

The following models can offer useful blueprints for tracking your characters’ inner evolution and continuing to shift the lens through which they experience the world.

1. The Five Foundational Character ArcsCreating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

The basic “shape” of foundational character arcs can, in themselves, guide you to resonant variations. These foundational arcs (which I talk about in-depth in my book Creating Character Arcs and elsewhere) are:

Heroic Arcs1. Positive Change Arc 2. Flat Arc

>>Click here to read more about the Heroic Arcs.

Negative Change Arcs1. Disillusionment 2. Fall 3. Corruption

>>Click here to read more about the Negative Arcs.

You can mix and match these arcs from story to story to create vastly varied experiences. The simplest approach is to observe the natural connections among them, especially between the two Heroic Arcs and the three Negative Change Arcs, respectively.

The Positive Change Arc—in which the character overcomes a limited Lie-based perspective and gains a broader Truth-based perspective—leads naturally into a subsequent Flat Arc—in which the character can stand upon this newly gained Truth to inspire change in others.

Likewise, the Negative Arcs can be crafted as part of a larger cycle. The character might undergo a Disillusionment Arc—in which a difficult new Truth creates a vulnerability that may lead to resistance or resentment. This can then easily lead into a Fall Arc, in which the character bolsters resistance to the Truth by investing in greater and greater Lies. This easily leads into the still worse Corruption Arc, in which a character who once had the opportunity and advantage of recognizing the Truth instead opts to reject it utterly.

1. The Life Cycle of Archetypal Character ArcsWriting Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)

In my book Writing Archetypal Character Arcs, I fleshed out the mythic lens of storytelling beyond just the Hero’s Journey to explore the full gamut of the human Life Cycle. Each of these six foundational archetypal character arcs naturally leads one into the other, making them perfect for a series in which you wish to explore an ever-maturing character.

These six foundational archetypes are:

1. The Maiden (Individuation)
2. The Hero (Service)
3. The Queen (Leadership)
4. The King (Sacrifice)
5. The Crone (Surrender)
6. The Mage (Transcendence)

You can find even more possibilities for variation—while adhering to a solid thematic throughline—by also exploring the six Flat archetypes and the twelve shadow archetypes that accompany each of the primary archetypes.

Graphic by Joanna Marie Art.

1. Enneagram Map of HealthPersonality Types by Don Richard Riso and Russ Hudson (affiliate link)

Last month, I offered quite a few new tools and perspectives for using the Enneagram personality system to develop your character arcs. One particularly useful aspect I did not touch on was the stages of growth inherent to each type. In their book Personality Types, Don Richard Riso and Russ Hudson map nine stages for each type, ranging from healthy to average to unhealthy. Each of these stages could be fleshed out into a full character arc with the stages advanced in either direction, depending on whether you wanted to ultimately tell a story of a character who changes positively or negatively.

For example, the nine stages of Type Eight (the Challenger) are listed like this (from healthy to unhealthy):

1. The Magnanimous Heart
2. The Self-Confident Person
3. The Constructive Leader
4. The Enterprising Adventurer
5. The Dominating Power Broker
6. The Confrontational Adversary
7. The Ruthless Outlaw
8. The Omnipotent Megalomaniac

9. The Violent Destroyer

10. Spiral DynamicsSpiral Dynamics by Don Edward Beck and Christopher C. Cowan (affiliate link)

Created by Don Beck and Chris Cowan, Spiral Dynamics is a model of human development that maps how individuals and societies evolve through increasingly complex value systems. Each stage—represented by a color—reflects a particular worldview, from basic survival to tribal loyalty to achievement and beyond. In character development, Spiral Dynamics can help you explore how a character’s core motivations and beliefs shift over time. As they move up (or regress down) the spiral, they may adopt new values, question old assumptions, or clash with characters operating from different stages, all of which can offer rich material for varied arcs across a series.

The currently recognized stages or “memes” of the spiral are:

1. Beige (SurvivalSense): Basic survival priorities (e.g., food, water, shelter, safety).
2. Purple (KinSpirits): Tribal loyalty, superstition, tradition.
3. Red (PowerGods): Dominance, ego, power, and asserting control over others (also called the Warlord meme).
4. Blue (TruthForce): Order, rules, morality, and obedience to a higher purpose or authority.
5. Orange (StriveDrive): Achievement, success, science, and rational progress.
6. Green (HumanBond): Equality, empathy, community, and consensus-driven values.
7. Yellow (FlexFlow): Integration, systems thinking, flexibility, and personal responsibility.

8. Turquoise (GlobalView): Holistic awareness, unity, and spiritual consciousness.

9. The Four Stages of AlchemyOriginally developed in the Middle Ages as a supposed process of turning lead into gold, the stages of alchemy are now recognized as a symbolic representation of … you guessed it, character arcs! (Aka, psychological development. Potato. Potahto.) A few years ago, I shared a post showing how the four stages of alchemy map perfectly onto the four quarters of story structure and, therefore, character arc. However, you can also choose to represent each stage as an entire arc of its own, allowing a four-story cycle to reveal the final alchemy. For that matter, many explorations of alchemy posit many more stages than just four, which could allow you to both lengthen and deepen your story arc.

The four basic stages of alchemy are:

1. The Nigredo (The Blackening): Descent into darkness, confusion, breakdown, ego death.
2. The Albedo (The Whitening): Purification and clarity, recognizing truth, separating from illusion.
3. The Citrinitas (The Yellowing): Insight, illumination, integration, growing wisdom.

4. The Rubedo (The Reddening): Wholeness, rebirth, final transformation into the true self.

5. Four Stages of KnowingEarlier this year, I similarly explored how the popular “four stages of knowing” also map neatly onto the four quadrants of a story’s development. Just as with the alchemical process, you can also stretch these stages to explore each aspect of the transformation more deeply in multiple evolving character arcs.

The Four Stages of Knowing are:

1. Not Knowing That You Don’t Know: Unconscious ignorance.
2. Knowing That You Don’t Know: Conscious ignorance.
3. Not Knowing That You Know: Unconscious competence.
4. Knowing That You Know: Conscious competence.

All of these frameworks—whether psychological, mythic, philosophical, or symbolic—can offer powerful scaffolding for exploring different character arcs for the same character without losing cohesion or authenticity. Not only can they help you avoid repetition, they can also support you in uncovering the deeper throughline of meaning that connects your stories to each other—and to you!

Next week, we’ll zoom out for a big-picture look at some guiding principles and narrative strategies you can use to vary your character arcs across multiple books or series. We’ll explore how to make your arcs feel intentional and fresh without straying too far from the heart of what makes your storytelling uniquely yours. Stay tuned!

In SummaryWhen writing multiple stories—whether within a series or across a body of work—one of the most powerful ways to ensure fresh and meaningful character arcs is to root them in the natural evolution of human development. By drawing on progressive models like the five foundational arcs, archetypal Life Cycle, Enneagram growth stages, Spiral Dynamics, and other systems, you can create nuanced journeys that build upon one another rather than repeat. Recognizing your own thematic throughline as an author only deepens the authenticity of these arcs. Next week, we’ll look at broader storytelling principles that can help you vary arcs across books, even outside of progressive systems.

Key Takeaways Repetition in character arcs is a common challenge for writers of series or multiple books, but it can be overcome with intention and structure. * Developmental models like the five foundational character arcs or the archetypal Life Cycle can offer a roadmap for evolving your character’s journey meaningfully across books. * The Enneagram and Spiral Dynamics can offer deep personality and value-system frameworks that naturally lend themselves to transformation over time. * Alchemy and symbolic systems can add depth and metaphorical resonance to character progression. * Discovering your own thematic signature as an author* can be a compass for creating unique yet unified arcs across your body of work.

Want More?Writing Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)

If you’re looking to deepen your understanding of character development and ensure your cast evolves in meaningful, thematically resonant ways, my book Writing Archetypal Character Arcs offers a powerful framework. It explores six foundational arcs—Maiden, Hero, Queen, King, Crone, and Mage—that reflect universal patterns of growth and transformation. Whether you’re crafting a protagonist’s journey or exploring contrasting arcs for supporting characters, this resource can help you weave rich, symbolic layers into your storytelling. It’s perfect for anyone wanting to write dynamic character arcs for different characters across a standalone novel or an entire series. It’s available in paperback, e-book, and audiobook.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! How do you approach writing different character arcs for the same character in a series or across multiple books? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post How to Write Different Character Arcs for the Same Character (Part 1 of 2) appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Note From KMW: This week’s post is a quick one—but it covers a sneaky little habit that can creep into even the best of stories: overexplaining in dialogue. I’ve seen it in books I’ve read, and I’ve definitely caught myself doing it too. It’s easy to do when we want to make sure readers really understand what’s going on, but often, this dialogue mistake just ends up slowing the story and undercutting our characters.

If you’ve ever wondered whether you’re trusting your readers enough, this one’s for you! The post was inspired by an example so bad I’m paraphrasing rather than directly quoting it. :p I’ll be back next week with a longer post (and podcast), the first in a two-part series I’m really excited about. Stay tuned!

As writers, we work hard to earn our readers’ trust. Nothing shatters that trust faster than treating them like they’re not smart enough to keep up. One of the most subtle and common ways authors do this is by overexplaining in dialogue. This usually doesn’t happen intentionally, but out of the fear readers won’t “get it” unless you spell it out. Unfortunately, when you overexplain or repeat yourself, especially in dialogue, readers can feel like the story is talking down to them or even, simply, below their level. That’s a fast track to losing their interest.

Consider a fantasy novel I once read. The author wrote some good dialogue that effectively explained situations while also conveying attitude, nuance, and subtext. Unfortunately, she submarined the dialogue’s inherent buoyancy by having the narrating character explain everything that was said, almost to the point of paraphrasing the dialogue.

For example, in one particular scene, the narrator worried another character might react violently if awoken. This was made clear in the narrative, then repeated, almost word for word, in an immediately subsequent dialogue exchange. The story was otherwise a smart, funny romp. But the author’s penchant for explanation added deadweight that slowed the book down and made me, as a reader, want to start skimming.

Here’s a paraphrased example of how dialogue that repeats the narrative (and vice versa) can feel condescending to readers:

Marcella hesitated outside the bedroom door, clutching Marcus’s supper with both hands. Her fingers tightened around the clay bowl. The last time she’d tried to wake Marcus when he was having one of his episodes, he’d come up swinging—half-conscious and convinced she was someone else. She’d ended up with a sprained wrist and a bruised cheek.

She looked at Angelina. “I don’t think I should go in there,” she whispered. “Last time he had one of these nightmares, he thought I was someone else and attacked me. I hurt my wrist pretty badly.”

This version needlessly repeats the same information in both the narrative and the dialogue. The reader is told twice about Marcus’s violent outburst and the character’s fear—without any additional depth or emotional layering. It slows the pace and makes Marcella sound like she’s explaining the situation not to another character, but to the readers—as if the author doesn’t trust them to retain or interpret what they just read.

The best fiction respects the intelligence of its readers. When your narrative and your dialogue work together, rather than redundantly repeating each other, you create a more immersive, efficient, and respectful reading experience. Before you hit publish, take a pass through your dialogue scenes and ask yourself: “Am I letting the story speak for itself, or am I explaining things that are already clear?”

Trust your readers. They’re smarter than you think—and they’ll thank you for believing it!

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Have you ever caught yourself overexplaining in dialogue—or spotted it in a book you were reading? Tell me in the comments!The post The Danger of Overexplaining in Dialogue—and How to Avoid It appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Note From KMW: Before we get started today, this is just a quick note to let you know that today is the final day you can save 25% off my entire store during my Memorial Day weekend sale. This includes all the e-books, workbooks, courses, and brainstorming guides. If you need some new writing tools, now’s a great time!

The Enneagram is often thought of as a personality system, but at its heart, it is an archetypal map of human motivation and transformation. Each of its nine types represents a universal pattern of behavior rooted in deep emotional truths (what we, as storytellers, might think of as thematic Truths). Like the Life Cycle of archetypes I explore in my book Writing Archetypal Character Arcs, the Enneagram reflects the evolving inner journeys we all undertake throughout our lives.

Although this archetypal similarity makes the Enneagram and the six Life-Cycle archetypes intuitive partners, it can also be difficult to sort the complexity of the two systems in a way that is actually useful for developing characters. Last week, we explored some of the innumerable possibilities for character-arc variation available within each Enneagram type. This week, I’m answering another reader question—from Elisheva–that points to this central conundrum of combining the Enneagram with the archetypes of the Life Cycle:

I love archetypes and I love the Enneagram, but when I try to use both tools when writing a story I get confused about how they interact. Both of them have their own Lies and conflict dynamics. And yet, they both are true. As a person, we go through the archetypical life stages, but we also have our personality to contend with. So, essentially, we are juggling the Lies and conflicts that come with each stage while also juggling the Lies and conflicts from our innate natures. How does this work when writing a story, so as not to confuse ourselves and others and get tangled in a conglomeration of themes, Lies, and conflicts—but to have it come through cohesively?

The shortest answer is that you don’t need to understand or combine both systems in order to create dynamic and dimensional characters. Often, the simplest approach is best, in which case focusing on either an archetypal approach or an Enneagram approach might be best. However, if you enjoy the complexity of examining how different systems combine to reveal even deeper insights into human behavior, then this is your stop!

In This Article:* What Happens When You Combine Archetypal Arcs With Enneagram Insights? * Enneagram Lies for the 6 Archetypes of the Life Cycle * Type 1: The Reformer * Type 2: The Helper * Type 3: The Achiever * Type 4: The Indiviudalist * Type 5: The Investigator * Type 6: The Loyalist * Type 7: The Adventurer * Type 8: The Challenger * Type 9: The Peacemaker * Best Fit Enneagram Types for Each Archetype

What Happens When You Combine Archetypal Arcs With Enneagram Insights?As I’ve explored in other posts (linked below), the Enneagram is a system of nine archetypal personality types, each representing a different core motivation and strategy for navigating the world. It maps surface behaviors, as well as the deep emotional patterns that drive our actions, fears, and desires. Unlike many personality systems, the Enneagram charts a path of growth, showing how individuals can evolve toward their healthiest, most integrated selves—or fall into patterns of stress and fixation.

>>Click here to read 5 Ways to Use the Enneagram to Write Better Characters

>>Click here to read 9 Positive Character Arcs in the Enneagram

>>Click here to read 9 Negative Character Arcs in the Enneagram

>>Click here to read Enneagram Types for Writers: Types 1-4

>>Click here to read Enneagram Types for Writers: Types 5-9

>>Click here to read Avoiding Repetition for Lies Each Type Might Believe

Writing Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)

Similarly, the archetypal Life Cycle I explore in my book Writing Archetypal Character Arcs (and the Archetypal Character Guided Meditations) charts the universal phases of transformation we experience as we move through life. From the individuation of the Maiden, through the personal expansion of the Hero, the leadership of the Queen, the sacrifice of the King, the acceptance of the Crone, and the surrender of the Mage, the cycle demonstrates how archetypal energies evolve as we mature, confront challenges, and step into new roles within both our inner landscapes and our outer lives.

Combined, these two systems offer a richly layered view of human development. The Enneagram helps us understand the why behind our individual journeys (i.e., our motivations, blind spots, and inner work), while the archetypal Life Cycle provides a broader view of the when (i.e., the inevitable seasons of growth and change we all encounter). Together, they can create a powerful framework for writing deeper characters, as well as living more conscious, authentic lives.

Enneagram Lies for the 6 Archetypes of the Life CycleWhat follows is, as ever, a limited and subjective list of suggestions for how the themes of the Life Cycle and the Enneagram may mingle. My hope is that it will spark your own intuitive knowing about these deep archetypes, so you can find your own best interpretations for your characters and stories.

Type 1: The ReformerCore Lie: “I must be good to be worthy.”

• Maiden’s Lie: “I must always be perfect to earn a place in the world.”
  Book/Movie Example: Hermione Granger (Harry Potter) constantly seeks academic perfection to prove herself, but must individuate beyond the system of authority to learn which rules are worth breaking.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (2001), Warner Bros.

• Hero: “I can only defeat evil if I never make mistakes.”
  Theoretical Example: A police cadet learns that true bravery lies not in flawless actions, but in showing up and serving despite imperfections.
• Queen: “Leading means upholding impossible moral standards.”
  Book/Movie Example: Jean Valjean (Les Misérables) burdens himself with living a perfectly moral life after his redemption.

Les Miserables (2018-2019), BBC One.

• King: “I must be flawless to maintain my authority.”
  Theoretical Example: A legendary mob boss, feared and respected for his rigid moral code and flawless control, must face the devastating truth that his need to be untouchable is tearing his empire apart.
• Crone: “I failed in life because I was never perfect enough.”
  Book/Movie Example: Judge Danforth (The Crucible) struggles to evolve with the times, clinging to his rigid beliefs and refusing to acknowledge his mistakes.

The Crucible (1996), 20th Century Fox.

• Mage: “True wisdom is reserved for the flawless.”
  Theoretical Example: A beloved professor, on the brink of retirement during a critical crisis facing his school, must confront his fear of leaving his students vulnerable and step back to let them take charge, trusting that their own mistakes will lead to the growth they need—while he comes to terms with the fact that his time as their guiding force has ended.

Type 2: The HelperCore Lie: “I must earn love through service.”

• Maiden: “If I am not useful, I will be abandoned.”
  Theoretical Example: A young woman on the brink of adulthood believes she must constantly care for others and meet their emotional needs, even it means sacrificing her own dreams.
• Hero: “I can only save others by sacrificing myself.”
  Theoretical Example: A young paramedic, eager to prove his bravery and worth in service to his community, believes he must always be the first to respond to emergencies, even at the cost of his own well-being.
• Queen: “I must care for everyone, even at the cost of my own needs.”
  Movie Example: Mufasa (The Lion King) rules with compassion, but his inability to fully confront and neutralize the threat posed by his brother reveals his failure to assert the tough authority needed to protect the kingdom.

The Lion King (1994), Walt Disney Pictures.

• King: “Real authority is earned by serving everyone else first.”
  Theoretical Example: A veteran football coach, beloved for always putting his players first, must confront the painful truth that his need to be needed is holding the team back—and that the greatest act of service might be letting someone else lead.
• Crone: “Without someone to care for, I have no purpose.”
  Theoretical Example: A retired teacher, disheartened by the loss of her former vitality, is coaxed back into the community by a group of former students. She must reconcile with her own aging and accept that her contribution may now look different.
• Mage: “Wisdom means knowing how to fix everyone’s pain.”
  Theoretical Example: An aging master carpenter, watching his apprentices struggle with the pressures of their craft, must confront his deep need to fix their problems and allow them to endure the pain of their mistakes in order to grow into their own skill and wisdom.

Type 3: The AchieverCore Lie: “My worth depends on what I accomplish.”

• Maiden: “I must earn the approval of my authority figures.”
  Theoretical Example: A high school senior, eager to prove herself, constantly overextends her commitments and sacrifices her personal needs to earn the approval of her teachers and parents, believing her worth is defined by their recognition.
• Hero: “I must win at all costs to prove my worth.”
  Movie Example: Lightning McQueen (Cars) believes winning races is his only value.

Cars (2006), Walt Disney Pictures.

• Queen: “My reign will only be respected if I am admired.”
  Movie Example: Regina George (Mean Girls) seeks admiration above authentic leadership.

Mean Girls (2004), Paramount Pictures.

• King: “My value lies in my success and productivity, so I must stay in control and maintain my position, even when it’s no longer serving the greater good.”
  Play Example: Shakespeare’sRichard II clings to his throne, seeking personal validation and glory, but is ultimately forced to sacrifice his throne for the greater good of the kingdom when he realizes his inability to lead effectively has caused more harm than good.

The Hollow Crown (2012-2016), BBC Two

• Crone: “Without accomplishments, I am nothing.”
  Book/Movie Example: Miranda Priestly (The Devil Wears Prada) clings to her influence and refuses to advance her loyal employees.

The Devil Wears Prada (2006), 20th Century Fox

• Mage: “I must prove my worth by making sure others succeed according to my standards, or I will be seen as ineffective or irrelevant.”
  Theoretical Example: After decades of groundbreaking work, a renowned scientist hesitates to retire, fearing that stepping back will make his life’s achievements seem less significant if the next generation surpasses him.

Type 4: The IndividualistCore Lie: “I must be unique to be significant.”

• Maiden: “I must be unique and different to be truly valued, and if I don’t stand out, I’ll never be understood.”
  Theoretical Example: A sheltered artist, struggling to believe her voice matters in a noisy world, is unsure how to break free from the expectations placed on her by family and society.
• Hero: “I must prove my worth through my struggles and pain, or I will never truly be seen as special or important.”
  Theoretical Example: A struggling musician determined to make it big must learn that personal growth comes not just through artistic expression, but by accepting himself and others.
• Queen: “No one can understand the pain of leadership like I do.”
  Theoretical Example: A compassionate community organizer fears that if she imposes responsibility on others, she will be misunderstood and rejected for being too rigid or impersonal.
• King: “My uniqueness sets me apart from everyone, including those I lead.”
  Theoretical Example: An aging founder of a successful nonprofit, believing his uniqueness is what made the organization thrive, fears his departure will cause the loss of his individuality and the purpose he’s created.
• Crone: “I was always too different to truly matter.”
  Book/Movie Example: Miss Havisham (Great Expectations) isolates herself after heartbreak.

Great Expectations (2012), Lionsgate.

• Mage: “My wisdom is irreplaceable, and no one else can truly understand my unique insights.”
  Theoretical Example: A once-celebrated maestro watches his protégés follow their own unconventional paths, overcoming his fear that if he doesn’t guide every decision, his unique vision and legacy will be forgotten.

Type 5: The InvestigatorCore Lie: “I have to protect my energy and stay self-sufficient.”

• Maiden: “I must have all the answers and fully understand everything before I can be valued or take action.”
  Theoretical Example: A refugee teenager feels she must handle every challenge on her own, fearing that asking for help would put her at the mercy of unfeeling authorities.
• Hero: “I can’t act until I know everything.”
  Theoretical Example: A young environmental activist believes that to make a real difference, he must single-handedly lead every initiative and never show vulnerability, fearing that depending on others will expose his lack of knowledge or authority.
• Queen: “Leading requires complete control over information.”
  Theoretical Example: A respected scholar must come to terms with the limitations of her intellect and find a balance between reason and the emotional needs of others, ultimately discovering that leadership requires vulnerability.
• King: “I must hold onto control at all costs because if I let go, everything will fall apart and no one will be able to manage without me.”
  Theoretical Example: A long-serving mayor of a small town struggles to step down, convinced that without his detailed knowledge of the community’s history and past decisions, the town’s future will unravel.
• Crone: “My worth ended when I stopped learning new things.”
  Book/Movie Example: Ben Weatherstaff (The Secret Garden) is initially withdrawn and resigned to his age and solitude, but must learn to open up and connect with the younger generation.

The Secret Garden (1993), Warner Bros.

• Mage: “True mastery requires total detachment.”
  Theoretical Example: An admiral who has led his fleet through countless battles must now nurture younger officers as they begin to oversee their own missions.

Type 6: The LoyalistCore Lie: “Security must come from the outside.”

• Maiden: “I can’t trust myself; someone else must guide me.”
  Movie Example: Rapunzel (Tangled) clings to Mother Gothel’s authority even as she grows suspicious.

Tangled (2010), Walt Disney Pictures.

• Hero: “I must rely on rules and authorities to survive.”
  Theoretical Example: During the American Revolution, a young militia leader, determined to prove his worth in battle, hesitates to take command in the face of danger, fearing that if he fails, he will not only let down his comrades but prove he was never truly fit for leadership.
• Queen: “The crown is safest when I control everyone’s loyalty.”
  Theoretical Example: A new President, obsessed with maintaining unwavering loyalty from every member of her Cabinet, begins to micromanage their actions and decisions, believing any hint of dissent could unravel the entire country.
• King: “I must eliminate all threats to maintain stability.”
  Theoretical Example: A seasoned detective, revered for keeping his city safe through rigid oversight and paranoia, begins to unravel his own team with distrust and overreach, forcing him to realize that his need to control every threat is eroding the stability he built and that stepping aside is the only way to restore trust.
• Crone: “I only mattered when others needed me for advice and support.”
  Theoretical Example: An aging fairy godmother, long retired and forgotten, sinks into despair believing her worth ended when the kingdoms no longer needed her contribution—until a young, reckless princess unexpectedly seeks her out, forcing her to confront her fear of irrelevance and rediscover a deeper purpose in passing on her wisdom.
• Mage: “True wisdom comes only from following tradition.”
  Theoretical Example: An experienced blacksmith who has spent decades perfecting his craft allows his apprentice to explore modern advances.

Type 7: The AdventurerCore Lie: “Pain must be avoided at all costs.”

• Maiden: “I can’t commit to anything serious because if I do, I’ll be stuck and miss out on all the exciting possibilities life has to offer.”
  Play/Book/Movie Example: To avoid sorrow and responsibility, Peter Pan (Peter Pan) refuses to grow up.

Peter Pan (2003), Universal Pictures.

• Hero: “Winning means staying one step ahead of pain.”
  Movie Example: Tony Stark (Iron Man) masks his trauma with wit and invention.

Iron Man 2 (2010), Marvel Studios.

• Queen: “If I take on too much responsibility, I’ll lose my freedom and the joy of spontaneity that I crave.”
  Show Example: Louis XIII (The Musketeers) refuses to face the mounting pressures of his reign, instead distracting himself with pleasures and escapism, believing that avoiding harsh realities will protect him from the pain of responsibility and prevent his kingdom from unraveling.

The Musketeers (2014-2016), BBC One

• King: “If I step down, I’ll miss out on all the excitement and adventure, and my life will lose its purpose.”
  Theoretical Example: The aging sheriff of a small frontier town refuses to retire, convinced that without the daily thrill of chasing outlaws and dispensing justice, his life will become empty and meaningless.
• Crone: “If I stop chasing fun, I’ll face regret.”
  Theoretical Example: In her twilight years, a once-vibrant grandmother convinces herself that if she keeps distracting herself with new hobbies and adventures, she can stave off the emptiness that comes with facing her mortality.
• Mage: “I must keep my proteges entertained and excited with new ideas and challenges, or they’ll lose interest and never grow into their full potential.”
  Book/Movie Example: Gandalf (The Lord of the Rings) sometimes feels the need to inject excitement and challenge to keep people engaged, especially during moments of stagnation.

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001), New Line Cinema.

Type 8: The ChallengerCore Lie: “Vulnerability equals weakness.”

• Maiden: “If I don’t stay tough and in control, the world will crush me before I get the chance to grow up.”
  Show Example: Haunted by the loss of her mother and consumed by shame over a secret mistake, a young Beth Dutton (Yellowstone) learns to weaponize her vulnerability—driving away Rip, the boy who loves her, believing that needing anyone will only lead to more pain and make her unfit to carry the Dutton legacy.

Yellowstone (2018-2024), Paramount Network.

• Hero: “Victory demands total dominance.”
  Book/Movie Example: Achilles (Troy) prioritizes glory over collaboration.

Troy (2004), Warner Bros.

• Queen: “I must crush weakness to lead effectively.”
  Movie Example: Princess Leia (Star Wars) believes that if she doesn’t keep absolute control over the Rebellion and shield everyone with her strength, everything she has built will fall apart.

Star Wars: A New Hope (1977), 20th Century Fox.

• King: “Power must be protected at all costs.”
  Theoretical Example: An ancient dragon-king refuses to name a successor, believing that if he releases his hold on the throne, chaos will consume the realm and erase everything he’s built.
• Crone: “If I show any weakness now, the world will forget me.”
  Theoretical Example: An aging private investigator, weary from years of solving crimes, struggles with the belief that if she doesn’t stay ahead of everyone, she’ll be left behind and forgotten.
• Mage: “If I don’t control everything around me, everything will fall apart.”
  Theoretical Example: A dying inventor must accept that without his direct involvement, the future of art and science will fall into the hands of the next generation—whether they are ready or not.

Type 9: The PeacemakerCore Lie: “My presence creates conflict.”

• Maiden: “If I assert myself, I’ll anger those in authority.”
  Movie Example: Cinderella (Cinderella) silently endures mistreatment to preserve fragile peace with her step-family.

Cinderella (2015), Walt Disney Pictures.

• Hero: “Keeping the peace is more important than fighting for what’s right.”
  Book/Movie Example: Frodo Baggins (The Lord of the Rings) hesitates to act against Gollum despite danger.

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003), New Line Cinema.

• Queen: “A ruler must maintain harmony at any personal cost.”
  Theoretical Example: A single mother must reconcile with her teenage son’s drug use and her struggle to impose discipline.
• King: “Leadership means erasing my own desires.”
  Theoretical Example: An aging carnival owner, long seen as the heart of a beloved traveling show, must confront the truth that true harmony sometimes means letting go.
• Crone: “My life mattered only when I avoided conflict.”
  Theoretical Example: A retired diplomat refuses to enter the fray again even though she is needed.
• Mage: “Wisdom is found only in silence and noninterference.”
  Book/Movie Example: Professor Dumbledore (Harry Potter) initially withholds vital truths, believing noninterference safest.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (2007), Warner Bros.

Best Fit Enneagram Types for Each ArchetypeUnderstanding which Enneagram types align best with each character archetype can offer further insights for writers looking to craft psychologically resonant stories. Below, we’ll explore which Enneagram types can be the best fit for each of the six major archetypal arcs. As seen above, every Enneagram type will have the opportunity to embody each part of the archetypal Life Cycle. However, for the purposes of storytelling, certain Enneagram types more obviously align with the innate themes of certain life archetypes.

Click for a larger view.

1. Maiden ArcThe Maiden represents youth, innocence, and the early stages of growth. This archetype often involves a journey of self-discovery, in which the character confronts fears of inadequacy.

Suggested Best Fits:Type 2 (The Helper): Twos seek external validation and approval, often believing they must be useful to be loved or accepted. This aligns with the Maiden’s journey of proving her worth.

Type 4 (The Individualist): Fours often feel like outsiders and believe they’re too different or broken to belong. This aligns with the Maiden’s struggle to find her place.

Type 6 (The Loyalist): Sixes struggle with self-doubt and trust issues. This aligns with the Maiden’s early dependence on others.

1. Hero ArcThe Hero is the archetype of the individual who goes on a quest to prove himself, often facing trials that push him beyond his limits. This arc typically involves growth through challenges and the development of inner strength.

Suggested Best Fits:Type 3 (The Achiever): Threes are motivated by the desire to prove their worth through accomplishment. This aligns with the Hero’s need to confront the difference between authentic self-worth and success-driven identity.

Type 7 (The Enthusiast): Sevens seek excitement and avoid pain. This aligns with the Hero’s lessons in embracing hardships and responsibility, as well as the adventurousness found in many Hero stories.

Type 9 (The Peacemaker): Nines prefer to avoid conflict and maintain harmony. This aligns with the Hero’s lessons in standing up and taking action for what is right.

1. Queen ArcThe Queen archetype represents leadership, responsibility, and the balance of power with wisdom. The Queen must confront the tension between personal desires and the needs of others. She often faces internal conflict over whether to uphold idealistic values or to compromise for the greater good.

Suggested Best Fits:Type 1 (The Reformer): Ones seek perfection and uphold high moral standards. This aligns with the Queen’s responsibility to govern with justice.

Type 2 (The Helper): Twos may take on leadership roles out of a need to care for others. This aligns with the Queen’s struggle to balance the needs of the people she leads with the equal necessity for justice and fairness.

Type 3 (The Achiever): Threes are driven by a desire for success and admiration. This can align with the Queen’s desire to lead effectively while also ensuring she is loved and respected.

1. King ArcThe King is an archetype of mastery, authority, and moral leadership. Kings must balance power with compassion, making decisions that affect others, while also grappling with personal doubts about worth and legacy.

Suggested Best Fits:Type 1 (The Reformer): Ones value moral integrity while desiring to fix the world. This aligns with the King’s role as a ruler who holds the kingdom’s best interests at heart.

Type 6 (The Loyalist): Sixes seek stability and security, often taking on leadership roles when they believe they can protect others. This aligns with the King’s desire to shoulder the tremendous burden of total responsibility for his kingdom.

Type 8 (The Challenger): Eights possess a drive for control and strength; they must learn that real power comes from wisdom, not domination. This aligns with the King’s focus on authority and leadership.

1. Crone ArcThe Crone represents wisdom, reflection, and acceptance of life’s consequences. This archetype is concerned with legacy and the knowledge gained through life’s experiences.

Suggested Best FitsType 1 (The Reformer): Ones must learn to accept imperfection. This aligns with the Crone’s need to forgive herself and embrace her flaws.

Type 4 (The Individualist): Fours often feel like they are misunderstood or disconnected. This aligns with the Crone’s need to reflect on her life choices and embrace her true self.

Type 5 (The Investigator): Fives search for knowledge and detachment. This aligns with the Crone’s focus on intellectual wisdom and the perspective gained over a lifetime. Fives can also align with the Hermit archetype, the negative aspect of which the Crone struggles with in her passive shadow form.

1. Mage ArcThe Mage represents mastery, transformation, and the passing of knowledge. The Mage has the wisdom and skills to guide others, but may struggle with the isolation and surrender needed in the role of mentor.

Suggested Best Fits:Type 1 (The Reformer): Ones desire to fix and improve the world through wisdom and example. This aligns with the Mage’s role as a wise leader who desires to guide the young.

Type 3 (The Achiever): Mature Threes can provide guidance to others on how to achieve success while also needing to confront their need for external validation. This can align with the Mage’s role as a mentor who passes on knowledge.

Type 5 (The Investigator): Fives are natural learners and seekers of knowledge. This aligns with the Mage’s ability to impart wisdom to others.

Understanding the best-fit Enneagram types for each archetypal character arc can offer powerful insight into your characters’ internal journeys. When you align your characters’ Enneagram-driven fears and desires with the core themes of their archetypal arcs, you create a narrative with emotional resonance and psychological depth.

Whether your character is a Hero learning to face his limitations, a Queen learning to lead with integrity, or a Crone reckoning with her past, the Enneagram can add nuance and authenticity that helps bring the character arc to life. By thoughtfully pairing archetypes with Enneagram types, you can gain a dual lens through which to craft stories that both captivate and transform.

In Summary:Both the Enneagram and the archetypal Life Cycle systems are powerful tools for understanding human motivation and transformation. When combined, they can offer a deeper layer of insight into character development. The key challenge is balancing the complex dynamics of both systems without creating confusion in the story. While it’s not necessary to merge both systems to create dynamic characters, those who enjoy complexity can use them together to enrich their writing. Each Enneagram type brings its core Lie and conflict dynamics into the phases of the Life Cycle, influencing how characters evolve.

Key Takeaways: The Enneagram provides a framework for understanding a character’s motivations, fears, and desires, while the Life Cycle tracks universal phases of transformation. * Combining both systems can deepen character exploration. However, it’s important to avoid overwhelming readers with too many conflicting themes and conflicts. * Focusing on one system at a time (either Enneagram or archetypal Life Cycle) is a simpler approach, but integrating both can lead to more complex and nuanced character arcs. * Using the core Lies and conflicts of each Enneagram type* within the phases of the Life Cycle can help to create multidimensional characters that evolve through their internal and external struggles.

Want More?If you’re ready to dive deeper into your characters and their journeys, my Archetypal Character Guided Meditations can help unlock fresh insights and inspire new creative possibilities. These guided meditations are perfect for dreamzoning, brainstorming, and exploring your characters’ core motivations from the inside out.

Whether your character’s story is best suited to the archetypes of Maiden, Hero, Queen, King, Crone, or Mage, these meditations will guide you to understand the heart of your characters and bring them to life in new and exciting ways. It’s like having a personal guide to help you dig into the soul of your story! Start exploring today: Archetypal Character Guided Meditations.

Go on the journey with your characters! Check out the Archetypal Character Guided Meditations.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! How do you merge archetypal characters with the Enneagram types in your writing? Which Enneagram type fits best with the archetypes you use, and how do their core motivations shape the journey? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post Crafting Archetypal Arcs With Enneagram Insights appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Using the Enneagram for character development can be a game-changer for crafting layered, believable characters. This ancient personality typing system can offer deep insight into your characters’ core fears and motivations, which makes it a natural fit for building compelling internal arcs. Because the Enneagram inherently emphasizes personal misconceptions (aka, the Lie the Character Believes), thematic Truths, and both Positive and Negative Change Arcs, it becomes an extremely intuitive tool for creating complex and realistic characters. But there is a rub.

And the rub is that because the Enneagram features only nine personality types, it would also seem to offer only nine possible Lies, Truths, and character arcs. Zoe Dawson brought this up in requesting this post:

I use the Enneagram heavily in crafting my characters, so my question would be: What is your take on using the Enneagram nine personality types and constructing their Lies so that it’s not repetitious for each story? Examples would be great.

Although necessarily limited, the Enneagram still presents an incredibly comprehensive and complete framework for understanding human behavior. As such, there is a degree of truth to the idea that humans can only undergo a certain number of fundamental changes. This harks back to one of my favorite quotes, from Willa Cather:

There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they never happened.

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

Still, as Zoe points out, a prolific writer relying on the same framework for every character might find herself running into some repetition—especially when it comes to identifying the Lie each type believes. In previous posts, I’ve noted the fundamental Positive Change and Negative Change Arcs inherent within each core Enneagram type:

Click here to read 9 Positive Character Arcs in the Enneagram

>>Click here to read 9 Negative Character Arcs in the Enneagram

Today, I want to look at how to use the Enneagram to deepen your character work while keeping each journey distinct and emotionally resonant.

Avoiding Repetition When Using the Enneagram for Character DevelopmentHow can you avoid repetitive arcs when using personality tools like the Enneagram? If each type has a core fear and desire, doesn’t that mean every story featuring a Type One or a Type Nine will end up exploring the same emotional terrain?

Not at all.

In fact, using the Enneagram for character development can open up even deeper and more varied avenues for crafting emotional arcs. Although characters with the same type may struggle with the same core themes, the specific Lies they believe about themselves and the world can take many forms.

If you already know your own Enneagram type, you can think about this from the perspective of your own life. For example, as a core Three, I can easily look through my life and identify how my own core wounding, coping mechanisms, survival tactics, ego identities, and even interests and obsessions are predominantly themed around a Three’s central concerns with identity, authenticity, and personal truth. Indeed, even the fact that my explorations of story theory have focused on character arcs and the internal conflict between “Lies” and “Truths” is arguably a direct emergent from my Three perspective.

When most people think of Threes, they think of the stereotype: hyper-competent workaholic obsessed with success and image. If that’s all you knew about Threes, you might struggle to write characters with personalities nuanced enough to reveal the spiraling fractal of depth hidden behind this simplistic archetype. A deeper understanding of how the Enneagram works (not to mention how people and stories work) allows us to access the functional simplicity of this nine-part system as a foundation for the realistic variation it reveals.

From there, the Enneagram can become a wonderful tool for noticing and exploring the specific flavor of insight and blindness each type brings to any situation. In moving beyond the simplistic stereotypes to acknowledge the deeper themes at play for each type, the sheer vastness of thematic possibilities also becomes clear. For example, if you wanted to explore a Three’s obsession with the subjectivity/objectivity of Truth, you would discover what are likely unlimited character arcs that can eventuate. This is, of course, equally true of all the types.

Using Instinctual Variants to Create Unique Character ArcsWriting Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)

With all of that said, the suggestions I’m going to share in the rest of today’s post barely scratch the surface of the possible Lies any one type may be challenged to overcome. Next week, I’ll be digging into this a little deeper in answering another reader’s question with an exploration of how Enneagram types function in the different archetypes of the Life Cycle. For today, I decided the most useful way to begin examining the variety available within Enneagram character arcs would be to note how each type’s core Lie may vary depending on which instinctual variant is dominant.

What Are the Three Instinctual Variants?One of the most illuminating nuances in the Enneagram system is the concept of instinctual variants—what are sometimes called subtypes. These are the primal survival drives that shape how each of the nine types shows up in the world. Instinctual variants don’t change your core type, but they do flavor how that type expresses itself in everyday life.

For more on instinctual variants, I highly recommend Beatrice Chestnut’s book The Complete Enneagram.

The Complete Enneagram

There are three instinctual variants:

1. Self-Preservation (sp):This instinct centers around safety, comfort, and physical well-being. If this is your dominant instinct, you’re probably highly attuned to issues like health, finances, routine, and creating a secure personal environment. You might notice yourself scanning your life for what’s missing or unstable before anything goes wrong.

2. Social (so):This instinct is all about group dynamics, belonging, and impact. Social-dominant people pay close attention to how they fit into the collective. They’re often oriented toward their place in the tribe, their reputation, and their contribution toward something bigger than themselves. This doesn’t always mean extroversion; it’s more about their awareness of the system.

3. Sexual (sx):Also called the one-to-one instinct, this drive is focused on intensity, intimacy, and magnetism. It’s about fusion: being fully seen, fully known, and fully alive in the presence of another. People with a dominant sexual instinct crave depth in relationships and experiences. They often have a kind of “charge” to them—an edge, an allure, a sense of passion that leads the way.

CountertypesEven though each of us uses all three instincts, we tend to favor one, repress another, and let the third play a supporting role. (For example, because I am self-preservation dominant and social repressed, my instinct stack would be shown like this: sp-sx-so.)

Here’s the twist: the dominant instinct can sometimes override the “typical” behavior of your core type. This creates what are called countertypes—one specific orientation for each type that looks different from the core type, but which still lives out the same core fear and desire underneath. (For example, as you’ll see later on, the fact that I am a Three with a self-preservation dominant instinct makes me the countertype. In short: even though I always feel like a Three, I don’t always look like a Three.)

Understanding characters’ instinctual stacks can bring incredible clarity to what type of character arc and thematic journey they are most likely to undertake—and how that might evolve from story to story or even character to character, regardless of type.

Different Lies Each Enneagram Type Character Might BelieveLet’s look at how each Enneagram type can be used to explore a variety of Lies across different stories, genres, and voices. (Note that these examples should not be taken too explicitly—i.e., as the only way to express each subtype’s Lies. They are meant to spur your creativity, particularly in regard to the subjectivity of Enneagram types for the characters referenced. They are also not necessarily representative of a character arc that is completed in the referenced examples. As usual, I have relied on the typings from the site Funky MBTI.)

Type 1: The ReformerCore Lie: “I must be good to be worthy.”
Core Fear: Being corrupt, defective, or wrong.
Core Desire: To be good, virtuous, and balanced.

Social Lie: “If I don’t set the moral standard, no one will.”

Example: Hermione Granger (Harry Potter): Hermione’s obsession with studying, rules, and doing things “the right way” stems from her fear of failure and need to be seen as competent and morally upright.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (2001), Warner Bros.

Sexual Lie (COUNTERTYPE): “It’s up to me to set the world right—no matter the cost”

Example: Catherine Freneau (Father Goose): Catherine’s intensity stems from a deep sense of personal mission. She pushes herself and others toward transformation, often coming across as driven, zealous, and unrelenting in her pursuit of what she sees as necessary change—even when it strains her relationships.

Father Goose (1964), Universal Pictures.

Self-Preservation Lie: “If I’m not prepared and perfect, I’ll be blamed.”

Example: Atticus Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird): With quiet resolve and unwavering principles, Atticus carries the burden of justice on his shoulders—believing that if he doesn’t stand strong, everything could unravel.

To Kill a Mockingbird (1962), Universal Pictures.

Type 2: The HelperCore Lie: “I must earn love through service.”
Core Fear: Being unworthy of love.
Core Desire: To be loved and needed.

Social Lie: “If I serve the greater good, I’ll be loved by all.”

Example: Padmé Amidala (Star Wars): Padmé sacrifices her personal desires to serve her people. She’s gracious and composed, always putting duty above self, but her deepest longing is to be accepted and loved for who she really is.

Star Wars: Attack of the Clones (2002), 20th Century Fox.

Sexual Lie: “If I am not needed by someone, I am not valuable.”

Example: Frances Stevens (To Catch a Thief): Frances is bold, alluring, and direct in her affections—flirting and pursuing while also deeply craving connection and validation beneath the surface.

To Catch a Thief (1955), Paramount Pictures.

Self-Preservation Lie (COUNTERTYPE): “If I act helpless or innocent, others will take care of me.”

Example: Robert Crawley (Downton Abbey): Robert often plays the helpless patriarch, relying on others to manage both personal and family matters while maintaining his sense of entitlement to care and attention.

Downton Abbey (2010-15), ITV.

Type 3: The AchieverCore Lie: “My worth depends on what I accomplish.”
Core Fear: Being worthless or failing.
Core Desire: To be valued and admired for success.

Social Lie: “I must be admired and respected for my success.”

Example: P.T. Barnum (The Greatest Showman): Barnum thrives on his ability to garner admiration and respect through his business success and the spectacle he creates, positioning himself as a charismatic leader and influencer in the public eye.

The Greatest Showman (2017), 20th Century Fox.

Sexual Lie: “My value comes from how attractive and charismatic I am to others.”

Example: Scarlett O’Hara (Gone with the Wind): Scarlett builds her self-worth through her attractiveness and the way she charms others, seeing her relationships and romantic success as a reflection of her value.

Gone With the Wind (1939), MGM.

Self-Preservation Lie (COUNTERTYPE): “I need to work hard and prove myself to secure my place.”

Example: Nancy Wheeler (Stranger Things): Nancy, driven by a need for accomplishment and approval, constantly works hard to prove her worth, even if it means compromising her personal needs for the sake of her career and goals.

Stranger Things (2016-), Netflix.

Type 4: The IndividualistCore Lie: “I must be unique to be significant.”
Core Fear: Being ordinary or not special.
Core Desire: To find themselves and their significance.

Social Lie: “My suffering makes me worthy of love.”

Example: Rose DeWitt Bukater (Titanic): Rose feels trapped and unseen, expressing her suffering as a way of asserting her individuality and longing for a more meaningful life.

Titanic (1997), Paramount Pictures.

Sexual Lie: “If I fight hard enough for what I want, I’ll finally prove I’m not broken.”

Example: Kylo Ren (Star Wars: The Force Awakens): Kylo is consumed by his desire to prove himself, constantly fighting to overcome his perceived weakness and claim a powerful, meaningful identity.

Star Wars: The Force Awakens (2015), Lucasfilm Ltd.

Self-Preservation Lie (COUNTERTYPE): “If I keep pushing myself through pain, I’ll finally become who I’m meant to be.”

Example: Jess Mariano (Gilmore Girls): Jess hides his emotional sensitivity beneath a hardened exterior, relying on independence and quiet intensity to forge his own path in life.

Gilmore Girls (2000-2007), The CW.

Type 5: The InvestigatorCore Lie: “I have to protect my energy and stay self-sufficient.”
Core Fear: Being overwhelmed or incapable.
Core Desire: To be competent and capable.

Social Lie: “If I master complex knowledge, I’ll earn my place in the world.”

Example: J. Robert Oppenheimer (Oppenheimer): Oppenheimer commands respect through genius, but remains emotionally withdrawn—even while standing at the center of a historical moment.

Oppenheimer (2023), Universal Pictures.

Sexual Lie (COUNTERTYPE): “If I fully merge with someone, I won’t feel so alone.”

Example: Scottie Ferguson (Vertigo): Scottie becomes obsessively attached to an imagined ideal of love, losing himself in his desire for a connection that will make him feel whole.

Vertigo (1958), Paramount Pictures.

Self-Preservation Lie: “If I hoard my resources and keep to myself, I’ll finally feel safe.”

Example: Ebenezer Scrooge (A Christmas Carol): Scrooge isolates himself and clings tightly to his wealth and solitude, believing this is the only way to feel secure in the world.

A Christmas Carol (2009), Walt Disney Pictures.

Type 6: The LoyalistCore Lie: “Security must come from the outside.”
Core Fear: Being without support or guidance.
Core Desire: To have security and guidance.

Social Lie: “If I follow the rules and uphold the system, I won’t have to be afraid.”

Example: Willow Rosenberg (Buffy the Vampire Slayer): Willow clings to structure—school, rules, the Scooby Gang—to soothe her insecurity, only stepping into independence when surrounded by trust and purpose.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997-2001, The WB)

Sexual Lie (COUNTERTYPE): “If I’m strong and intimidating enough, nothing can hurt me.”

Example: Guy of Gisborne (Robin Hood): Guy compensates for his insecurity with aggression and dominance, trying to prove his worth through strength, loyalty, and desire.

Robin Hood (2006-2009), BBC Studios.

Self-Preservation Lie: “If I stay close to what’s familiar and keep others happy, I’ll be safe.”

Example: Bilbo Baggins (The Hobbit): Bilbo prefers the safe predictability of his hobbit hole and resists adventure, until trust in others helps him find his courage.

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (2012), Warner Bros.

Type 7: The EnthusiastCore Lie: “Pain must be avoided at all costs.”
Core Fear: Being deprived or trapped in pain or deprivation.
Core Desire: To experience satisfaction and fulfillment.

Social Lie (COUNTERTYPE): “If I serve a meaningful cause and stay upbeat, I’ll be valued and protected.”

Example: Elizabeth Bennet (Pride and Prejudice): Lizzy combines charm and cleverness with a sense of social justice and moral clarity, while using wit and idealism to sidestep vulnerability.

Pride & Prejudice (2005), Focus Features.

Sexual Lie: “If I follow my passions and chase the next dazzling experience, I’ll find what I’m missing.”

Example: Ariel (The Little Mermaid): Ariel dives headfirst into new worlds and romantic dreams, enchanted by what could be and driven by a restless hunger for something more.

The Little Mermaid (1989), Walt Disney

Self-Preservation Lie: “As long as I surround myself with the right people and pleasures, I’ll be fine.”

Example: Han Solo (Star Wars): Han seeks freedom, resources, and loyal allies to keep life pleasurable and self-serving, even while avoiding the emotional weight of deeper connection.

Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back (1980), 20th Century Fox.

Type 8: The ChallengerCore Lie: “Vulnerability equals weakness.”
Core Fear: Being controlled or vulnerable.
Core Desire: To protect self and remain in control.

Social Lie (COUNERTYPE): “If I fight for others and protect what’s right, I can justify my strength and find belonging.”

Example: George Bailey (It’s a Wonderful Life): George is a passionate, justice-driven leader who sacrifices his own dreams to protect his community but still struggles with the weight of responsibility and frustration.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

Sexual Lie: “If I can overpower and possess what I want, I’ll never be betrayed or abandoned.”

Example: Erik Killmonger (Black Panther): Erik’s aggression stems from a deep fear that trusting anyone will lead to his downfall.

Black Panther (2018), Marvel Studios.

Self-Preservation Lie: “As long as I can take care of myself and get what I need, I don’t have to rely on anyone.”

Example: Henry VIII (The Tudors): Possessive and forceful, Henry demands absolute loyalty and control in love and power—unwilling to surrender anything once he’s claimed it.

The Tudors (2007-2010), BBC Two

Type 9: The PeacemakerCore Lie: “My presence creates conflict.”
Core Fear: Being overwhelmed by conflict and tension.
Core Desire: To create inner and outer peace.

Social Lie (COUNTERTYPE): “If I’m useful to the group, I’ll be safe and accepted.”

Example: Frodo Baggins (The Lord of the Rings): Frodo puts the fellowship’s mission above his own well-being, often losing himself in the needs of the collective.

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001), New Line Cinema.

Sexual Lie: “I only matter when I merge completely with someone else.”

Example: Bella Swan (Twilight): Bella dissolves her sense of identity into her relationship with Edward, struggling to separate her desires from his.

Twilight (2008), Summit Entertainment.

Self-Preservation Lie: “As long as I’m comfortable, nothing else really matters.”

Example: Queen Elizabeth II (The Crown): Elizabeth quietly clings to routine and the comforts of duty, avoiding emotional upheaval by keeping everything in its place.

The Crown (2016-2023), Netflix.

By integrating the Enneagram’s instinctual variants into your character development process, you gain access to a dynamic range of emotional and thematic possibilities, even within the same type. Far from boxing your characters into rigid molds, the Enneagram offers a flexible and deeply human lens through which to explore their varied struggles, motivations, and transformations. Whether you’re writing a single story or an entire series, the richness of these internal variations ensures that each character arc can remain fresh, specific, and emotionally resonant.

In SummaryEven when writing multiple characters of the same Enneagram type, there is a world of variety available. By identifying new Lies and the situations in which those Lies can arise, writers can deepen both the realism and emotional texture of their characters.

Key Takeaways* Characters of the same Enneagram type share core fears and desires, but not identical arcs. * The specific Lie a Character Believes can change depending on their environment, relationships, and inner development. * Great storytelling often comes from exploring different expressions of the same psychological truth. * The instictual variants that create the Enneagram subtypes open a window into the variety available for exploring many different themes and arcs.

Want More?Outlining Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

Want to elevate your character development? Outlining Your Novel is the perfect guide to help you structure your plot and deepen your characters. It offers a plethora of tools for character development, including personality systems like the Enneagram. You can gain valuable insights into your characters’ motivations and growth, helping you create multi-dimensional figures that resonate with your readers. You can pair these frameworks with the outlining process in the companion workbook to craft compelling characters who feel real and dynamic. Start outlining your way to stronger, unforgettable characters today! It’s available in paperback, e-book, and audiobook

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Have you ever used the Enneagram for character development in your writing? What insights has it given you into your characters’ motivations and growth? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post Using the Enneagram for Character Development: Avoiding Repetition for Lies Each Type Might Believe appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Today, I’m thrilled to announce Next Level Plot Structure is now available on audio!

I’ve heard from so many of you who were hoping for an audiobook from the very beginning—as soon as the print and digital versions launched last summer. Big thanks for hanging in there and cheering it on! I truly appreciate your enthusiasm and patience!

(And if you’re wondering, an updated audio version for the second edition of Structuring Your Novel is also coming soon!)

You can now listen to Next Level Plot Structure on all major audiobook platforms:

• Audible
• Apple Books
• Google Play
• Kobo
• Audiobooks.com

No matter where you like to listen, it’s ready and waiting to join you on your next walk, drive, or writing session.

Also, don’t forget that if you’re not already an Audible member, you can grab the book for free just by signing up!

About the Audio BookElevate Your Storytelling with Expert Plot Structure

Unlock the secrets of compelling storytelling with Next Level Plot Structure, a new guide from K.M. Weiland, author of the popular Structuring Your Novel. This comprehensive resource delves deep into the intricacies of plot structure, revealing the rich vein of narrative techniques and philosophical underpinnings that have shaped storytelling throughout history.

• Delve beyond plot beats to explore deeper symmetry and symbolism in story.
• Discover how every plot beat and scene is composed of two mirroring halves, contributing to the narrative arc.
• Introduce readers to chiastic structure, a mesmerizing mirroring technique that unites the two halves of a story.
• Master the dual beats of each major plot point to create dramatic scene arcs.
• Explore innovative ways to structure scenes to keep readers engaged and eager to turn the page.
• Examine the symbolic significance of a story’s four “worlds” and their influence on plot and character arcs.
• Evade formulaic story structures by understanding the deeper meaning and purpose of each plot element.

Whether you’re a seasoned writer or just starting out, Next Level Plot Structure provides invaluable insights and practical techniques to help you take your storytelling to new heights.

Want More Audio?Check out all of my audiobooks:

• Outlining Your Novel
• Structuring Your Novel
• Creating Character Arcs
• Writing Your Story’s Theme
• Writing Archetypal Character Arcs
• Conquering Writer’s Block and Summoning Inspiration
• 5 Secrets of Story Structure
• Dreamlander
• Wayfarer (full-cast production!)

P.S. If you’ve already read Next Level Plot Structure and enjoyed it, I would so appreciate it if you’d leave a rating or review!

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What’s your favorite way to absorb writing craft info—reading, listening, or watching? And why? Tell me in the comments!The post Now on Audio! Next Level Plot Structure appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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[From KMW: I’ve got a quick post for you today—a little storytelling snack—on how to write better action scenes. Specifically, we’re talking about what not to do if you want to keep your pacing tight and your scenes crackling with energy. (Hint: it’s all about trimming the fat, not the flavor.) I’ll be back next week with a full post and podcast on a juicy topic in response to one of your questions: “Using the Enneagram for Character Development: Avoiding Repetition for Lies Each Type Might Believe.”]

If you want to write better action scenes, the key isn’t just what you include—it’s what you leave out. Nothing kills momentum faster than a poorly timed info dump or an overstuffed description that stops the action in its tracks. Pacing is everything, and knowing how to control it can mean the difference between a scene that crackles with energy and one that fizzles before it even gets started.

You want readers to be sucked into the conflict so entirely they forget to close their mouths and stop drooling. You do this by deftly structuring the length and variables of sentences and by trimming unnecessary info that might slam the brakes on your runaway freight train of action-packed excitement. This is true no matter what type of “action” your story includes—whether it’s a chase scene, a love scene, or just an intense conversation.

One of the quickest ways to destroy any scene’s pacing is by interrupting the action with large chunks of description.

For Example:

Joseph Andrews by Henry Fielding (affiliate link)

Henry Fielding’s satire Joseph Andrews (usually considered one of the first examples of the novel) acknowledges this problem, tongue in cheek.

During a tense and furious scene in which the hero helps a friend fight off a pack of attacking dogs, Fielding breaks the third wall to cheekily tell readers he would like to include a simile about now, but that he dare not interrupt the action, which he says “should be rapid in this part.”

In so explaining his reasons for not interrupting the action, Fielding, of course, brought the action screeching to a halt just as surely as if he had actually stopped to impart his simile. He was writing a satire, so he could get away with it. Most writers, however, cannot.

Writers often trick themselves into thinking descriptions are vital, when they very often are not. Just as Fielding’s action scene survived admirably without his simile, much of the information writers want to explain to readers often turns out to be deadweight.

The next time you find yourself wanting to slow down for description or explanation, double-check whether this info is vital. If you determine it is necessary, your next step should be reevaluating whether the info can be moved so it doesn’t interfere with the action. For example, if readers need this info to understand the action, make sure they’re privy to it before the bullets ever flying, the dogs ever start barking, and the train ever starts rumbling.

Trimming unnecessary description doesn’t mean stripping your scenes of depth or detail. It just means being intentional about where and how you include them. If you want to write better action scenes, focus on maintaining momentum by weaving essential details seamlessly into the flow, rather than dropping them in like roadblocks. If you keep the pacing tight, the action clear, and your readers engaged, your scenes will hit with the impact they deserve!

Wordplayers tell me your opinions! What are your favorite techniques to write better action scenes? Tell me in the comments!The post Want to Write Better Action Scenes? Cut This One Thing appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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In storytelling, few arcs are as gripping—or chilling—as the Corruption Character Arc. In this arc, characters don’t just fall, they choose to fall (although, of course, they don’t generally think of it like that). Whether driven by fear, pride, or desire, they trade their integrity for a Lie, believing it will give them what they want. Even when this is true, the cost is an ever-deepening descent into self-delusion and, often, self-righteousness.

In today’s breakdown, we’ll explore how to craft this final entry—and in many ways most insidiously dangerous—in the triad of foundational Negative Change Arcs. If you’re writing a story about a character who chooses the wrong path and justifies it every step of the way, this post will offer insights into creating a devastating Corruption Arc. Throughout this month, we’ve been looking under the hood of the three foundational Negative Change Arcs.

We’ve already explored how the Disillusionment Arc bridges the Positive Change and Negative Change Arcs by forcing characters through a revelation of the thematic Truth that is so powerful it is uncertain whether they will embrace it in a way that is ultimately redemptive or will succumb to the bitterness and resistance that can lead to ever-deepening negative spirals.

We’ve also explored the Fall Arc—in which characters refuse to take that journey into the Truth at all, instead doubling down on mistaken perceptions in a way that requires an initial Lie to be bolstered many times over with further Lies, leading the character to a much more benighted state than that of the beginning.

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

Today, we culminate with the Corruption Arc, which presents as the mirror opposite of the Positive Change Arc. In a Positive Change Arc, characters will evolve their perceptions of themselves and the world from a limited Lie to a more expanded Truth. Oppositely, in a Corruption Arc, the character will begin in a relatively privileged and enlightened perspective, only to compromise this position through a failure in vigilance against the always present possibility of self-delusion. From there, they may well spiral ever deeper into the darkness.

In This Article:* The Corruption Arc at a Glance * It Starts With a Lie: The Moral Weakness at the Heart of the Corruption Character Arc * The Fall Within the Corruption: Trading Truth for Power * In the End: Self-Delusion and the Mass Spread of the Lie

The Corruption Arc At a GlanceCharacter Sees Truth > Rejects Truth > Embraces LieGraphic by Joanna Marie, from the Creating Character Arcs Workbook. Click the image for a larger view.

The First Act (1%-25%)1%: The Hook:Understands TruthThe protagonist lives in a Normal World that allows for or even encourages the thematic Truth. As a result, the protagonist starts out with an understanding of the Truth.

12%: The Inciting Event: First Temptation of LieThe Call to Adventure, when the protagonist first encounters the main conflict, also brings the first subtle temptation that the Lie might be able to serve the protagonist better than the Truth.

25%: The First Plot Point: Enters Beguiling Adventure World of LieThe protagonist is faced with a consequential choice, an enticement out of the First Act’s safe, Truth-based Normal World into the Second Act’s beguiling, Lie-based Adventure World. Not realizing the danger, the protagonist is lured through the Door of No Return by the promise of the Thing the Character Wants.

The Second Act (25%-75%)37%: The First Pinch Point: Torn Between Truth and LieThe protagonist is torn between the old Truth and the new Lie. The Lie proves itself effective in moving the character nearer the Want. But the character wages an internal conflict in moving further away from old convictions and understandings of the world.

50%: The Midpoint (Second Plot Point): Embraces Lie Without Fully Rejecting TruthThe protagonist encounters a Moment of Truth and faces the Lie in all its power. The character recognizes the Want cannot be gained without the Lie. Although not yet willing to fully and consciously reject the Truth, the character makes the decision to fully embrace the Lie.

62%: The Second Pinch Point: Resists Sacrifice Demanded by TruthThe protagonist is “rewarded” for using the Lie. Building upon what was learned at the Midpoint, the protagonist will start implementing Lie-based actions in combating the antagonistic force and reaching toward the Want. The Truth pulls on the character, demanding sacrifices too great to give. The character begins resisting the Truth more and more adamantly.

The Third Act (75%-100%)75%: The Third Plot Point: Fully Embraces LieThe protagonist utterly rejects the Truth and embraces the Lie. The character acts upon this in a way that creates a Low Moment for the world (and for the character morally, if not practically). The character is now willing to knowingly endure the consequences of rejecting the Truth in exchange for the rewards of embracing the Lie.

88%: The Climax: Final Push to Gain WantThe protagonist enters the final confrontation with the antagonistic force to decide whether or not the character will gain the Want. Unhampered by the Truth, the character pushes forward ruthlessly toward the plot goal.

98%: The Climactic Moment: Moral FailureThe protagonist uses the Lie in an attempt to gain the Want. The character may gain the Want and remain senseless to the evil engendered by these actions. Or the character may gain the Want only to be devastated that it wasn’t worth what was sacrificed. Or the character may fail to gain the Want and be devastated by the realization that the sacrifices to the Lie were fruitless. One way or another, the character definitively ends the conflict with the antagonistic force.

100%: The Resolution: AftermathThe protagonist must confront the aftermath of all choices. The character may turn away from the Lie, admitting mistakes and accepting consequences. Or the character may callously forge ahead, intent on continuing to use the Lie to further self-serving ends.

It Starts With a Lie: The Moral Weakness at the Heart of the Corruption Character ArcAll character arcs start with a Lie the Character Believes. This is a mistaken or limited perception of reality.

The Lie could be:

• Simply a lack of information (e.g., how to overthrow the bad guy).
• An outright delusion (e.g., “I am the smartest person in any room”).
• A perspective held about one’s self that is either incorrectly positive or incorrectly negative (e.g., “I am a kind person” or “I am worthless”).
• An over- or underestimation of others (e.g., hero worship of a flawed leader or demeaning put-downs of certain people).
• An expectation of how the world works (e.g., “the deck is stacked against me” or “I deserve to have the rules bent for me”).

Whatever the case, the challenge to this Lie catalyzes the beginning of every type of character arc—except the Corruption Arc. Instead, the Corruption Arc begins when a character is somehow tempted toward a more constrictive perspective. On the surface, of course, this doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone who consciously holds a relatively expanded perspective be foolish enough to willingly step into a more limited way of being?

The answer is as old as time and in many ways boils down to a Lie of its own: the characters believe they can use the Lie for their own purposes without allowing it to corrupt them. Hubris is always a factor.

Sometimes, hubris may be the main factor, in that characters feel so secure in their currently positive worldview that they believe they can risk taking a temporary step back into the shadows.

Other times, the primary motivator may be high stakes that cause characters to feel they are without choices; they understand they are not choosing an option that aligns with their integrity, but they choose anyway because they “have to” and because, again with a measure of hubris, they believe they can flirt with this seeming shortcut and still return with their integrity in tact. These characters make the fundamental mistake of believing that because they see some Truth, they are capable of seeing all of it. They believe they are capable of shining a light through the darkness they willingly choose to navigate in search of a treasure they need.

For Example:

Anakin Skywalker in Star Wars believes the Lie that power can prevent loss, leading him to embrace control as a moral justification. He also tends to conflate power with wisdom, overestimating his ability to wield power well.

Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith (2005), 20th Century Fox.

This is what makes the Corruption Arc one of the most complex character arcs. Why? Because daring the darkness in search of a healing treasure is also the heart of the heroic Positive Change Arc, in which characters risk everything—including integrity and perspective—to seek a better way of being. In essence, that is what Corruption Arc protagonists also do—or at least this is what they tell themselves they are doing. The difference is that when the character is presented with the choice between desire and Truth (i.e., power and integrity), the Corruption Arc character’s ability to recognize or honor the latter will increasingly fail.

Writing Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)

The polarity of humility and hubris are present in both Positive Change and Corruption Arcs. Traditionally, Positive Change Arc characters (particularly Hero archetypes) start out with a certain measure of hubris (a form of the Lie), which they must exchange for humility as they progress the path. While Corruption Arc characters also begin with at least a hidden measure of hubris, they will end, at least in the abstract, in downfall and humiliation.

For Example:

Macbeth believes his destiny entitles him to power, which allows him to rationalize betrayal and murder.

Macbeth (2015), StudioCanal.

Ultimately, what the Corruption Arc shows us is the high cost of failing to hold our previous successes—whether material or spiritual—with the type of humility that safeguards our gains against our own capacity for delusion and regression.

The Fall Within the Corruption: Trading Truth for PowerJust as the Disillusionment Arc can be recognized as an abbreviated Positive Change Arc (stopping short before it is clear whether the character will be able to integrate a harsh Truth into a greater good), the Fall Arc (which we discussed last week) can be recognized as an abbreviated Corruption Arc. In this case, the Fall Arc represents the latter part of the Corruption Arc, after characters have adopted the Lie and now must work double-time to bolster that Lie with even more Lies.

You’ll remember that the Fall Arc shows a character who refuses to accept the challenge of the Truth and from there devolves into a much worse Lie, all in an effort to protect that initial (often quite small) Lie.

Graphic by Joanna Marie, from the Creating Character Arcs Workbook. Click the image for a larger view.

The Corruption Arc begins before this point, revealing a character who likely has more mental or moral capacity for recognizing comparative Lies and Truths. This is a character who has achieved some level of personal integrity, which has now brought them to a place of testing. The central question is whether they will compromise their understanding of their own personal Truth (aka, their integrity) in exchange for a measure of power.

For Example:

Walter White in Breaking Bad begins manipulating, lying, and killing as he clings to power, convincing himself it’s for his family—when it’s really about ego.

Breaking Bad (2008-2013), AMC.

What always makes this invitation to power tempting is that it is, essentially, a shortcut. Whatever the practical mechanics of the plot, we know this is a shortcut on a character level because it prompts the character to take the “easy route” in defiance of a deeper sense of personal right and wrong. At some level, the Corruption Arc character will always know this, and in more nuanced stories, will often be shown to struggle with it. In short, they make an informed choice. They are not ignorant about what they are choosing. They understand it is against their deepest self, and they understand the possibility of untoward consequences to themselves, or more likely, to others. They do it anyway.

From there, the characters’ journey will begin to mirror the Fall Arc. In order to protect this one out-of-integrity choice, characters begin justifying their actions with an ever-deepening slide into delusion. From believing they “had no choice” or “no one would get hurt,” they will begin to adopt perspectives that insist “they were in the right” or even “they were acting in everyone’s best interest” or “they knew better than the ignorant masses.”

For Example:

Gollum in The Lord of the Rings slowly abandons his identity and humanity, letting the Ring reshape his very soul for the sake of possessing it.

The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (2002), New Line Cinema.

In the End: Self-Delusion and the Mass Spread of the LieThe tragedy of the Corruption Arc is its excruciatingly slow slide away from wholeness into delusion. Corruption Arc characters very often end by achieving their goals. Thanks to the devil’s deal in which they sell their souls, they may well gain tremendous power and influence within their personal spheres. In the end, some characters may retain enough sense of their personal Truth to wake up to the horrors they have wrought in their own lives and others, in which case the victory for which they have sacrificed so much will prove horrifyingly empty. In other stories, characters will end by fully embracing their new Lie-based identity. Not only will they become the monster they initially believed they could resist, they may even fully condone what they have become.

For Example:

Michael Corleone in The Godfather exemplifies a Corruption Arc character who justifies his increasingly immoral actions by convincing himself they are necessary for protecting his family. He eventually becomes fully immersed in the darkness he once resisted. By the end, Michael’s self-delusion is so complete he not only believes his choices are justified, he also pulls others into his moral decay, perpetuating the destruction of those around him.

The Godfather (1972), Paramount Pictures.

Those Corruption Arcs that do not end with the characters achieving a redemptive sense of humiliation at what they have become will instead end with the character in a state of grotesque self-righteousness. They will justify their choices by any means necessary, no matter the consequences heaped upon others. Like the Fall Arc, the Corruption Arc character’s self-delusion in the end may be so complete and compelling that it also warps the perception of others, pulling them down into the darkness as well.

For Example:

By the time we meet President Snow in The Hunger Games, he’s wholly consumed by the belief that fear is the only way to ensure social stability. He’s convinced himself that this Lie is not only necessary but noble. He enforces it with ruthless propaganda, manipulation, and death. He’s not just corrupted himself; he’s built an entire system on his delusion.

The Hunger Games (2012), Lionsgate.

The Corruption Arc reminds us that character arcs are not just about change but about choice. Of all the Negative Change Arcs, the Corruption Arc may be the most haunting. It doesn’t happen to the character; it happens because of the character. The central danger isn’t ignorance or even resistance to the Truth, it’s the conscious decision to turn away from it. When well-written, these arcs offer some of the most compelling, nuanced, and tragically human stories. As writers, exploring this arc challenges us not just to understand the psychology of our characters, but to confront the darker possibilities within ourselves.

In Summary:The Corruption Arc is a powerful exploration of a character’s conscious choice to embrace a Lie, despite knowing the Truth. Unlike the other Negative Change Arcs, which often involve ignorance or self-deception, the Corruption Arc is chilling precisely because it requires awareness. The character sees the Truth, but chooses not to follow it. This makes the arc uniquely tragic, as it dramatizes not just a character’s fall, but the moral failures leading up to it.

Key Takeaways* The Corruption Arc centers on a character who knows the Truth but deliberately endangers it. * This arc is defined by conscious moral compromise in pursuit of power, security, or other personal goals. * The arc usually starts from a place of strength or clarity, making the fall more impactful. * Unlike the Disillusionment Arc (which involves a painful but authentic awakening), the Corruption Arc is about the willful embrace of the Lie. * This arc creates deeply human and emotionally resonant stories, especially when the character’s motivations are understandable or even sympathetic. * Writing a Corruption Arc challenges authors to grapple with the complexity of choice, consequence, and morality.

Want more?Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

If you’re intrigued by the emotional and thematic power of the Corruption Arc, you’ll find even more in-depth guidance in my book Creating Character Arcs. It walks you step-by-step through how to craft compelling transformations—Positive, Flat, and Negative—and how to seamlessly weave them into your plot. Whether your characters are resisting change or spiraling toward it, the tools inside will help you bring their arcs to life. It’s available in paperback, e-book, and audiobook (along with its companion guide the Creating Character Arcs Workbook).

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Have you ever written a Corruption Character Arc or considered one for your protagonist or antagonist? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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When writing a Fall Arc, writers get to explore the slow, often heartbreaking process of moral or emotional decline. In this type of Negative Change Arc, the characters’ refusal to change or acknowledge their flaws becomes a central theme. They hold onto a Lie—a deeply ingrained belief or limited perception of the world—that drives their actions and decisions. Over time, this self-deception evolves into something darker, affecting not just their own choices, but their relationships with others. Understanding how to write a Fall Arc can help you create a character whose downfall feels deeply tragic and engaging.

In some ways, the Fall Arc is the darkest of the three Negative Change Arcs. Although not as potentially redemptive as the Disillusionment Arc (which hints characters may continue their growth into a completed Positive Change Arc sometime in their future) or as tragic as the Corruption Arc (which offers the character a true chance of recovery that is refused and which we will discuss next week), the Fall Arc is still, for my money, the quintessential Negative Arc.

The Fall Arc offers an extraordinarily powerful window into the dark possibilities for devolution found within humanity’s tremendous capacity for self-deception. More than that, it reveals our almost primal willingness to defend that self-deception even at crippling personal cost, certainly on a spiritual level, but often on a practial level as well.

Inspired by ponderings from my own life, I wanted to revisit this fundamental character arc to explore some of the nuances of the character’s fall from grace. What creates this fall? Why are even intelligent and “good” people susceptible to this insidious degradation? And how can you craft Fall Arcs in your own stories that ring true to the patterns of real life? Let’s take a look!

In This Article:* Writing a Fall Arc: At a Glance * The Catalyst of a Fall Arc: The Character’s Refusal to Change * The “Worse Lie” in a Fall Arc: How Smaller Lies Protect the Character’s Self-Deception * In the End: Character’s Self-Deception Decays Into an Outward Deception of Others

Writing a Fall Arc: At a GlanceLet’s start with an overview of the arc itself. Like its brethren, the Positive Change Arc and the Disillusionment Arc, the Fall Arc begins with the Lie the Character Believes. From there, it deviates into darker and less redemptive territory, as the character proves willing to take whatever measures necessary to defend that belief—no matter how increasingly dysfunctional it may prove.

Character Believes Lie > Clings to Lie > Rejects New Truth > Believes Worse LieGraphic by Joanna Marie, from the Creating Character Arcs Workbook. Click the image for a larger view.

The First Act (1%-25%)Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

1%: The Hook:Believes LieThe protagonist believes a Lie that has so far proven necessary or functional in the existing (often destructive) Normal World.

12%: The Inciting Event: First Hint Lie Will Not Save or RewardThe Call to Adventure, when the protagonist first encounters the main conflict, also brings the first subtle hint that the Lie will no longer effectively protect or reward the protagonist in the current circumstances.

25%: The First Plot Point: Lie Now Completely IneffectiveThe protagonist is faced with a consequential choice in which the “old ways” of the Lie-ridden First Act prove ineffective in the face of the main conflict’s new stakes. The protagonist is given an early choice between old Lie and new Truth. The character passes through a Door of No Return, which forces the character to leave the Normal World of the First Act and enter the Adventure World of the main conflict in the Second Act.

The Second Act (25%-75%)Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

37%: The First Pinch Point: Halfhearted Attempts at Truth Only Half-EffectiveThe protagonist may try to wield the Truth as a means of gaining the Thing the Character Wants, but does so only with limited understanding or enthusiasm. The character is stuck in a limbo-land where the old Lie is no longer a functional mindset, but where halfhearted attempts at the Truth prove likewise only half-effective.

50%: The Midpoint (Second Plot Point): Glimpses Truth, Rejects Truth, Chooses Worse LieThe protagonist encounters a Moment of Truth, coming face to face with the thematic Truth (often via a simultaneous plot-based revelation about the external conflict). This is the first time the protagonist consciously sees the full power and opportunity of the Truth. However, the character also sees the full sacrifice demanded in order to follow the Truth. Unwilling to make that sacrifice, the character rejects the Truth and chooses instead to embrace a Lie that is worse than the original.

62%: The Second Pinch Point: Lie Is Effective, But DestructiveUncaring about the consequences, the protagonist wields the Lie well and finds it effective in moving toward the Want. However, the closer the character gets to the plot goal, the more destructive the Lie becomes both to the character and the surrounding world.

The Third Act (75%-100%)Next Level Plot Structure (Amazon affiliate link)

75%: The Third Plot Point: Complete Failure to Gain Either Want or NeedThe protagonist is confronted by a Low Moment, experiencing a complete failure to gain the Want. This failure is a direct result of the collective damage wrought by the Lie in the Second Half of the Second Act. The “means” caught up to the character before the “end.” However, even when faced by all the evidence of the Lie’s destructive power, the protagonist still refuses to repent or turn to the Truth.

88%: The Climax: Last-Ditch Attempt to Salvage WantUpon entering the final confrontation with the antagonistic force, the protagonist doubles down on the Lie in a last-ditch attempt to salvage the Want.

98%: The Climactic Moment: Total DestructionCrippled by the Lie (in both the internal and external conflicts), the protagonist is unable to gain the Want (or gains it only to discover it is useless). Instead, the character succumbs to total personal destruction.

100%: The Resolution: AftermathThe protagonist must confront the aftermath of all choices. The character may finally and futilely accept the inescapable Truth. Or the character may be left to cope, blindly, with the consequences of choices.

The Catalyst of a Fall Arc: The Character’s Refusal to ChangeLike the Positive Change Arc and the Disillusionment Arc, the Fall Arc character’s story begins when the protagonist is prompted to examine the limitations of the central Lie the Character Believes. Although this may be a literal deception in some senses, the Lie is most properly understood as a limited perspective. As such, it begins as an entirely normal and germane part of any human’s life.

For Example:

In Les Misérables, Inspector Javert’s inability to accept moral complexity leads him deeper into his own self-deception, ultimately making him incapable of seeing a world beyond his rigid belief system.

Les Misérables (2012), Universal Pictures.

We all hold countless limited beliefs. Indeed, arguably, all our beliefs about ourselves and reality are limited. To the degree we accept this and are willing to embrace change as new information and experience allows us to refine and expand those beliefs, this is simply part of the regenerative cycle of life. However, when this cycle is derailed by an unwillingness to accept corrections to our perception of reality, the result can be increasingly destructive for both the individual and, eventually, everyone in the vicinity.

Creating Character Arcs Workbook

Although Fall Arcs often look, at first glance, to be huge stories of great downfalls, they often have humble beginnings. The initial Lie the Character Believes will likely be something quite small and innocuous.

For Example:

The original Lie could be something as simple as refusing to accept responsibility in a relationship spat: “It’s not my fault.”

From there, characters who are truly doomed will find they must bolster this initial Lie with further arguments: “It’s her fault. I’m in the right. I’m righteous. I’m a victim. She’s selfish. She’s a narcissist. Etc.”

From here, the corruption can grow to truly staggering heights, as characters’ resistance to reality may even lead them to become the worst version of the very thing they are denying: e.g., the character becomes the narcissist.

Varying stories tackle this downfall to different degrees. Some may reveal the more mundane face of the Fall Arc, in which the character’s Lies are “small” enough not to interfere greatly with everyday functionality. In other stories, the character will be shown to fall all the way into the very pit of dark possibilities.

For Example:

In Nightmare Alley, Stan Carlisle begins the story as an ambitious, though morally compromised, man. He wants to climb out of his working-class roots and build a life of wealth and influence, but he’s driven by the wrong motivations: greed, ego, and a desire for status. At first, he tries to justify his actions, believing he’s in control of the people around him. However, his increasingly manipulative behavior, deceit, and manipulation spiral out of control, leading him further down a path of moral decay and self-destruction. His delusions of grandeur and the belief that he can outsmart everyone are his undoing.

Nightmare Alley (2021), Searchlight Pictures.

In either case, the Fall Arc reveals a deadly spiral. As the character devolves from Lie to worse Lie, the possibility grows ever greater that the spiral will continue with the character veering further and further into delusion.

The “Worse Lie” in a Fall Arc: How Smaller Lies Protect the Character’s Self-DeceptionFor simplicity’s sake, I refer to the end state of a Fall Arc character as the “worse Lie.” As you can see, however, what this worse Lie really amounts to are many “smaller” Lies eventually built into a grand illusion.

For Example:

In Black Swan, Nina begins with the small self-deception that she must be “perfect.” This Lie snowballs into a worse Lie: that she must destroy herself to achieve perfection, something that happens piece by piece and moment by moment throughout her story.

Black Swan (2010), Fox Searchlight Pictures.

Understanding this important nuance makes it possible to write a much more compelling and realistic Fall Arc. In real life, it is rare for a person to grandiosely self-delude except in situations of tremendous trauma or high stakes. Most of the time, the slide into delusion is the result not of one bad decision or perception, but of a continuing refusal to accept and confront reality.

The character may do this for any number of reasons. Almost always, those reasons amount to a primal need to protect the status quo. One of the great ironies of human life is that even though change is requisite for survival, our brains and nervous systems are wired to preserve the status quo at almost any cost. We do this not just to maintain the equilibrium our nervous systems desire, but also, by extension, to preserve the ego identities we use as coping mechanisms.

Not only are we are capable of believing in just about anything, but we also tend to incorporate those beliefs into our very identities—so that to challenge the belief feels like a threat to our very existence. This is why we appreciate heroic stories of Positive Change Arcs; they demonstrate the tremendous courage required to accept challenges to our beliefs, identities, and ways of being. In most instances, it is much easier to stuff away the cognitive dissonance whenever we are presented with a piece that doesn’t fit. It is easier to ignore the (millions) of nuances that challenge our tidy narratives every single day.

The catalysts that create stories of all types are those that interrupt a character’s life with such force that change becomes inevitable. Characters must either courageously face the catalyst and learn to expand themselves—or refuse the call and instead, inevitably, change negatively by increasingly restricting their view of reality and their capacity to expand.

For Example:

In Gone Girl, Amy Dunne begins her deception by crafting a small Lie—that she’s the perfect wife. Over time, this self-image morphs into a grander fabrication, where she not only deceives herself but manipulates everyone around her into believing her version of reality.

Gone Girl (2014), 20th Century Fox.

Powerful Fall Arcs show us the peril of refusing to claim courage and Truth. They also show, poignantly, how even the smallest of initial denials can eventually snowball into “worse Lies” that utterly crack an individual’s personal integrity.

In the End: Character’s Self-Deception Decays Into an Outward Deception of OthersIn the worst scenarios, the Fall Arc character’s warping of reality can become so insistent and powerful that it harms others. Sometimes, this can be the result of others being similarly deceived by the protagonist’s insistence that the Lie is, in fact, true. Most often, the negative effect will result from the protagonist’s unwillingness to maintain crucial integrity in relationship with, first, themselves, then others, then the world at large. Depending on the power the character wields, the effect of one character’s insistence on a Lie can have truly horrifying effects upon an entire community—or even the world, as witnessed in the demagogues of World War II.

For Example:

A media mogul obsessed with power and control, Kane in Citizen Kane starts off deluded by the belief that wealth and influence can buy love and happiness. His inability to confront emotional truths and his manipulation of public opinion leads him deeper into isolation. As he clings to a distorted version of reality, his relationships deteriorate, and his empire collapses.

Citizen Kane (1941), RKO Radio Pictures.

How far you decide to take your Fall Arc will depend on the needs of your story. The effects can range all the way from characters who simply “miss the boat” because they lack the courage to hop on, to characters who severely limit or even destroy their lives, to characters who sway others into mass delusion.

In the end, the Fall Arc is a slow unraveling into self-deception. Characters cling ever more desperately to a Lie that will ultimately destroy them. The Fall Arc is a story of tragic inevitability. The character could have changed—but failed to embrace the courage of honesty before it’s too late.

Understanding this arc allows writers to craft deeply compelling character journeys that feel heartbreakingly true to life. The best Fall Arcs resonate because they reflect something deeply human: our resistance to change, our desperate need to justify our choices, and the ways in which small Lies, if left unchecked, can spiral into something far more destructive. Whether your character’s downfall is quiet or cataclysmic, mastering this arc can add powerful layers of complexity to your storytelling.

In SummaryThe Fall Arc is a Negative Change Arc that follows characters’ gradual descent into destruction as they cling to a Lie that ultimately undoes them. Unlike other Negative Arcs that allow for redemption or a conscious embrace of darkness, the Fall Arc is defined by missed opportunities for growth, making it one of the most tragic and compelling character journeys.

Key Takeaways The Fall Arc is a slow unraveling, marked by a character’s increasing self-deception. * Unlike the Disillusionment Arc, there is no ultimate redemption. * Unlike the Corruption Arc, the character is not making a conscious choice to embrace darkness, but rather resisting “the light” of a difficult Truth. * The tragedy of this arc lies in the fact that the character could have changed but refused to. * This arc reflects real human struggles*—resistance to change, justification of bad choices, and the compounding consequences of small lies.

Want more?If you’re fascinated by the darker sides of character arcs, check out my email course Shadow Archetypes: Writing Complex Fictional Characters. This course dives deep into the psychological underpinnings of morally gray characters, tragic figures, and antiheroes. Learn how to craft compelling, multi-dimensional characters who wrestle with their own inner demons.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What challenges have you encountered when writing a Fall Arc? Do you struggle more with crafting the character’s moral descent, keeping them relatable, or nailing the ending? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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The Disillusionment Arc is one of the most powerful and emotionally resonant transformations a character can undergo. At its core, this arc is about awakening—shedding comforting illusions to face a stark and often uncomfortable Truth. While it shares similarities with the Positive Change Arc, the Disillusionment Arc doesn’t always lead to a hopeful resolution. Instead, it challenges both the characters and the audience to grapple with the weight of reality. However, despite its seemingly bleak nature, the Disillusionment Arc isn’t inherently negative. It reflects a fundamental aspect of human growth: the process of seeing the world as it truly is and deciding what to do with that knowledge.

Although I have always classed the Disillusionment Arc as one of the three primary Negative Change Arcs, in many ways it is more of a bridge between the two heroic arcs—Positive Change and Flat—and the two decidedly Negative Arcs—the Corruption Arc and the Fall Arc (more on the Fall Arc next week!). Because of this, the Disillusionment Arc is the “lightest” of the Negative Arcs, not only because it is the only Negative Arc to end with the protagonist’s awareness and acceptance of the story’s thematic Truth, but also because it is the only Negative Arc to end with the characters standing at a crossroads that may eventually allow them to return to a holistic and life-affirming perspective. Indeed, the comparative “negativity” of various Disillusionment Arc stories depends largely on the degree to which characters are embittered by the disillusioning new insights they have recognized.

I tend to focus most of my teaching on Positive Arcs, not only because I am more drawn to writing them, but also because they form the foundation from which the deviations of the Negative Arcs emerge. However, lately, I have been considering the intrinsic importance of the Disillusionment Arc to the human experience.

The Disillusionment Arc is unlike the other Negative Arcs, which are arguably unnecessary for growth (i.e., with awareness, skill, and arguably a little luck, they can be bypassed). In contrast, the Disillusionment Arc is another face of the Positive Change Arc—a more difficult version of the Positive Change Arc. Even though we call it the Disillusionment Arc (mostly to indicate its darker and more depressing tone), it offers a transformation that can sometimes be even more heroic than the Positive Change Arc, since it involves recognizing and accepting a Truth that does not directly benefit the protagonist.

In This Article:* The Disillusionment Arc at a Glance * Awakening to Truth: How the Disillusionment Arc Resembles the Positive Change Arc * A Bitter Truth: Where the Disillusionment Arc in Storytelling Takes a Darker Turn * In the End: How Characters in a Disillusionment Arc Face Their New Reality

The Disillusionment Arc in Storytelling at a GlanceCharacter Believes Lie > Overcomes Lie > New Truth Is TragicGraphic by Joanna Marie, from the Creating Character Arcs Workbook. Click the image for a larger view.

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

The First Act (1%-25%)1%: The Hook:Believes Lie in Comfortable Normal WorldThe protagonist believes a Lie that has so far proven necessary or functional in the existing Normal World, which is often a comfortable and complacent place.

12%: The Inciting Event: First Hint Lie Is UntrueThe Call to Adventure, when the protagonist first encounters the main conflict, also brings the first subtle hint that the Lie will no longer serve the protagonist as effectively as it has in the past.

25%: The First Plot Point: Full Immersion in Adventure World’s Stark TruthThe protagonist is faced with a consequential choice, in which the comfortable “old ways” of the Lie-ridden First Act prove ineffective in the face of the main conflict’s new stakes. The protagonist will pass through a Door of No Return to enter the Adventure World of the main conflict in the Second Act, confronted by a stark and painful new Truth.

The Second Act (25%-75%)Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

37%: The First Pinch Point: Punished for Using LieThe protagonist is “punished” for using the Lie. In the Normal World, the character was able to use the Lie to get the Thing the Character Wants. But in the Adventure World, this is no longer a functional mindset. Throughout the First Half of the First Act, the character will try to use the old Lie-based mindset to reach important goals and will be “punished” by failures until the character begins to learn how things really work.

50%: The Midpoint (Second Plot Point): Forced to Face Truth, But Unwilling to Embrace ItThe protagonist encounters a Moment of Truth and comes face to face with the thematic Truth (often via a simultaneous plot-based revelation about the external conflict). This is the first time the protagonist consciously recognizes the Truth and its power. However, the character is horrified by the implications of this dark new Truth. Although no longer able to deny the Truth, the character is unwilling to fully embrace it or to surrender the comparatively wonderful old Lie.

62%: The Second Pinch Point: Growing Frustration With Old Lie and Disillusionment With New TruthThe protagonist is forced to confront consistently increasing examples of the Lie’s lack of functionality in the real world. The character grows more and more frustrated with the Lie’s limitations and begins to accept the horrible Truth. The character is profoundly disillusioned by this new worldview, even as there are “rewards” for using the Truth to reach for the Want.

The Third Act (75%-100%)Next Level Plot Structure (Amazon affiliate link)

75%: The Third Plot Point: Accepts That Comforting Lie Is Now Completely NonexistentThe protagonist is confronted by an irrefutable Low Moment, in which it is no longer possible to deny that the dark Truth is not true. The character must not only accept this new Truth, but also admit the comforting old Lie is now completely nonexistent.

88%: The Climax: Wields Dark New Truth in Final ConfrontationThe protagonist enters the final confrontation with the antagonistic force to discover whether or not it is possible to gain the Want. Directly before or during this section, the character consciously and explicitly embraces and wields the dark new Truth.

98%: The Climactic Moment: Fully Acknowledges TruthThe protagonist uses the Truth and all its lessons to gain the Need. Depending on the nature of the Truth, the character may also gain the Want (only to discover that, in light of all this new knowledge, it is diminished or even worthless), or the character may sacrifice the Want for the greater good. As a result, the character definitively ends the conflict with the antagonistic force.

100%: The Resolution: Disillusioned With New TruthThe protagonist either enters a new Normal World or returns to the original Normal World, but with a jaded eye in light of the new Truth.

Awakening to Truth: How the Disillusionment Arc Resembles the Positive Change ArcAs you can see, the Disillusionment Arc looks very similar to the Positive Change Arc:

Character Believes Lie > Overcomes Lie > New Truth Is LiberatingGraphic by Joanna Marie, from the Creating Character Arcs Workbook. Click the image for a larger view.

Apart from Disillusionment Arcs’ darker tone, the major difference is the character’s response to the newly recognized Truth at the end of the story.

From this, we can see how the Disillusionment Arc isn’t as inherently negative as it may sometimes feel. Certainly, to anyone going through a Disillusionment Arc, it can feel quite negative, since the dismantling of cherished and comfortable personal perspectives can be excruciatingly painful. Little wonder we may fight tooth and claw to avoid change, rather than courageously and consciously embracing it. Indeed, the very fact that evolution must move from unconsciousness to consciousness makes it more likely that catalysts will initially be greeted with the ignorant resistance we see embodied in Disillusionment Arcs.

In fact, we can think of the relationship between the Positive Change Arc and the Disillusionment Arc as that of nesting dolls. Within every Positive Change Arc is a Disillusionment Arc.

The Third Plot Point in a Positive Change Arc (i.e., the Low Moment) is where the character fully faces the disillusionment—and then rises above it into integration.

For Example:

In The Dark Knight, Bruce Wayne is torn apart by the Joker’s systematic attacks upon his ethos. In the end, he embraces all he has learned at great cost to himself, in order to incorporate these tragic new Truths into his larger commitment to using the Batman identity to protect Gotham.

The Dark Knight (2008), Warner Bros.

In contrast, the Disillusionment Arc’s psychological evolution ends at the low point of disillusionment, postponing future integration, perhaps indefinitely.

For Example:

In Silence, the missionary protagonist’s worldview and faith paradigm are systematically destroyed until finally he must accept that denial of his faith is the only way to survive. This is not a Truth he ever fully integrates, as he is shown to struggle between the inner and outer dissonance of these two perspectives for the rest of his life.

Silence (2016), Paramount Pictures.

A Bitter Truth: Where the Disillusionment Arc in Storytelling Takes a Darker TurnAs you can see, the major difference between the Positive Change Arc and the Disillusionment Arc is that the Truth the characters learn in the latter turns out to be distasteful and perhaps even personally destructive.

Although the Truth in a Positive Change Arc may require deep commitment and even sacrifice, the story will end with characters having fully integrated that Truth as a lost piece of themselves—allowing them to end in a place of greater wholeness.

For Example:

In Glory, Captain Shaw sacrifices his life fighting alongside his men in one of the first Black regiments in the Civil War. Despite his tragic death, he ends as a more whole and noble person, having evolved his own narrow views.

Glory (1989), Tri-Star Pictures.

In contrast, the Disillusionment Arc ends prior to integration. Characters have accepted the Truth and perhaps even acted upon it, but they have not embraced or integrated it into a new identity. Their previous worldview and ego identity have been shattered, and they have not yet been able to put the pieces back together.

For Example:

Training Day shows its idealistic rookie cop shattered by the corruption he has witnessed. Because the character was able to keep his moral core intact throughout the movie, viewers may extrapolate that he will find the strength and courage to use the difficult Truth he has learned to eventually rise into a better version of himself. But the story ends on a downbeat while the character still suffers from the destruction of what had previously seemed an intact worldview.

Training Day (2001), Warner Bros.

In the End: How Characters in a Disillusionment Arc Face Their New RealityAt the beginning, I mentioned that the Disillusionment Arc may be seen as a bridge between the Positive Arcs and the Negative Arcs. One of the reasons for this is that it is the most unfinished of the arcs. It ends with the character at a crossroads. On the one hand, they have learned something “positive”—in that Truth is always an avenue of growth and therefore healing. On the other hand, they have experienced something “negative”—in that the Truth shredded their lives and/or seems to be saying something completely undesirable about the nature of reality.

Most Disillusionment Arcs end with the character’s disillusionment. That emotion is the final beat. Where the character will go from there is left open.

There are two possibilities for the character’s future:

Option #1 is that the character will eventually integrate the difficult new Truth into a more expansive and holistic identity and ego container. In this case, the character will be primed to finish a Positive Change Arc and perhaps even move into a Flat Arc role, in which they will be capable of inspiring others who are struggling on the same path.

For Example:

We can see this in the movie Promised Land, in which Matt Damon’s character accepts what he has learned about the corruption of the natural gas companies he works for—leaving behind his well-intentioned but naive belief that he is accomplishing something positive in people’s lives. Although disillusioned, he maintains enough faith in himself and others to join a new community and keep moving forward toward a new way of being.

Promised Land (2012), Focus Features.

Option #2 is that the character’s disillusionment will sour into bitterness. Instead of integrating the new Truth and expanding into a new personality large enough to grapple with it and ultimately use it positively in the world, the character will instead resist the Truth—leading to denial, even more limited perspectives (i.e., Lies), and eventually worse corruption still. This sets the character up for a subsequent Fall Arc (which evolves from Lie to worse Lie—and which we will be exploring next week) or a Corruption Arc (which evolves from Truth to worse Lie).

For Example:

The plot of Memento is literally a search for the Truth—as the protagonist, a man suffering from short-term memory loss—struggles to remember enough to solve the mystery of his wife’s murder. By the end, he learns the Truth that he is perpetuating his violent revenge even though those responsible are already dead. The final scene indicates he will refuse to record this Truth for his future self to remember, instead sliding into an ever-deeper spiral of self-deception and corruption.

Memento (2000), Summit Entertainment.

In conclusion, it’s important to remember that even though this arc may end in disillusionment, it still offers a crucial space for growth. The Disillusionment Arc serves as a profound exploration of the human experience. It challenges characters—and by extension, the audience—to confront uncomfortable Truths. These uncomfortable Truths, and the realistic portrayal of how difficult it can be to integrate them, reveal transformations just as impactful as those in aspirational narratives.

Disillusionment Arcs pave the way for deeper understanding about potential transformations. The emotional depth of this arc lies in its ability to expose the fragility of our beliefs—and our own personal resilience in the face of that ongoing fragility. Ultimately, whether characters move toward integration or toward bitterness, the journey offers a powerful reflection on the complexities of facing painful Truths.

In Summary:The Disillusionment Arc in storytelling revolves around a character awakening to an uncomfortable thematic Truth, often at great personal cost. Unlike the Positive Change Arc, the Disillusionment Arc doesn’t always lead to a hopeful resolution. Instead, it challenges the protagonist—and the audience—to confront the stark realities of life. Although dark and difficult, this arc plays a crucial role in human growth, offering a transformation that involves painful yet profound insights. It serves as a bridge between the Positive and Negative Change Arcs, in that characters who face these harsh and disillusioning Truths are left at a crossroads from which they may either integrate the lessons or spiral into bitterness.

Key Points: The Disillusionment Arc in storytelling involves characters realizing a painful Truth that shatters previously held beliefs. * This arc is not inherently negative, as it reflects essential human growth through facing difficult realities. * It typically ends with the character at a crossroads, poised for either positive change or further resistance and denial. * The Disillusionment Arc can bee seen as a bridge between the Positive Change and the Negative Change Arcs, with the potential for characters to evolve into more complex versions of themselves or to sink into corruption. * Characters in Disillusionment Arcs will struggle with integrating the new Truth*, leading to either deeper growth or deeper bitterness.

Want More?Creating Character Arcs Workbook

If you’re fascinated by the nuances of character development, including the Disillusionment Arc, my Creating Character Arcs Workbook is the perfect resource to help you craft complex, compelling characters. Packed with exercises and practical tips, it will guide you through detailed beat sheets and exercises for five primary character arc types—the Positive Change Arc, the Flat Arc, the Disillusionment Arc, the Fall Arc, and the Corruption Arc. Whether you’re exploring a Disillusionment Arc or another iteration, I designed this workbook to help you structure your characters’ journeys for maximum impact. It’s available in paperback and e-book (along with its companion guide Creating Character Arcs).

Read Next:

• Writing a Fall Arc: How to Show a Character’s Moral Decline

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! How do you see the Disillusionment Arc in storytelling impacting your characters’ growth? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Artificial intelligence is changing the way we do just about everything these days, and the impact of AI on fiction writing is no exception. As a writer who cherishes the creative process, I have spent the last few years grappling with both the possibilities and pitfalls this new technology brings. On the one hand, AI offers tools that can make our lives easier—such as helping with research, marketing, and even ideation. On the other hand, it raises questions about originality, authenticity, and the integrity of human storytelling.

Almost as soon as ChatGPT and its brethren were unveiled in November 2022, writers started emailing me for my opinions—most with an (at least) subtextual request for reassurance that AI wasn’t as potentially disruptive as it seemed to be. I have been cautious in sharing my opinions, since my own contextual understanding of the functionality of AI and its big-picture ramifications weren’t yet formed. More than two years later, it has become clear that AI is simultaneously not as apocalyptic as some may have originally thought while also being, in some ways, even more disruptive, particularly in the long term, to the systems that undergird nearly every part of our modern lives. This includes the impact of AI on fiction writing, which continues to evolve as new tools and capabilities emerge.

I need to be clear that my own experience with and opinions of AI are ever-evolving. In contemplating this article in the weeks leading up to writing it, the ideas I thought I might be sharing have already changed multiple times—sometimes daily. The utility and causality of AI is vast and, in itself, constantly evolving. In truth, I don’t think most of us will truly understand our relationship to AI until many years, perhaps even decades, down the road. My own opinion in this moment is that the best approach is one of cautious practicality.

In This Article:* Why Writers Need to Embrace AI… to a Point * Concerns About the Impact of AI on Fiction Writing: What Writers Should Know * How AI Can Be Useful to Writers * The Single Greatest Threat AI Poses to Fiction Writing (Hint: It’s Not What You Think) * Is AI Going to Make Writers Extinct?

Why Writers Need to Embrace AI… to a PointThe writers I have talked to about AI have largely fallen into two camps—those who find it terrifying in its capacity to change comfortable, time-honored, and beloved systems and structures (both in and out of the creative pursuits) and those who find it giddyingly delightful in its potential for play, innovation, and convenience.

Concerns about the ethics of AI’s origins in training, without permission, off the works of untold authors (myself included) have been thoroughly discussed by this point. Lawsuits and regulations are still unfolding, all of which will be crucial to navigating this brave new world in which we find ourselves.

My own first reactions to AI were sober. I wasn’t someone who jumped in with both feet like I have with past technologies. However, I’m also not one to cry over spilt milk. At the very least, I feel the presence of AI in our world is now irreversible. I’m not sure yet if the proper analogy is that of a wish-granting genie having been let out of the bottle or of Pandora having opened a box of shadow-horrors. Either way, it’s here, and there’s no getting it back into the bottle or the box. Certainly, there is the argument that even if we could, that might not be the best choice anyway.

Therefore, I believe it is important for writers, just like everyone else, to embrace the new future in which we find ourselves. Resistance born of denial ultimately harms no one more than ourselves. Just as the Internet was a shatterpoint that forever altered the world in my early teens, AI will certainly unfold in ways both good and bad. The point is: the world has changed. How can we best respond so that we both survive and thrive, not just collectively but as individuals and, particularly in this context, as writers?

To do so, we must use AI. As it becomes more integrated into everyday functionality (such as Google searches), this will become more and more intuitive and less and less optional. More than that, experimenting with AI—ChatGPT, Midjourney, etc.—is important not just in understanding this new world and forming educated opinions about it, but in gaining entry-level skills that will likely become increasingly important to our ability to succeed as technology evolves.

Think about writers who did not or would not adapt to the opportunities the Internet brought 20+ years ago. Those who did are currently thriving thanks to their ability to navigate related software, retail sites, and social media. AI represents a similar seachange, and the truth is we don’t yet know which AI-related skills will be not just optional, but crucial, in future years. Resisting the urge to stagnate in a comfortable status quo is the essence of character arc and therefore story. We’re in the midst of quite a story right now. It’s best to be an active protagonist, rather than a passive sidekick.

Concerns About the Impact of AI on Fiction Writing: What Writers Should KnowThat said, of course, AI must be embraced with awareness and caution, since its full impact is constantly unfolding and therefore not entirely knowable. Many writers are already seeing the impact of AI on fiction writing in the ways books are discovered, marketed, and even created.

Some concerns include:

• Ethics of AI Training

The ethics surrounding how AI learns, etc., and what it produces will continue to be a topic of interest for writers. My own take (again, as someone whose books were used for training the original models) is that although it would have been preferable to have had a conversation before rather than after, the way AI learns and creates isn’t really any different from how any one of us learns and creates—just on an unlimited scale. I’m not going to put any more effort into resisting AI’s extrapolation of my work than I am the thousands of human writers who learn from me and then go on to write about their own integrations of “my” theories.

• Resource Consumption of AI

One of my greatest concerns about AI—which is spoken about regrettably seldom—is its tremendous resource consumption. The energy and computational costs of of AI systems, especially during training, is staggering. For example:

• Water Usage: Training large AI models can consume significant amounts of water. Training GPT-3 in Microsoft’s U.S. data centers required approximately 700,000 liters (185,000 gallons) of water for cooling purposes.
• Energy Consumption and Carbon Emissions: The energy demands of training AI models are considerable. A study from the University of Massachusetts Amherst found that training a single large AI model can emit over 626,000 pounds (approximately 284 metric tons) of CO₂, which is nearly five times the lifetime emissions of an average American car.

Although usage for individual tasks (such as you or I using ChatGPT or a Google search) seems insignificant in comparison (i.e., each query or interaction may consume a few kilowatt-seconds of energy, roughly comparable to the energy used to power a light bulb for a few seconds), the cumulative effect of billions of queries worldwide adds to the toll.

• Discoverability Challenges

AI has already—and will continue to—evolve how books are discovered. Although, in itself, this is not a problem, as search discoverability is always evolving, there are legitimate fears that as AI search begins to dominate, opportunities for discoverability will narrow. Obviously, this affects not just writers wanting to be discovered, but also all of us who, as consumers, are trying to discover new and interesting books (among other products) that may exist beyond the obvious top tier.

• Two-Dimensional and Sometimes Erroneous Info

Much has also been written about AI’s fallibility. From notorious Google searches that recommended running with scissors to obvious programming biases, AI’s ability to control how we see the world is cause for unequivocal concern. As we become more and more familiar with large language models (LLMs) and companionable chatbots, the challenge to remain vigilant about the validity of information and our own perceptions of it will become more and more crucial.

The Single Greatest Threat AI Poses to Fiction Writing (Hint: It’s Not What You Think)Most of the above applies to anyone interacting with AI. What about writers?

We are only at the cusp of the possibilities for how AI may integrate into fiction writing. Already many writers are embracing its capabilities to help them learn, research, outline, plot, edit, and publish. AI has already proven its ability to be of tremendous help in the creative process. To the degree AI legitimately makes us more creative (which is not necessarily to be conflated with more productive), it will ultimately prove to be a positive and expansive tool. But in this process, it is important for each artist to consciously and consistently perform the personal gut check of acknowledging the line where AI becomes the creator rather than the creative tool.

As we explore a future in which we will increasingly collaborate with AI, I would encourage all humans to question whether or not we are choosing to interact with AI in ways that makes us less human or more. This is particularly important for writers, artists, and creatives of all types, as it is our act of creation that most defines our humanity, first individually and then collectively.

AI is a decidedly “mental” tool. It is designed to think. As such, it is uniquely positioned to help us with all mental tasks. (Perhaps someday it will dream and emote, but even then, do we want it to dream and emote for us?)

For instance, some of the ways AI can be most useful to writers is by:

• Relieving the mental stress of busy to-do lists.
• Helping with administrative duties, copywriting, ads, social media, etc.
• Helping with research.
• Helping with search engine optimization.

Outlining Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

It can be tempting sometimes (especially for plot-oriented or outline-forward writers) to think storytelling is a mental process. However, the mental aspects of writing are just a small part of the overall experience and, often, the last aspect to fully emerge. Story is not just a mental game; it is a deeply felt creative embodied process. As such, I am cautious about advocating the use AI for story creation without significant caveats.

How each writer chooses to use AI (whether in brainstorming, outlining, co-writing, etc.) is ultimately as individual and personal as each person’s writing process was before AI popped out of the box. That said, I encourage every creative to carefully consider how you implement AI into your creative process.

Ask Yourself: Why Are You Using AI?What are your specific goals and reasons for bringing AI on board?

• Perhaps you enjoy it.
• Perhaps you feel the necessity of the changing times.
• Perhaps you recognize obvious ways AI can simplify the always difficult process of creating a story.
• Perhaps you seek greater productivity.

All of these are valid responses as long as the results are not inhibiting or distracting from the deeper experience of creation. Stories are a conversation first with our own subconscious and eventually with the greater shared subconscious of the collective. It is not too great a stretch to say that our interaction with the deep archetypes of story itself and the characters who populate it is what shapes our very existence. Story is not just communication; it is communion—with ourselves, with each other, and with the infinitude that lies beyond immediate understanding.

The Sacredness of StoriesStories are sacred. This doesn’t mean we can’t (or shouldn’t) bring in AI tools to aid us. Indeed, insofar as AI is an extension of ourselves or an aid to our own deep subconscious creativity, then it can only be a positive. But honoring the sacredness of story does mean we must be careful not to allow AI’s easy answers to bypass the depth of our creative processes. For me, the storytelling process has always been a conversation with my deep subconscious—my dreaming self, if you will. I’m not interested in what AI comes up with; I’m interested in what I come up with; I’m interested in what you come up with.

More than that, although AI may enhance creativity, productivity, and efficiency, it also risks diminishing our own skills. For instance, can AI help you learn how to write a book? Can it teach you story theory? The short answer is: yes. But only as an aid.

Why? Because, again, story is not simply a mental skill or the ability to recite certain storytelling formulae. It is an embodiment. Indeed, some of our best authors couldn’t recite a formula or articulate story theory to save their lives—and yet they have written deeply embodied works of art that have not only connected with the collective subconscious but evolved it.

In many ways, the purpose of AI is to offer shortcuts. Obviously, there are both good and bad aspects of this. Just as the Internet has rewired our brains, AI will undoubtedly change the way we think. As creators, we are the life force of society. As writers, we are its voices. The choices each one of us makes in how we use AI to, first, live our lives and, second, to write our stories will ripple far beyond ourselves. What each of us does at this epochal moment in history and how we choose to interact with technology matters.

The specifics of how we make these choices are extremely personal—not least because there is no clear “right” path. What is most important—and what I challenge every writer—is to remember we are the sovereigns of our own lives. We are responsible for our choices. Therefore it is incumbent upon each of us to remain aware of what we are doing, why we are doing it, and how our choices and actions are impacting our relationships with our deepest selves and therefore with our storytelling.

Someone once asked me if it was even worth becoming a writer in this rapidly changing age of AI.

First, let me comment on the pitfalls of pinning too much despair (or, equally, hope) on the impact AI has on fiction writing. Writers have always been anxious about publishing (really, getting published and not getting published are equally scary). These days, it can be easy to project our anxieties or fears onto AI and use it as a convenient scapegoat for throwing up our hands, saying “what’s the point?”, and not doing the thing that scares us (whether that’s writing or publishing). Often, new technologies like AI can become bogeymen that conveniently distract from more personal fears.

Now, as for the specific question of whether AI will render novelists and other creatives obsolete—who knows? But my personal opinion is absolutely not. Although AI and other tech will inevitably change the way we create, the single most important dynamic in art is the artist who wants to say something and the audience who wants to experience communication in this way from a fellow human. The impact of AI on fiction writing will not change the fundamental human need to create and to experience human creation. So keep creating! We’re all in the midst of a tremendous story right now, and, as it should be, that is both terrifying and exciting!

In Summary:AI is revolutionizing fiction writing, offering both exciting possibilities and daunting challenges. While its integration into creative processes can enhance productivity, it also raises concerns about originality, ethics, and the sustainability of resource use. Writers must strike a balance—embracing AI as a tool for efficiency and exploration, while remaining conscious of its potential impact on their creativity and humanity. The future of writing lies in navigating this technological shift with care, ensuring AI serves to enrich rather than overshadow our deeply personal and emotional journey of storytelling.

Key Takeaways:* AI tools are changing the landscape of fiction writing, offering both opportunities and challenges for authors. * While AI can assist with brainstorming, editing, and productivity, it lacks true creativity and emotional depth. * Ethical concerns arise regarding AI-generated content, originality, and the potential impact on human writers. * Writers can benefit from AI by using it as a supplement rather than a replacement for their creative process. * The role of AI in publishing and discoverability is still evolving, requiring authors to stay informed and adaptable.

Want more?Writing Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)

In a world where AI is reshaping the landscape of storytelling, it’s more important than ever for writers to tap into the deep, timeless forces that make our stories resonate on a profound level. If you’d like to move deeper into that, you might enjoy my book Writing Archetypal Character Arcs.** I wrote it to help you understand and harness the power of archetypes to create characters that not only drive your plots but also connect with the universal themes that speak to our shared human experience.

While AI can be a valuable tool in the writing process, the true heart of storytelling lies in our ability to explore and express these archetypal depths. If you seek to create stories that stand the test of time, Writing Archetypal Character Arcs is a guide to crafting characters who speak to the most important human transformations. You can check it out at retailers like Amazon or via the store on my site.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! How do you think the impact of AI on fiction writing will shape the future of storytelling? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post Exploring the Impact of AI on Fiction Writing: Opportunities and Challenges appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Creative burnout can feel like a wall between you and your writing goals. Whether it’s the result of stress, distractions, or feeling creatively drained, creative fatigue and even injury is something many modern writers experience. Because writers are generally a solution-forward bunch, we often think we can ten-step our way out of the problem. However, when creativity itself is the problem, the resources to heal can often be counter-intuitive. Creative burnout recovery isn’t about forcing your way back to the page; it’s about holistically creating space in the rest of your life for your creativity to breathe and rebuild.

Last fall when I asked you all what you’d like me to write about this year, quite a few of you brought up challenges you were having in accessing, restoring, or implementing your creativity:

So sorry I have not really had the time to read your blog these days. I have not even had the chance to write either which…for me…is a tragedy. And to be perfectly honest, it is difficult for me to use my inner creativity muscle anymore. But that does not mean I can’t. I would like you to write more about finding the joy of writing and ways to battle against writer’s “disinterest.” I will not call it a block.–MC Furgal

Having experienced deep creative burnout myself, these are topics about which I am extremely passionate. In my own experience and from what I hear from the writing community, creative burnout is becoming an increasingly common challenge for many modern writers. Although the pandemic crisis in 2020 launched many people’s creative aspirations, it was also a shatterpoint for many long-time creatives. There are many possible reasons for this, but to me this points to the reality that creative burnout is often the result of what may seem at first to be “supra-creative” causes. Although writer’s block may often appear to be specifically related to the act of writing (as in some cases of what I call “plot block”), it is more often a symptom of deeper obstacles blocking the flow and force of our deepest creative selves—which is to say, our very lives.

Conquering Writer’s Block and Summoning Inspiration (affiliate link)

To risk creative burnout is, truly, to risk the burnout of our deepest life force and vitality. Likewise, to heal any injuries or exhaustion in our relationship to creativity, we must be willing to look beyond the page to examine those things that may be blocking, not just our writing, but our lives.

That said, today I want to respond to MC’s question by looking at the practical steps I’ve learned over the years in my own creative burnout recovery and in daily building the kind of life that supports this vital energy.

In This Article:* What Creative Burnout Really Means * Seeking Emptiness: The Problem of “Filling the Well’ in Creative Burnout Recovery * Minimizing Unnecessary (and Sometimes Necessary) Noise, So You Can Hear the Muse * Listening for Your Yes: The Path to Creative Burnout Recovery and Rediscovering Your Writing Flow What Creative Burnout Really MeansWhat is creative burnout? Put simply, it’s when you reach that point when there’s nothing left in the tank.

Although lack of creative desire is often the first symptom that something might be going awry, the resistance felt is different from the usual—and quite normal—pushback most writers feel when confronted with the empty page. In creative burnout, the will might still be present, but the passion is gone. The desire for desire might be present, but the old spark just isn’t there. The motivation has run dry. Writing, even at its best, requires a difficult and even painful stretching of oneself, but there is always a purpose, a reason, a motivation to keep going. With creative burnout, there just isn’t.

MC wrote that it is “difficult for me to use my inner creativity muscle anymore.” I like this metaphor of a “muscle,” since it extends to include the idea of an injury. Creative burnout is really creative injury. Understanding this helps resolve the shame, confusion, and self-recrimination that often complicates this experience. Treating burnout as an injury allows us to turn doctor and explore the root causes of what can otherwise seem a mysterious hex.

Although every experience of creative burnout will be as deeply unique as creative expression itself, most instances can be traced or at least related to one simple factor: stress.

The most important thing to understand about stress—and therefore about creative burnout—is that stress is a physiological experience. It happens to the body. This can have wide-ranging effects—from muscle tension and inflammation to nervous system dysregulation to rewired brain patterns (e.g., anxiety triggers, attention deficits)—and all the host of further snowballing conditions and illnesses (e.g., high blood pressure, etc.) It’s not something to be taken lightly. Although creative burnout by itself can seem comparatively minor (!), it is often an early caution against further lifestyle dangers.

Recognizing this is one thing. Dealing it with in a modern technological world that seems to become more complex and stressful by the day is another challenge altogether. Few of us live simple or streamlined lives. Between relationships, jobs, finances, home and auto maintenance, and a host of other calls upon our attention, we are busier than ever. On top of that, our sleep is increasingly dysregulated, thanks in part to our near-constant exposure to blue light. Even our downtime isn’t really downtime. Instead of creating space for routines that allow our systems to actually empty, reset, and refill, we’re usually either chasing dopamine highs (i.e,. checking off fun stuff like it’s a to-do list) or numbing out (probably with more screentime).

This is just the norm now. Speaking for myself, I can draw a direct correlation between the increasing busyness of my mind throughout my adult decades and the corresponding decrease in my ability to “dream” and therefore to access creation from the deepest well of myself rather than simply my overworked head center. Breaking away from these unhealthy and ultimately creativity-destroying lifestyles requires the conscious awareness and effort to create days that are filled with high-quality habits (but not too full, if you know what I mean).

Seeking Emptiness: The Problem of “Filling the Well’ in Creative Burnout RecoveryThe first step in creative burnout recovery is creating space in your life where you can invite creativity back in.

In the past, discussions of writer’s block have often focused on the seemingly generative idea of “filling the well.” However, the very term writer’s block tells us the problem isn’t necessarily a lack but perhaps a superfluence. The longer I have experienced, researched, and responded to my own creative blocks, the clearer it has become to me that the real problem is not that my creative well is empty of ideas or information, but rather that my system in general is too full. When an overloaded brain and nervous system run too hot for too long the result is, of course, burnout.

Because burnout is physiological, it is not a state that can always be easily reversed. Just as with a car engine that has been run into the ground, some pieces may be beyond salvaging and may need to be replaced. In the case of a living organism, this replication is miraculously possible, but it takes time, patience, and the discipline to create the ease and space that creative energy craves.

Here are a few practical tips for creating space into which you can re-invite your creativity:

1. Do What’s in Front of YouThis has become one of the mantras of my life. Basically, it means “clear the table” (or the desk, as the case may be). Clear the clutter by starting with what’s right in front of you. Although this might indicate actual clutter, more generally it recommends against procrastination. The more stuff that piles up (literally or metaphorically), the fuller our brains get. Even when we may not actively remember everything (like that unanswered email or the leftovers in the fridge), some part of your brain does remember. It puts a pin it, and when you never get back to it and a hundred others like it, the mental real estate it requires takes up more and more space that could otherwise be used for creativity.

2. Go Slow Enough to ProcessIn some respects, this is another variation of “do what’s in front of you”—except here what’s “in front of you” are the thousand little mental and emotional responses that arise throughout the day to one prompt after another. We interact with infinitely more bits of information and stimuli than have previous generations. Although our amazing brains quickly filter, sort, and process most of these occurrences, some take a little more time. When we are unable to pause in the moment to fully acknowledge or process our responses, they still get backed up in the body. In the constant flow of information, that particular catalyst may be mentally forgotten, but not physically.

Get into the practice of noticing your responses as they arise. When something feels triggering or like it requires an extra moment to process, take a break, step back, and fully digest it before moving on—all of which can take as little as a few seconds of awareness. Particularly in our scroll culture, in which we may encounter dozens, if not hundreds, of possible triggers within a short timespan, slowing down enough to learn this practice offers untold benefits.

1. Write Down or Look Up Questions ASAPYou know those random thoughts and curiosities that filter through your brain throughout the day? How tall is Elizabeth Debicki? How may Super Bowls did Tom Brady win? Which brand of crackers is cheaper? To the degree you intend to “look that up later,” do it now. This is yet another form of “doing what’s in front of you.” Don’t let trivia backlog in your brain. Use your phone to look it up right now. If you intend to text someone, do it now. If you need to add something to your grocery list, put in your online cart or write it down now. Not only does this reverse procrastination habits, it is also one of the simplest ways to remove unneeded complexity from your daily brain and your probably already overtaxed short-term memory. Wouldn’t you much rather think about your story rather than crackers? (Or not. I mean I love crackers.)

Minimizing Unnecessary (and Sometimes Necessary) Noise, So You Can Hear the MuseOne of the biggest brain clutterers is noise. And there is so. much. noise right now. If you spend any significant amount of your life online (and who doesn’t?), then you hear the noise. Some of that noise is from your own life. Some of it is literal noise. And some of it is just the general clutter and chatter of the Internet—emails, ads, news, to-do lists, even entertainment. We all know how easy it is for our hours and our good intentions to run down the drain after getting sucked into what started out seeming like an inconsequential browse through suggested YouTube shorts.

Here’s the thing: the Internet is not going to help you take control of your brain back. Our modern world is not going to help you. If you want your brain back—if you want your creativity back—you have to do it yourself. And I’ll be honest: this is a Sisyphean battle. Short of pulling the plug on the Internet and/or having superpower-level self-discipline, I envision this as one of Dwight Eisenhower’s battle plans—where basically you have to keep throwing it out and creating new ones on the go.

Here’s what I’m doing this year to take care of my brain.

1. Browse One Tab at a TimeThe hyper-multitasking of the Internet has literally rewired our brains into shorter attention spans and memories. One of the only ways to combat this is to force yourself to go slower. (I know, I know, it feels like pulling teeth to me too.) In the past, my daily Internet routine was to open every single tab I would need for the day (email, blog comments, socials, financial institutions, etc.), then go through them as fast as I could. If one page was loading (I have slow Internet), I’d skip back and forth between tabs. I think I could literally feel my brain dying.

This year, I made the commitment to only open one working tab at a time. I am shocked by how much calmer my brain feels. I will never go back.

1. Use a Pomodoro Timer to Take BreaksA Pomodoro timer is a time-management tool that breaks your work into focused intervals, typically 25 minutes long, followed by a short 5-minute break, helping boost productivity and prevent burnout. I also started using this tool more faithfully this year. I will work sitting for 25 minutes, use an eye massager during the 5-minute break, then raise my desk to standing for 15 minutes, before repeating. Not only does it help me reorient, give me time to process anything that’s come up during the 25 minutes, and slow my roll on any time-suckers, it also gives me the chance to address my body’s needs.

2. Limit Social MediaI know, I know. This one is almost a cliche at this point. But it’s the truth. Social media can be fun and useful, and for those of us who use it for marketing, it can even be obligatory. But there’s no question it is, at best, a necessary evil. Aside from always being a potential black hole for our time and attention, it is also designed to bombard us with a host of small stimuli that fill up our brains with empty calories and encourage low-quality wiring in our memories and nervous systems. I gotta be honest: the less time spent on short-form content, the better. If you love it or need it, set a timer—then give yourself at least a few minutes afterward to let everything you saw and heard process through.

3. Commit to No-Buy MonthsThis one might not seem immediately obvious, but aside from bringing less actual stuff into your life (and saving money), it can also free up more of your attention. One way or another, most of us spend a lot of time shopping—whether necessarily or recreationally. Especially if you shop predominately online, creating structure around not just how much you can buy but, in this instance, particularly how much time you spend looking can not only free up time and space, it can also help cut down on the unavoidable noisiness of everything that happens out here in Internet-land.

4. Set Realistic Schedules and Goals for Your LifeWe have to manage so much complexity in our modern lives. The better we organize our lives, the more structures and resources we can utilize to help us quiet everything down enough to create an inviting space for our creativity. One important way of doing this is making sure the structures and tools we bring in to help are, in fact, realistic. Trying to cram in too much (guilty!) won’t help your creative burnout recovery, no matter how well-organized it is. Get real about what’s important and what you have time for. If creativity is important, then prioritize that—even just in making space so your brain can quiet down.

>>Click here to read Creativity vs. Distraction: 13 Tips for Writers in the Age of the Internet

Listening for Your Yes: The Path to Creative Burnout Recovery and Rediscovering Your Writing FlowOnce you’ve cleared space in your life and brought healing to your stress injuries, how can you proactively welcome creativity back into your life?

This will require new habits. After all, if the old ones hurt you, you know you have to stop. You can’t go back to doing the same things that led to creative burnout the first time around.

This can be a tough pill to swallow. Just recently (after many years of creative burnout recovery), I finally found myself consciously realizing that part of me was trying to heal just so I could return to the same level of productivity I managed before my burnout. That’s the definition of insanity.

You have to be willing to examine whether you might have to let go of some the ways things used to be. There can be an ego death and a grieving process involved with that.

You can also ask yourself whether you might, in fact, be able to return to some good things as well. One of the best ways to cultivate good creative habits is to think back to times when creativity overflowed. Think back to the perfect ease of daydreaming and play-acting when in childhood. Creativity seemed effortless then because it was allowed to arise, rather then being recruited as a soldier in the army of productivity.

Although creativity ultimately uses and requires all aspects of the self, including the intellect and the will, it begins as an inherently intuitive and even emotional process. When we talk about “making space” for creativity, what we are talking about is the space where the creativity begins. We are making space for creativity to arrive. Although we may often think of “the act of creation” as something we do, it is a deeply receptive act. True creativity is not so much when we think of something as when that thought thinks us. There’s no forcing that. There is only waiting, listening, and cultivating a physiology that is habituated to experience the creative act as pleasurable rather than stressful.

>>Click here to read How Meditation Can Inspire Your Next Story

Even before taking the steps mentioned above, you must have a willingness and ability to go through what is often a literal detox from “go mode.” If creative burnout results from our brains rewiring in unpleasant ways (albeit to protect and/or serve us), then creative burnout recovery is about rewiring our miraculously plastic brains and systems back into generativity. Go mode is highly addictive, which is, again, another physical experience. It’s not just in our heads; it’s not just a “habit”; after a while, it becomes part of our physical reality. Changing that reality requires changing certain fundamental things about the way we interact with all parts of our lives.

Not every writer is committed enough to their writing to make those changes. And that’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with deciding to move on after burning out on one expression of creativity. But we cannot move on from creativity itself. It is our very life force. It is the best and truest part of our existence, no matter how it expresses. Although the modern world and its technologies offers a plethora of unthought-of tools and environments that can help creativity thrive, there are also many aspects absolutely antithetical to the maintenance of a healthy creative life. Without awareness and discipline, more and more writers are likely to suffer creative burnout—not because there is anything inherently wrong with their “creative muscle,” but because the potentially endless distractions and stresses we face every day are, in fact, creative death by a thousand cuts.

Although creative burnout is a challenge many writers face, it is also an unprecedented opportunity to reconnect with the essence of creativity itself. By stepping away from the constant demands of modern life and creating space for rest, reflection, and renewal, we can rediscover the joy and vitality that fuels our writing. The process of recovery requires patience and the willingness to let go of old habits, but it also offers the chance to build a more sustainable and fulfilling creative practice for the future. Remember, creativity thrives in moments of stillness and openness. By nurturing those moments, we not only heal our creative selves, but also open the door to the deep, rich stories that resonate with our true selves.

>>Click here to read How to Rediscover the Joy of Writing

In Summary:Creative burnout isn’t just a temporary slump; it’s often a deep-seated physiological and emotional response to overwork and stress. It’s not about the absence of ideas but about a system that’s too full to allow creativity to flow. To recover, we need to create space in our lives to heal and rejuvenate, both mentally and physically. A critical first step is slowing down, clearing mental clutter, and consciously addressing stress that’s been building in our lives. Real recovery requires not only rest but also adjustments to our habits and schedules to maintain balance.

Key Takeaways:1. Creative Burnout Is a Physiological Injury: It’s not just a lack of motivation but a deeper, systemic issue rooted in stress and mental overload. 2. Create Space for Recovery: To heal from burnout, it’s important to clear physical and mental clutter. Slow down, process emotions, and avoid procrastination. 3. Minimize External Noise: Limit distractions, especially online, to allow your mind the space to reset. 4. Practical Strategies: Implement tools like Pomodoro timers, limit social media, and commit to no-buy months to reduce external pressure and regain control over your time and attention. 5. Set Realistic Expectations: Overloading your schedule exacerbates burnout. Set achievable goals and leave room for recovery.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What strategies have you found most helpful in your own creative burnout recovery journey? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Is the antagonist always the bad guy? So often, we use the terms interchangeably. But this practice can lead to confusion about the true function of the antagonistic force within a story. Contrary to common parlance, the antagonist vs. villain dynamic isn’t a straightforward equation. Although the roles often overlap, a character can be an antagonist without being a villain—or be a villain without being an antagonist.

The same is true for protagonist vs. hero. Although many writers use the terms interchangeably, the truth is obvious: not all protagonists are heroic, just as not all antagonists are villainous. In fact, as I often point out, it is entirely possible for your protagonist to be the most morally objectionable person in your story, while your antagonist is the most morally upright. We see this in stories such as Catch Me if You Can, in which the protagonist is a con man and the antagonist is the FBI agent trying to stop him.

Catch Me if You Can (2002), DreamWorks Pictures.

This is an important distinction. For one thing, it allows writers to step out of the boxes they may sometimes feel they have to cram characters into. Allowing stories to explore morally gray areas not only deepens thematic opportunities but also brings in greater realism and a more accurate exploration of life.

More than that, making this distinction helps writers understand the true role of the functional antagonist (and protagonist) within a story. What is a “functional antagonist”? Here, we’re talking about not simply the character of antagonist, but stripping it back to understand its function within the equation that is story. Basic story theory doesn’t care about the specifics of your antagonist’s personality or motivations. Story theory only cares about the bottom line. Is this character fulfilling the role of antagonist in a way that creates story?

Definitions: Antagonist vs. VillainWhat’s the difference between the oh-so-technical antagonist and the oh-so-colorful villain?

First, let’s examine what plot, at its most basic, actually is: a protagonist whose forward momentum is met by opposition. Usually, this forward momentum is the result of the protagonist’s goal (or at least intention), and the opposition is what creates the conflict. (I’ve written elsewhere about the true definition and function of conflict in story.)

The antagonist is the opposition.

In technical discussions, I often prefer the term “antagonistic force,” since this emphasizes that this opposition does not necessarily have to be characterized as a person. It might be the weather, the “system”, mental illness, or any number of other options. Any number of stories can be pointed out as lacking human antagonists, but this does not mean they don’t still feature antagonistic forces.

The antagonistic force is something that creates obstacles to the protagonist’s forward momentum. These obstacles can be as simple as a flat tire, freezing rain, or a bounced check. Most of the time, such obstacles will be unified by a common cause, even if this is something as thematically vague as “bad luck.” The most direct approach is to personify the cause of the obstacles as a specific character. This character is the antagonist.

Often, when we think of the type of character who might cause obstacles for another character, we think of someone with malicious intentions. After all, if a person is the cause of that flat tire, the motives at play aren’t likely to be morally positive. Therefore, it only makes that such a character must be… a villain.

Particularly, when we create stories in which the protagonist is blatantly heroic or at least morally positive, we often want to create an opposing character who can provide the contrast of immorality. Not only does this contrast make the protagonist more sympathetic and admirable, it also creates the opportunity to explore both sides of whatever moral issue is at stake. Both characters can exist on a moral spectrum, ranging from angelic hero and demonic villain to characters who share more in common than not, such as with Leonardo DiCaprio’s and Matt Damon’s cop and mobster characters in The Departed.

The Departed (2006), Warner Bros.

However, because “villain” has no specific correlation to the antagonistic force, it’s equally possible to see a villainous character who is not the antagonist—functioning either as the protagonist (e.g., Alex DeLarge in Clockwork Orange) or as a supporting character who is not opposing the protagonist’s forward momentum (e.g., Mr. Wickham in Pride & Prejudice).

Pride & Prejudice (2005), Focus Features.

What Is the Purpose of an Antagonist in a Story?The antagonistic force exists to oppose the protagonist’s forward momentum toward a goal and to create conflict. From this recipe, we get plot. When these elements are all thematically harmonized, we get a tight, well-focused plot.

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Without the antagonistic force to create opposition, the protagonist would be able to immediately gain the plot goal—and the story would be over. The opportunity for the protagonist to transform as a result of overcoming this opposition would also be over, which means not only do we lose plot, we lose character arc as well.

In most stories, the antagonist’s motivation will pre-date the protagonist’s, creating the framework that forces the protagonist to learn more effective tactics for overcoming the existing obstacles. We see this obviously in stories in which the protagonist must take on a much larger system, such as Katniss Everdeen overthrowing the Hunger Games or John Dutton defending his ranch against developers.

Yellowstone (2018-), Paramount Network.

We also see it in stories in which the antagonistic force makes its first move before the protagonist is even aware of the antagonist as an opposing element, such as we see with Lt. Daniel Kaffee prosecuting a case for a crime that was committed prior to his knowledge of it, or Harry Potter joining a magical war that began before he was born.

A Few Good Men (1992), Columbia Pictures.

It also exists in conflicts that may seem, at first glance, to be initiated by the protagonist’s actions. For example, The Fugitive features a perfect example of an antagonist who is not a villain. Deputy Sam Gerard blatantly represents justice, law and order, and an adherence to duty. He has no knowledge of or interest in the protagonist—wrongly accused convict Dr. Richard Kimball—until Kimball escapes and comes under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Marshalls. At first glance, this might seem like Kimball initiated the conflict between himself and Gerard. However, when we zoom back, we can see that Gerard’s opposition always existed, via the U.S. Justice System, and was already engaged against Kimball, even before Gerard showed up as the personified antagonist.

The Fugitive (1993), Warner Bros.

The Fugitive pits Kimball and Gerard against each other in a tightly woven conflict, in which Gerard does everything in his power to create obstacles to Kimball’s goal of learning who murdered his wife so he can clear his name. In essence, Gerard and Kimball are morally aligned throughout this story, both working in the name of justice and using only tactics that are in accordance with that principle. All that differentiates Gerard as the antagonist is that he is the one creating opposition to the protagonist’s forward momentum toward a goal.

From this, we also see how necessary the role of a good antagonist is to a story. Without Gerard’s presence, this story would have lacked its intense throughline—something the story’s villain could not have provided since he was offscreen for 90% of the movie.

The Fugitive (1993), Warner Bros.

What Is the Purpose of a Villain in a Story?The villain is a morally reprehensible person, motivated to act maliciously and with cruelty. The degree of villainy can vary wildly, spanning the gamut from Regina George’s high school bully in Mean Girls to Amon Goeth’s concentration camp commandant in Schindler’s List. The essential quality is simply: this is a person who crosses the line into social immorality.

Mean Girls (2004), Paramount Pictures.

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Not every story will feature a villain. However, most will, if only because a villain character provides the readers a more multi-faceted exploration of the story’s themes. The primary villain in a story will often represent what Robert McKee calls the “negation of the negation”—or the worst possible stance that can be taken to the story’s theme.

Because this negation of the negation offers the most blatant contrast to the story’s thematic Truth (as ultimately embraced by a morally positive protagonist), it is common enough for the antagonist to represent this most negative version of the story’s Lie and to, therefore, be presented as a villain. In this instance, the antagonist not only opposes the protagonist in the plot but does so in a way that is morally problematic. This provides writers with the opportunity to up the stakes, since not only will a villainous antagonist use any variety of horrifying means to defeat the protagonist, but in facing the antagonist, the protagonist will also be facing a representative of a greater evil to society.

There’s little wonder we so easily conflate antagonists and villains. Villainous antagonists are truly effective in many types of stories. The Lord of the Rings could not have been so memorable without Sauron as its representative of true evil. Batman would probably never have become a classic in his own right without the contrast of the mind-bending sadism of the Joker. The Hunchback of Notre Dame required its chilling rendition of the hypocritical and corrupt judge Frollo.

Dark Knight Rises (2012), Warner Bros.

However, it is equally possible to utilize all the drama of a good villain in your story without making that character the main antagonist. For starters, you may decide to cast the villain as the protagonist (as you might in stories with Negative Change Arcs such as The Godfather and Wuthering Heights).

The Godfather (1972), Paramount Pictures.

You may also realize that, like in The Fugitive, the best rendition of the story is served by opposing your protagonist with a morally neutral or upright antagonist, while the villain(s) are represented by supporting characters. In this film, we can know the antagonist is Gerard by examining the structural throughline, which shows Kimball consistently facing the larger antagonistic force of the U.S. Justice System, which, by the beginning of the Second Act, is personified by Gerard at all of the major structural beats.

The primary villain is kept hidden for most of the story, until his identity is revealed [SPOILER] as Kimball’s friend and fellow doctor Charles Nichols, whose hitman Frederick Sykes murdered Kimball’s wife. For most of the story, even Kimball doesn’t suspect his friend, while Sykes provides the element of immorality.[/SPOILER] The presence of a villain in what is otherwise a straightforward conflict between two morally positive men deepens the story’s palette. It raises the stakes and increases suspense by adding that element of “chaotic evil” to the mix.

Which Is Right for Your Story—Antagonist vs. Villain?Put simply, the antagonist represents the primary force that generates conflict and obstacles by opposing the protagonist’s goals, while the villain brings in the added element of objective immorality.

Every story with a forward-moving plot must include an antagonistic force. This isn’t optional. Even if your conflict is low-key, such as in cozy romances, the presence of opposition to your protagonist’s goals is what creates the story arc. In some stories this antagonistic force will be represented by a specific person who directly opposes the protagonist’s goals, sometimes not.

What is optional is whether or not your story features a villain—and whether or not this villain is the same person as your antagonist. Many stories are furthered by the inclusion of a comparatively villainous character, whether a mean neighbor or a serial killer. However, just as many stories do not require a villain, and, in some instances, might even be damaged by the inclusion of a sinister or overly dramatic element.

What’s important is for writers to understand the distinction of antagonist vs. villain and to examine their stories to determine what type of antagonist will create the most effective and entertaining plot. There are myriad ways storytellers can craft characters with depth, allowing antagonists to emerge as individuals driven by their own distinct motivations, moral quandaries, or even senses of duty. Departing from the stereotypical villain archetype allows for narratives in which the antagonist becomes a vehicle for exploring shades of gray, challenging preconceived notions, and ultimately contributing to the narrative’s richness through nuanced character development.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What do you think is the most important distinction between antagonist vs. villain? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Today, I want to talk about the three most important characters from a structural perspective within your story.

Very often, two of the most common questions writers will ask about characters in their story is, “How many characters do I need and or can I have and which characters do I need? What characters are important to my specific story?”

What I’m going to be sharing in this post is definitely the stripped-down answer to this question. We’re going to be getting under the hood and looking at some of the mechanics of how story works. What I’m going to share is not necessarily meant to be taken literally. Rather, it’s meant to show you the foundation upon which you can build your entire cast of characters.

So when I say your story’s structure only needs three characters, don’t freak out! This doesn’t mean you can only have three characters in your story.

Character #1: The ProtagonistFrom a structural perspective, what actually creates plot and makes your story move?

There are three specific types of character who are important in running a story’s engine.

The first and most obvious is of course your protagonist. When we hear the word “protagonist,” very often what we think of is the hero, the main character, the good guy, something along those lines. We think of a specific type of person; we have a visual idea of what a protagonist is. Maybe you even see your protagonist from your story. However, although who your protagonist is in your story is very specific, sometimes this can distract from the deeper understanding of what “protagonist” is and how it functions within the story.

What Defines a Protagonist?Within story, all that defines the “protagonist” is that this is the person creating the forward momentum in the plot. They do that by wanting something. They have a desire, which will translate into the story goals that move them forward. In some stories, the desire may be that they want to move away from something else, but it could also be that they have something specifically in mind they’re moving toward.

You can think of this as the change you’re going to see within your story. Whether your characters know it or not, what they’re moving toward is the end of your story. They’re moving toward whatever state they’re going to be in—wherever the plot finds them—at the end of the story.

The protagonist is the one who creates that throughline and that momentum of moving through the story. Without a protagonist, we really don’t have a story. The protagonist is the person who is defining what this story is about. Theoretically, you could pick any number of specific characters within your story to be that protagonist. Each character would slightly change the nature of your plot because different characters will want different things, which drives and creates different plot. Regardless, the protagonist is the throughline.

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You want to make sure the protagonist lines up with all of your major structural beats throughout the story. Usually, that means the character will be present at these beats, but more specifically it means that what’s happening at those structural beats needs to be in alignment with the protagonist’s forward momentum toward the end state of the story. If you can identify any particular structural beat within the story where that really isn’t happening—where they’re not moving toward that end state—then it’s probably a good sign that structural beat is off in some way.

From this perspective, the protagonist is the single most important character for defining your story’s structural throughline. They create the throughline (and the throughline should be created for them by the author). It’s a vehicle for them.

Character #2: The AntagonistThe second most important character (although really this character is equally as important as the protagonist because you need both of them) is the antagonist.

Similarly to the protagonist, we often hear that word and we think “bad guy.” We think of a morally negative person—a villain. However, this has nothing to do with being an antagonist. We only think this because, generally speaking, the protagonist is someone who’s morally positive and with whom we sympathize with from a moral point of view—and therefore the antagonist stands in opposition to that and is often characterized as someone who’s morally negative or at least ambivalent in some way.

What Defines the Antagonist?However, within storyform, functionally speaking, the antagonist is simply whatever or whoever is creating the obstacles between the protagonist and their momentum.

I often to use the term “antagonistic force” rather than “antagonist” because this also reminds us that the antagonist doesn’t have to be human. It doesn’t have to be a specific character within the story. Usually, the antagonist will be human and will be at the very least be represented at certain points throughout the story by proxy characters, which we’ll talk about in just a second. However, fundamentally, the antagonistic force is nothing more or less than whatever is creating the opposition through which the protagonist has to move.

Without the antagonistic force, without this opposition, the protagonist can move unhindered. They will move easily and smoothly toward whatever the end state is within the story. When they reach that end state, the story is over. The very fact that we have a lengthy tale to tell means that must be roadblocks—obstacles—difficulties. Conflict is encountered as the protagonist moves through the story. The antagonist is that necessary counterforce that creates that opposition for the protagonist to have to work through. This, in turn, is what creates the conflict and the interest in the plot.

Character #3: Relationship CharacterThe third character is a little more interesting in some ways and not as obvious. The third character is the relationship character. This character can actually take quite a few different forms within the story.

What Defines the Relationship Character?You might immediately think of love interest or something like that. This character could also be a sidekick. It could be any relationship within the story, but fundamentally what we’re talking about from perspective of story is a motivating force for the protagonist within the story.

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Again, this can take many forms. This could be an Impact Character representing the story’s thematic Truth and prompting or inspiring change. For instance, a love interest very often will act within a character arc as someone who “rewards” or “punishes” based on the protagonist’s effectiveness within the plot (based on the protagonist’s relationship to the Lie and the Truth and how that allows them to either move forward or not against the antagonistic force).

However, the relationship character doesn’t have to be a love interest. This character simply represents a relationship that is important to the protagonist and is creating motivation for what they’re doing. This relationship character shines a light on the “why” of the protagonist’s motivation. The antagonistic force shines a light on all of the things the protagonist hasn’t dealt with or hasn’t figured out yet as a way to be able to move forward toward the end goal, whereas the relationship character is shows the broader context of why the protagonist is doing this—what they’re trying to build, why they’re trying to expand.

Again, this isn’t necessarily something the protagonist is conscious of. You’ll see this dynamic in stories, in which there needs to be that relational level so that there’s a catalyst—there’s a why behind the protagonist’s motives.

Using the Three Characters When Your Protagonist Is the Only Person in the StoryAgain, just as with the antagonistic force, this doesn’t necessarily have to be characterized. It’s entirely possible to create a story that’s about just one character. If you have just one character on stage, in that case these other two forces within the story will either be internalized within the protagonist as aspects of the protagonist ‘s own self, or they’ll be reflected somehow in the world around them, in the setting. We see this in stories such as the Tom Hanks movie Cast Away, in which he is all alone on an island.

Cast Away (2000), 20th Century Fox.

The whole story basically is him lost on an island. He’s stuck in the middle of nowhere and has to survive. The antagonistic force is mostly just the weather and the elements, with him trying to figure out how to make the island work in a way that he can survive off of it. Then later on in the story, we also see, within himself, his own difficulties, as his fear and anger and frustration also work against him. He has to work through that as a way to continue toward his end goal of getting off the island and surviving.

The relationship aspect—creating a context of meaning—is represented by his relationship with the volleyball Wilson, who he personifies—but who is, of course, really just him. Wilson gives him something to care about something, onto which he can project meaning and purpose out into the world, so he doesn’t feel so alone.

That’s a great example of how all these three of these elements work within a story without necessarily having to be represented by actual characters.

Using the Three Characters When Your Story Features a Cast Larger Than ThreeObviously, most stories will feature many, many more characters than just these three. In these cases, what is happening is that every single character within your story—even if you have hundreds of them—are related to these three primal forces within the story. They are all representing, in some way, one of these forces within your story.

What If You Have Multiple Protagonists?First, I want to talk about stories with multiple protagonists. This is an important question. From the foundational perspective of story structure, there is really only one protagonist. That is what creates the structural throughline. So if you have more than one protagonist, you necessarily have more than one structural through line—as happens in stories with multiple plotlines, which I talked about in a previous video this year.

Basically, you’re telling multiple stories, which means you have multiple different story forms with each of these three story characters/forces happening in each of those plotlines until the plotlines coincide at some point later in the story.

It’s important to recognize this because you need to have a solid throughline to your structure, you may in some instances have two characters operating within the same plotline together who seem to share equal weight (romances are an obvious examples where the weight is shared equally by two different characters points of view). What’s happening in these stories is the two characters are sharing the role of protagonist within a single shared structural throughline. They’re not pulling in opposite directions. Even if they have smaller goals that are separate, they’re working toward the same structural goal or desire (e.g., being together and making the relationship work)

The same would be true in a mystery where you feature two detective characters equally. They’re working toward the same goal, so they share the weight of the protagonist’s role throughout the story. In this case, you want to make sure this shared role is represented in a unified way at each of your structural beats.

Multiple Characters Fulfilling These Three Roles (aka, Character Proxies)The most common way to use these three structural character roles in a large cast is for each character to act as a proxy for one of the three main roles—protagonist, antagonist, main relationship character.

For example, your story may feature a unified antagonistic force that is not represented by just one character. You may have a Big Bad, and then he may have minions doing his bidding. These minions are not separate antagonists within the story; they are proxies for the main antagonist and therefore acting in his stead. The antagonistic force is still a unified force within the story.

Again, that’s harder to do with protagonists. You have to be careful because the protagonist is your throughline and your structural anchor throughout the story.

On the other hand, you may have many different relationship characters. Obviously, you’re always going to get the tightest effect in a story when you narrow these things down as much as possible, so you don’t have a lot of extraneous characters. But for instance, you may have a protagonist whose context and reason and why for what they’re doing—therefore representing that relationship aspect—could be a whole town. It could be you are perhaps interested in showing a broader setting, where there isn’t a specific relationship character within the story.

What comes to my mind right now is The Andy Griffith Show, in which protagonist Andy is involved with this entire town. He’s in a relationship with many different people throughout Mayberry. There are primary relationships, such as his son Opie, his deputy and best friend Barney, and his aunt Bea, but all of the characters within the entire show relate to him and interact with him as either an antagonistic force or a relationship character.

The Andy Griffith Show (1960-68), CBS.

In very simplified terms, you could think of the relationship character as the one the protagonist is doing things for, while the antagonist force is the one they’re doing it against.

I hope that’s helpful. However, sometimes oversimplifying things can be the opposite of helpful, so if this doesn’t resonate or if it feels confusing, then just forget about it. The essence of what I’m trying to communicate here is that there are three engines kind of within your story. If you’re ever confused about whether or not a character is useful or is extraneous, or you have too many characters or not enough characters, this is a good place to come back to so you can examine your cast. You can go through each one and say, “Okay, this character is a protagonist. These characters are representing the antagonistic force. These characters are representing the relationship aspect within the story and reflecting back to the protagonist the required growth qualities.”

You can ask:

• Would my story be stronger if I got rid of some of these characters and just focused in on one specific character to represent each of these categories?
• Would it create a stronger dynamic for my protagonist, or do I need more characters?
• How do I do that in a cohesive way that is still structurally pertinent?

Thinking about putting each character in the little box where they belong can be helpful in organizing them and seeing where maybe some things are misplaced and not fulfilling their optimum job and or where they’re completely extraneous.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Who are the most important characters in your story? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Hey, everybody!

I can’t believe we’re already into the final stretch of 2024. What a wild year this has been for me! I moved to my dream house this summer, something I’ve been working on manifesting for years now. The early part of the year was a bullet train of intensity and determination as I did a year’s worth of work (two books, a course, and fifty+ posts/podcasts/videos) in four months.

And then… moving!

It has taken my nervous system all summer to come back to a place of centeredness from which I can truly look around me through eyes wide with gratitude.

Every day now I am finding new depth in the simple meditation: “Thank you for everything. I have no complaints whatsoever.”

I’ve had so much fun with the content I’ve gotten to share so far this year, and I’m already starting to think about what I want to share here on the blog next year. I’d love to hear what you would like me to write about!

So…

What would you like me to write about?

Is there a writing subject that’s really got your interest right now?

How about a gnawing question you just can’t figure out?

In short, as I start gearing up for a new round of posts and podcast episodes, I’d like to make sure I’m serving your needs as best I can.

You can also let me know if there’s a book, webinar, or other resource you’d like me to create on a particular topic. What would best serve you in your writing journey?

I’d also love to know what format of content you like best: written posts, audio podcasts, videos? What length of material is most accessible for you?

Leave me a comment and tell me what post you’d most like me to write for you. (If you phrase your request as a question, I may be able to quote you if I end up using it as inspiration, unless of course you specify that you’d rather I not do so.)

As always, thank you all so much for your engagement here with me and your passion for telling stories to a world that needs them!

Wordplayers, tell me your opinion! What writing topic or question would you like me to talk about in future posts? Tell me in the comments!The post What Would You Like Me to Write About? appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Today we’re going to be talking about a topic all writers have questions about at one point or another—and that is POV.

POV stands for “point of view.” It is the perspective through which you tell your story’s narrative. Specifically, we’re going to talk about which “person” you might want to use when choosing your POV. By that, what’s meant is either you’re going to choose to tell the story through first-person, second-person, third-person, or omniscient.

Characters, Emotion, & Viewpoint by Nancy Kress (affiliate link)

There are many other questions that come up around POV, such as which characters’ POVs you should choose to filter story through, but that’s a whole other topic. I recommend the books Characters, Emotions, and Viewpoints by Nancy Kress and Characters and Viewpoint by Orson Scott Card.

Today, we will cover the differences and the advantages and the disadvantages of these different approaches to POV.

Characters & Viewpoint by Orson Scott Card (affiliate link)

Types of POVTo get us started, let’s go over each one quickly, and then we will talk about some of the reasons you might or might not choose them, depending on the type of story you’re writing. At the end, we’re also going to talk just a little bit about head hopping.

Second-Person POVI want to talk about second-person POVs first, since they’re the easiest to cover. Second-person is when you would tell a story using the pronoun “you,” as if telling the story is from the perspective of the reader.

For example, “you are opening the door, you are doing this thing, you are fighting in the battle,” whatever the case may be.

Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney (affiliate link)`

Obviously, this is quite unusual. You see this very rarely within books, and it’s almost always gimmicky. There are only a couple novels relatively well-known for having used it. One is Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney. Another is If on a Winter’s Night… by Italo Calvino.

If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller by Italo Calvino (affiliate link)

Second-person is an interesting approach. It’s kind of like the Choose Your Own Adventure stories you may have read as a kid. It’s highly stylistic and therefore can be quite gimmicky. As a result, it’s used very rarely and isn’t recommended for most fiction, particularly mainstream fiction. However, it’s good to be aware of it because it is out there.

That leaves the two main and most popular points of view you can use. These are the two that are seen and used most often.

First-Person POVThe first is first-person, in which you use the pronoun “I,” telling the story from the protagonist’s point of view.

For example, “I went through the door, I bought groceries.”

Third-Person POVThis is contrast to third-person, in which you’re using pronouns like “he” or “she” or “they” to tell what’s going on/

For example, “he knocked on the door, and she opened the door.”

For all intents and purposes, first- and third-person are actually quite similar to execute. The advantages or disadvantages that you might gain from the way you write the story in a deep third-person POV is very similar to those of a first-person POV. The only major difference is the pronouns. In these POVs, what you’re trying to achieve is the effect that the entire story is more or less being told through the thoughts and the voice of the narrating character.

Again, this can be very stylistic in the sense that the voice you’re trying to create on the page is the character’s voice. It’s the same voice the character would use when speaking dialogue, only you’re in his or her head. You can still share what they’re actually thinking through direct thoughts which are told in present tense and usually italicized or something like that, but in these deep POVs everything that’s coming across the page is from the character’s point of view.

Tips & Tricks for Writing in First-Person POVFirst-person is always deep. It’s always right there inside the character’s head. Every word is intended to be seen as the character’s point of view. Because of this, first-person is the most intimate of all of the POVs. It puts the readers right there in the character’s head. Sometimes that’s exactly what you want. That level of intimacy between readers and characters rarely a bad thing. You want readers to identify with the characters and understand what they’re thinking and feeling.

This particular approach is very popular right now in romance, alternating first-person POVs between the two love interests. Just because you’re writing in first-person doesn’t mean the whole story has to be told from the same POV. You just have to make it very clear when you switch—which is usually done chapter by chapter, with a heading on at the beginning of the chapter indicating which character’s POV you’re in.

The more advanced side of the technique is that, ideally, you want readers to be able to tell which POV they’re in just because the characters’ voices are distinct. That can get tricky because ultimately it’s all your voice. The more personalized each of the voices in a multi first-person narrative, then the more characterized those people become. They pop off the page as dimensional and separate people, rather than just kind of facets of same person with the same voice and the same personality.

Downsides of First-Person POVOne of the downsides of first-person is basically too much intimacy. There are stories in which maybe you don’t want readers to be that close to a character. This could be for a number of reasons. It could be because the character is so unsavory, readers won’t enjoy being in this person’s head. That’s not always true because obviously there are stories about horrible people, in which it can be fascinating to explore a dark psyche.

1. Can Make Unlikable Characters Even More UnpalatableI actually think the most complicated characters for deep or for first-person POVs are characters that in between: they’re not entirely lovable, but they’re also not fascinatingly evil. Their foibles are more along the lines of pride or self-obsession or insecurity. If that’s not handled just right, that can become very grating within a first-person POV, because all the bad things the character may be thinking either about themselves or others is just constantly there in the reader’s face. Sometimes that’s fine. Sometimes that’s part of what the character is working through in the story. But be aware that sometimes first-person can actually have the unintended effect of distancing readers from the character, simply because they don’t like the character that much. In these instances, the character might actually be more likable if there was a little more distance in the narrative.

2. Can Give Away Plot Twists Too EarlyAnother limitation of first-person is that sometimes you don’t want readers to know what’s happening in the character’s head. For example, maybe the character knows something and you don’t want the reader to know it. There are definitely ways to get around this when you’re writing a deep POV.

Generally speaking, you do want readers to know what your character knows, so they can advance through the story with the the characters and identify with them as the story progresses. However, there are definitely stories where you don’t want readers to know. And in those instances, first-person might not be your best choice.

1. Can Create a Flat Narrative ToneIf you don’t have a really good voice for the character-–if it’s flat or monotone—then first person is probably not your best choice. This is not always true. But generally speaking, this can flatline your entire narrative in a way that wouldn’t necessarily happen in a different kind of POV. First-person can sometimes lend itself to staccato prose, which will just be exacerbated by flatness in the narrative voice.

If you’re going to write in first-person, find a character or create a voice for a character that’s really interesting, that is lively and has personality and isn’t a monotone recording of what they see and what they do and how their thoughts are reacting.

Tips & Tricks for Writing in Third-Person POVThird-person can be quite similar to first-person if you’re doing a deep POV. One of the advantages of third-person is that it’s quite flexible. You can do a lot with third-person. Again, third-person is where you are telling a story about someone else. You’re using third-person pronouns like “he” or “she.” That is how you’re addressing the POV character.

If you’re going deep with a third-person POV, then you’re essentially just as deep in their head as with first-person, reporting what they’re experiencing and what they’re thinking and feeling in pretty much the same way. Again, you can do direct thoughts that are italicized, but you don’t have to because the whole narrative is still in their voice. It’s coming through the character. In contrast to first-person, you’ve just chosen to take that one little step back and use third-person pronouns instead of first-person pronouns.

There’s a whole gamut of depth and shallowness you can play with within third-person POV. You may choose to go really deep and be completely inside a character’s head, or you may choose to draw back to varying degrees and not be so deep in their head. In the latter case, you’d still be using the third-person pronouns and reporting what they’re doing, but you’re not so deep in their head and you can still tell what they’re thinking. You share that with readers, but it becomes more that you are reporting their thoughts rather than that you’re recording them through their voice.

In most stories, you’ll zoom in a little bit here and zoom out a little bit there. You want consistency, but you can think of it in a similar way to what you would see in a movie, in which sometimes there’s close-ups and then sometimes it’s a wide shot. What’s important is that the voice remains consistent, so readers always have a sense of who’s talking to them, that it feels like it fits with the narrative voice that’s been used up until this point.

Multiple POVsAgain, with third-person, you can totally do multiple POVS. You can go deep within the perspective of any number of characters and show what they’re seeing in different scenes.

One thing to think about with POVs of any type, is that if you’re going to do multiple POVS, really consider why you’re putting them all in. POVs create your narrative; they frame every piece of your narrative. It’s true that putting in random POVs or a POV from a character who’s going to have a POV scene just once (just so you can show something that’s happening that the protagonist isn’t on stage) can be effective. I can definitely help you show information that the reader wouldn’t be able to access through the protagonist’s point of view. But you have to be careful with this because it can easily scatter your narrative.

Generally speaking, the fewer POvs you can get away with, the better. The use of a single POV is really, in my opinion, very underestimated. These days, we tend to want huge sprawling POV stories, but a single POV story, when done well can be unparalleled for the effect it creates.

Again, multiple POVs are great in romance, in which you will generally have two. In other types of story, it’s fine to have dozens. What’s important is that you’re aware of how these POvs are interacting with the story’s overall structure. We talked a few months ago in the video about multiple timelines and plot lines about how it can be really effective to bring minor characters in at the structural moments as kind of a subplot, sewing them in at regular intervals so they don’t just show up once randomly. You want each POV to feels like it was on purpose and that there’s a thematic reason and a structural reason for why these POVs are in here rather than them just being convenient for the author.

That’s always something to think about when you’re choosing how many or which characters are going to get POVs within a story.

Tips & Tricks for Writing in Omniscient POVH.M.S. Surprise by Patrick O’Brian (affiliate link)

With third-person, you can zoom all the way out, and when you get all the way out, that is generally what’s called omniscient POV. Omniscient POV is where you’re not really in any one specific character’s head. As the name suggests, the story is being told from an all-knowing point of view—that point of view generally being the author, although it can on occasion be a specific narrator within the story, who knows everything that’s happening and they’re just kind of reporting it back.

The advantage of omniscient POV is that you can go anywhere and tell anything. It isn’t as confined. It doesn’t have to play by as many rules, in a certain sense, as the more limited povs of first-person and deep third. The disadvantage is that it isn’t as intimate. By nature, it’s more distant. Even though you can dip into a character’s head here or report on what they may be thinking there, you aren’t following a character through the entire story and experiencing it from the inside out.

Deep POVs—first-person and deep third—offer an inside-out experience of the story. Omniscient is an outside-in. You’re looking at the story from an outside perspective and sometimes delving into characters’ heads and thoughts. It’s more like you’re reporting what they’re thinking rather than trying to create an experience where readers are equally experiencing it.

Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke (affiliate link)

Omniscient was very popular back in the day. Victorian novels, etc., were almost all told from an omniscient point of view. Omniscient has grown more out of favor to where mainstream fiction is more in a deep POV these days. However, it’s still used and it can be very effective at creating more of a stylistic tone for a story. Particularly if you are trying to give it a historical flavor. Omniscient can be very effective at doing that. In the Aubrey Maturin series, Patrick O’Brian this masterfully. Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell comes to mind also as a story that does this really well.

Downsides of Omniscient POVThe major downfall is that when omniscient is done poorly, it lacks focus. It feels like an author who doesn’t have control of their narrative, like they’re using omniscient because they just want to tell everything—versus it being a cohesive choice.

Good omniscient story is still limited. It’s still choosing to focus on very specific things for very specific reasons. It’s not just jumping from this character to that character to that character because it’s convenient to tell a bigger story.

I feel like the random omniscient narratives that don’t really work are doing that because they’re more plot-based. They’re just using the characters and jumping from character to character to character as a way to just tell what’s happening. They focus on what’s “out there” and what the characters are seeing rather than the characters themselves and what they’re doing. In contrast, a more controlled and contained omniscient narrative is one that is still focused on the characters. It has a good grasp of how to integrate character, plot, and theme and is using its POV choices to accomplish that.

What to Know About Head-HoppingPart and parcel of omniscient narratives that don’t work and that are just jumping around all over the place is a POV mistake or pitfall that you will often hear called head-hopping. Head-hopping can happen in any of the different POV types that we’ve talked about. Basically, head-hopping is when you’re breaking the rules you have set for your story and your POV use within your story. Instead, you’re jumping out of the established POV into a different character’s head.

Head-Hopping in Deep POVsThis is most obvious if you are writing a deep third-person or first-person. Head-hopping occurs when you’re writing a deep POV, in which you’re telling a scene from within one character’s head, and then all of a sudden there’s a thought or an observation from another character. Maybe this other character is watching your protagonist, or maybe you’re including this other character’s thoughts because you want an outside perspective on your protagonist (e.g., you want somebody to describe how they look or offer a perspective on what they’re doing or why they’re doing it). And so you jump real quick over into this other person’s head and give their thoughts and their perspective, and then you jump back to the original character. That’s head hopping.

This can be very jarring and confusing for readers. At the very least, it does not contribute to a cohesive narrative. The simplest way to avoid head-hopping is to recognize that you can use other characters’ POVs, but you need to do so in a structured way, such as by ending one character’s POV with a scene or a chapter break and then switch to the next character’s. Generally, because this is indicated by scene breaks, each characters’ POV needs to constitute a scene or at least a big chunk of the scene to be worth the break. Jumping to another character’s POV for a paragraph or something generally isn’t a good idea. It can be kind of quirky and funny if that’s the kind of story that you’re writing, but otherwise it’s basically head hopping just sort of disguised.

If you want to include multiple POVs, the best approach is usually to create a scene from one character’s POV, then switch to the next character’s POV and remain consistent with each character within their section.

Head-Hopping in Omniscient POVThe topic of head-hopping becomes a little more complicated when you’re writing an omniscient POV that by nature is able to look into any character’s head. The rules do blur a little here. It’s a little harder to be able to say, “Well, that’s omniscient and that’s head hopping.” The basic bottom line is always to ask yourself:

• Does it work?
• Does it feel jarring?
• Does it feel like you’re just jumping from character to character to character?
• Does it feel seamless?

Studying how authors have done this in omniscient narratives and made it work can be very helpful in recognizing the difference between head-hopping and omniscient.

Although not a hard and fast rule, a general way to test whether you are head-hopping versus using an omniscient POV is to ask yourself:

• Are you going deep into the characters’ heads when you shift?
• Are you explicitly saying “this character is thinking this” and then “this character is thinking this“?
• Are you using direct thoughts (e.g., maybe the one character is thinking, I really want ice cream for breakfast, and then you go over Sally’s thinking, I really want eggs for breakfast.)?
• Are you trying to switch into a deep POV for multiple characters?

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak (affiliate link)

Again, you will see exceptions to this, but often that’s going to be a pretty jarring approach to readers versus maintaining a consistent POV. Think about who is telling the story. What is the specific narrative perspective? This creates a unified cohesive perspective, whether that perspective is a specific character within the story or an actual narrator, such as in Marcus Zusak’s The Book Thief, in which Death narrates the entire story. In this case, Zusak is ultimately the narrator, since he’s the one writing the book, but he uses Death as an omniscient character within the story who can examine everything that’s happening and give a big picture view of what’s going on.

POV is arguably one of the trickiest techniques within narrative fiction. There’s a lot to get your head around and learn. The best way to learn is studying how it’s done. It’s one thing to read it casually, because if you’re not paying attention, a good POV is very seamless. As a reader, you’re not normally thinking about it. You’re not thinking, Oh, that’s in first-person. You want the effect to be so seamless that readers don’t have to think about it.

However, as you’re trying to figure out how to write it, you need to go back and study. Ask, “What is the writer doing to create this cohesion and this seamless effect, whether they’re writing first-person or third- or omniscient.” Always pay attention to how you respond and react to these various POVs, so you can understand which effect you want to convey within your own story.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Which different types of POV have you used in your stories? Which did you enjoy most? Which did you find most challenging? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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The Resolution is a bittersweet moment. You’ve reached the end of the story. You’ve climbed the mountain, and now you can plant your flag of completion at its peak! But as the finale of all your work, this is also the finale of all the fun you’ve experienced in your wonderful world of made-up people and places. The Resolution is where you must now say goodbye to your characters and give readers a chance to also say goodbye.

Your story and its conflict officially ended with your Climax. Most stories require a subsequent scene or two to tie off loose ends and, just as importantly, to guide readers to a final emotion. Like those great ensemble scenes at the ends of the original Star Wars movies, this is the last glimpse readers will have of your story world and its characters. Make it one they’ll remember!

Star Wars: A New Hope (1977), 20th Century Fox.

What Is the Resolution?From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

Conceivably, you could close your story at the Climactic Moment since your story and its conflict officially ended there. But if most stories were to end immediately after the Climax, the result would be some very disgruntled readers.

After all the emotional stress of the Climax, readers want a moment to relax. They want to see the characters rising, dusting off their pants, and moving on with life. They want to glimpse how the ordeals of the previous three acts have changed your characters; they want a preview of the new life your characters will live in the aftermath of the conflict. And if you’ve done your job right, they’ll want this extra scene just to spend a little more time with characters they’ve grown to love.

As its name suggests, the Resolution is where everything is resolved. In the Climax, the protagonist overcame the villain and won the love interest; in the Resolution, readers now get to witness how these actions will make a difference for the characters moving forward.

For Example:

• The film Serenity ends by showing Captain Mal Reynolds and his surviving crew heading back to space, now free of the Alliance’s dogged pursuit, while Mal and Inara and Simon and Kaylee take a step into their future relationships together.

Serenity (2005), Universal Pictures.

The Resolution is not just the ending of this story but also the beginning of the story the characters will live in after readers close the back cover. The Resolution performs its two most significant duties in capping the current story while also promising the characters’ lives will continue. This is true of standalone books and even truer of individual parts in an ongoing series.

For Example:

• Ship of Magic, the first book in Robin Hobb’s The Liveship Traders trilogy, is open-ended: its Resolution promises protagonist Althea Vestritt will pursue and rescue her liveship Vivacia, which has been captured by pirates.
• The standalone book Empire of the Sun by J.G. Ballard ends with a few short scenes explaining the protagonist Jamie’s adjustment to his post-war life outside of the Japanese POW camp and hinting at his future growing up in England.

Empire of the Sun (1987), Warner Bros.

Where Does the Resolution Belong?Creating the perfect ending boils down to one essential objective: leave readers satisfied. The Resolution begins directly after the Climax and continues until the last page. Resolutions can vary in length, but shorter is generally better. Your plot is over. You don’t want to test readers’ patience by wasting their time.

The length of your Resolution will depend on a couple of factors, the most important being the number of remaining loose ends. Using the scenes leading up to your Climax to resolve as many subplots as possible will free up your Resolution to take care of essentials.

Another factor to consider is the tone with which you want to leave readers. This is your last chance to influence their perception of your story. How do you want to end things? Should the final emotion be happy? Sad? Thoughtful? Funny?

One of my favorite Resolutions is the final scene in Disney’s The Kid. Its closing scene promises reconciliation between the main character and the woman he loves, indicating the future progression of his transformed life. It strikes the perfect note of happiness, hope, and affirmation. Strive to leave your readers with a similarly powerful and memorable scene.

Disney’s The Kid (2000), Walt Disney Pictures.

Examples of the Resolution From Film and LiteraturePride and Prejudice: After Darcy and Elizabeth proclaim their love for one another in the Climax, Austen ties up her loose ends in a few tidy scenes that include the Bennet family’s reaction to the engagement. From her perch as an omniscient and distant narrator, Austen caps her story with a final witty scene in which she covers the book’s two culminating weddings and comments on Mr. and Mrs. Darcy’s and Mr. and Mrs. Bingley’s future lives together. Her Resolution is a beautiful example of hitting a tone that sums up the story and leaves readers feeling exactly how she wants them to.

Pride & Prejudice (1995), BBC1.

It’s a Wonderful Life: The closing scene of this classic has viewers crying all over the place every Christmas. The movie wastes no time moving on from the Climax, in which George’s friends bring him above and beyond the $8,000 he needs to replace what was stolen by Mr. Potter. The Resolution immediately fills in the remaining plot holes by bringing the entire cast (sans the antagonist) back for one last round of “Auld Lang Syne” and hinting that the angel Clarence has finally earned his wings. This tour de force of an emotionally resonant closing scene leaves readers wanting more while fulfilling their every desire for the characters.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

Ender’s Game: Card takes his time with a lengthy Resolution. In it, we’re given what essentially amounts to both an epilogue explaining some of Ender’s life after his defeat of the aliens (he leaves Earth to try to make peace with both his superstar status and his guilt over his xenocide of the aliens) and an introduction to the sequels that will follow (in which Ender takes charge of finding a new home for the sole remaining alien cocoon).

Ender’s Game (2013), Lionsgate.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World: After tying off all existing loose ends from the plot’s overarching conflict, the story closes with a surprising scene in which Jack realizes the Acheron’s captain masqueraded as the ship’s surgeon in order to attempt a takeover of the ship once it sailed away from the Surprise. The final scene—in which Jack matter-of-factly orders his ship to once again pursue the Acheron, while he and Stephen play a rousing duet—gives us both a sense of continuation and a perfect summation of the movie’s tone.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003), Miramax Films.

Top Things to Remember About the Resolution1. The Resolution takes place directly after the Climax and is the book’s last scene(s). 2. The Resolution ties off all prominent loose ends and answers all salient questions. However, it must also avoid being too pat. 3. The Resolution offers a sense of the characters’ continuing lives. Even a standalone book should hint at this forward momentum. 4. The Resolution gives readers concrete examples of how the characters’ journey has changed them. If someone transforms from a selfish jerk, the Resolution needs to dramatize this change of heart. 5. Finally, the Resolution strikes an emotional note that pays tribute to the book’s tone (e.g., funny, romantic, melancholy, etc.).

As you write your closing lines, consider all the words that have come before. Dig deep to cap your story with an intellectual and emotional Resolution. Congratulations, you now know how to structure a story!

And now we’ve come to the end of our series! I hope you’ve enjoyed these last few months’ journey through the exciting landscape of story structure. You now have the tools to identify and understand the important plot points in any story and to consciously apply them to your own books. With the knowledge of story structure in your writing toolbox, you can deliberately craft and tweak your stories to make certain you’re giving readers the rise and fall and ebb and flow that will suck them into your story world and convince them of the credibility of your characters’ strong arcs. Happy writing!

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! How many scenes does your story’s Resolution contain? Tell me in the comments!Related Posts:

Part 1: 5 Reasons Story Structure Is Important

Part 2: The Hook

Part 3: The First Act

Part 4: The Inciting Event

Part 5: The First Plot Point

Part 6: The First Half of the Second Act

Part 7: The Midpoint

Part 8: The Second Half of the Second Act

Part 9: The Third Act

Part 10: The Third Plot Point

Part 11: The Climax

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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The Climax is the pièce de résistance of your gourmet meal of a novel. When you wheel out the Climax and lift the serving dish’s gleaming silver lid, this is the bit that gets all the oohs and aahs.

The Climax should have readers on the edge of their seats. They should be breathless, tense, and curious to bursting. They should have a general idea of what’s coming but also suffer the exquisite torture of a little doubt. What’s gonna happen? Will the characters survive? Will they save the world/their families/the battle/their lives in time?

What Is the Climax?Starting with the Third Plot Point, the action will rise to a fever pitch. The characters will have been backed to the wall with limited choices about how to respond. The Climax begins when the two speeding trains driven by protagonist and antagonistic force begin hurtling toward a final collision.

The function of the Climax is to conclusively end the plot conflict by deciding whether or not the protagonist will attain the plot goal. Although some genres (such as romance) predetermine the protagonist’s success, it is not structurally important whether or not the character gains the plot goal.

From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

In some stories, the protagonist may decide the true victory is found in not seizing the plot goal even once it is within reach. What is important is that the protagonist reaches a moment in the story in which it no longer makes sense to pursue the plot goal. Either because the protagonist reaches the plot goal or because the antagonistic force creates a permanent block to the plot goal or because the protagonist decides to relinquish it—whatever the case, this is where the protagonist’s pursuit of the goal ends.

For Example:

• In Lois McMaster Bujold’s The Curse of Chalion, the Climax is reached when the protagonist Cazaril and the antagonist Martou dy Jironal clash in the duel that kills dy Jironal, which allows Cazaril to achieve his goal of breaking the curse upon the royal family.
• In the classic film The Thomas Crown Affair, insurance investigator Vicki Anderson fails to achieve her plot goal when the trap she set for her master thief lover fails. She waits to arrest him as his Rolls Royce arrives to pick up the stolen bank money, only to discover he left the country and sent a decoy in his place.
• In Frances Hodgson Burnett’s A Little Princess, the protagonist Sara’s central plot problem is solved when she returns the neighbor Mr. Carrisford’s monkey and reveals herself to be the long searched for daughter of Carrisford’s dead business partner. This allows her to escape her servitude to the evil Miss Minchin and return to a loving family.

A Little Princess (1995), Warner Bros.

In some stories, the Climax will involve a drawn-out physical battle. In others, the Climax might be a simple admission that changes everything for the protagonist. Almost always, it is a moment of revelation for the main character. Depending on the story’s needs, the characters will reach a life-changing epiphany directly before, during, or after the Climax. They will then act definitively upon that revelation, capping the change in their character arcs and ending the primary conflict physically, spiritually, or both.

The Climactic MomentThe Climax is a sequence of scenes comprising the final eighth of the story. This sequence is designed to funnel the characters into the pivotal Climactic Moment. The Climactic Moment is the climax of the Climax. It is the exact moment when the conflict ends.

The Climactic Moment is one of your story’s most structurally essential beats. This is so not just because the plot cannot end without it but because the Climactic Moment reveals what your story is really about and whether the structure you’ve designed has worked.

Whatever happens in the Climactic Moment is what your story has been building toward. Every beat in the story’s structure (starting with the Hook and moving through the Inciting Event, the First Plot Point, the Pinch Points, the Midpoint, and the Third Plot Point) has been leading up to the Climactic Moment. If you were to write an outline that featured just these main structural beats, you should see a consistent pattern. Everything at these beats should thematically align with what happens at the Climactic Moment. If they do, you know you’ve created a story structure that works. If they do not, you now have a map to guide you to which structural pieces need to be revised to create cohesion and resonance within your plot.

The Climactic Moment tells you three things:

1. What your main conflict is really about.

2. What your protagonist’s main plot goal really is.

3. Who is the true antagonistic force.

These three elements should be presented consistently throughout the story. By the same token, if you have consistently presented a conflict, goal, and antagonist at every other plot beat, these elements must be featured in your story’s Climax.

The Climactic Moment signals the end of the story. Although you will likely tie off loose ends in a final Resolution scene (to be discussed next week), the Climactic Moment is the true ending. There is no plot left after this.

Where Does the Climax Belong?The Climax occurs in the Third Act, beginning around the 88% mark. More often than not, the Climactic Moment at the end of the Climax will be the penultimate scene, just before the Resolution. Because the Climax says everything to be said except for a little emotional mopping up, there’s no need for the story to continue long after its completion.

Some stories will include a faux climax, in which the characters think they’ve ended the conflict, only to realize they haven’t addressed the true obstacle standing between them and the goal. For example, in Toy Story, Woody and Buzz defeat the evil neighbor kid Sid in a faux climax, only to realize they may still miss the moving van that will take them to Andy’s new home. Faux climaxes do nothing to change the requirements of the actual Climax.

Toy Story (1995), Walt Disney Pictures.

Examples of the Climax From Film and LiteraturePride and Prejudice: As in most romantic stories, the Climactic Moment of this classic novel occurs when the two leads come together, admit their love for each other, and commit to a long-term relationship. After Darcy’s gallantry in patching up Lydia’s elopement with Wickham and his efforts to reunite Bingley and Jane, he and Elizabeth are at last alone on a walk, during which they put straight their former misconceptions, repent of their misconduct to one another, and get engaged.

Pride & Prejudice (2005), Focus Features.

It’s a Wonderful Life: After receiving the gift of seeing the world without himself in it, George races back to the bridge and fervently prays, “I want to live again!” This moment is both his personal revelation and a bit of a faux climax. It properly caps the unborn sequence (which follows a mini plot and structure of its own) and leads into the true Climax in which the town rallies to help George make up the lost $8,000 before he can be arrested.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

Ender’s Game: After Ender and his team graduate from Battle School, they enter a new series of what they all believe to be tactical games training them to face the aliens. Pushed to the limit of his physical and emotional endurance, Ender triggers the Climactic Moment when he breaks what he perceives as the rules. He looses his frustrated aggression on the game and annihilates the enemy. Then comes the revelation that he wasn’t playing a game at all, but rather commanding faraway troops fighting the aliens in real time.

Ender’s Game (2013), Lionsgate.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World: The climactic battle between the HMS Surprise and the Acheron takes up a lengthy section of the Third Act, rising to a single red-hot point. The Climactic Moment occurs when Captain Jack Aubrey enters the Acheron’s surgery to find the French captain, his long-pursued enemy, dead. He takes the captain’s sword from the surgeon and organizes the mopping up.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003), Miramax Films.

Top Things to Remember About the Climax1. The Climax occurs near the end of the story, beginning around the 88% mark and ending only a scene or two away from the last page. 2. The Climax comprises a sequence of scenes leading to the Climactic Moment. 3. The Climax decisively ends the primary conflict with the antagonistic force (whether the protagonist wins or loses). 4. The Climax is the fulcrum around which the character arc turns. Whatever happens here is the direct result of the protagonist’s personal revelation. 5. Depending on how many layers of conflict you’ve created, your story may feature a faux climax leading up to the Climax proper.

Cut loose with your Climax. Have fun with it and think outside the box. Make sure you’ve checked off all the essential elements of structure so you can give readers an experience that will cement your story in their memories.

Stay tuned: Next week, we will talk about the Resolution.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! How does your story’s Climax fulfill all your promises to your readers? Tell me in the comments!Related Posts:

Part 1: 5 Reasons Story Structure Is Important

Part 2: The Hook

Part 3: The First Act

Part 4: The Inciting Event

Part 5: The First Plot Point

Part 6: The First Half of the Second Act

Part 7: The Midpoint

Part 8: The Second Half of the Second Act

Part 9: The Third Act

Part 10: The Third Plot Point

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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The Third Act begins with another life-changing plot point. More than any preceding it, this plot point sets the protagonist’s feet on the path toward the final conflict in the Climax. From here, your clattering dominoes form a straight line as your protagonist hurtles toward an inevitable confrontation with the antagonistic force. Because the entire Third Act is full of big and important scenes, this opening plot point, by comparison, can sometimes seem less defined than the First Plot Point and the Midpoint. However, its thrust must be just as adamant.

The Third Plot Point represents a Low Moment for your characters. The thing they want most in the world will be almost within grasp—only to be dashed away—causing them to question their investment in the conflict. The subsequent Climax will be the period in which the characters rise from the ashes, ready to do battle from a place of inner wholeness. The Third Plot Point is the place from which they must rise.

What Is the Third Plot Point?From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

As the portal between the Second Act‘s end and the Third Act’s beginning, the Third Plot Point represents one of the story’s most significant shifts. Back at the 25% mark, the transition between the First and Second Acts signaled that the characters had left behind their Normal World and, with it, whoever they used to be. Now, this bookending transition into the Third Act signals they have entered the final proving ground. Everything they have learned, experienced, gained, and lost in the Second Act will be put to the final test.

Symbolically within the transformational arc of a story, the Third Plot Point represents death—with the possibility of rebirth, if the character manages to complete a Positive Change Arc. Often, this beat is referred to as the Dark Night of the Soul, indicating an intense period of internal suffering and questioning as the characters grapple with external losses while struggling to unify all the pieces of their newly evolved selves.

Writing Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

If they can successfully manage this, they will be able to embrace the story’s thematic Truth and rise into a new version of themselves, one with the capability to achieve moral and perhaps practical victory in the Climax. If they fail this intense test and cannot fully rebirth into a more coherent version of themselves, they will struggle to find a complete victory in the Climax. This weakness may cause them to lose the plot goal altogether. Even if they manage to seize the plot goal (perhaps through dubious means), they will experience a fatal moral failure that poisons their achievements.

The intensity of the character’s suffering at the Third Plot Point will depend on the nature of your story. Generally, whatever takes place here should be “the worst thing that has ever happened” within the scope of the story.

For Example:

• In Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins, the vigilante Ra’s Al Ghul announces his intentions to destroy Gotham, then burns Bruce Wayne’s mansion and leaves him for dead.
• In Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, Jane discovers, on her wedding day, that Mr. Rochester is already married to a madwoman. This prompts her to flee her life at Thornfield, ending her relationship with the man she loves.
• In Charles Portis’s True Grit, young Mattie finds her father’s murderer and is captured by a gang of outlaws who threaten her life.

True Grit (2010), Paramount Pictures.

The symbolism of death is important and can be used literally. The characters may lose a loved one or perhaps even suffer significant injuries themselves. The death may also be metaphoric: perhaps they experience the death of a career or a relationship. This symbolism can emerge subtly through cues in the exterior setting that reflect the character’s inner questioning (e.g., perhaps they pass a funeral or observe a crushed flower on the sidewalk).

It is important that the characters face the “death” of the person they used to be. The challenge here is whether or not they will embrace this death and claim the subsequent rebirth.

The False Victory and the Low MomentThe Third Plot Point is made up of two important beats. The thematically crucial Low Moment is preceded by the equally important False Victory. One of the most significant features of this pairing is that it creates a natural arc to the beat. It begins in a seemingly positive state before plunging the characters into darkness. (I talk about this in more detail in my book Next Level Plot Structure.)

Even more significant is that this pairing creates the bridge between the “action phase” of the Second Act into the full-on transformation of the Third Act. Throughout the Second Act, particularly after the Midpoint, the characters have been rapidly progressing in their ability to understand the nature of both the internal and external conflict. Thanks to the Moment of Truth at the Midpoint, they recognized the potency of the story’s central Truth and began integrating it into both their internal landscape and their tactics in the external plot.

But there’s a catch.

Even though the characters claimed the Truth at the Midpoint, they have not yet fully rejected the Lie. Throughout the Second Half of the Second Act, they continued to cling to certain of their old limited perspectives from the First Act. More than that, as they became more and more proactive toward the end of the Second Half, they failed to see their blind spots. This leads them directly to the False Victory at the beginning of the Third Plot Point.

Whatever happens here is the result of a tactic the characters deliberately employed to reach their goal. They may have believed this gambit was the one that would finally lead them to success. Even if they were back on their heels and making a desperate choice, they acted according to everything they learned up to this point—but without realizing they have yet to fully face their blind spots.

This leads them to the Low Moment. In some stories, the False Victory will be only a short moment of hope before everything falls apart. Even in stories in which the False Victory is truly victorious in some way, the characters will suffer collateral damage. Sacrifices will be made, sometimes willingly, but usually because the characters’ choices create dire consequences. This will lead them to their soul-searching and, if they successfully transform, the complete death of their old Lie and complete rebirth into the New Truth.

For Example:

• In What About Bob?, the protagonist Bob shows clear signs of improving his neuroses, but this leads directly to the mental breakdown of his psychiatrist Leo, which prompts Leo’s family to ask their friend Bob to leave.
• In Toy Story, Woody is on the brink of escaping from Sid’s room back to Andy’s house, only to have his plans thwarted when the rest of Andy’s toys see Buzz’s dismembered arm and believe Woody has hurt him once again.
• In A Christmas Carol, Scrooge joins the third and final spirit, having been much changed by his previous visitations, only to be shown a doomed future that includes his own death and that of Tiny Tim.

Mickey’s Christmas Carol (1983), Walt Disney Pictures.

Where Does the Third Point Belong?The Third Plot Point takes place at the 75% mark. Like the First Plot Point’s threshold between the First and Second Acts, the Third Plot Point creates a threshold between the Second and Third Acts. It is not properly a part of either act but provides the portal between them.

Timing becomes trickier the closer you get to the end. In longer works, such as novels, it can be easy to get carried away in the Second Act, but this can sometimes cramp the Third Plot Point. Alternately, in shorter works such as films, we often see an overemphasis on the Climax that ends up short-changing either the Third Plot Point’s Low Moment or trying to get it over with as early as the Second Pinch Point at the 62% mark. Although timing and pacing are never hard and fast propositions, it is important to evaluate the big picture of your story’s structural timing. Assess whether any structural sections are getting short-changed. Particularly when it comes to the transformational beats—the First Plot Point, the Midpoint, and the Third Plot Point—ensure they receive the spotlight they deserve.

The events of the Third Plot Point may create a lengthy sequence comprising the first half of the Third Act, leading right up to the Climax. There is much for the characters to experience and react to in this beat, all of which will lay the groundwork for their ability to take definitive conflict-ending action in the Climax. In action stories, most character arc adjustments should be completed before the Climax begins. In more relational stories, the Climactic Moment may be the character’s final decision about how to act upon the story’s Truth. Regardless, the Third Plot Point and subsequent scenes must be fully developed to provide a sound foundation for the story’s ending.

Examples of the Third Plot Point From Film and LiteraturePride and Prejudice: Just as Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy begin to grow closer while spending time at his Pemberley estate, word comes that Elizabeth’s youngest sister Lydia has run away with the scoundrel Mr. Wickham. Elizabeth must return home, not only fearing the worst for her sister and her family, but also believing Lydia’s scandalous actions have caused Mr. Darcy to revile her family forever.

Pride & Prejudice (1995), BBC1.

It’s a Wonderful Life: After looking everywhere for the money Uncle Billy lost, George is forced to his lowest point when he approaches his nemesis Mr. Potter for a loan. When he offers his life insurance policy as collateral, Potter scoffs, “Why, you’re worth more dead than alive!” George sinks into soul-wrenching desperation as he drives to the river and contemplates killing himself so the policy can be cashed to repay the money.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

Ender’s Game: Ender is forced into a fatal confrontation with the bully Bonzo. In a display of the ruthlessness that has made him so successful at Battle School, he kills Bonzo. He is devastated by his actions and nearly gives up on Battle School, fleeing to his family on Earth to contemplate who he is becoming.

Ender’s Game (2013), Lionsgate.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World: This film provides an example of a Low Moment timed to take place at the Second Pinch Point, as Captain Jack Aubrey’s best friend Dr. Stephen Maturin is accidentally shot aboard ship. For the first time, Jack abandons his obsessive pursuit of the French privateer and takes his friend to the Galapagos Islands so he can be safely operated upon. The later turning point into the Third Act occurs when the Acheron is sighted nearby, setting up the final confrontation. This is not a Low Moment for Jack, but still sketches the beat’s emotions by being told through Stephen’s perspective and showing his disappointment that he will now have to abandon his long-awaited expedition to the Galapagos.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003), Miramax Films.

Top Things to Remember About the Third Plot Point1. The Third Plot Point occurs at the 75% mark, providing a bridge between the Second and Third Acts. 2. The Third Plot Point may be an utter upheaval of the gains the characters thought they made in the Second Half of the Second Act (as in Pride and Prejudice), an unexpected event (as in It’s a Wonderful Life), a personal decision (as in Ender’s Game), or a meeting between protagonist and antagonist (as in Master and Commander). 3. The Third Plot Point begins with a False Victory, in which the characters use what they learned in the Second Act to try to gain the plot goal. They may experience a win or just the expectation of one. 4. The Low Moment follows on the heels of the False Victory and prompts the characters into deep soul-searching as they contemplate their choices and actions. 5. If the characters can successfully see through their blind spots to reach the story’s central thematic Truth, they can rise back up to definitively approach the plot goal in the Climax.

The Third Plot Point proves how far your characters have come on their personal journeys and whether they can integrate everything they’ve learned. The Climax is coming up next, and they will need to consolidate all their growth to reach their plot goal.

Stay tuned: Next week, we will talk about the Climax.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What happens in your story’s Third Plot Point? Tell me in the comments!Related Posts:

Part 1: 5 Reasons Story Structure Is Important

Part 2: The Hook

Part 3: The First Act

Part 4: The Inciting Event

Part 5: The First Plot Point

Part 6: The First Half of the Second Act

Part 7: The Midpoint

Part 8: The Second Half of the Second Act

Part 9: The Third Act

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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The Third Act is what readers, writers, and characters have all been waiting for. This final section of the story is the point. It’s what you’ve been building up to all this time. If the First and Second Acts were engaging and aesthetic labyrinths, the Third Act is where X marks the spot. You’ve found the treasure. Now it’s time to start digging. Like the previous acts, the Third Act opens with a bang, but unlike the other two acts, it never lets up. From this point on, everyone is in for a wild ride. All the threads you’ve been weaving up to this point must now be artfully tied together.

The Third Act occupies the book’s final quarter, beginning around the 75% mark and continuing until the end. This is a relatively small portion of the story, particularly when considering all that must be accomplished.

From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

Within the Third Act, we find the final four structural beats:

• The Third Plot Point – 75%
• The Climax – 88%
• The Climactic Moment — 98%
• The Resolution – 100%

The Third Plot Point, which we will discuss next week, is the final major turning point within the story. Like the First Plot Point, it does not explicitly belong to either the Second Act that precedes it or the Third Act that follows it. Rather, it creates the threshold between the two. Often referred to as the Dark Night of the Soul, the Third Plot Point is a moment of reckoning in which the protagonist faces the consequences of previous choices and decides how to re-commit to a final pursuit of the plot goal.

The Climax, which we will discuss in Part 11, begins roughly halfway through the Third Act. It signals the protagonist’s final push toward the plot goal and the final confrontation with the antagonistic force. It will decide the outcome of the conflict once and for all, determining whether or not the protagonist will gain the plot goal.

Finally, the Third Act ends with the Resolution, which we will discuss in Part 12. After the conflict has been decided in the Climax, the Resolution offers a last moment to tie off loose ends and show how the characters have been affected by the story’s events.

One reason the Third Act picks up the pace compared to the previous acts is the simple necessity of cramming in everything that needs to be addressed before the book runs out of time and space.

• All of the foreshadowing planted in the previous acts must now be fulfilled.
• All the characters (and other essential playing pieces, à la the Maltese Falcon) must be assembled.
• Subplots must be satisfactorily tied off.
• Both the protagonist and the antagonistic force must have time to actualize the final aspects of their intentions.
• The protagonist must face inner demons and complete the character arc in concert with the final conflict with the antagonistic force.
• Finally, everything must be capped with a satisfying Resolution.

That’s a lot to accomplish in 25% of the book, so there’s no time to waste. In the Third Act, we can see one of the primary benefits of structure: for the story to work, all the pieces in the First and Second Acts must be in place to lay the foundation for the finale.

Paying Off All ForeshadowingForeshadowing has two parts: the plant and the payoff. If the First Act was about setting up your story’s playing pieces—characters, settings, and stakes—your Third Act is about utilizing all these elements to their fullest capacity. Sometimes, this can mean returning to settings that haven’t been used since the First Act or reintroducing certain characters.

Most importantly, the Third Act is about fulfilling any expectations you have raised in readers. Some of these may be general expectations. For example, readers may expect an exciting action sequence in the Climax. Or they may expect the romantic couple to experience a Happily Ever After.

They will also expect all of their questions to be answered. In the First Act, you raised many questions to hook their attention. Now that you’ve successfully kept their attention until the end, you must satisfy their curiosity. If a backstory secret was teased earlier in the story, that must be revealed by the end. If tension (sexual or otherwise) was brewing between two characters in earlier scenes, that must come to a head before or during the Third Act. If a specific emotion (e.g., fear, desire, foreboding, grief) was emphasized, then you must make sure you’ve explained its origin and given it space to express.

Remember, the more heavily you emphasize a foreshadowing plant earlier, the more dramatic the payoff should be. If you’ve hinted at that backstory secret over and over again, you will heighten reader anticipation for the reveal. For example, if you’ve indicated a character was traumatized by something in the past, readers won’t be satisfied if the backstory event turns out to be pedestrian. This doesn’t mean you must always go big with your reveals; it does mean the intensity of the foreshadowing should be crafted to match the intensity of the reveal.

Fulfilling Your Character’s ArcCreating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

This final quarter of the story is a place of no escape for your characters. Their backs are against a wall, and their only remaining option is to fully confront the antagonistic force. All their reactions and actions in the previous acts have led them to a point where they must face every last one of their weaknesses and mistakes. If they’re to triumph, they must allow themselves to be broken—and then to either rise from the ashes with new wisdom and strength or to fall even further into destruction.

When your characters reach the Climax, they will make a last attempt to obtain both their story-long goal and their deepest Need (which may or may not be the same and, indeed, may even be antithetical). They’re putting all their cards on the table. If they don’t win now, they never will. The stakes are at their highest in the Third Act.

The First Act was where your characters were confronted with a new set of problems that required them to change their way of being. This kicked off their character arcs. The Second Act was where they slowly began learning the ineffectiveness of old perspectives, as well as new modes of being that allowed them to move through the world more effectively. The Third Act is now where these new viewpoints and skills will be tested.

A good Third Act will resonate deeply with audiences exactly because it hammers home the reality that true personal transformation is never easy. Beginning with the Low Moment at the Third Plot Point, the characters will face the consequences of their mistakes. They will learn of the sacrifices they will yet be required to make to finish their transformation and reach their plot goals.

Creating Character Arcs Workbook

Not all stories will see the characters emerging triumphant from their character arcs. Indeed, in contrast to Positive Change Arcs in which a character successfully transforms, Negative Change Arcs are all about characters who are unable to adapt to a new and more efficacious way of being in the world, leading them to moral failure and probably practical failure within the plot. Whichever type of story you’re telling, you’ll need to set it up in the First Act and pay it off in the Third. (For more about Positive Change Arcs, Negative Change Arcs, and Flat Arcs, see my book Creating Character Arcs and its accompanying Creating Character Arcs Workbook.)

Ending the ConflictThe story ends when the plot ends. The plot ends when the conflict ends. And the conflict ends when the protagonist’s relationship to the plot goal is definitively decided one way or another. Either the protagonist reaches the plot goal and “wins” or fails to reach the plot goal and “loses.” Sometimes, this will correspondingly mean the antagonist loses or wins instead. In such stories, the Climax is usually decided by a confrontation between the protagonist and antagonist—a winner-takes-all final contest.

For Example:

• The antagonist cannot stop the protagonist from achieving the plot goal, as in Star Wars: A New Hope when Darth Vader fails to kill Luke Skywalker before he blows up the Death Star.
• The plot goal is destroying the antagonist, as in Stranger Things when Eleven obliterates the Demogorgon with her telekinetic powers.
• The protagonist and antagonist meet in a mano-a-mano competition, which either may win, as in Rocky when the antagonist Apollo Creed wins the boxing match.

Rocky (1976), United Artists.

However, the outcome of the conflict may also be more complex.

For Example:

• The protagonist may lose the plot goal but gain a more valuable moral victory, as in Rocky.
• The outcome may not be a destruction of one of the characters but rather a union between them, as in romances in which the love interests represent each other’s antagonistic forces as they work through the relational conflict to reach their ultimate desire of being together.
• The protagonist may “win” the plot goal away from the antagonist, only to realize the victory is compromised, as in The Maltese Falcon, in which detective Sam Spade recovers the priceless artifact but must have his lover arrested.

The Maltese Falcon (1941), Warner Bros.

As we will discuss more in Part 11, the Climax represents a definitive closure of the conflict that halts the story’s forward momentum. Although later permutations of the same conflict may arise in sequels, the story arc shared in this book reaches a conclusive end.

Examples of the Third Act From Film and LiteraturePride and Prejudice: After learning the terrible news that her youngest sister Lydia has scandalously run away with the scoundrel Wickham, Elizabeth returns home from her interlude with Mr. Darcy at Pemberley. The Third Act is a whirlwind of revelations, as Wickham mysteriously marries Lydia and Darcy’s aunt descends upon Elizabeth with demands that she promise never to marry her nephew. The plot and theme in this story are exceptionally tight with no loose pieces. Everything that was set up in the First Act and developed in the Second comes to fruition in the Third, as Elizabeth must recalibrate her opinions of Mr. Darcy in a realization of his worthiness and her love for him. Everything is complicated nicely with the dramatic doubt of whether her folly, not to mention Lydia’s, has forever compromised her ability to be with him.

Pride & Prejudice (2005), Focus Features.

It’s a Wonderful Life: The Second Act ends with Uncle Billy losing the Building & Loan’s $8,000 and George frantically attempting to recover it. This dramatic event is followed by the appearance of the angel Clarence and his granting of George’s wish to “never be born.” The Third Act is made up almost entirely of George’s exploration of the tragedies that would have filled Bedford Falls without his presence and influence. The main antagonist isn’t present in the unborn sequence that comprises most of the Third Act, although his presence looms large. The focus here is on George’s inner journey and transformation.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

Ender’s Game: When Ender is forced to kill fellow student Bonzo, he is pushed to his breaking point. The time has come for him to leave Battle School and command Dragon Army in a larger arena. But after Bonzo’s death, the commanders realize they’re on the brink of losing the boy they’ve been grooming to save the world. Ender is permitted to return to Earth to visit his beloved sister Valentine. While there, he must make the decision that will change not only the fate of the world but also his own life. When he decides to return to space and take his promotion, events are sent into an irrevocable spiral to the Climax.

Ender’s Game (2013), Lionsgate.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World: When a convalescent Dr. Stephen Maturin is set loose upon his long-anticipated and long-delayed Galapagos expedition, he accidentally discovers the enemy ship at anchor on the far side of the island. This launches the Third Act in a flurry of preparations. Captain Jack Aubrey formulates his plan to lure the enemy privateer near enough to make the kill. His crew hurries to prepare for the climactic battle that has been foreshadowed since the opening scene.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003), Miramax Films.

Top Things to Remember About the Third Act1. The Third Act begins around the 75% mark. 2. The Third Plot Point ends the Second Act and begins the Third. This plot point may be a reversal of the gains made in the Second Half of the Second Act (as in Pride & Prejudice), an unexpected event (as in It’s a Wonderful Life), a personal decision (as in Ender’s Game), or a meeting between protagonist and antagonist (as in Master and Commander). 3. From its opening plot point onward, the Third Act picks up speed and doesn’t slow down. 4. Despite its comparatively fast pace, the Third Act must be thoughtful enough in its first moments to allow all the extra pieces to be either tied off and set out of the way (such as Ender’s relationship with his sister) or assembled for the showdown (such as the Surprise’s preparations for battle). 5. The Third Act pays off all foreshadowing. Everything set up in the first two acts comes full circle. 6. The Third Act completes the protagonist’s arc. Whether the character is following a Positive, Flat, or Negative Arc, the events of the Third Act offer the final possibilities for transformation. 7. The Third Act ends the conflict between protagonist and antagonist. The protagonist’s relationship to the plot goal will be definitively decided, whether victoriously or not.

If you can deliver a solid Third Act, you will have accomplished what myriads of novelists struggle to do (even published ones). This is where writers become authors!

Stay tuned: Next week, we will talk about the Third Plot Point.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Does your Third Act tie off all the loose ends? Tell me in the comments!Related Posts:

Part 1: 5 Reasons Story Structure Is Important

Part 2: The Hook

Part 3: The First Act

Part 4: The Inciting Event

Part 5: The First Plot Point

Part 6: The First Half of the Second Act

Part 7: The Midpoint

Part 8: The Second Half of the Second Act

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Today, I want to talk about learning how to trust yourself as a writer rather than relying too much on other people’s advice.

This is a question I receive in one form or another quite frequently from writers, particularly the writers who are just starting out and are trying to find that balance of honoring their own creativity and creative instinct—which is probably quite strong or they wouldn’t be interested in creating art and writing stories and balancing that against the need to learn and to understand the techniques and the tenants of the craft by seeking resources that can help you understand writing.

I say often that writing a novel is an extremely complex art form. Whether it’s a screenplay or whatever else—creating any type of story is a very complex art form. There are so many techniques and skills involved that you have to master if you’re going to pull off the whole. Part of it is understanding story theory, understanding the shape of story, character arc, story structure, and plot. Then you also have to learn how to execute those techniques: how to write good dialogue, how to write good prose, even just spelling, punctuation, and grammar. These are all part of the foundation of good writing. Then there are the little nuances of bringing characters to life, writing prose that’s entertaining and interesting and makes sense to readers.

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And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. There are just so many little skill sets that go to make up the big skill set of being able to write a successful novel or a successful screenplay. Put simply: there is a lot to learn about writing.

When you start getting serious, you realize, Oh there’s like stuff to learn here! You don’t just do it instinctively. There’s actually technique and and people who can guide you and help you figure out all this stuff you’ve been struggling with and that seems really hard. They can help you understand, for example, why doesn’t your prose or your story look quite like the ones you’re reading.

All the information any writer needs is out there. And it’s fabulous!

I clearly remember a day when I was probably in my in late teens, rambling around the library, and I found the writing section for the first time. There were, like, actual books that taught you how to write fiction! It was a revelation to me. I just gobbled it up and it was so exciting.

From there, however, it can be easy to get into a place where you feel overwhelmed by all the information. Again, writing is a complex skill set. There’s just so much to learn, and it can be very easy to feel like your brain’s going to explode (and not in a good way). There’s just so much information to take in and integrate just so you can write a chapter in your story.

You must find a balance between being willing to learn (i.e., being able to recognize your own ignorance and that there’s stuff to learn and people out there who can help you learn it) and feeling so overwhelmed by having to take in all the information or having to follow somebody else’s rules that you lose touch with your inner artist, your own inner compass of how to write stories, your own inner story knowledge.

Why You Can Trust Your Own Story InstinctsWhat is story? Story is just a reflection back to us of our arcs of psychological transformation. It’s a mirror of life. This means that, inherently, story is something every human has an innate understanding of. Nobody has to tell you what a story is. You know deep in your heart and your gut. You know what a story is—and particularly if you’re drawn to writing a story.

You’re probably deeply immersed in fiction yourself. You watch movies. You read books. You learn by osmosis what stories look like on a more intricate level. You come to the act of writing with an innate knowledge. It’s important to recognize that. I always tell people, “Trust your writing gut.” When you’re writing something and it feels really good—or it doesn’t feel good—trust that. You may not understand what it’s telling you specifically, but there’s a truth there, waiting for you to understand it.

It’s important as you’re going through that early process of learning lots of stuff from other people and hearing their voice in your head—whether it’s mine or some other writing instructor or your peers as you’re trading critiques or engaging with beta readers—not to get lost in the voices you’re hearing to the point that you forget your own innate and very accurate sense of story.

Now again, this is not to say your innate gut knowledge and instinct of what a story is and what makes a good story automatically translates into the ability to do it. The gut instinct doesn’t always translate into the mental realm. You have to gain a certain consciousness around what your instincts are telling you so you can bring mastery to the techniques.

One of the most important things to help you find your balance in a situation like this (or anything really) is understanding where you are in the context. If you understand the big picture, then the better you can understand where you’re at and therefore what questions you’re actually facing and what answers you need to be able to execute in your story in the way that you want.

One of the models I particularly have found helpful in my own life is the Arabic proverb that points out the four stages of growth.

You start out not knowing that you don’t know. Then as you progress through this state of complete ignorance (basically where where you think you know and really you do know nothing) to knowing that you don’t know. This is arguably the most powerful place to be because from here, you can move into a place of curiosity and learning and gathering information that’s extremely helpful. Then you move on to not knowing that you know. You’ve gained enough informational context that you have shortened the gap between your gut knowledge and your mental knowledge, so they’re both aligned and pulling in sync, but you still haven’t quite gained an awareness around that fact. And then from there you move on to mastery, which is knowing that you know.

If you can dentify where you are within those four stages, that can give you an understanding of how much reliance you can give to your own um understanding of any topic versus how much information you still need to glean and and learn and grow before you can reach a place where you shorten that gap between your own gut instinct and your ability to put words to and comprehend and bring a mental knowledge to that gut understanding.

The Dichotomy of Ignorance and PerfectionismSomething that gets writers hung up sometimes is this kind of dichotomy between ignorance and perfectionism. Really, though, it isn’t a dichotomy because very often these two things are the flip side of each other.

Perfectionism is very much a topic writers discuss because many of us do struggle with it. But I have found in my own life that really perfectionism and the harshness and the toxicity of that inner critic is really rooted in ignorance—either not knowing or knowing but not knowing that you’re knowing.

It’s an uncertainty. It’s like, “I don’t know what’s good enough and therefore it’s never good enough.” Sometimes when you’re stuck in that place of perfectionism, there is a sense of, “I have to learn and learn and learn. I have to get all the rules right. I have to learn everything perfectly.”

There can be kind of an abandonment of your own gut instinct in that process—in replacing it with that toxic inner critic of perfectionism. Try taking a step back and recognizing that perhaps this is simply arising from a place of ignorance. And that’s not a bad thing. It allows you to move into that stage of knowing that you don’t know. And that lets you know exactly where you’re at.

There’s nothing wrong with that stage. In some ways, it’s the most powerful and exciting stage. You’re discovering everything. However, it can lead to an overcorrection where you flip the script, and instead of feeling this pressure of, “I have to learn everything. I have to pay attention to what all the experts say and make sure I get everything perfectly right,” you flip it into that space where it’s like, “Well, phooey on them. I’m just going to do what I am going to do because I know better than them anyway. What do they know?” That, in itself, isn’t usually any more helpful than the perfectionism.

Instead taking that step back and recognizing this feeling is just a signal that I don’t know something and that it’s a stage of not just learning more rules, more mental stuff, but instead trying to figure out how to shorten that gap between your own gut instinct and what you know.

Instead of Looking for Better Answers, Learn to Ask Better QuestionsIf that need to know is arising out of a sense that, “There’s some things not working in my story and I’m not able to execute something the way I want to,” then that lets you start working on better and better questions. That will help you find the answers you need instead of it taking this shotgun approach where you feel like you need to know everything.

So that is something to think about it just like,

If you feel like you’re just pressured to follow the advice of everybody else who’s out there who knows more than you do, then try to narrow that down into a place where you are recognizing yourself as a student rather than someone who’s less than or is feeling unworthy because they don’t know everything. Instead, you are now someone who has the opportunity to figure out AND use your gut instinct to narrow down, “What do I need to know?”

Another troublesome dichotomy is that of curiosity versus judgment.

A lot of writers I hear from who are anxious are thinking either, “I need more advice. I need somebody to tell me how to do everything there is about my story” or vice versa, “I don’t want anybody’s advice. It’s too much. I don’t want or need anybody to tell me what to do with my story.” In both of those scenarios, there’s this energy of feeling judged. But ultimately, it’s not really that anybody else is judging or going to judge your writing; it’s that you’re judging it and judging yourself.

Again, this can be that perfectionistic toxic inner critic talking. You have to learn to take a step back from this place of judgment. Art does not thrive under judgment, particularly the creative act. Judgment is not a place that enhances or allows for curiosity, and curiosity is not only the best place from which to create art, it’s also the best place from which to learn. When you’re in curiosity, it doesn’t feel like there’s a teacher standing over you. Instead, not knowing becomes exciting.

Most of us are readers. We love to learn and get to experience new things and gain new skills. Moving into that beginner’s mind where you are not feeling like, “This is a test. I have to cram for this test and ace it.” You have to realize that becoming a good writing is a lifelong process. We’re all still learning. The very fact that story mirrors life shows us it’s a neverending school. We will always be learning more. We’ll always be experimenting. We’ll always be refining. The best art comes from that place where we don’t quite know—where we’re following that true creative instinct within ourselves but we don’t know where it’s going to go. We’re open and we’re flexible to what might come. We’re in a place of curiosity.

That’s also the best way to approach any writing advice. Whether you’re watching my videos or reading my books or my website or my podcast or somebody else’s or you’re getting feedback from critique partners, wherever you’re receiving advice or looking for advice, the best mindset to engage with that is from a place of curiosity.

After all, just because somebody is out there telling you how to write a story doesn’t mean that they know what they’re talking about. And it certainly doesn’t mean that even if they’re right in some contexts, they’re right in all contexts because art is extremely varied. Again, you might be creating something that’s never been created before, and others can’t necessarily comment on that.

Now, obviously there’s also the other side of that where artists think they’re creating something massive and original, but really it’s just a mess. So again, you have to find that balance of humility and curiosity, of recognizing where you are within the stages of growth—what you don’t know and therefore what you need to know—while still approaching what you don’t know with curiosity and approaching people and advice and teachers with curiosity. You have to ask, “What do they have to teach me?” rather than being this submissive mindset of, “They have all the answers and I need them.” That can either put you in this submissive place of wanting them to tell you what to do or the flip side of that, which is, “I don’t want anybody to tell me what to do. Therefore, I don’t want any advice.” That ultimately isn’t helpful either.

Broadening Your Context as a WriterContext is extremely valuable in understanding what you need to know, why you want to know it, and what you’re going to do with it. And the only way to gain context is to go out and gather lots of information. Context is the broad field, the map, and then you get the little pointer that says, “You are here.” If your context is tiny and it says “you are here,” you still won’t really know where you’re at. But the bigger your map and the bigger your context, the more sense it makes when it says, “You are here.”

The only way to gain that is to go on these discovery trips and to learn all you can. There is a period—it’s ongoing to some degree, but particularly in the beginning—where maybe you don’t know anything and you’re just reading and watching everything you can, whether it’s videos like this from people who have advice to offer or from fellow writers who are offering you specific critiques or whether it’s just really immersing yourself in the art form—in novels, in movies—and studying what they’re doing. “What’s working? Why does this work?”

Honestly, the single most helpful thing for me in my journey of discovery has been studying books and movies and paying attention to my own reactions. What is my gut reaction to whatever I’m experiencing in this story, whether it’s good or whether it’s bad and why? Why did this work so well? Why did I think this was such an amazing story? Why did this affect me so deeply, or why did this make me so mad? Why did this totally not work for me?

How to Create Your Own Personal “Cosmology of Story”Fine tuning that not only helps you learn story by osmosis and not only helps you shorten that gap between your gut knowing and your mental knowledge, it’s a way to learn to hone and trust your own instincts, so that at a certain point you’re not as dependent on other people telling you stuff in order to broaden your context. You’re able to create your own cosmology of story, where you can say, “Oh yeah, that was that technique from that story. And I learned why that did or didn’t work.”

And then, of course, there’s the practice. You start putting what you’ve observed into practice in your own stories by writing it. And that’s a whole other ballgame. You may think you understand something, but then you try to execute it within your own stories and you realize there’s so many more layers to it.

Bringing the experiential aspect into your practice is the quickest—well, I won’t say the quickest because, again, it is a process—but it is the most efficient and the most effective way of really getting to a place where you do know and you do understand and therefore you can trust your own advice. Then when you go out and you’re encountering information or advice from other people, you can also trust your reaction to that. You can look at some bit of advice and say, “Well, that doesn’t resonate with me. So I’m gonna reject that.”

And you can trust yourself to do that. You can say, “I am trustworthy. I have the authority to be able to say ‘no, that’s not what I want to do with my art.'” And vice versa, you can say, “Wow, that’s great. That is such an insight. I never saw it that way.” Now, you an claim that insight in a way that makes it yours. It’s not “their” insight anymore once you have that reaction to something.

In my teaching, I don’t teach something unless I understand it from the inside out. The information comes in, but it has to be metabolized. It has to be digested until it becomes your own and you have your own understanding of it. When you have that feeling and you experience that insight, it doesn’t feel like you’re learning something new.

All learning is remembering.–Socrates

It feels like you’re remembering something you always knew. It’s that flash of recognition that says, “Yes, this is true. This makes sense.” That’s what you’re looking for, because when you can experience that—particularly in a physical reaction within your body—then you know that insight is yours. You know you can trust that that is the essence of your gut instinct responding to something.

Finding the Balance Between Becoming a Master and Being an Eternal StudentBottom line: it’s really important for artists to trust themselves. It’s equally important to be humble, to be curious, to read widely, to study, to be willing to be a student before you can be a master.

For some of us mastery is a lifetime’s journey. We may never get there. But again, as is often said, it’s more about the journey than the destination. Related to this, I really like Anne Lamott’s quote where she says,

Being published isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. But writing is.

I think that’s pointing to the same thing—of reaching some end point where you’ve written the perfect book. It’s there and it’s done. It’s great. But what’s really valuable and interesting is the journey to get there, and that journey is ongoing because as soon as you reach a mountain peak, you realize, “Oh wow, there’s a whole mountain range out there that’s still to explore.”

Keeping that context in view—that big picture and that long-range view that there will never be an end to learning. There will always be more to learn. But the more you can consolidate yourself and shorten that gap between your mental acuity and your gut knowing, then you become an accurate guide for yourself on that journey.

And really all we’re looking for is that grounded knowing that we can trust ourselves and our own responses to whatever information that we learn. You’re the guide that goes with yourself no matter what. Ultimately, you’re the one who makes all the decisions. So you want to be able to trust your choices when you are creating your stories and your art.

So that’s just some thoughts on the topic that comes up in one way or another quite a bit in emails that I receive from people. I hope those thoughts were helpful again.

Happy writing!

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Do you trust yourself as an artist? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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After the Midpoint, your story heats up. The Second Half of the Second Act is where your plot really begins popping. Your main characters cap the dramatic event at the Midpoint with a decision that allows them to stop reacting and start acting. Almost always, this is born of a personal revelation, even if the characters can’t yet quite put it into concrete terms. As of the Midpoint, they’re becoming someone new. They’re realizing their full power and stretching their wings to discover what they can do with that power. Their inner problems are still getting in the way, but they’re realizing they have to do something either about or in spite of them.

Because the Second Half of the Second Act leads into the intensity of the Third Act, this is your last chance to position your playing pieces. You must set up the line of dominoes that will knock into the Third Plot Point at the 75% mark. You do that by shifting the story into its “active phase.” Although your characters are not likely to be fully in control of the plot situation, they will at least be moving forward and calling a few shots, instead of letting the antagonistic force set the pace.

The Second Half of the Second Act begins with the Midpoint and spans 25% of the book to the beginning of the Third Act at the 75% mark. Characters need every bit of that space to prepare. They still have lessons to learn and problems to face so they’ll be ready to confront the antagonistic force (both inner and outer) in the Climax.

Don’t skimp on this part of the story, but beware of characters changing too much after the Midpoint. Their final personal crises won’t occur until the Third Act, and you don’t want to lessen the impact of those moments by allowing characters to reach wholeness too soon. Use this part of the book to prep them for their final battles and foreshadow the inner demons they must still face.

The Second Half of the Second Act begins with the Midpoint at the 50% mark (which we discussed in last week’s post). It is divided in two by the Second Pinch Point at the 62% mark (which we will discuss below). And it ends with the Third Plot Point at the 75% mark (which we will discuss in a few weeks).

From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

Character Actions in the Second Half of the Second ActThe Second Half of the Second Act begins with a decisive movement from your characters. They rise from the drama and trauma of the Midpoint and respond with an action based on more informed ideas about the nature of the conflict.

For example, these actions can be:

• A direct response to the antagonistic force, such as Kel’s intensified attacks on the nobles in Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn.
• An awakening from ignorance, such as Prince Dastan’s search for the truth about the dagger in the movie adaptation of Prince of Persia.
• An intensified drive toward the primary goal, such as the beginning of the Sparta Tournament in Warrior.
• An inner squaring of the shoulders, such as the reunion of the militia after a brutal enemy attack in The Patriot.

The Patriot (2000), by Columbia Pictures.

The series of actions in the Second Half of the Second Act mirrors the series of reactions in the First Half. In a sense, the characters are still reacting (if you peer too closely at the line between action and reaction, it quickly blurs). Now, however, the emphasis is on the characters’ inner purpose rather than raising their shields and ducking their heads. They’re not yet in control of their destiny, but at least now they’re trying to do something about that lack of control.

When contrasting the “reaction phase” with the “action phase,” remember this does not mean the characters are “passive” in the First Half of the Second Act and “less passive” in the Second Half. Rather, the distinction is that the characters were making less informed decisions prior to the Midpoint. Thanks to the insights gained at the Midpoint, they are now able to start choosing actions that are more effective, which in turn allows them to be more proactive in the plot.

This emphasis on action also shouldn’t be mistaken for the protagonist gaining power over the antagonist. In some stories, the antagonistic force will only grow stronger and more threatening the closer the characters get to the Climax. Indeed, some of the truths the characters glean at the Midpoint might be about their own comparative weakness—an understanding that allows them to make better choices based on a more realistic view of circumstances.

Characters may appear equally busy in both halves of the Second Act, and they certainly should be equally intent on moving toward the goal. The difference is that after the Midpoint, they are becoming better equipped to make progress. Sometimes this change is due to having mastered new skills, befriended new allies, or gained new information. Other times, the difference may be a realization that the only way forward is to make sacrifices and accept consequences that may have previously seemed unthinkable. Whatever the case, the Second Half of the Second Act shows what the characters have learned from previous mistakes and how they have adjusted to become more effective against the antagonistic force.

The Second Pinch PointHalfway through the Second Half of the Second Act at the 62% mark, we find the Second Pinch Point. Like the First Pinch Point, this scene showcases the antagonistic force, either personally or in some manifestation that emphasizes its power and potential to defeat the protagonist.

Like the First Pinch Point, the Second Pinch Point ramps up the stakes and foreshadows the final confrontation between the protagonist and the antagonist. Something happens here that “pinches” the protagonist with an awareness of what is at stake and emphasizes the antagonist’s enduring capability of blocking the plot goal.

For example, the Second Pinch Point could be:

• A bitter argument, as between father and son in Warrior.
• Renewed pursuit by the antagonist, such as the antagonist sending an assassin after the protagonist in my own Dreamlander.
• A demonstration of antagonistic authority, such as that displayed by the protagonist’s mother in the film Miss Potter.
• Further depredations by the bad guy, such as the savage beating of the protagonist’s friend in John Ford’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.
• A betrayal, such as Lando handing over Han and Leia to the bounty hunter Boba Fett in The Empire Strikes Back.
• A reveal that the antagonist is closing in on the protagonist, such as the Air Force officer’s realization that the protagonist escaped the freezing chamber in the movie Forever Young.

Forever Young (1992), Warner Bros.

Whereas the First Pinch Point foreshadowed the Moment of Truth at the Midpoint, the Second Pinch Point foreshadows the defeat the characters will experience in the subsequent Third Plot Point. As the characters take more and more decided action in the story, their choices at the Second Pinch Point may even be responsible for some of the comparative tragedy that results at the Third Plot Point.

The Renewed Push After the Second Pinch PointThe characters’ shift from reaction to action exists on a continuum. This means they will become increasingly active as the Second Act progresses. In the section following the Second Pinch Point, this capacity for proactivity and even aggression will peak.

This final section of the Second Act is where the characters will mount a renewed push against the antagonistic force. They will use everything they have learned in an attempt to gain what they want in the plot. However, they do not yet know everything necessary to be fully successful. The hard lesson they will yet learn at the Third Plot Point will teach them their most important lesson yet. To set up what is yet to come, use this final section of the Second Act to evolve the full measure of power and insight available to your characters.

The Second Act ends with the Third Plot Point, which is a beat of two parts, beginning with a False Victory that leads into a Low Moment. In most stories, this False Victory and its subsequent defeat result from the characters overestimating their abilities. You can use the section after the Second Pinch Point to explore the thematic opposite of the characters’ initial reaction phase at the beginning of the Second Act. They have gained much power since then, but not yet all the wisdom necessary to effectively wield it.

Examples of the Second Half of the Second Act From Film and LiteraturePride and Prejudice: Elizabeth is pushed off balance by Darcy’s proposal and subsequent explanation of his supposed misdeeds. She then spends the Second Half of the Second Act realizing she’s misjudged him and that, indeed, she’s falling in love with him. Her actions in this segment are primarily internal. She actively realizes her mistakes and owns up to them, first privately and then more or less publicly in her attempts to treat Darcy with respect and kindness when they accidentally meet at Pemberley. This is an example of how the Second Half of the Second Act can be used primarily as a time of catalytic epiphany and self-realization.

Pride & Prejudice (2005), Focus Features.

It’s a Wonderful Life: After spurning Old Man Potter’s attempts to hire him, George comes to grips with his life in Bedford Falls and moves forward. He and Mary have four children, and he remains home during World War II (“4F on account of his ear”) where he continues to protect his town from Potter’s avarice and manipulation. Thanks to his renewed commitment to the Bailey Brothers Building & Loan in the aftermath of Potter’s failed attempts to buy him off, George puts his life into good order during the second half of the story.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

Ender’s Game: After having the misfit Dragon Army dumped on him at the Midpoint, Ender spends the Second Half of the Second Act rising to the challenge. He knows he’s been put at an unfair disadvantage and that the instructors are deliberately testing him by pitting him against more powerful students. Instead of caving to the pressure, Ender squares his shoulders and puts in the work. His refusal to stand down transforms Dragon Army into the best army in Battle School.

Ender’s Game (2013), Lionsgate.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World: After finally finding himself in a position to track down the enemy ship Acheron, Captain Jack Aubrey’s series of actions in the Second Half of the Second Act take him down a surprising road when his best friend, surgeon and spy Stephen Maturin, is accidentally shot. For the first time in the film, Jack breaks his obsessive pursuit of the Acheron to prioritize taking Stephen to dry land where he can be operated on to save his life.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003), Miramax Films.

Top Things to Remember About the Second Half of the Second Act1. The Second Half of the Second Act begins with the dramatic turning point at the 50% mark. 2. The Midpoint initiates a series of actions. Afterward, even though the characters are still reacting to some degree, they are no longer reacting from a place of ignorance. They are no longer entirely on the defensive without the ability to move forward proactively. 3. The Second Pinch Point occurs halfway through the Second Half of the Second Act and offers yet another affirmation of the antagonistic force’s presence and power, as well as what is at stake for the characters. It foreshadows the losses that will occur at the Third Plot Point. 4. This segment is often a place of revelation. After the Midpoint, the characters see themselves, the antagonistic force, and the nature of the plot conflict more clearly. 5. The characters’ actions may manifest in inner revelation as well as actual aggression against the antagonistic force. In some instances, the characters’ proactivity may even cause them to deliberately ignore the antagonistic force. 6. Although some of the characters’ problems will be resolved in this section, the major problems—both inner and outer—will remain to be solved during the Third Act. Often, the problems solved in this section will exacerbate or bring clearer focus to the underlying conflicts.

Stay tuned: In two weeks, we will talk about the Third Act.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Does your protagonist start to take action in the Second Half of the Second Act? Tell me in the comments!Related Posts:

Part 1: 5 Reasons Story Structure Is Important

Part 2: The Hook

Part 3: The First Act

Part 4: The Inciting Event

Part 5: The First Plot Point

Part 6: The First Half of the Second Act

Part 7: The Midpoint

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Halfway through the Second Act, something marvelous happens. There you are, minding your own business, toiling in the seemingly endless desert of the Second Act, when everything changes all over again. Legendary director Sam Peckinpah talked about how he always looked for a “centerpiece” on which to “hang” his story. That centerpiece is your Second Plot Point, the Midpoint, which divides your Second Act.

The Midpoint is what keeps your Second Act from dragging. It caps the reactions in the book’s first half and sets up the chain of actions that will lead the characters into the Third Act. Like all major structural turning points, the Midpoint directly influences the plot. It changes the paradigm of the story, requiring a definitive and story-altering response from the characters. This time, however, the protagonist’s response is no longer just a reaction. This is where the protagonist begins to take charge of the story by moving proactively against the antagonistic force and zeroing in on the final plot goal.

What Is the Midpoint?From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

You can envision the Midpoint as a bend in your story’s row of dominoes. When the line of reactions from the First Half of the Second Act finally reaches the domino at the turn, it begins a new line of falling dominoes. This is a monumental moment in the story, a primary scene. Although it must be the logical outcome of previous events, it should also be dramatically new and different from anything that has come before.

Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

The Midpoint will push characters out of their reflexive reactions. If they’re to survive, spiritually or physically—or both, they must stop defending themselves and proactively change tactics to become more effective. This series of actions won’t always be a dramatic storming of the enemy’s castle walls. Sometimes, it can be a figurative squaring of the shoulders and a first step toward the decision not to take it anymore (whatever “it” may be in your story).

For example, the Midpoint could be:

• The capture of the main characters, as in Jim Butcher’s Furies of Calderon.
• A battle, as in the classic western The Magnificent Seven.**
• The death of an important character, as in Pearl S. Buck’s Dragon Seed.**
• Something less dramatic, such as the close call and subsequent rescue of a main character stranded in the mountains during a storm in Kristen Heitzmann’s Indivisible or a daring speech, as in the film I.Q.

I.Q. (1994), Paramount Pictures.

The Moment of Truth at the MidpointCreating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

The seismic change at a story’s Midpoint is created by a significant shift in the protagonist’s perspective. In a character arc, this epiphany is called the Moment of Truth. It is where the characters finally grasp the story’s thematic Truth in a way that has so far proved elusive. Although they must still work to overcome limiting beliefs (i.e., the Lie the Character Believes), the Truth they comprehend at the Midpoint will allow them to shift into greater effectiveness and proactivity in pursuing the plot goal. (For more about the thematic Truth and the Lie the Character Believes, see my book Creating Character Arcs.)

Although the Moment of Truth, as a significant moment in the character’s inner transformation, will affect the external plot, there will also usually be an epiphany that is more specifically a plot revelation. In stories that focus more on outer conflict than on character or in stories in which the character is not following a Positive Change Arc to overcome the Lie, the Midpoint will still signify a shift in the characters’ comprehension of the external plot.

At the Midpoint, the characters will learn something practical that allows them to hone their approach. This can take many forms—everything from new clues about the antagonistic force to a watershed moment of vulnerability in a relationship to a tragic but motivating battle. Whatever the case, the purpose of this Midpoint plot revelation is to provide the protagonist with a clearer understanding of the conflict’s true nature.

This will allow the characters to refine their plot goal. Although the plot’s throughline should remain consistent, the specifics of what the characters are trying to achieve will evolve. This may be because the characters realize the antagonist is someone other than who they thought. Or it might be the stakes change, showing the characters that what they most value might be something different from what they believed. Or the characters’ specific goals might alter altogether, even though the thematic underpinnings should not.

For Example:

• In the movie The Queen, Elizabeth II is shaken by her people’s response to Princess Diana’s death and their demands for Elizabeth to return to London. She must reevaluate her beliefs and plans about responding to the tragedy.
• In Guardians of the Galaxy, the Midpoint reveals that the stolen orb the characters have been trying to retrieve and sell is an Infinity Stone with world-ending powers. This alters their goal entirely, as they realize they cannot sell it and must now do whatever they can to keep it out of the wrong hands.
• In Nick Hornby’s About a Boy, the protagonist Will has so far helped the fatherless youngster Marcus either for his own selfish reasons or because he couldn’t get rid of the boy. At the Midpoint, his relationship to Marcus shifts, and he begins to proactively help him with his problems at school and at home.

About a Boy (2002), Universal Pictures.

Where Does the Midpoint Belong?Your Midpoint should take place roughly around the 50% mark. There are several important reasons for this placement.

1. This is the literal centerpiece of your entire story.

2. Readers (and writers) have an internal sense of pacing. If a new and interesting development isn’t changing things up approximately every eighth of the story, they feel the drag and get antsy.

3. Your story requires the book’s first half to develop the characters, their dilemmas, and their internal weaknesses. It requires the second half to resolve all the problems set up in the first. The Midpoint marks the turning point between these two parts of the story. If it’s placed too far to either side of the 50% mark, the Midpoint may cut off necessary developments in one half of the story or the other.

4. The Midpoint completes the “reaction phase” of the setup and foreshadowing. The story can now use that foundation to shift into an “action phase” building up to the Climax. This action need not necessarily be the adventure or violence we often think of in connotation to the word. The primary emphasis is on the characters moving forward proactively with comparative effectiveness. Their actions will be whatever are most appropriate for your story, whether that means gunfights, love scenes, legal arguments, investigations, or something else entirely.

5. The Midpoint snaps stories out of “saggy middle” syndrome for many obvious reasons, not least because it signals a major change internally and externally, in both character and plot. The protagonist and any other characters following significant character arcs will experience profound Moments of Truth that change their relationships to their goals. Consecutively (and perhaps as part of the same revelation), they will learn important information about the external conflict, which will change their tactics and perhaps even their focus throughout the rest of the story.

Examples of the Midpoint From Film and LiteraturePride and Prejudice: Not only does Austen give readers an unexpected proposal from Mr. Darcy to Elizabeth, she also raises the stakes by having Elizabeth turn him down flat and cast in his face everything she hates about him. Up to now, Elizabeth and Darcy’s relationship has been nebulous. Now everything is out in the open. Both characters have ended their period of reaction with strong actions that will force them to reevaluate themselves and each other.

Pride & Prejudice (2005), Focus Features.

It’s a Wonderful Life: George Bailey’s period of reaction ends when he fully commits to the Building & Loan during the run on the bank after his wedding. In this dramatic centerpiece scene, he confronts the threat of Mr. Potter taking advantage of the panic and buying all the Building & Loan’s shares. When his bride offers up their honeymoon money to pay off their desperate shareholders, he doesn’t hesitate. From this point on, George is no longer simply reacting to being stuck in Bedford Falls. He fully accepts leadership of the Building & Loan and begins fighting back against Mr. Potter.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

Ender’s Game: Ender’s apprenticeship in Salamander Army ends abruptly when he is given command of his own Battle School army. This dramatic change in the character’s circumstances would have been enough to create a solid Midpoint. But Card takes it one step further and complicates Ender’s plight by assigning him the worst students in Battle School. This brand new army—Dragon Army—is created to test Ender. If he’s going to survive, he must stop reacting to the pressures put on him by others and go on the offensive.

Ender’s Game (2013), Lionsgate.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World: After losing the enemy ship due to a fatal accident at Cape Horn at the First Pinch Point, Captain Jack Aubrey had no choice but to spend the rest of the First Half of the Second Act reacting. But when he rescues a group of marooned whalers whose ship was sunk by the enemy Acheron, the new information they provide changes everything. At the Midpoint, Jack goes on the offensive and begins plotting ways to track down and capture the Acheron before she can again disappear.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003), Miramax Films.

Top Things to Remember About the Midpoint1. The Midpoint should take place right around the 50% mark, both to spotlight its importance and to proportionately separate the reaction and action periods. 2. The Midpoint should be dramatic in a way that is new and fresh. Although what happens at the Midpoint should be a natural outcome of previous scenes, it should also be different from anything that has come before. 3. The Midpoint must act as a personal catalyst for the characters. It must force them to change their modus operandi. After this, simply reacting won’t be enough. 4. The Midpoint features a Moment of Truth that changes the characters’ understanding of themselves and the conflict.

The Midpoint is one of the most exciting moments in any story. Plan yours carefully to dazzle readers with an unforgettable scene.

Stay tuned: Next week, we talk about the Second Half of the Second Act.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Does something dramatic happen at your story’s Midpoint? Tell me in the comments!Related Posts:

Part 1: 5 Reasons Story Structure Is Important

Part 2: The Hook

Part 3: The First Act

Part 4: The Inciting Event

Part 5: The First Plot Point

Part 6: The First Half of the Second Act

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Every segment of a story offers its own challenges, but perhaps none leaves more writers bewildered than the Second Act. At least beginnings and endings provide a checklist of things to accomplish. The middle of the story, on the other hand, is a yawning blank. You may feel like you’re entirely without a guide as you try to move your characters toward where they need to be for the ending to work. Fortunately, if you pay attention to solid story structure, you’ll find that the middle of the story has a checklist all its own. The Second Act is the largest part of your story, comprising roughly 50%. It begins after the First Plot Point at the 25% mark and continues until the Third Plot Point at the 75% mark.

Within the Second Act, we find three structural beats, once again falling at eighths within the overall structural timing:

• The First Pinch Point – 37%
• The Midpoint (Second Plot Point) – 50%
• The Second Pinch Point – 62%

From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

This week, we will discuss the First Half of the Second Act, which includes the First Pinch Point. Next week, we will devote an entire post to the Midpoint, and the following week we will cover the Second Half of the Second Act and the Second Pinch Point.

Character Reactions in the First Half of the Second ActThe First Half of the Second Act is the “reaction phase” of your story. This is where your characters find the time and space to react to the First Plot Point. Remember how we discussed the First Plot Point being definitive because it forced the characters into irreversible reaction? That reaction, which will lead to another reaction and another and another, creates your Second Act.

The First Plot Point hit your characters hard. Now, their lives are no longer running on the same smooth paths, and they have to do something about it. If you examine the First Plot Point in a story, you will see it is the characters’ reactions to the event that change everything and create the story. Even when the First Plot Point incorporates a life-altering tragedy (e.g., the murder of Benjamin Martin’s son and the burning of his plantation in The Patriot), the characters could conceivably continue their lives more or less as they had before. It’s their reaction (e.g., Martin’s becoming the “ghostly” militia leader who terrorizes the British army) that allows the chain of events to continue—and create a story.

The Patriot (2000), by Columbia Pictures.

This is why introducing characters and other crucial elements in the First Act is so important. If you fail to properly set up the protagonist as someone who would logically react in the way necessary to facilitate the Second Act, your story will implode. When searching for the appropriate Characteristic Moment to introduce a character, consider an event that will reflect, inform, or contrast the character’s reaction to what happens later at the First Plot Point.

For the next quarter of the book, until the Midpoint, your characters will react to the events of the First Plot Point. They will take action, but all these actions are a response to what’s happened to them. They’re trying to regain their balance and figure out where their lives should go next.

For Example:

• In my medieval novel Behold the Dawn, the characters spend this part of the book on the run from the bishop who wants them dead.
• In Brent Weeks’s The Way of Shadows, the protagonist spends years reacting to the orders of his master.
• In Lew Wallace’s Ben-Hur, the protagonist is forced into a reactionary role as a galley slave after he’s unjustly captured and sentenced at the First Plot Point.

Ben-Hur (1959), MGM.

Just because the characters are comparatively reactive in this phase does not mean they are passive. However, even though they are making choices and trying to move forward toward the plot goal, they are not yet able to be genuinely effective in doing so. Not until they reach a Moment of Truth at the Midpoint will they see themselves and the plot conflict in a clearer light. This will then allow them to switch into an “active phase,” in which their choices and actions become increasingly informed and calibrated in the Second Half of the Second Act. This is why the First Half of the Second Act is often where the character is learning the rules of the game—whether those are the nuances of a new relationship, the tricks of the trade in a new job, survival skills, or the social structure of a new neighborhood.

The First Pinch PointThe First and Second Pinch Points are paired beats, both occurring in the Second Act, one prior to the Midpoint and one after. Although pinch points are just as structurally integral as plot points, they won’t always be represented by huge scenes. Their primary role is to provide a “pinch” that reminds the protagonist of the formidable obstacle represented by the antagonistic force and what is at stake should the protagonist fail.

The First Pinch Point takes place halfway through the First Half of the Second Act at the 37% mark. Here, the antagonistic force can flex its muscles and impress with its capacity to disrupt the protagonist’s forward momentum. This moment serves primarily to set up the change of tactics the protagonist will soon learn. By reminding readers of the antagonist’s power, the First Pinch Point raises the stakes and foreshadows the central turning point at the Midpoint. Like all major structural beats, the First Pinch Point should focus on the central conflict rather than a subplot.

For Example:

• The antagonist might jab at your protagonist’s weakness, as in Ever After, when the wicked stepmother exults to Danielle about the probability of her daughter marrying the prince.
• The protagonist might fail in his fight against the antagonist and be mocked or reprimanded for it, as in the film Warrior when Brendan’s brother Tommy rejects his attempts at reconciliation.
• If your story features your antagonist’s POV, your First Pinch Point might simply be a reminder of what the antagonist is planning, as in Captain America: The First Avenger when the Red Skull murders his superiors and goes rogue or as in The Empire Strikes Back when Emperor Palpatine tells Darth Vader that Luke Skywalker is their new enemy.

Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back (1980), 20th Century Fox.

Character Realizations After the First Pinch PointAlthough the entirety of the First Half of the Second Act is a story’s “reaction phase,” the degree to which the characters shift out of reaction and into action will steadily evolve as they learn new skills. By the time they reach the Midpoint, they will encounter a definitive turning point that offers a concrete epiphany about themselves and the nature of the plot conflict. The events at the First Pinch Point will contribute to that process.

Whatever the characters learn at the First Pinch Point, even if it is just that the antagonist is more formidable than they thought, will fuel their continuing growth toward effectiveness in the plot. The section after the First Pinch Point and leading up to the Midpoint will solidify a state of realization for the protagonist. Think of these realizations as clues leading the characters to the major revelation at the Midpoint. A story’s most significant revelations—those that irrevocably change things for the protagonist and thus turn the plot—should be saved for the main structural turning points. However, most stories will require a chain of minor realizations that evolve the characters’ perspectives leading up to these seismic shifts.

For Example:

• In Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence, the Midpoint declaration of love is preceded by the section in which the protagonist must internally grapple with and admit he is in love with a woman who is not his fiancée.
• In Little Women, the Midpoint revelation is Jo’s quiet Truth that life inevitably changes as everyone begins to grow up; this is preceded by a section in which many smaller changes occur, including her best friend Laurie going away to college.
• In The Martian, the Midpoint revelation is the stranded astronaut’s acknowledgment that he will probably die on Mars if he continues his current tactics. This is preceded by a section of small tragedies that successively limit his ability to survive.

The Martian (2015), 20th Century Fox.

Examples of the First Half of the Second Act From Film and LiteraturePride and Prejudice: After Bingley leaves Netherfield Park at Darcy’s prompting (the First Plot Point), Elizabeth and her sisters can do little except react. Jane goes to London to visit her aunt and to discover why Bingley left. In the absence of Mr. Wickham, Elizabeth pays an extended visit to her friend Charlotte (the new Mrs. Collins). While there, she again meets Mr. Darcy and is forced to react to his perplexing attentions.

Pride & Prejudice (2005), Focus Features.

It’s a Wonderful Life: Even after the First Plot Point in which his father dies of a stroke, George’s life could have progressed exactly as he wanted it to. But when he reacts to Mr. Potter’s attempts to close down the Building & Loan by agreeing to stay in Bedford Falls and take his father’s place, his life is forever changed. For the next quarter of the movie, we find George adjusting to life in Bedford Falls. When his brother Harry (who was supposed to take George’s place in the Building & Loan) gets married and takes another job, George is again forced to react. He accepts he must stay in Bedford Falls, and he marries Mary Hatch—reactions that build upon his initial decision to preserve the Building & Loan.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

Ender’s Game: After joining Bonzo’s Salamander Army, Ender struggles to stay afloat in Battle School. He learns to fight—and win—in the zero-grav war games. He makes friends and enemies and sets in motion the events that will later cause the standoff between him and the bully Bonzo. Everything he does in the First Half of the Second Act is a reaction to his presence in Battle School in general and his promotion to Salamander Army in particular.

Ender’s Game (2013), Lionsgate.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World: Captain Jack Aubrey and his crew spend the First Half of the Second Act reacting to their second sighting of the Acheron. After turning the tables on the enemy ship, Jack subsequently loses her during a tragic accident at Cape Horn and is forced to devise new plans and methods for managing his crew until they reach the Galapagos Islands.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003), Miramax Films.

Top Things to Remember About the First Half of the Second Act1. The characters should react promptly and irrevocably to the events of the First Plot Point. 2. Because the characters’ lives and plans have been significantly altered, they must find new ways of dealing with the world in general and the main antagonistic force in particular. 3. Their reactions should be deep and varied enough to create the next quarter of the story. 4. Their reactions must be dominoes, moving the plot forward and deepening the weave of scenes, subplots, and themes. 5. Often, this section is where the characters will gain the skills or items necessary for the final conflict in the Third Act. 6. At the First Pinch Point, the protagonist will be pressured (either in person or even from afar and without knowing it) by the antagonistic force.

The First Half of the Second Act deepens character development and foreshadows meaningful elements. Even in fast-paced action stories, this will often be the most thoughtful portion of your story as you finish building the foundation your characters will stand upon during the Climax.

Stay tuned: Next week, we will talk about the Midpoint, or Second Plot Point.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Do ever you struggle with the Second Act in your stories? Tell me in the comments!Related Posts:

Part 1: 5 Reasons Story Structure Is Important

Part 2: The Hook

Part 3: The First Act

Part 4: The Inciting Event

Part 5: The First Plot Point

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Today, I want to talk about writing strong themes, because there’s a lot of misunderstanding around around the concept of theme (which is why I wrote the book Writing Your Story’s Theme). When we think of theme, we often think of a one-word or short phrase aphorism. For example, maybe the theme of the story is “love” or maybe it’s “overcoming a sense of unworthiness” or something like that. While that is very possibly what the story is about and what the theme is pointing to, that isn’t necessarily a good roadmap for helping you learn how to write strong themes. It’s valuable to look a little deeper and to understand how theme actually operates within a story, what its function is, and therefore how you can use the other elements of your story to consciously create the theme you want to create.

Can You Write Strong Themes “On Purpose”?Writing Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

In the past, a common statement that has floated around the writing community is that “writers should never consciously write the theme.” There is some truth to this (which I’ll talk about in just a second), but ultimately, I adamantly disagree with this idea.

What this is really pointing to is the truth that writers never want to preach at their readers. You don’t want to try to start with some message you’re trying to share about the world and then shoehorn that into your characters’ mouths or their perspectives of the world and try to prove it through whatever is happening in the story. You don’t want to come into a story to prove, for example, some political statement. Readers don’t want that. It doesn’t work within the story because it isn’t organic or it doesn’t flow. It feels, even if the author isn’t actually preaching at you, that they’re trying to jam some specific moral message into a story that doesn’t fit.

However, I think this unfortunate effect most often happens simply because the writer has an idea of theme but doesn’t understand how it actually works within storyform. If you do understand how theme operates, you’re much less likely to end up with fragmented themes, in which your story is saying one thing while you’re trying to say something else with the theme. Likewise, you can also avoid the problem of getting to the end and realizing what you thought it was your story’s theme doesn’t seem to have anything to do with what’s actually happening.

In either case, you can end up having either stories that seem very disjointed, or even two different endings that are trying to individually address the plot and the theme. This creates a story that doesn’t feel cohesive and resonant.

However, if you understand what you’re doing and how story creates them, then you can accomplish two things.

1. You can consciously create anything you want to create within the realm of your story.

2. Perhaps most importantly, you can double-check and troubleshoot what isn’t working. If you get to the end of the story and you feel your theme is off the rails or nonexistent, you can go back and check what happened by asking, “Where do I need to work with the story in order to make the theme more powerful and pertinent?”

What Is Theme, Really?The most important thing to understand about theme is that it doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It’s not its own thing within the story. It’s part of the greater whole. Specifically, it forms what I call “the trifecta” of plot, character, and theme. These three elements of story create each other; they do not exist by themselves in isolation. One necessarily creates the other.

We sometimes hear the idea of plot versus character, as if they were two totally separate things, when really they can’t be. The plot has to create the character, the character has to create the plot. Theme is the third part of that.

Here’s the thing: if you have a functional story that’s working, what that means is that all three of those things—plot, character, and theme—are working. Even if you’re not conscious of theme—even if you didn’t do it on purpose, so to speak—if all three are in cohesion with one another, ad that’s what you want. If you can bring consciousness to your administration of theme, then you can do it on purpose.

Here’s how it works. Let’s say you come up with an idea for a plot. Necessarily, there must be characters in that plot. Although it may take a little time, as you flesh out that plot in your mind, you will begin to understand what kind of people are driving this plot. What kind of people are interested in going to the places and achieving the things that you want to see happen in this plot?

This works in reverse as well. If you start with an idea for a character, obviously you don’t have anything for them to do until there’s a plot. So pretty soon you start getting ideas for what these characters will do. What are they interested in? How are they interacting with other people? What do they want? What are they moving toward? Suddenly, you have a plot. Plot and character are not separate. One necessarily creates and brings with it the other.

The same is true of theme.

How Plot and Character Arc Create ThemeCreating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

The interaction between plot and character is the engine that creates theme. We talked about in the last video about the Lie the Character Believes and how that creates this entire arc of the character’s evolution as they change their perspective, as they evolve into a new way of being and a new identity within the world. That’s character arc. And this new understanding of the world is something that has to be acted upon. It’s not just something happening in the character’s head. Otherwise, there’s no reason for the change to happen within the plot. It will be just an expression of philosophy, not a story. You have to bring this change of perspective into the action of the plot. Show what the character is going through, dramatize it through the events of the plot.

The events of the plot and the arrival of the conflict prompts the need for this change within the character. And then the change inside the character also allows them to evolve and grow what they’re doing in the external plot. If they remained the same, then either they wouldn’t be motivated to go on this story’s adventure at all or, depending on the type of story, the events of the plot will destroy them. They’ve got to evolve in order to survive. They’ve got to evolve in order to reach this next level of whatever it is the story wants them to achieve, whether that’s a relationship or a new job or saving the world or whatever the case may be. Some quiet literary stories really are just about changing that inner landscape. Whatever the case, this change must be proven in some way. It must be acted out within the plot.

Using Your Plot as a Thematic MetaphorI like to think of the plot as a metaphor for whatever the character is changing internally, for the story’s Lie and Truth. Let’s say you start with the character’s Lie and Truth. And from there, you ask yourself what can the character do physically in the world that would dramatize and show this inner transformation from Lie to Truth.

An easy example of this would be The Hunger Games, in which the protagonist Katniss Everdeen follows a Flat Arc. This means she doesn’t change her perspective; she doesn’t grow from Lie to Truth. Instead, she uses her understanding of the Truth to change the world around her. In this case, that Truth would be her understanding that “oppression is no good,” that this Lie that has been fed to her country Panem by its oppressive government is that “their control is necessary to protect them” and the brutality of the Hunger Games is also necessary. Katniss begins her story understanding this is not true, as many people in her world do. What makes her an interesting character and protagonist is that her story gives her the opportunity to act on that Truth.

Specifically in this story, we can see how the entire premise of the Hunger Games—the entire scope of the plot in this story—is a very specific dramatization of her story’s Lie and Truth that allows her to go out and actively battle this oppression. She’s basically put in a cage and has to fight her way out. That’s a very explicit example of how your plot can operate as a thematic metaphor.

The Hunger Games (2012), Lionsgate.

When you’ve got plot and character working together beautifully, we might say one is proving the other. From this, we get a theme. Even if you try to paste on a different kind of a theme, the events of your story and how your character responds to them and interacts with thems what inevitably creates the theme. That is the point of your story; that is the message of your story. The thematic Truth that will be proved by the end of your story is whatever is shown by the events of the story. Whatever is effective in your story is your story’s Truth. This can be something very practical such as a skill, but it can also be just an effective perspective that the characters hold of themselves or the world (e.g., self-worth).

Using Plot and Characters to Identify Your Story’s ThemeWhen you approach a story from the idea that plot, theme, and character are all equal members of the equation and that necessarily one creates the other, it allows you to make sure you’re creating a cohesive cycle. And also, when you’re running into problems, it allows you to stop and check.

Let’s say you’re having problems with your theme. “I don’t know what my theme is.”

Look at your character’s arc and specifically at the Lie the Character Believes. Look at what they need to overcome by the time they get to the end of the story and therefore what Truth they’re moving toward. That Truth is usually a very specific and easy way to sum up your story’s theme.

You can also look at the events of the plot.

• What are the characters doing?
• What is happening?
• What is challenging them?
• Where do they fail?
• What do they have to do to succeed?
• How do they have to change in order to become someone who can succeed in gaining the plot goal within your story?

This is where you can start looking for a theme and vice versa.

Using Theme to Create Your Plot and Character ArcsLet’s say you start out knowing you want to write a story about “love conquers all”—that’s your theme, that’s what you want to write about. There’s no reason you can’t start with just that. Now you have a map for determining what kind of characters and what kind of character arc will help exemplify this.

• How will they be challenged to grow into this?
• What Lie might oppose this idea?
• What events of the plot will be an interesting way to explore all aspects of this idea?

Story by Robert McKee (affiliate link)

Deepen Your Themes With the Thematic SquareThis is where it can be really helpful to bring in a technique that Robert McKee wrote about in his book Story, which he called the Thematic Square. Start by examining your story’s thematic Truth from multiple perspectives. This prevents it from being just this simple black-and-white approach, i.e., “this is the wrong way to do it, and this is the right way to do it.” That approach is simplistic and can be on the nose and ultimately unconvincing to readers because that’s not really how it works for most of us most of the time in real life. If it was that simple, we’d always think, Ah, truth. I want to do that. I pick that one because obviously it’s better. It’s obviously going to be more effective and help me get what I want, what I need, and what’s good for me.

But it’s not that simple, right?

There are many shades and complexities to this evolution of perspective because the Lie and the Truth are actually never black and white. Rather, they represent an evolution along the spectrum, from a limited perspective to a broader perspective. Ideally, you want to be able to explore the complexities around this idea.

The Four Corners of the Thematic SquareYou can do this, via McKee’s Thematic Square, by creating a square with four corners that represent four different sides or points of the thematic premise you’re exploring.

The Positive Thematic StatementFirst and foremost, you have the Positive corner. Positive represents the story’s Truth. This is the good stuff you’re trying to posit in your story, i.e, “this is the way we should be”—whether the character embraces it and succeeds or fails to embrace it and fails within the story. This is the positive Truth you are suggesting is the best way for the characters to behave in this story. Examples of this would be Respect or Love. These are good qualities. These are things that we recognize as something we want to to embody in our lives, because they will help us to be more effective in whatever we’re doing.

The Contradictory Thematic StatementOpposite that is the Contradictory corner. This represents something that is directly contradictory to the story’s positive Truth. At its simplest, this is the Lie. This is what stands opposed to the story’s Truth. In simple one-word explanations of what these might be, we have in opposition to Respect, Disrespect. In opposition to Love, we have Hate.

The Contrary Thematic StatementThose two are obvious; they’re an obvious polarity. From there, you can start moving down to the bottom corners of your square and think about, first of all, what would be an element within this thematic exploration that would be Contrary to the Positive.

The word contrary always makes me think of somebody who’s being contrary: they’re just being annoying. They’re just being stubborn and refusing to see things. It’s not necessarily that they represent or are directly opposed to the argument, but they’re just refusing to do it. They’re opting out, saying, “talk to the hand,” as we used to say. The Contrary perspective wants to bypass the whole thematic argument. In some ways, this makes it more dangerous than the contradictory aspect, which at least is looking at the Truth—looking it in the eye and doing battle with it. In contrast, the Contrary aspect just wants to skip it. It don’t even want to engage with this Truth.

An example of this for a theme of Respect, could be Rudeness. Rudeness is passive-aggressive. “I don’t respect you, but I’m not actually doing you the service of coming to your face and telling you that either.” For Love, the Contrary aspect could be Indifference, which in many ways can be more painful than Hate in some relationships. We often say love is hate flipped on its head, with the idea being that if you can dig down there in the hate, you might be able to find love in the shadow and integrate it. Indifference, however, says, “I don’t care about you. You don’t exist to me. You’re dead to me. I don’t think about you at all.” And this can be more painful and certainly more difficult to move through toward that more positive Truth.

The Negated Thematic StatementFinally, we have what McKee calls the Negation of the Negation. This is the Lie taken to its farthest extreme. It’s taken to such an extreme that it’s as if the Truth doesn’t exist. It rewrites reality. Over the course of the story, a Negation character will be given an opportunity to see the Truth and how it could potentially positively impact their life. But for whatever reason, they reject it and end up in a worse place than when they just believed the Lie or the Contradictory aspect.

In our example of Respect, the Negation of the Negation would be Self-Disrespect. Usually, even if someone disrespects someone else, there’s that place within their own ego where they are still standing within their own sense of identity and pride of self in opposition to something else. However, with Self-Disrespect, they can’t even respect themselves. If there isn’t even that ego container to hold their own identity, that is, in many ways, a worse place to be than if you’re just this egoic person disrespecting everybody else. It’s an almost plague-like effect. The seed of the Lie takes over the person’s entire being and life and perhaps beyond depending on the type of story you’re telling. The example McKee uses as the Negation of Love is Self-Hatred. Again, the Negation sees the character moving into a place where love doesn’t even exist in their universe.

How to Implement the Thematic Square in Your StoryCreating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

One of the best ways to explore the Thematic Square is to have your protagonist represent any one of the thematic corners with then the antagonistic force representing the polar opposite. Depending on whether you’re telling a Positive Change Arc, a Flat Arc, or a Negative Change Arc, your protagonist may or may not represent the Positive statement.

You can also use the Thematic Square to deepen this thematic complexity by looking for ways in which multiple characters—at least four characters—represent the different aspects of the square. This gives the protagonist a chance to interact with all of them, to be challenged by all of them, and to see the pros and the cons of each one so that they’re challenged. Their exploration of the theme will no longer be a simple binary choice between, “Oh, the Lie is bad and the Truth is better, so of course I’ll choose the Truth.” Rather, they have to move through all of these shadow aspects of the Lie and the Truth, to explore them, and to be challenged by them.

If your project uses characters to represent all four aspects, this also helps you develop and deepen the opportunities for your plot. Make sure every character’s actions, everything that’s happening, any opposition the protagonist faces from antagonistic forces is all thematically pertinent.

No thematic position in your story should be random. If the protagonist is trying to move toward a thematic Truth of “Love,” you don’t want another over here focusing on Freedom and Slavery. That’s a totally different theme. Of course, there can always be crossover—because ultimately everything is interconnected in real life. But applying the Thematic Square to your story can help you recognize which ideas are don’t support the point of your story. If something doesn’t support the plot’s throughline and doesn’t support the protagonist’s individual arc, ask yourself how you could repurpose it so it informs the central theme.

Find Your Theme by Examining Your Story’s EndingWhen thinking about how best to integrate theme into plot and character arc, look at how your story ends. The ending of your story—your Climactic Moment—will prove what your story was really about. This means it will prove what your theme is really about.

The decisions your characters make in the end, the perspectives they use to inform their choices and actions, as well as their ability to gain their plot goal—all of these things reveal your story’s theme. Examine the questions your story raises and the answers it ultimately ends up giving.

This does not mean that you need to end with some kind of moral of the story or with the mentor character coming out and giving a little speech about the lesson to be learned or something like that. Your story’s “answer” is simply whether or not the characters were effective and how they end up.

• Did they end in a better place physically, spiritually, emotionally, and mentally?
• Or is it a worse place?

If it’s a better place, then the story’s Truth (i.e., the “answer” to the questions that have been raised throughout the story), is “yes, this is an effective way of being in the world. This is a good course of action.”

If the characters fail, either ambiguously or definitively, then what the story is saying is “this is not a good way of being.” Such a story becomes, even without any need to create a moral of the story, a cautionary tale.

Find Your Theme by Examining Change and Consequence in Your PlotFinally, think about how your story will develop change and consequence.

Change, both within your story’s character arcs and within the context of how your characters are able to enact change in the outer world of the story will prove what the story is really about. It will show you how your theme develops, what thematic questions are at play, and what answers the plot ultimately posits.

Specifically, think about consequences. Consequences aren’t always something negative. From a causal perspective, consequences can be something good. However, more often, consequences reveal a hard pill to swallow. Not only can consequences sometimes prove that “oops, the characters did not choose the best way of being. They did not choose the story’s Truth,” but consequences can also offer a resonant way to drive home that this path of change, this path of evolution that we’re all on within our lives, isn’t easy. It’s not cut and dried. It’s not black and white.

Again, if them was simply “Lie versus truth—this is worse and this is better,” we’d always choose the right thing. There would be no need for stories because we’d always choose the right thing. Stories show us that there are, in fact, consequences even for choosing the right thing, for choosing what’s best for us, for choosing something we believe is in the best interest of ourselves and our communities and our world. Stories show us life isn’t simple, that there are always sacrifices, that letting go of a Lie or dealing with people who aren’t ready for us to let go of the Lie—it’s not easy. Embracing the Truth is often difficult.

Examining the consequences your characters face or could face if you deepen your story can be helpful in showing you not just your story’s theme, but how to deepen it and then explore all of the depth of it. Go into the shadows and explore the profundity of change. Ultimately, that’s what theme in story is about.

Admittedly, theme is an abstract concept. Zooming in and thinking of it in terms of plot and character makes it more concrete and easy to master within your story. Again, I’ve written a whole book about theme. So if you want more, you can check out Writing Your Story’s Theme.

Happy writing!

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What do you think is the most challenging part of writing strong themes in your stories? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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The First Plot Point is a linchpin in narrative architecture. This pivotal moment thrusts the protagonist into a new and irrevocable direction. Positioned around the 25% mark, it serves as a seismic shift, propelling the tale from the initial groundwork of the First Act into the uncharted territory of escalating tension and conflict.

This juncture marks the end of the story’s setup and catapults characters and readers alike into the heart of the narrative arc. By introducing a significant development (often a challenge or revelation) that forces the protagonist to confront the core conflict head-on, the First Plot Point drives the story forward with a cascade of consequences. As a catalyst that shapes the plot’s trajectory and sets the stage for the ensuing drama, it is one of the most critical cornerstones in storytelling.

From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

What Is the First Plot Point?The First Plot Point signals the transition from the setup of the First Act into the full-on immersion of the Second Act. Up to now, the story has focused primarily on setting the stage and laying the groundwork for what will follow. From here, the story will use this foundation to create the back-and-forth drama of the characters pursuing their goals and confronting obstacles.

The First Plot Point kicks off the main conflict by ensuring that two potent ingredients fuse to create the alchemy of plot. The first of these ingredients is your protagonist’s plot goal. Although the main plot goal may have been explicit throughout the First Act, it is more likely to have originated in this early section of the story as a vague or unformed desire. This could also be expressed to readers by dramatizing circumstances that need to change for your characters.

As the protagonist progresses through the First Act, and especially the Inciting Event, this desire or need will emerge more and more explicitly. By the time the First Plot Point arrives, the motivation will coalesce into a concrete intention that urges the character forward. This intention will continue to evolve over the course of the story as the character arc refines the character’s inner perspectives. What happens at the First Plot Point should create a cohesive throughline of intent to generate this forward momentum.

For Example:

• In Ever After, the protagonist’s throughline goal is always saving her family’s farm, even as her desires in her relationship with Prince Henry evolve over the course of the story. Her intentions about the farm motivate and influence her every action in the relationship.

Ever After (1998), 20th Century Fox.

In order to create the plot conflict in the Second Act, the second necessary ingredient that must come into play at the First Plot Point is antagonistic opposition. When we speak about the necessity of “conflict” in a story, what we are really speaking about is the necessity of the character’s forward progress toward the goal being impeded by obstacles. When we speak of the “antagonist” or the “antagonistic force,” what we are really speaking of is whoever or whatever consistently creates those obstacles.

The true significance of the First Plot Point is that it is the moment at which the protagonist’s goal and the antagonist’s opposition join inextricably. In some stories, the antagonistic force and its obstacles may be present in full force right from the beginning of the story, in which case it is the protagonist’s full commitment to the goal that initiates the conflict at the First Plot Point. In other stories, the protagonist may be fully intent on the goal much earlier but does not fully confront opposition to that goal until the First Plot Point. In still other stories, neither the protagonist’s goal nor the antagonistic force’s opposition become fully realized until this moment.

Regardless, the First Plot Point signals a shift out of the Normal World of the First Act. It moves your characters into the symbolic Adventure World of the Second Act, in which they will discover what is at stake if they remain committed to their goal. It is important to note, however, that even should the characters at some point regret their decision to pursue this goal in the face of opposition, they cannot go back to the way things were. The First Plot Point is symbolically a Door of No Return.

By committing to the plot goal and discovering opposition from the antagonist, the protagonist’s choice here changes things. Even in low-stakes stories, the characters’ choice at the First Plot Point will permanently change either themselves or the world around them. Often, this will be dramatized by a change in setting. The character will literally switch “worlds” by moving to a new and more challenging setting. In other stories, in which the main setting remains the same, this can be signified by introducing new elements into the existing setting.

For Example:

• In Legally Blonde, the ditzy protagonist is accepted into Harvard Law School. Up to this point, her attempts to get her boyfriend back didn’t create permanent change in her life. By deciding to follow him to law school, the actions she takes forever alter the trajectory of her life—no matter what happens next.

Legally Blonde (2001), MGM.

Where Does the First Plot Point Belong?The First Plot Point occurs around the 25% mark, signaling the end of the First Act. As always, this timing represents an ideal and will be subject to the unique pacing needs of each story. What is most important in timing your First Plot Point is ensuring the preceding First Act has enough space to fully develop and lay the groundwork for the story to come without belaboring events.

Why place the First Plot Point at the 25% mark? Why here and not at the 10% or 40% mark? If you’ve ever watched or read a poorly plotted story that skipped or postponed the First Plot Point, you probably instinctively perceived the story was dragging. Without the turning point of the First Plot Point, the First Act will drag on too long—or, conversely, if the First Plot Point takes place too early, the Second Act will drag.

If you pay attention while watching a movie, you can time the major plot points down to the minute. This makes film an especially valuable medium for studying structure since you can view the entire story structure in one sitting and precisely identify structural beats by dividing the total running time into eighths. You can, of course, also do this with books. Divide the total page count by eight and note what happens near each section. Just remember that the timing in a book will not likely be as precise as in a shorter medium like film.

>>Click here to read structural breakdowns in the Story Structure Database.

You won’t always know exactly where the timing of a specific plot beat falls within your overall story until you have finished it, although you can create rough projections by evaluating how many scenes will take place in each section. However, once you have completed your story and can evaluate the timing of every structural beat within the whole, you can use the timing of the First Plot Point to evaluate whether the first half of the Second Act is proportionally too long or too short.

People often wonder if the First Plot Point is part of the First Act or the Second Act. My view is that the First Plot Point can more properly be seen as a transitional zone between the two. Continuing with the doorway metaphor, we can think of the First Plot Point as a portal between the Normal World and the Adventure World.

Although considered a single beat, the First Plot Point can comprise many scenes forming a cohesive sequence. Particularly if the events of your First Plot Point are shattering and/or you are dramatizing a large-scale action scene, you may require more than a few scenes to realistically create the event you’re trying to convey. I generally time structural beats at the moment the character changes within the larger scene or sequence. In the First Plot Point, this is when the protagonist’s goal becomes inextricably entangled with the antagonist’s opposition. This is the moment from which the protagonist cannot return, the moment when there is no going back.

The Difference Between Plot Points and BeatsYou may sometimes hear the term “plot point” used to reference any moment of change or impact within a story. However, I prefer to use “plot point” to refer exclusively to structural moments of change within the story. Although your story will feature only a specific few structural turning points, it can have any number of beats, some relatively minor, some shockingly huge. Beats are what keep your story moving forward. They mix things up, keep the conflict fresh, and propel your character far away from any possibility of stagnancy.

For Example:

• The movie Changeling features several cataclysmic beats in the First Act (including the kidnapping of the heroine’s son at the Inciting Event, the return of the wrong boy, and the police department’s insistence that she accept the child anyway) before her decision, at the First Plot Point, to fight back against the corrupt police department.

Changeling (2008), Universal Pictures.

What differentiates a structural plot point from every other story beat is the fact that everything changes for the character. One reason I capitalize terms when referring to significant structural moments in the plot structure is to emphasize that these beats are particularly important. The First Plot Point marks a place of no return for your characters. It is the beat when the setup ends and your protagonist crosses a personal Rubicon.

Examples of the First Plot Point From Film and LiteraturePride and Prejudice: After the ball at Netherfield Park, Darcy and the Bingley sisters convince Mr. Bingley to return to London and forget his growing affection for Jane. Much has already happened in the story. Jane and Elizabeth have stayed over at Netherfield. Lydia and Kitty have become enamored of the militia. Wickham has turned Elizabeth against Darcy. And Mr. Collins has proposed to Elizabeth. Then everything changes at the 25% mark when Darcy and the Bingleys leave. This is the event that breaks Jane’s heart and infuriates Elizabeth against Darcy. It also changes the story’s landscape, since several prominent characters are no longer in the neighborhood for the Bennets to interact with as they did throughout the book’s first quarter.

Pride & Prejudice (2005), Focus Features.

It’s a Wonderful Life: Throughout the first quarter of the story, George Bailey’s plans for his life have progressed uninterrupted. Despite his misadventures in Bedford Falls, he’s headed for a European vacation and a college education. Then the First Plot Point hits. When his father dies of a stroke, George’s plans are dashed. This moment forever changes George’s life, setting the subsequent plot points in motion. As in Pride & Prejudice, the standards that have been established in the story are dramatically altered. This is no longer a story about a carefree young man freewheeling around town. From here, this is a story about a man forced to assume responsibility by taking over his father’s beloved business.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

Ender’s Game: The quarter mark finds Ender graduating to Salamander Army after a victorious confrontation with the bully Bernard. Ender’s assertion of brains, tenacity, and leadership allow him to claim his spot at Battle School. He makes it clear to himself, the other children, and the watching instructors that he will do whatever he must to survive. This First Plot Point also changes the game (no pun intended) by once again moving Ender to new surroundings. As a member of Salamander Army, he is dropped into a new place, new quarters, and a new set of challenges.

Ender’s Game (2013), Lionsgate.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World: After refitting the Surprise and heading back to sea to look for the French privateer Acheron, Captain Jack Aubrey is confident everything will go according to his plans. He is thrown for a loop by the First Plot Point. Instead of the Surprise finding the Acheron, the captain wakes to discover the enemy bearing down on his much smaller ship. Not only is his victory at risk but now he and his crew are in danger of being captured. They scramble to escape, and the game of cat-and-mouse that will comprise the rest of the film begins in earnest.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003), Miramax Films.

Top Things to Remember About the First Plot Point1. The First Plot Point occurs around the 25% mark. 2. The First Plot Point is an event that changes everything and becomes a personal turning point for the main character. 3. The First Plot Point almost always changes the story so irrevocably that even the character’s surroundings (either the physical setting or the cast of supporting characters) are altered. 4. The First Plot Point is something to which the main character must be able to react strongly and irretrievably.

The First Plot Point is one of the most exciting moments in any story. Choose a robust and cataclysmic event to which your characters must adamantly react. Hit readers so hard at the end of the First Act they won’t even think about closing the book.

Stay tuned: In two weeks, we’ll talk about the First Half of the Second Act.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What happens at your story’s First Plot Point? Tell me in the comments!Related Posts:

Part 1: 5 Reasons Story Structure Is Important

Part 2: The Hook

Part 3: The First Act

Part 4: The Inciting Event

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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The Inciting Event is one of the most crucial turning points in story structure. It can either make or break your narrative. Many writers, however, struggle with its intricacies and timing. Is the Inciting Event the initial brush with the main conflict? Is it a Call to Adventure met with refusal? Where does it belong in the structure of your story, particularly within the context of the First Act? By analyzing examples from film and literature, we can unravel these complexities and learn to create an impactful Inciting Event.

As the first major turning point in your story, the Inciting Event marks a transition from the setup in the first half of the First Act into the buildup in the second half, as the story begins to ramp into the characters’ full-on immersion in the conflict in the Second Act. As its name suggests, this is the event that “incites” or initiates the plot’s main conflict. Also sometimes referred to as the Inciting Incident, this all-important beat signals that this is what the story is all about.

Misconceptions About the Inciting Event (and the Key Event)For all that the Inciting Event is crucial to creating a functional plot, it is often misunderstood. My own understanding of the Inciting Event has evolved drastically over the years, and some of my own foggy ideas (as published in the first edition of Structuring Your Novel) have contributed to the confusion. I amended some of this when I offered my free e-book 5 Secrets of Story Structure as a supplement, but one of the main reasons I wanted to create an updated second edition of Structuring Your Novel, as well as updating this series, was to share a more accurate and useful approach to the Inciting Event.

The main thing that has changed about how I view the Inciting Event is that I no longer see its timing as vague. I originally taught that the Inciting Event could take place just about anywhere in or before the First Act. In that view, the Inciting Event might be an event in the character’s backstory that motivates the main plot. Or it might be the plot domino found in the first chapter. Or it might take place halfway through the First Act. Or it might coincide with the Door of No Return—the First Plot Point at the 25% mark.

This wobbly structural timing was based on a conflation of several different important motivating events within the plot’s timeline. When each of these events is given its own name, it becomes clear where the true Inciting Event really lands and what it actually is. Before we go deeper, let’s take a moment to properly identify each of these beats within the story.

• Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

Motivating event in the protagonist’s backstory: This is the Ghost (also sometimes called the wound), a term originated by John Truby, which I discuss in my book Creating Character Arcs. As something that happens before the story, it is not properly a part of the plot structure. Rather, it creates context for why characters believe a limiting Lie about themselves or their reality. This Lie will then be challenged by the events of the main plot and will create the characters’ inner journey via their character arcs. * First plot domino in first chapter: As we discussed in Part 2, this initiation of the story’s cause and effect is created by the Hook at the very beginning. This beat functions to set up the story world and the characterizations that will lead to the true Inciting Event a few chapters later. * Turning point halfway through the First Act: Here we find the true home of the Inciting Event, which we will explore in the rest of the post. * The Door of No Return at the end of the First Act: This beat is the First Plot Point. It is one of the three most prominent turning points in the entire story (along with the Second Plot Point or Midpoint at the 50% mark and the Third Plot Point at the 75% mark). In order for this beat to create a dramatic and irrevocable turn of events leading into the Second Act, it must be built upon a previous event that incites those events. We will explore the First Plot Point in next week’s post.

From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

As we parse out the function and timing of these catalysts within the story, a clearer picture emerges of how the First Act operates. This picture also supports the pattern of timing and pacing that creates an important turning point every eighth of the story.

Some of you may notice I have not mentioned the Key Event in this lineup. In the first edition of Structuring Your Novel, I wrote:

The Key Event is the moment when the character becomes engaged by the Inciting Event…. The Key Event is the glue that sticks the character to the impetus of the Inciting Event.

Screenplay by Syd Field (affiliate link)

This was based on Syd Field’s teaching in Screenplay about the two beats:

[T]he inciting incident… sets the story in motion … [while] the key incident [is] what the story is about, and draws the main character into the story line.

At the time, I also believed in a flexible timeline for the Key Event, associating it more with the Inciting Event than any other beat. I now associate the Key Event with the First Plot Point. On the whole, I find it more straightforward to focus on the fixed beats of the Inciting Event and the First Plot Point.

I apologize for any confusion my own treatment of these terms has caused in the past. I hope this new information will clear up any perplexity.

What Is the Inciting Event?Now that we’ve explored what the Inciting Event isn’t, what exactly is it?

The Inciting Event is the turning point halfway through the First Act. Up to now, the First Act has mostly concerned itself with setup—with setting the stage, introducing the characters and their motivations, and indicating what is at stake for them. None of these introductions or the scenes they inhabit have been random. Each has been a domino knocking into the next, creating that flawless chain of cause and effect. However, up to this point, these scenes will not have particularly focused on what will become the main conflict in this story.

Although the protagonist will have a desire in the first half of the First Act, or at least a reason to desire something, this desire won’t yet have solidified into a solid plot goal.

For Example:

• In The Hunger Games, Katniss starts out disliking the antagonistic Capitol and resisting them in small ways that ensure her family’s survival. She has yet to form the specific plot goal that will directly engage her with that antagonist. Therefore, the story’s main conflict has not yet begun. Rather, these early scenes lay the groundwork for that conflict.

The Hunger Games (2012), Lionsgate.

The Inciting Event is where the main conflict significantly intrudes upon the character’s life. I like to say the Inciting Event is where the protagonist “brushes” the main conflict. This contrasts the full-on immersion in that conflict, which the character will experience at the First Plot Point. The difference is one of degree. Even if the happenings at the Inciting Event are quite radical (e.g., Katniss volunteering as tribute to protect her little sister), they will not be as radical as what happens later at the First Plot Point (e.g., starting to train as a tribute).

The characters’ full engagement with the main conflict cannot happen until they form the main plot goal. That will happen at the First Plot Point and will signal the shift out of the First Act into the Second Act. The Inciting Event exists to set up the First Plot Point. Because the plot goal will not yet be fully formed, the character’s response to the Inciting Event will be uncalibrated and perhaps even uncertain. This “brush” with the antagonistic force knocks them off balance.

In the Hero’s Journey terminology, the Inciting Event carries the energy of what is known as the Call to Adventure. When we examine the archetypal underpinnings of story structure, we see that this is the moment when the characters are invited to step beyond a familiar comfort zone. They are challenged to push their growth edges, to step into a “wider world,” and to test their mettle.

Aptly, the forward momentum of the Call to Adventure will almost always be met with a Refusal of the Call, as the characters resist what their changing circumstances are now asking of them. In some stories, the protagonist will explicitly try to refuse the Call to Adventure by avoiding the consequences of the Inciting Event. In other stories (such as Hunger Games), the refusal may occur primarily within the protagonist, as represented by feelings of fear or inadequacy. In still other stories, the refusal may be represented by counsel or resistance offered by supporting characters who do not want the protagonist to engage with the main conflict by enacting a specific plot goal.

Where Does the Inciting Event Belong?The Inciting Event splits the First Act, taking place around the 12% mark in the story. This timing does not need to be exact. The shorter your story, the tighter your timing should be; the longer your story, the more wiggle room you will have. However, the significance of the Inciting Event’s timing is that it must allow enough space before to realistically set up whatever will happen at the Inciting Event, including what will motivate the characters to respond as they do. Most of the important elements need to be in place (or at least foreshadowed) by the time you reach the Inciting Event.

The timing of your Inciting Event must also allow for the second half of the First Act to focus on scenes that develop your characters’ reactions to the Inciting Event. From here, the rest of the First Act will shift out of setting things up into building up to the First Plot Point. Structurally, the First Plot Point is a massive moment in your story and will almost always be represented by a suitably dramatic event. The second half of the First Act builds into that moment. Most importantly, this section of the story is where your characters will begin forming a concrete plot goal.

In stories in which the characters are more reactionary (i.e., are at the mercy of a much larger antagonistic force), their plot goal may not become concrete until the First Plot Point. In these stories, the focus in the second half of the First Act may be on increasing tension and raising the stakes so the characters have little choice but to engage by the time they reach the First Plot Point.

For Example:

• In Star Wars: A New Hope, Luke Skywalker’s Inciting Event introduces him to the opportunity of leaving Tatooine with Ben Kenobi—a Call to Adventure which he refuses—but when his aunt and uncle are murdered at the First Plot Point, he has no choice but to accompany Ben.

Star Wars: A New Hope (1977), 20th Century Fox.

Other stories will feature a more proactive protagonist whose desire for the goal creates the conflict, rather than the conflict creating the goal.

For Example:

• In Bend It Like Beckham, protagonist Jess joins the soccer team not because anything forces her, but because it is her dream. This puts her in conflict with her family, but she initiated the events. In stories like this, the protagonist often spends the scenes between the Inciting Event and the First Plot Point taking deliberate steps toward a full commitment to the plot goal.

Bend It Like Beckham (2002), Fox Searchlight Pictures.

In stories that feature particularly life-changing Inciting Events, such as The Hunger Games, the Inciting Event will still build up to the First Plot Point. Occasionally, in such stories, the First Plot Point will be less dramatic than the Inciting Event, but will still structurally function to fully engage the protagonist with the main plot goal.

For Example:

• Even though Katniss’s dramatic Inciting Event forever changes her life, she does not fully engage with the main plot conflict of surviving the Hunger Games until she reaches the Capitol, where she begins training as a tribute.

The Hunger Games (2012), Lionsgate.

In most stories, the three major plot points (First Plot Point, Midpoint, Third Plot Point) will feature the story’s “biggest” scenes. It is important to remember that even in stories in which this is not true, the structural timing and the specific roles of each structural beat remain the same.

Examples of the Inciting Event From Film and LiteraturePride and Prejudice: Although Elizabeth and Darcy spar at the Meryton assembly dance, forming opinions of each other they will spend the rest of the story trying to overcome, the true Inciting Event is the scene in which Elizabeth becomes the Bingleys’ guest while her sister Jane is staying there as an invalid. This sequence “brushes” Elizabeth against the main plot conflict by initiating her relationship with Darcy. From here, their paths will become more and more intertwined.

Pride & Prejudice (2005), Focus Features.

It’s a Wonderful Life: This classic movie uses the entirety of its First Act to leisurely introduce and build its characters. Its gentle Inciting Event occurs on the night of the high school dance when George’s father asks him if he would be willing to stay in Bedford Falls to help run the Bailey Brothers Building & Loan. George promptly refuses his father’s request. This sets up the central throughline and George’s central conflict between his need to stay and help contrasted with his burning desire to leave Bedford Falls.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

Ender’s Game: The First Act frames the central conflict by introducing a world that has been under attack by the Formic aliens for over eighty years. The protagonist, young Ender, is not directly impacted by this larger conflict until the Inciting Event when Col. Graff and the International Fleet Selective Service recruit him. He is taken to Battle School, where he will be trained to outwit and outfight the aliens.

Ender’s Game (2013), Lionsgate.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World: This film’s structure is interesting in that the Inciting Event sequence takes up almost the entirety of the first eighth of the movie. This sequence of scenes features the sneak attack by the enemy ship Acheron upon the protagonist’s ship, HMS Surprise. After this attack, around the 12% mark, the protagonist must repair the ship and decide how to respond.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003), Miramax Films.

Top Things to Remember About the Inciting Event1. The Inciting Event takes place halfway through the First Act, around the 12% mark. 2. The Inciting Event is the moment when the protagonist “brushes” into the main conflict, antagonist, or goal in a way that requires a response. 3. The Inciting Event lays the foundation for the protagonist’s subsequent full-on engagement with the main conflict. 4. The Inciting Event is a Call to Adventure, challenging the character to either rise up in resistance against something or move proactively toward a desire. 5. This Call to Adventure is initially refused, perhaps internally or perhaps by a proxy character, as the protagonist faces the weight of what is at stake in engaging with the conflict. 6. The Inciting Event signals the end of the First Act’s “set up” and the beginning of the “build up” toward the Second Act.

A solid Inciting Event creates the foundation for your entire story. Don’t settle for anything less than the most powerful and memorable scene you can come up with. Time it strategically within the First Act and use it to engage your readers just as irretrievably as it does your main character.

Stay tuned: Next week, we’ll talk about the First Plot Point.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Can you identify the Inciting Event in your work-in-progress? Tell me in the comments!Related Posts:

Part 1: 5 Reasons Story Structure Is Important

Part 2: The Hook

Part 3: The First Act

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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The First Act is the first major section within story structure. It comprises the first quarter of the story and focuses primarily on setting up and introducing the plot. As the foundation for everything, a solid First Act ensures your plot can achieve solidity and depth in subsequent acts.

Within the First Act, we find three important structural beats:

• The Hook – 1%
• The Inciting Event – 12%
• The First Plot Point – 25%

From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

The Hook, which we discussed in last week’s post, begins the story by introducing the first domino in the row of causality that will allow each scene to lead into the next. At that point, the protagonist will likely not yet be engaged in the main conflict. What happens at the Hook begins to set up the conflict, providing the first bit of foreshadowing and context.

The Inciting Event, which we will discuss next week, divides the First Act in half, providing the story’s first important turning point. It symbolically represents the Call to Adventure and invites the protagonist to engage with the primary conflict.

The First Plot Point does not discretely belong in either the First Act or the Second Act. Instead, it creates the “threshold” or Doorway of No Return between the Normal World of the First Act and the Adventure World of the Second Act. The First Plot Point is when your protagonist becomes fully engaged with the primary conflict. From here, the protagonist will not be able to turn back from the pursuit of the goal without consequences. We will discuss this all-important beat in more depth in a few weeks.

From this brief overview, you can see that the primary focus of the First Act is not the immersion of the protagonist in the story’s main conflict. Rather, the First Act is where the story develops the reasons the character will choose to engage with the antagonistic force later on. The story will go full-on in the Second Act. For that intensity to make sense, the First Act needs to provide context for what follows. You can think of the First Act as foreshadowing for the Second and Third Acts. It is the plant to the subsequent payoffs.

Setting Up the Story: Characters, Settings, and StakesAfter hooking readers, your main task in the First Act is to put your early chapters to work introducing your characters, settings, and stakes. Twenty-five percent of your book might seem a tremendous chunk of the story to devote to introductions. But if you expect readers to stick with you throughout the story, you must give them a reason to care. Mere curiosity can only carry readers so far. Once you’ve hooked their sense of curiosity, you must then deepen the pull by creating an emotional connection between them and your characters.

These “introductions” include far more than the moment of introducing the characters and settings or explaining the stakes. In themselves, the presentations of all the important characters probably won’t take more than a few scenes. After the actual introductions is when your task of deepening the characters and establishing the stakes really begins.

In one sense, the First Act is like a program for a play. Its primary purpose is to prepare readers for what’s in store. You’re using these early chapters to indicate which characters are important, what type of story readers can expect, and where the journey will take them.

The first quarter of the book is where you compile the necessary components for your story. Anton Chekhov’s famous advice that “if in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired” is just as pertinent in reverse: if a character fires a gun later in the book, that gun should be foreshadowed in the First Act. The story you create in the following acts can only be assembled from the parts you’ve shown or foreshadowed in the First Act.

Introducing Your Story’s CharactersYour first duty in the First Act is to allow readers the opportunity to learn about your characters. Who are these people? What is the essence of their personalities? What core beliefs will be challenged or strengthened throughout the book? If you introduced someone in a Characteristic Moment, as discussed last week, then you were already able to show readers who this person is. From there, the plot can build as you deepen the stakes and set up the conflict that will explode halfway through the First Act in the Inciting Event and later at the First Plot Point.

Every story spreads out the arrival of important cast members differently. Usually, prominent actors should all be on stage by the time the bell rings at the end of the First Act. You can find exceptions in which prominent characters don’t arrive until late in the story (e.g., Cynthia in Wives and Daughters), but these late arrivals must be well planned. An arbitrary new character is never a good idea.

Wives & Daughters (1999), BBC/WGBH Boston.

Try to introduce all the following players within the First Act:

• Protagonist

Introduce the protagonist as quickly as you can, in the first scene if possible (and it should almost always be possible). The early introduction of the main character signals to readers this is the person whose story they’re reading and therefore this is the person to whom they need to attach loyalty.

• Antagonist

You’ll usually introduce or at least foreshadow the antagonist early on, both to get the conflict rolling and to foreshadow the opposition to whatever your character cares about.

• Love Interest

Particularly if your story is a romance, but even if the love story is only a subplot, you will most likely bring your protagonist’s love interest on stage in the First Act. Although you don’t have to signal these two people will end up in love, you can at least signify the character’s importance with an early introduction.

• Sidekick

Minor characters come and go in a story. Some will be important, some won’t. Those who will be at your protagonist’s side for the majority of the book deserve at least a short intro sometime before the First Plot Point.

• Mentor

Writing Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)

Mentor characters (which may or may not be Mentor archetypes) can enter a story just about anywhere in the first two acts, depending on their importance and the size of their roles. When possible, avoid convenient plot twists later on by introducing, or at least foreshadowing, a mentor character’s existence in the First Act.

Introducing Your Story’s StakesAs your characters walk onto the stage, they will bring the stakes along with them. What they care about—and the antagonistic forces that threaten what they care about—must be shown or hinted at to foreshadow the deepening conflict of the Second Act.

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

Keep in mind the arc you’re trying to create for your characters. Some characters may need to endure a nuclear holocaust to learn their lessons and change their ways. Other times, the catalyst a story needs (i.e., the “worst” thing that can happen) will be smaller and more intimate.

Whatever that worst thing ends up being, you must set it up in the First Act. If your character’s daughter is going to be kidnapped, the First Act is the place to show readers how much her daughter means to her. You can’t up the stakes later on without something first being at stake.

It’s not enough to merely mention whatever is at stake for your characters. You must also take the time to develop it. Don’t be in such a hurry to get to the action that you neglect this foundation in the First Act. You can explain the stakes outright (“I love my little girl,” the mother says. “I would do anything to make a better life for her.”), or you can prove them through action (the mother lovingly swings her daughter at the playground)—or both.

The more proof you supply of your character’s investment in something (i.e., family, job, honor, etc.), the higher the stakes will be when that thing is threatened. The First Act is your first and most important opportunity to supply this proof. Once the First Plot Point hits at the 25% mark, the story will move too quickly to fully establish these important aspects of your character.

Introducing Your Story’s SettingsWhy is it important to introduce prominent settings in the First Act? Aside from the necessity of grounding readers in the story world, well-planned settings will empower your story with continuity and resonance. Your setting is the visual frame that unifies your story. If your book takes place in a prison, that’s the box in which readers will put your story when they think about it. Shawshank Redemption and The Great Escape? What do you think of when you hear those titles? The prison setting is what defines them and frames their plots.

Shawshank Redemption (1994), Columbia Pictures.

But what if you write your prison story so the character doesn’t land in jail until the First Plot Point at the 25% mark? What if the settings in the First Act won’t ever be seen again? Maybe your protagonist starts out as a loving father who is wrongly accused of murder and tossed into the pen. You spend the first quarter of your story establishing his Normal World with his suburbanite family, then bam! he’s in jail and he won’t return to the suburbs for the rest of the book.

Even if you introduce a new batch of settings later on, your early settings are crucial for establishing character and stakes. Early settings can also create contrast when your poor protagonist is dumped in the brig later. Setting is the foundation of verisimilitude. Make readers believe they’re in a real place, and you’ve won half your battle against their skepticism.

Setting should never be an arbitrary choice. Consider what settings the plot will require, then try to create a strong reading experience by eliminating extraneous settings. A limited number of settings gives both you and the readers less to keep track of and allows more opportunities for deepening existing settings. A handful of important settings will allow you to create thematic resonance when you return to them at key moments in the story, thus bringing their presence in the story full circle.

Let’s say your jailbird dad in the previous example is released from prison during the story’s Climax. If you stage your closing scene back home in the suburbs, you’ll bring the story full circle, neatly closing the frame you opened in the First Act. By the same token, if he doesn’t get to go home at the end of the story, you might want to question whether opening with the suburban setting was your best choice.

What if the protagonist is on a journey with no main setting? Journey stories present a different set of challenges. What you’ll need to create in this sort of story is a “transient setting.” Alert readers that the characters will be jumping from setting to setting, then ground readers with the details that will remain the same no matter where the characters are. If they’re with a camel caravan in Egypt or just driving cross-country in their Jeep 4×4, these, in essence, become the primary settings no matter where the characters go.

The hectic nature of journey stories, particularly adventure stories, creates a milieu in which their exoticness is the setting. When you open the story with an exotic setting and plant the expectation that the character won’t be staying long, you’re providing the same foreshadowing as you would by using a more domestic story’s First Act to accustom readers to one or two prominent settings.

Examples of the First Act From Film and LiteraturePride and Prejudice: Ten pages in, we’ve met all the major characters, learned about the setting, and seen what’s at stake for the Bennet daughters if one of them can’t ensnare the unwitting Mr. Bingley. By the time we reach the First Plot Point, we’ve gotten to know all the sisters. The beauty and sweetness that will eventually win Jane a husband, the independence and strong opinions with which Elizabeth drives the conflict, and the foreboding irresponsibility of the youngest daughter Lydia are all in place and ready to be developed later in the story. We’ve also been introduced to the Bingleys, Darcy, and Wickham. Before the First Act is over, Bingley is in love with Jane, and Elizabeth has made up her mind to dislike Darcy—the two factors that will drive the story to come.

Pride & Prejudice (2005), Focus Features.

It’s a Wonderful Life: Under the guise of explaining George Bailey to novice angel Clarence, the senior angels show us the prominent moments in George’s young life. We see him as a child, saving his little brother from drowning, going deaf in one ear, and preventing old Mr. Gower from accidentally poisoning a customer. We glimpse him as a young man, planning his escape from “crummy” Bedford Falls, even as he becomes smitten with the lovely Mary Hatch. By the time the Inciting Event strikes, we know George Bailey inside out. We’ve been introduced to Bedford Falls and its colorful array of denizens. And we’ve learned of the stakes from George’s father, who explains the importance of the Bailey Brothers Building & Loan in giving the people a financial haven from evil Old Man Potter.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

Ender’s Game: Card uses his First Act to establish his setting: the orbital Battle School, where brilliant young children train to stave off an alien invasion. We learn about this strange and brutal place through the eyes of the main character, Ender Wiggin, who is a new arrival. This also allows us to learn about Ender. We see his determination and his kindness, but also the underlying bedrock of his ruthlessness—around which the entire plot turns. Almost all the significant supporting characters are introduced. Readers are shown what is at stake, not only for the human race, but also for Ender if he does not overcome the handicap of his extreme youth in order to flourish in this place.

Ender’s Game (2013), Lionsgate.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World: After the initial onslaught of the furious opening battle, the movie slows considerably to allow viewers to get to know the main characters—the captain, the surgeon, and other featured crew members. The opening battle already demonstrated the high stakes, and the characters’ reactions (most notably the captain’s intense desire to refit the ship and reengage the enemy) help us understand why they’re fighting and what will happen if they fail. As the crew repairs the battle damage, we’re also given an inside view of the ship, the primary setting throughout the story.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003), Miramax Films.

Top Things to Remember About the First Act1. If the Hook has done its job, you can safely slow the action to thoughtfully introduce and deepen your characters. 2. The characters’ salient personality points, motivations, and beliefs should all be developed. 3. The pertinent points of the initial setting must be fleshed out. Readers should already be oriented by the time the First Plot Point arrives. 4. The readers’ bond with the characters helps raise the stakes. Make clear what the characters stand to lose in the coming conflict to drive the point home. 5. Every scene must matter. Each scene is a domino knocking into the next domino/scene, building inexorably to the First Plot Point.

Stay tuned: Next week, we’ll talk about the Inciting Event.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Do you take the time to introduce your characters, settings, and stakes in your First Act? Tell me in the commentsRelated Posts:

Part 1: 5 Reasons Story Structure Is Important

Part 2: The Hook

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Readers are like fish. Smart fish. Fish who know authors are out to get them, reel them in, and capture them for the rest of their sea-going lives. Like all self-respecting fish, readers aren’t caught easily. They aren’t about to surrender to the lure of your story unless you present them with an irresistible Hook.

Naturally, our discussion of story structure begins at the beginning, and the beginning of any good story is its Hook. Unless you hook readers into your story from the very first chapter, they won’t swim in deep enough to experience the rest of your rousing adventure, no matter how amazing it is.

What Is the Hook?From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link)

The Hook comes in many forms. Stripped to its lowest common denominator, it’s a question. If you can pique readers’ curiosity, you’ve got ’em. Simple as that.

The beginning of every story should present character, setting, and conflict, but in themselves, none of these are the Hook. You’ve created a Hook only when you’ve convinced readers to ask the general question, “What’s going to happen?” because you’ve also convinced them to ask a more specific question—e.g., “What scary reptilian monster killed the worker?” (Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton) or “How does a city hunt?” (Mortal Engines by Philip Reeve).

Jurassic Park (1993), Universal Pictures.

Writing a good opening scene can be tricky. Not only must you engage readers, you must do so with a scene element that creates and foreshadows everything to come. The most obvious way to do this is to think of the Hook as setting up cause and effect for the next thing that happens, which will create a new cause for a new effect, and so on throughout the story.

You can also go deeper by considering how the Hook operates within the larger pattern of story structure and how it relates to other structural beats. Particularly, consider how you can design a Hook that foreshadows the First Plot Point. As the first major turning point in the story, the First Plot Point (which ends the First Act and begins the Second Act about a quarter of the way into the story) is the first moment that requires significant foreshadowing.

It is important to understand the protagonist will not become inextricably engaged with the story’s main conflict until the First Plot Point. Because the First Plot Point is such a big moment in the story, it requires setup. The entirety of the First Act is about foreshadowing this moment. Therefore, although the Hook should be causally important in leading up to the First Plot Point, it will not likely involve the protagonist directly with either the main plot goal or the main antagonist. Rather, it will begin crafting the milieu and motive that will lead to those encounters. We will talk more about the First Act in next week’s post.

Foreshadowing in your story’s Hook need not be explicit. It can be as simple as setting the tone or, more practically, setting up the pieces that will set the main conflict into motion. The intent is to create a solid line of cause and effect beginning with the Hook and leading to the First Plot Point. This ensures your story’s opening will be pertinent and effective in pulling readers into your main plot.

Another approach, which can be used simultaneously in some instances, is to start thinking about your story’s finale. The two halves of a story mirror each other, with the beats in the first half setting up and reflecting the beats in the second half (something I talk about in my book Next Level Plot Structure).

Consider what your story’s Resolution might be. How might the events of your story’s first chapter reflect the events of your last chapter? This might be very obvious in that the initial circumstances are entirely reversed by the end. It might also be that your character returns to the same setting in the end to witness how it has or has not changed. This mirroring can be extremely subtle and still be effective. At this point, you can use it merely to help inspire a solid beginning scene.

3 Techniques for Hooking ReadersYou can use many different techniques to create a Hook that both engages readers and sets up your story. Following are some of the most efficacious options, which can be used in combination with each other or any of a myriad other approaches.

1. Open In Medias ResIn medias res means “in the middle of things.” It describes the technique of creating a Hook that plunges readers right into the center of the action. The idea is to avoid the unnecessary throat-clearing of telling readers about the characters and the story world and to instead create a dynamic scene that shows readers who your characters are, what they want, and what kind of entertaining action they will be engaging in throughout the story. Depending on your story, the “action” may be fist fights and car chases, or it may be relational drama and witty banter.

There are many misconceptions about in medias res, particularly that it means cutting to the middle of the structural story with the protagonist already immersed in the main conflict. However, even in sequels that pick up wherever a previously developed plot left off, the full structure must still be present to create the story arc. The function of the Hook remains the same even in stories that begin with the intensity of the action already dialed to 10. The Hook will always set up and lead into the subsequent structural beats of the Inciting Event and First Plot Point, which in turn create the main conflict for this particular story.

1. Open With a Characteristic MomentIn most stories, the strongest opportunity to hook readers is the introduction of your protagonist. This central character should be the primary reason readers are interested in this story. You want to introduce your protagonist in a Characteristic Moment. This is a scene designed to show readers who this person is. In almost all instances, this does not mean showing readers your protagonist going through a normal daily routine. Rather, craft this scene around a scenario that shows readers how your protagonist reacts to an interesting and pertinent situation.

Not only should this situation initiate the line of cause and effect leading to the Inciting Event and then the First Plot Point, it should also showcase your protagonist’s pertinent strengths and weaknesses. If your protagonist’s wit or strength or kindness will be important to the story, create a scene demonstrating these traits. Likewise, if your protagonist’s shyness or short temper or moral grayness will be pertinent, showcase those. This is also your opportunity to introduce important and entertaining relationship dynamics, which will allow you to immediately get the dialogue flowing while also setting up crucial supporting characters.

1. Open with the Scene Goal/Conflict/DisasterWhen identifying the most interesting moment to begin your story, you can hack scene structure to help you choose. The three basic elements of scene structure are Goal, Conflict, and Disaster. Depending on your story, emphasizing any one of these aspects can help you find your story’s best Hook.

Opening with a scene goal can help you craft a solid Characteristic Moment, showing exactly what your protagonist wants. This can then tie into the larger plot goal that will develop later to inform your entire story’s throughline. Emphasizing the scene goal can also create an immediate sense of momentum for the scene, ensuring your protagonist starts out in motion, moving toward something.

However, if you instead choose to open later in the scene’s structure, you will automatically gain some benefits of in medias res. Beginning with the scene conflict allows you to skip right to the heart of the moment and show readers what type of action will be most prevalent in your story and how your protagonist deals with adversity. After getting into the action, you can then step back and offer any necessary information about what led to this moment.

Finally, opening with the scene’s outcome means you’re opening even deeper in medias res, after the character has encountered difficulty in overcoming the conflict to reach the goal. Depending on the nature of your story, this outcome might be quite tense and exciting, but it might also simply offer context as you immediately introduce the character’s next goal.

Learning more about scene structure (which I talk about in the second half of Structuring Your Novel) can help you decide which of these options might be best for your story’s Hook.

Where Does the Hook Belong?The Hook should be present as early as possible in your first scene. However, the hook must be organic. Teasing readers with a killer opening line (“Mimi was dying again”) only to reveal all is not as it seems (turns out Mimi is a Broadway actress performing her 187th death scene) not only negates the power of your Hook, it also betrays readers’ trust.

Stories contain many hooks. Indeed, you don’t want the impetus and curiosity created by one hook to die down without planting the next hook. This is true for every scene in your story. However, when we consider the Hook as a specific structural beat, we are talking about the first hook. Not only must the Hook pull readers into your story, it must also offer the first domino in the row of dominos that will create your plot.

The Hook takes place at the 1% mark in your story, the very beginning. A witty opening line can sometimes be enough to create the initial question that piques reader curiosity. However, don’t overvalue the opening line. Most stories use the opening line as part of an opening paragraph that plants the Hook in a more deliberate and leisurely manner. Depending on the pacing and tone of your story, you may even be able to introduce the Hook more slowly toward the end of the opening scene. This requires skill, since you have to trust readers to be patient enough to get that far.

Examples of the Hook From Film and LiteratureNow that you know what a structural Hook is and where it belongs, let’s consider a few examples. I’ve selected two movies and two novels to use as examples throughout this series so you can follow the story arc as presented in popular and successful media. Let’s look at how the professionals hook us so effectively we never realize we’ve swallowed the worm.

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (1813): Austen begins by hooking us with her famous opening line:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

The subtle irony creates a sense of conflict from the very first and hints that neither the wife in search of the fortune nor the man in search of the wife will reach their goals so easily. Austen deepens the pull of her Hook into her opening paragraph by further highlighting the juxtaposition of her opening statement with the realities of her plot. She deepens it still further throughout the opening scene, which introduces the Bennet family in such a way that we not only grow interested in them, but also learn both the thrust of the plot and the difficulties of the conflict.

Pride & Prejudice (2005), Focus Features.

It’s a Wonderful Life directed by Frank Capra (1947): Capra begins with a framing device that hooks viewers with a sneak peek of the Climax. The movie opens at the height of the main character’s troubles and has us wondering why George Bailey is in such a fix that the whole town is praying for him. Next thing we know, we’re staring at an unlikely trio of angels, manifested as blinking constellations. The presentation is not only unexpected, it succinctly expresses the coming conflict and stakes while engaging us with specific need-to-know questions.

It’s a Wonderful Life (1947), Liberty Films.

Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card (1977):

The opening line to this award-winning science-fiction novel is packed with hooking questions:

I’ve watched through his eyes, I’ve listened through his ears, and I tell you he’s the one. Or at least as close as we’re going to get.

Just like that, Card has us wondering how the speaker is watching and listening through someone else’s mind. Who is “the one”? What is “the one” supposed to do? And why are they settling for a “one” who is less than perfect? Card then builds into a scene that introduces his unlikely hero, six-year-old Ender Wiggin, just as his life is turned upside down.

Ender’s Game (2013), Lionsgate.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World directed by Peter Weir (2004): As a brilliant adaptation of Patrick O’Brian’s beloved Aubrey/Maturin series, this film is unorthodox in many ways, not least in its non-formulaic tone and plot. Nevertheless, it demonstrates structural integrity, beginning with a stark opening that shows the morning ritual aboard the man-of-war HMS Surprise. Aside from arousing our natural curiosity about the unique setting, the Hook doesn’t appear until a minute or so into the film when one of the midshipmen spots what might be an enemy ship. The film carries viewers through a few tense moments of uncertainty and indecision, then, almost without warning, plunges them into a horrific sea battle. We are hooked almost before we see the Hook coming.

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003), Miramax Films.

Top Things to Remember About the Hook1. Hooks should be an integral part of the plot. 2. Hooks don’t always involve action, but they always set it up. 3. Hooks never waste time. 4. Hooks almost always pull double or triple duty in introducing character, conflict, and plot—and even setting and theme.

Your Hook is your first chance to impress readers. Plan your Hook carefully and wow readers so thoroughly, they will never forget your opening scene.

Stay tuned: Next week, we’ll talk about the First Act.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What Hook begins your story structure? Tell me in the comments!Related Posts: Part 1: 5 Reasons Story Structure Is Important

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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What’s the single most overlooked, misunderstood—and yet important—part of storytelling? If you read the post title, you already know the answer is story structure.

Twelve years ago, I shared the series “Secrets of Story Structure” on this site. That series became the basis of one of my best-known writing-craft books, Structuring Your Novel. That original series and the book that followed were founded upon my journey as a writer, particularly my burning need to understand how story worked. What is story anyway? And which principles and patterns could show me how to write stories that hung together, created seamless arcs, and, most importantly, resonated with readers?

Like most young authors, I was eventually told the answer to all these questions was “structure.” When I began exploring what that meant, I had no idea how monumental a journey I had just embarked on. I expected story structure to teach me how to write great stories. What I didn’t foresee was that it would also change my entire perspective of life itself.

My basic question, “What is story, anyway?” had a much bigger answer than I anticipated. This is because, of course, story is life itself. Story is a reflection of the cyclical patterns and psychological arcs we experience throughout our lives. When we examine the structural patterns that create resonant stories, what we find are the landmarks of life itself.

When we structure a story, we are trying to create a faithful facsimile of real life. This is what grounds a story’s verisimilitude, whether it is hyper-realistic modern fiction or the most fantastical and archetypal of fairy tales. The foundation of solid story structure allows audiences to suspend disbelief and identify with the story world, even if that world is filled with bizarre and unfamiliar details.

Writers often discuss story structure as if it were something we arbitrarily impose upon a story when really just the opposite is true. What we call “story structure” is the shape of life itself. As writers, it is our job to uncover this shape from within our story ideas and to polish it until it touches a point of universal resonance within every member of our audience, no matter how different they may be from us or from each other. Although the simplicity of certain plot beats, by themselves, are not enough to achieve this crystalline resonance, they are the first step.

Writers initially come to story structure for many reasons. Sometimes it is with the explicit purpose of creating that crystalline resonance. More often, it is because we’re trying to write something entertaining, realize we have no idea how to do it, and want guidance. Whatever the case, story structure offers writers a roadmap to writing solid plots. It lays the groundwork for compelling character arcs and themes, taps into the resonance of the collective consciousness, and even deepens our understanding of life.

Although the foundational principles I shared in the original version of this series remain the same, I have learned so much about both stories and life in the past twelve years. I felt it was time to revisit the incredible importance of this information, to polish its rough spots, to add new information, and to correct a few areas where I have refined my perspectives.

I was inspired to revisit this series and, for those who prefer the book experience, to create a revised and expanded second edition of Structuring Your Novel (the book teaches scene structure too). I have also just released a “sequel” Next Level Plot Structure, which goes even deeper into principles of story theory, chiastic structure, and the deeper meaning and purpose of important structural beats. I hope you will enjoy joining me over the next few months as we update this important series and take a deep look into the secrets of story structure. My wish is that you will be able to use this fundamental knowledge to write easier, better, and deeper stories!

What Is Story Structure?Most uninitiated writers have two different reactions to the idea of story structure. Either they think it’s great but too mystical and lofty to be understood by common mortals. Or they think it’s formulaic hooey that will sap the art right out of their books.

I started somewhere in between—in the “huh?” camp that didn’t even realize there was such a thing as structure. From there, I progressed to reading complicated outlines that left me shaking my head. If that was structure, then it seemed my story would practically be written for me before I even came up with a decent idea. Thanks, but no thanks.

What I didn’t know is that even as I subjected the idea of story structure to my ignorance and ridicule, I was already structuring my stories without even realizing it. In the following years, I was introduced to many theories of structure representing the inevitable components found in good stories whether their authors deliberately structured them or were just lucky enough to wing it on their own good instincts.
The macro level of story structure that I present in this series is a happy medium of the two: ten plot beats that, when arranged correctly, give both authors and readers the biggest bang for their buck.

Foundational story structure creates nothing more than the arc of a story. It does not tell the writer what events must happen at certain beats, only what those beats need to represent to create a functional arc. Although specific beat sheets can sometimes be helpful (especially when dealing with genre formulae), this over-specification can distract from the beautiful simplicity of what story structure really is.

And what is it?

1. Story structure creates a foundation for the plot that mirrors the arc of psychological transformation. It ensures the story contains all the pieces required to make sense while eliminating the temptation to create redundancy.

2. Story structure creates pacing. Standard plot beats divide the story into eight (ideally) equal parts. Although structural timing will be stressed throughout this series, what is most important to understand is that it exists to create pacing, which in turn exists to control the audience’s experience of the story—to keep them engaged and invested in every moment.

From the book Structuring Your Novel: Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition (Amazon affiliate link). Graphic by Joanna Marie Art.

Over the next eleven weeks, we will be exploring, beat by beat, the most important moments in story structure:

The First Act (1%-25%)

1. The Hook (1%)

2. The Inciting Event (12%)

3. The First Plot Plot Point (25%)

The Second Act (25%-75%)

1. The First Pinch Point (37%)

2. The Midpoint – Second Plot Point (50%)

3. The Second Pinch Point (62%)

The Third Act (75%-100%)

1. The Third Plot Point (75%)

2. The Climax (88%)

3. The Climactic Moment (99%)

4. The Resolution (100%)

5 Reasons Story Structure Is ImportantOver the next few months, we will explore the mysteries, fallacies, and opportunities of story structure. For now, let’s consider a few reasons every author should care about structure and why none of us should fear it.

1. Structure Is Required in all of ArtDancing, painting, singing, you name it—all art forms require structure. Storytelling is no different. To bring a story to its full potential, authors must understand the form’s limitations and how to arrange its many parts in the proper order to achieve maximum effect.

2. Structure Does Not Limit CreativityAuthors sometimes fear story structure will inhibit their creativity. If your book follows a specific road and observes certain pit stops, won’t the story be written for you? This is not the case. Structure presents only a shape—the curve of the story arc. It allows us to be concrete and confident in creating that arc, ensuring its effectiveness.

3. Structure Is Not FormulaicAnother fear is that if every story has the same structure, won’t every story ultimately be the same? This isn’t any truer than is the idea that because every ballet incorporates the same movements, every ballet must be the same. Structure is only the box that holds the gift. What that gift may be varies as wildly as the wrapping paper that hides it.

4. Structure Offers a Checklist of Must-Have ElementsDon’t we read how-to books (and blogs like this one) because we want to discover and remember all the elements that make up a successful story? Structure is nothing more than a list of those elements organized in one tidy package.

5. Structure Solidifies Mastery of the CraftLearning to consciously understand the techniques you’re probably already instinctively using will broaden your understanding and tighten your mastery of the craft. When I first discovered the intricacies of structure, I was amazed to realize I was already incorporating most of the elements in my stories. Learning about these elements allows you to strengthen your raw creative instinct into purposeful knowledge.

Ready to open up a whole new world of storytelling? Structure is exciting, comforting, and liberating all at once. Whether you’re discovering the ins and outs of story structure for the first time or just brushing up, I hope you’ll enjoy our journey into the most salient and crucial moments in the creation of a story.

Stay tuned: Next week, we’ll talk about the Hook.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! How do feel about the idea of story structure? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Hooray! Today, I am so happy to be sharing with you not one but two book launches—a revised and expanded second edition of Structuring Your Novel and a brand-new “sequel” Next Level Plot Structure. (And be sure to check out the giveaway for a Freewrite Alpha at the bottom of the post.)

If you want to write a story that works (and that doesn’t have you pulling out an unreasonable amount of hair), plot structure is the foundation upon which everything is built. Once you learn to recognize and understand the structural underpinnings that create a story’s arc, you can turn your imagination loose on your own stories, “knowing that you know” what you’re doing.

Structuring Your Novel is one of the most important books I have ever written. It was based on my cornerstone blog series “Secrets of Story Structure,” which I will be re-publishing starting next week (so if you’ve already read the first edition, you can catch up on the most important updates for free).

Structuring Your Novel continues to be one of the books I hear about most often from writers who are celebrating their successes in finishing and publishing manuscripts. When the book reached its official ten-year anniversary last year, I was inspired to revisit it, to update some information, add three new chapters (on the Inciting Event, Midpoint, and Third Plot Point), and just generally spit and polish it up a bit.

While working on the second edition, I realized how much I’ve learned about structure in the past decade. I wanted to share the nuances, theories, and understandings of structure that have helped me fall even more in love with story and to understand how and why plot structure works on a deeper level. However, because Structuring Your Novel has become such a mainstay for so many writers (80,000 and counting at this point!), I didn’t want to change it too much. So I decided to create a sequel!

Next Level Plot Structure compiles my last decade’s worth of discoveries and teachings about story theory and plot and scene structure. Specifically, it looks at how all of structure—from the macro level to the micro—can be constructed as two halves that mirror each other.

Not only does this create built-in foreshadowing and solid plots with cohesive set-ups and pay-offs, it also offers incredible opportunities for deepening character arcs and leveraging the built-in symbolism and meaning found within the plot beats themselves.

I am so happy to celebrate the second edition of Structuring Your Novel with all of you. Thank you for embracing it and making it a part of your writing journeys for the past decade! And I am ecstatic to get to share Next Level Plot Structure as a thoroughly up-to-date exploration of all my favorite ways to write stories that explode off the page and screen to remain with audiences for their entire lives. I can’t wait to hear about the new stories you will write with these books!

Where Can You Buy The BooksYou can purchase Structuring Your Novel (Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition) at the following links:* Amazon USA e-book (affiliate link) * Amazon USA paperback (affiliate link) * Amazon UK * Amazon Canada * Amazon Australia * Amazon Japan * Kobo * Barnes & Noble * Apple Books * Epub Direct From My Site

If you have already read the first edition, I would totally appreciate it, if you’d consider leaving a review on the new one! Creating a new edition meant losing the thousands of reviews the book collected over the past decade. I would totally appreciate it if you’d help me rebuild the review section!

Also, in case you’re wondering, I am planning to update and create a second edition of the Structuring Your Novel Workbook next year sometime.

You can purchase Next Level Plot Structure at the following links:* Amazon USA e-book (affiliate link) * Amazon USA paperback (affiliate link * Amazon UK * Amazon Canada * Amazon Australia * Amazon Japan * Kobo * Barnes & Noble * Apple Books * Epub Direct From My Site

(Audiobooks are hopefully coming later this year!)

More About Structuring Your Novel (Revised and Expanded 2nd Edition)Is Structure the Hidden Foundation of All Successful Stories?

Why do some stories work and others don’t? The answer is structure. In this 10-year anniversary edition, you will discover the universal underpinnings that guarantee powerful plot and character arcs. An understanding of proper story and scene structure will help you to not only perfectly time your story’s major events, but will also provide you with an unerring standard to use in evaluating your novel’s pacing and progression.

Structuring Your Novel will show you:

• How to recognize and create powerful plot points at the right moments throughout your story.
• How to determine the best methods for unleashing your unique and personal vision for your story.
• How to identify common structural weaknesses and flip them around into stunning strengths.
• How to eliminate saggy middles by discovering your “centerpiece.”
• Why you should NEVER include conflict on every page.
• How to craft a solid line of amazing scenes that create your story’s dramatic arc.

Revised and expanded with updated information and three brand new chapters, this second edition will help you join legions of writers who have learned how to write masterful plots.

Story structure has empowered countless bestselling and classic authors. Now it’s your turn!

More About Next Level Plot StructureElevate Your Storytelling with Expert Plot Structure

Unlock the secrets of compelling storytelling with Next Level Plot Structure, a brand-new guide from K.M. Weiland, author of the popular Structuring Your Novel. This comprehensive resource delves deep into the intricacies of plot structure, revealing the rich vein of narrative techniques and philosophical underpinnings that have shaped storytelling throughout history.

• Delve beyond plot beats to explore deeper symmetry and symbolism in story.
• Discover how every plot beat and scene is composed of two mirroring halves, contributing to the narrative arc.
• Introduce readers to chiastic structure, a mesmerizing mirroring technique that unites the two halves of a story.
• Master the dual beats of each major plot point to create dramatic scene arcs.
• Explore innovative ways to structure scenes to keep readers engaged and eager to turn the page.
• Examine the symbolic significance of a story’s four “worlds” and their influence on plot and character arcs.
• Evade formulaic story structures by understanding the deeper meaning and purpose of each plot element.

Whether you’re a seasoned writer or just starting out, Next Level Plot Structure provides invaluable insights and practical techniques to help you take your storytelling to new heights.

Enter to WinTo celebrate the launch of Structuring Your Novel and Next Level Plot Structure, I am giving away a Freewrite Alpha (value $349).

Description of Freewrite Alpha:

Alpha is a dedicated drafting device for anyone who wants to write without the distraction—or temptation—of browsers, email, or notifications.

Get in writing flow and develop more prolific writing sessions by separating the drafting and editing processes. When it is time to edit, your drafts wirelessly sync to the cloud for export into your software of choice.

Push your productivity forward and tap into writing joy.

To EnterWinners will be announced Monday, July 15th (via email and on Instagram). Enter below! (Note: no purchase is necessary to enter.)

Good luck to everyone in the drawing, have fun, and thank you for helping me celebrate the launches of Structuring Your Novel and Next Level Plot Structure!

Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Hello, everyone, and welcome! In today’s post/podcast/video, we’re going to be talking about what is very possibly the single most important element of any successful story. And that is the Lie the Character Believes.

The Lie the Character Believes is a mistaken or limited perspective the character holds at the beginning of the story which will be challenged as they go through the plot. In some stories, they will overcome it in exchange for a thematic Truth, which is a broader and more expanded perspective of themselves or the world around them.

In other stories, they may fail to see past the Lie, in which case, they’d be arcing negatively probably into a worse Lie.

It’s also possible they start out in possession of the Truth, and it’s the world around them that represents the Lie. They are able to use their broader understanding of something to bring more refinement and calibration to the characters in the world around them. This is a Flat Arc.

Fundamentally, it is this push-pull—this conflict between the Lie and the Truth—that creates character arc. It creates change within the character. By doing that, it also drives the plot and is driven by the events of the plot.

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

This is something that I discussed in depth in my book Creating Character Arcs. If you want more information than what we’re going to talk about in this 20-minute video transcript, then you can check out the book.

What Is the Lie Your Character Believes?To start with, let’s talk about what is the Lie and what is the Truth.

I like these terms because they are very black and white. They immediately give you a sense of their deeper archetypal purposes within a story.

However, it’s important to understand that both can be very relative within the story. Fundamentally, all the the Lie is is a limited perspective. It’s something the character believes to be true about themselves or the world. It may be true to a certain point. But it’s limited. The events of the story—whatever is happening that’s asking them to step up within the plot—is challenging this limited perspective. The events of the plot indicate that this old perspective is no longer good enough. It isn’t going to get the job done anymore.

What is the Thematic Truth?Writing Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

The thematic Truth stands in opposition to the Lie as something the story is positing is “more” true about the world than this limited perspective with which the character starts out. I call it the thematic Truth because theme in a story is whatever this story ultimately is consciously or unconsciously trying to prove about reality.

Sometimes the thematic principle will be very explicit, as when the character learns some sort of aphorism or axiom like the golden rule or something like that. Other times, the thematic Truth is never outright stated within the story. It’s just proven through what is effective in the character’s actions as they move through the plot.

In a very plot-driven story, the Truth may be simply that the character needs to learn something—“e.g., you need to learn Kung Fu in order to defeat the bad guy.” They need to learn this new way of being in the world, this new skill. Or they may need to learn something like “Darth Vader is your father.” They need to perceive something that is mistaken about how they are interacting with the information they need in order to reach the plot goal.

Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back (1980), 20th Century Fox.

In other stories, the needed Truth is much more personal and can be hard to define in concrete terms, such as “you are worthy” or “you are lovable.”

How Your Plot Proves Your Story’s Thematic TruthWhatever the Truth is in your story—and therefore whatever the theme is—has to do with what the story proves works for the characters. The story will posit that the Truth is a more effective way of thinking about and being in the world. This is then proven by how the characters are able to move toward their plot goal and whether or not they achieve it.

If they’re effective in reaching their plot goal by the end, that indicates they were able to overcome the limitations of the Lie and move into this more expanded and effective perspective of the Truth.

If they’re in a Negative Change Arc, they will end up being ineffective in the plot in some way. Even if they’re able to gain their plot goal, there’s some sort of moral failure or defeat because they were not able to grasp the Truth. Even in stories in which the Truth doesn’t “win”—as when the characters are not able to use it to get what they want or to be more whole within themselves in the story world—it still prove sitself by the very fact that they’re not happy or they’re not effective or that they fatally compromised their integrity in some way.

Every story–whether it’s plot-driven or character-driven—will revolve around some level of this conflict between Lie and Truth, between a limited way of being and a more expanded and effective way of being within the story.

How to Create a Character Arc Using the Lie and the TruthTo create a character arc, you start out with a character believing a Lie—a limited perspective. What it is will depend on what you’re trying to explore in your story. It can be many different things, but regardless, they will start out with this limited perspective.

Then, as the plot kind of rolls into view, something happens. The Inciting Event comes online, and the characters’ reality begins to change. That’s the whole point of why you’re beginning this story at this moment, or why you’re telling this story at all. Something’s happening—something’s changing within the character’s reality—that is going to challenge their perspective of the world and of themselves. Their old perspectives will no longer be as effective as they may once have been.

The character begins to experience inner conflict as they try to grow into the person they need to be to meet these plot challenges coming at them.

Character Arc in the First ActStructuring Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

Generally speaking, the First Act (the first 25% of the story) is where you’re really going to be exploring the Lie. This is where you’re exploring what this looks like for the character, how it may have been effective for them up until this point, and also how they’re developing a new plot goal in response to the changes that have begun happening.

This is where you can start exploring the dysfunction of the Lie and why it will no longer prove effective as they move forward. You can explore why they need to change—in essence why they need to accept that Call to Adventure to change, so they can become more effective as they move through the plot.

Character Arc in the First Half of the Second ActAs the character enters the Second Act (the middle 50% of the story), after the First Plot Point, they enter that threshold through the Doorway of No Return, and they enter the full-on conflict of the Second Act.

The first half of the Second Act is very much about the characters reacting to everything that’s changing. They’re a little bit off balance. The primary reason for this is they don’t have an understanding of the Truth yet. Right. They’re still trying to operate out of their old mindset—the Lie. However, what has been their perspective and mode of being up until this point actually isn’t effective to meet these new challenges.

This is what I call a “grumpy-bumpy” period, where you’re growing and everything feels uncomfortable. You don’t quite know what’s going on. You’re maybe not completely embracing the process. You’d rather just stick with your old way of being and keep pretending. You have a hammer, and so you think all the world’s a nail. The point of this story is that the character is meeting challenges that are not nails. These problems are bigger than what they’ve ever encountered before. Slowly, it starts to dawn on them that the old way of doing things is not going to work.

This is a time in the plot when they’ll be running into defeats—maybe not definitively, but as they try to use their old perspective, it doesn’t completely work. It’s not completely effective. They have to adjust and learn as they go.

Character Arc at the MidpointAs they slowly began to explore the limitations of the Lie, it begins to dawn on them that maybe this old perspective isn’t the end-all-be-all of how to see things. That will bring them to the Midpoint, which is defined by what I call the Moment of Truth. This is a moment where something big happens, and the accumulation of everything the character has been learning leads them to really see the opposing viewpoint. They see the story’s thematic Truth and how effective it could help them be in getting what they need.

Basically, a light bulb goes on and they’re like, “Oh, this is what I have to do to get what I want.” In some stories, it’s as simple as that. The Moment of Truth can be simply a plot revelation like, “Oh, we need to go find the plans to the bad guy’s evil base, because that’s going to let us get what we want!” It can be something very practical and action-based.

However, specifically within theme and within character arc, the Moment of Truth will also a deeper understanding and expansion within the person. They have to be able to see something in a way they’ve never seen it before and to expand into that. It’s challenging them to become a new version of themselves in some way.

Even though the characters recognize the Truth at the midpoint, they do not yet reject the Lie. Basically, get this shiny new toy, and they’re like, “Oh wow, I totally get it! This is amazing! I’m going to be awesome from this point on!” But they’re not yet willing to totally give up who they were before or their old modes of being.

This could be for ego reasons (i.e., they’re very identified with whatever it is), but it could also be just for survival reasons. They might be thinking, “This is how I’ve always survived. I can’t let this go yet.” That’s not necessarily an inaccurate perspective because they haven’t yet fully integrated the new way of being. If they just let go of the old way too soon, then it could be very destructive, depending on what it is. So they continue to hang onto the Lie.

Character Arc in the Second Half of the Second ActFrom this point on, they can take this Truth they gleaned at the Midpoint and move into the second half of the Second Act, which is very much an action phase. They’re able to move out of that hapless reaction where they don’t know what they are doing or quite how to get it done. Now, they become more and more effective as they go.

It’s likely the antagonistic force will also be pushing harder and getting bigger. In this section of the story, the protagonist won’t necessarily be “winning” in the conflict, but they are learning how to become much more effective by using a more accurate understanding of the conflict and of themselves in that conflict.

Throughout the second half of the Second Act after the Midpoint, they begin to move more and more into the Truth. But they’re experiencing this inner conflict between Truth and Lie, feeling like, “How can I hold these two perspectives or ways of being at the same time?”

Character Arc in the Third ActIt becomes clearer and clearer the Lie and the Truth are in fact incompatible and that the character is probably going to have to let go of the Lie completely at some point. That is going to lead them to the Third Plot Point, which is the Low Moment. It symbolizes death/rebirth within the story.

Specifically on the level of character arc, what’s happening here is that if the character is to succeed in achieving a Positive Change Arc and embracing the Truth, then the person they used to be—the person who believed in the Lie—is going to have to die. That old identity is kaput at this point. If they’re going to succeed, they’re going to have to be reborn into this person who is fully integrated and embraces and understands the Truth of the story.

It is important to remember, that in the most poignant stories, this is usually a very complex moment. When we hear the words “Lie” and “Truth,” we think, “Well, obviously we want the Truth. Why would we hang on to the Lie?” But in our own lives and therefore what we want to see mirrored in story isn’t this simple.

Up to now, the Lie has been like an old friend. Even though it’s comparatively limited, this perspective has been effective to some degree. Therefore, we’re kind of loath to give it up. We’re identified with it on an ego level to some degree. To give up the Lie does feel like, “I’m giving up myself. I’m giving up a part of myself—my old way of being.” In a story, this sacrifice is definitive. So there is a death of some part of the character and therefore a grief and a very real desire to hang on to the old way of being and not let it go.

The character is met with a moment where their refusal or inability to completely give up the Lie will lead them to what maybe seems like a victory at first. But it is ultimately a defeat of some sort. It becomes very clear the defeat is the consequence of their refusal to completely give up the Lie. They will not be able to overcome this defeat or reverse it or finally get what they want or become who they want to be unless they finally and fully grapple with this old identity and give up the Lie.

This can be dramatized very quickly. It doesn’t have to be this huge trip into the underworld of the character’s psyche where they’re wrestling with these parts of themselves. But it needs to be hit full-on. Don’t just brush over it. This is arguably the most potentially powerful moment within your entire story. This is it. This is where the character’s arc is decided. Are they going to be able to do this? Are they going to be able to transition into someone who believes in and embraces and embodies this story’s new Truth?

Character Arc in the ClimaxA good portion of the Third Act often is taken up with this inner conflict and this grappling. Then the Climax will start about halfway through the Third Act.

By the time the character gets to the Climax, they may not be crystal clear about exactly what’s happening or what they’re going to do. But they will have integrated the Truth (if they’re going to integrate it within this story) and rejected the Lie. They haven’t acted upon the Truth yet—it’s unproven at this point—but it’s there. It’s ready for them to do whatever they’re going to do in the Climax—to make that climactic decision, to be a stand for the story’s Truth, to use the story’s Truth to allow them to be effective as they move against the antagonistic force or toward their plot goal.

By the time they get to the Climax, the conflict is pretty much decided. What’s left is for them to act upon it, to prove it to themselves and to readers and to see what happens when they embrace the Truth—or vice versa, what happens when they reject it. What are the consequences either way?

That’s character arc—this dance between the Lie and the Truth within a story. This is such an important foundation to understand within story theory and story structure. Character arc and story structure are very much connected. You can’t have plot without character and vice versa.

So this transformation in this ongoing conflict between Lie and Truth is as important to plot as it is to character. It will be found in any type of story, even if it doesn’t go deep into the character arc, even if it doesn’t sketch a huge dramatic character arc or doesn’t spend a lot of time on the character arc. Regardles, the underpinnings are still there and exist within the plot structure.

Examples of Different Kinds of Lies the Character BelievesLet’s close with examples of different kinds of Lies. Again, the terminology “Lie” and “Truth” is very black and white. I like these terms for that very reason because it grants an immediate sense of what they are and their dynamic within the story. But, in fact, they are not that black and white. They are very, very relative. Particularly, I think we hear “Truth,” and we think “ultimate truth.” That can be what you’re dealing with in your story, but in most stories, all you’re dealing with is a viewpoint that is “better” than the Lie.

Fundamentally, what is the Lie?

1. Literal Lie on a Personal LevelIt can be a literal Lie the character is dealing with at some level. Maybe they were lied to. Fore example, maybe they were adopted but they were told that they were their adopted parents’ biological child.

2. Literal Lie on a Social LevelThe Lie could also be on a grander scope. Maybe you’re dealing with a government conspiracy or a cover-up.

3. Lie as a Lack of InformationMurder investigations, in essence, are a search for the Truth to overcome the Lie–in which case the Lie is really just a lack of information about who the killer may be. That’s a very plot-based example of how this works.

4. Lie as a Misconception About the WorldIn other stories, the Lie likely to be something deeper. Even if there is a surface example of how it’s playing out in the world, there is also this deeper wrestling within the character of a misconception they hold either about the world around them. For example, perhaps they have a view that a certain type of people are evil and they have to overcome that. Or perhaps they have a view that people in general are unsafe or something like that. And they have to overcome that view in order to, for instance, be more effective in a relationship.

5. Lie as a Misconception About the SelfThe Lie can also be a misconception the character hold about themselves. Social and personal misconceptions can be held mutually. Very often, when we have a view about the world, it’s because we are projecting something from within ourselves onto other people in the world around us.

At its most psychologically valuable, the Lie the Character Believes is a lack of wholeness within the character. It’s a shadow piece. This is something I’ve talked about in my recent course about Shadow Archetypes. Really, the inner conflict is this wrestling with the potential we have within ourselves to claim this new Truth versus the personal shadows that would pull us back or pervert this new power into something that isn’t positive or integrated for ourselves or others.

Creating Character Arcs Workbook

At its deepest level, the Lie the Character Believes is usually some belief they hold about themselves and how they operate in the world. For example, they aren’t good enough or they aren’t worthy or they need a certain status symbol in order to be okay. There are many examples. I talk about this in my book Creating Character Arcs (and the Creating Character Arcs Workbook), so you can look there for some more examples.

Ultimately the Lie the Character Believes is something foundational to who they are and how they’re operating in the world at the beginning of the story. That will be challenged by the events of the story. They’re going to have to work through the Lie in order to come to the place where they are integrated and effective in the story world.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What is the Lie Your Character Believes? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Balancing the pursuit of creative writing with the demands of daily life is a nuanced challenge. Juggling life and writing isn’t easy without strategies that can help us maintain creative focus amid life’s myriad distractions. Whether you’re dealing with the pressures of work, familial responsibilities, or the never-ending lure of digital devices, writers everywhere face challenges in safeguarding creative time. Writers need tools that help them nurture their creativity while also gracefully handling life’s interruptions. Discovering strategies for maintaining creative focus can help you craft a fulfilling writing experience even in the face of life’s surprises.

One of the most common frustrations of any writer’s life is how difficult it can often be to find time to actually write. For those with other jobs that pay the bills or family responsibilities, writing time can slip away all too easily. Even those who write full-time discover their time can get eaten up just as quickly with the same time-management problems as before, not to mention the demands of the business side.

What’s a writer to do? Reader Colleen F. Janik asked for tips, saying:

How in the world do you manage to stay on track with your books and not allow life to get in the way? There are so many unexpected events involving family members, friends, moving from one location to another. I have books that have been left far behind me in a trail of dust and rubble.

9 Tips for Juggling Life and WritingColleen is not alone. Personally, I have lamented throughout my life that there wasn’t just one more hour in the day. And yet every time I juggle my schedule around to find an extra hour, I end up with the same lament sooner than later. Even when you think writing is one of your top priorities, it is shockingly easy to see it slip so far down on the to-do list that days or even weeks pass before you find yourself back at your desk. Cue the frustration and the guilt.

There is no quick fix. But there are many perspectives and habits we can cultivate on a daily basis so their effects multiply over time, even when life is at its most demanding and chaotic. Here are nine tips to get you started.

1. Don’t View Life and Writing as SeparateThis one is important. So often we mentally divide everything that happens to us into different categories. There is Writing, and then there is Job, Family, Health. Whatever is left, we then tend to leave in the big lump that is simply Life. Ironically, the Life pile is the one we often tend to feel we are missing out on. But Life is all there is, my darlings. All the other categories are arbitrary distinctions we use to help us get organized. Although bringing a sense of order to our minds is always a good thing, our vision can become so narrow we miss the forest for the trees.

When we despair of juggling life and writing, we’re operating in a dualistic mindset that wants to separate the writing (or whatever else) from the life. When something other than writing happens, we suddenly feel we’re off-track. When we get the opportunity to move to a new state or we set aside time to celebrate a family member’s marriage or we confront a health crisis—it can feel like we’ve failed in maintaining our writing goals. Operating from such a sum-zero mindset suggests that to succeed at one thing (even if it is just facing what is necessary) means to fail at something else. This creates totally unnecessary pressure.

This is not to say schedules can’t be refined and better habits can’t be cultivated. But we might do better to release the idea that we have to control life if we’re ever going to be successful at prioritizing our writing. If we give ourselves the opportunity to open ourselves to the true flow of creativity, we realize it is operating not just when we’re at our desks, but in every surprising moment of every day.

1. Identify Your Pain PointsReally the entire challenge of juggling life and writing is about coming into flow with ourselves. One of the first steps is to consciously map whatever is creating resistance that blocks our ability to keep writing effortlessly within the the flow our daily schedules.

Start by identifying your pain points. What do you feel is obviously blocking your ability to be consistent with your writing time? The answers may be big events that are currently demanding huge chunks of your time and attention. But the answers may also focus on little things, like giving in to the temptation of social media or being too tired in the evenings to write even though you do have time then.

Make a list. It can help to imagine what your ideal day would like—one where making time for writing would feel effortless. What exists in your real life that is notably missing from this ideal day? Those are probably your most potent pain points.

1. Figure Out Where Writing Fits in Your PrioritiesAfter examining your pain points, consider your priorities. Start generally. What’s most important in your life? You may list things like Family, Pets, Travel, and Writing. Then get more granular and make a list of your daily priorities. What tasks are non-negotiable? Write down everything you can think of, including eating lunch, picking your kids up from school, and your favorite way to relax.

Now get real with yourself and consider where writing ranks in this list. You may find it is at the top, but you may also find it’s way down at the bottom. There is no answer that’s better than another. The only thing that’s important here is that you are radically honest with yourself. Make a list that reflects how you truly feel, not how you think you should feel.

Once you’ve got the list, you can identify the “big” pieces in your life and start planning accordingly. If writing is one of those big pieces, then it deserves to be prioritized. If it is not, then you can give yourself permission to wait until some of those top-ranking big pieces (such as moving or helping with a wedding) are no longer on the to-do list. Or you can start creating a more non-traditional writing schedule that plans your writing around the things on your list that are, in fact, more important to you.

1. Take Care of Your Nervous SystemTime management is really stress management. This is particularly important to a discussion of writing, because stress is a total mood-killer when it comes to creativity. Not only can an over-burdened schedule squeeze writing out of your day altogether, it can also mean that even when you do sit down to write, you arrive at your desk with an empty tank and nothing much to say.

As per Tip #1, one of the dangers of trying to view writing as something separate from the rest of life is that we can forget that all the rest of life supports our writing. Above all, if we are to nurture our writing time and creative spark, we must take care of our nervous systems. Fostering healthy time management and creating daily schedules that mitigate stress are crucial in successfully integrating writing into our daily lives.

More than that, any task on our list that focuses on taking care of ourselves (and, really, don’t they all?) is a task that, instead of being in competition with our writing time, is in support of it. Eating healthy (which includes grocery shopping and meal prepping), staying fit, and nurturing our relationships are all crucial factors in creating our most creative life possible.

1. Assign the Right Amount of Time for WritingOne of the reasons we might sometimes fail to meet daily or weekly writing goals is because we’ve set the bar unrealistically high. Although it sounds great to be able to write for two hours or more a day, this simply isn’t practical for the demands of every schedule. Look at your lists of priorities and pain points and realistically assess how much time you actually have to comfortably spend on writing on a regular basis. Everyone’s different, and there is no “right” amount of time.

One of the single most self-nurturing flexes I’ve introduced to my own life is to stop being idealistic about my scheduling. Not only is it important to assess, with reasonable accuracy, how much time each task in your day will take—and therefore how much time will be left for writing—it is also important to tally all the little time-suckers that probably aren’t on your list. It’s so easy to think, Oh, I can do such-and-such in two minutes or less—and then to do thirty or more of those “little” things throughout the day—and then wonder where you lost that extra hour.

1. Always Keep Your Toe in the WaterFor some people, the right amount of time for writing might indeed be several hours every day—or it might be several hours once a week—or it might be fifteen minutes every day—or even just half an hour once a week. If writing is indeed a priority for you, then what is most important is creating a schedule that is, first and foremost, achievable. No matter how good it looks on paper, if you can’t make it happen long-term, then it’s really not all that productive or effective, is it?

Second, you want to create a schedule that balances your most realistic amount of productivity with the amount of regularity you need to maintain creative continuity from writing session to writing session. I call this “keeping your toe in the creative waters.” For those who are able to write every single day, this will take care of itself. But for those whose best writing schedule spreads out their writing sessions, just make sure you’re not losing your creative thread. If a more time-intensive writing schedule is hard for you, then just know it is totally enough to write less frequently. It doesn’t make you less of a writer.

1. Daily Scheduling and Habit StackingAs we all know, the daily schedule is really where the magic happens. This is such a personal plan, because everyone is different. We all have different relationships to time itself, as well as different strengths and weaknesses when it comes to routines and habits. Understanding yourself and what makes you feel most creative is the key to creating a successful daily schedule.

Take your list of priorities and pain points and use it to map your day. The goal is not to create a concrete schedule that can never be altered, but to create a structure that can help you line up necessary tasks with their most productive timing within the day. I live by my schedule, but I am constantly tweaking it.

Habit stacking is a great way to optimize how much you can accomplish, freeing up extra time so you can fit in good stuff like writing. Habit stacking involves integrating a new habit into an existing routine by associating it with an established behavior. Instead of creating entirely separate habits, identify tasks you already do regularly and leverage those routines to seamlessly introduce new habits. For example, if you need to take supplements or medications, you can link that to mealtimes. If you want to get in more reading and/or exercise, you can listen to audiobooks while you walk.

1. Minimizing DistractionsThe goal is to build a life that is spent primarily on high-quality activities—such as writing. To make time for these high-quality activities, we have to constantly clear the junk activities that suck our time. Everyone’s distractions are different, but what we all share is that distractions are everywhere. Digital distractions, in particular, are insidious and must be dealt with consciously and rigorously on a regular basis. I’ve previously talked about Creativity vs. Distraction: 13 Tips for Writers in the Age of the Internet.

To minimize distractions, we must first become aware of our distractions. Once we’ve brought consciousness to whatever is wasting our time, we can work to either eliminate it (e.g., unsubscribe from emails, turn your phone to airplane mode, put the dog outside) or address whatever underlying motivation is driving our desire to continue it (i.e., scrolling Instagram helps numb feelings we’d have to face if we did yoga or wrote that chapter instead).

1. Have Grace: Your Life Is Your StoryCultivating the discipline to optimize daily schedules and create more space for our writing is perhaps the hallmark of a serious writer. But the idea that these schedules should never be interrupted or upended is deeply unkind to ourselves. Life will happen. Life should happen. And it should be embraced, in all its messy joy and tragedy. After all, isn’t that messy drama what and why we write?

The key to all of this is really about creating a lifestyle that mitigates stress so we have the wherewithal to do what we want to do. The foundation of a low-stress life is the ability to have grace not only with ourselves but with every circumstance we encounter. The balancing point between discipline and flexibility is where the magic happens. Finding this magical point is sometimes less about forcing ourselves to create better schedules and more about allowing ourselves to accept, feel, and process the interruptions as they come. We will all go through seasons of more writing and less writing. That is inevitable and, in acceptance, that is beautiful.

In Henry David Thoreau’s words:

How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What are your best tips for juggling life and writing? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Hello and welcome! Today’s question is from Grace Clay who asks:

I would like more advice about transitions, please. In particular, transitioning out of big set pieces. The best books—well, my favorite books—tend to follow up their massive orchestral scenes with something a little more contemplative to let the audience catch their breaths, but how you make that transition is still beyond me.

As I was thinking about what to call this video (watch here if you prefer), one of my working title ideas was “Something Big Just Happened in My Story—Now What?” :p

This is a really good question. We all come up with big scene ideas. They’re very often the ones that inspire the story. They’re the ones we are looking forward to writing, and therefore we build our stories around them. Yet it can be tricky to get into them and get out of them.

How to Use Story and Particularly Scene Structure to Create TransitionsOne of the main things to think about in creating transitions for big scenes is story structure. Are these scenes properly being built into and properly being built out of within the entire structure? You don’t want them to feel like they’re stuck in there just because the author really, really liked the idea. I’ve written a couple scenes like this myself, so if you’re doing this, I can totally commiserate!

More to the point of the actual transition, the thing to think about here is scene structure. Scene structure is literally about this ebb and this flow between the bigger, more dramatic moments and the softer, more contemplative ones that follow. This mirrors what happens in life when something big happens and then we have to rest and integrate and think about what’s happened before we can move on to the next thing. That is what scene structure allows us to recreate in our stories.

Classically, scene structure is broken down into two halves which are called scene and sequel. Really, these are just about action and reaction. The scene half aligns with action and the sequel half with reaction. We can also think of these as cause and consequence. First, we have the scene in which something happens, then we have the scene in which the fallout happens and there has to be readjustment. People have to think about what went wrong and what went right? They have to think about what they’re going to do next as they continue to pursue their plot goals.

The beauty of this is that when you set these up properly, each one naturally leads into the next. You end up with this beautiful line of dominoes. I often talk about how you want each scene to be a domino in a row of dominoes. When you hit that first domino, the whole thing just runs smoothly and the transitions almost happen of their own accord.

Structuring Your Story’s Scenes: ActionStructuring Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

I’ve talked in depth about scene structure often on my website and also in my book Structuring Your Novel. You can look there for more information on this, but just briefly so you understand what I’m talking about: When I talk about scene structure, you can break scene down into two halves, scene and sequel.

The scene half, which is focused on action, is then further broken down into a focus on the character’s goal.

Conflict or opposition then arises to that goal.

And then the outcome of whatever happens when that goal meets that opposition.

Usually, throughout most of the story until you get to the end, scene outcomes will have some sort of a disastrous flavor, in the sense that either the character doesn’t get what they wanted in that scene or they get what they wanted but there are unforeseen complications or consequences. If there aren’t consequences—if they just can immediately get everything they want—then they get to the plot goal very quickly and the story is over. Conflict and its complications create the plot and allow us to extend the character’s problem over the course of an entire story.

Structuring Your Story’s Sequels: ReactionAfter your characters reach the outcome–or disaster—of a scene, they move into the reaction half, which is called sequel.

This is where the characters react to whatever just happened, whether it was big or small.

They face the dilemma that has emerged because they didn’t completely get what they wanted. Or even if they did now, they have to think about what they’re going to do with it and what comes next. A

Out of that dilemma will arise a decision about what they’re going to do, which lead directly into the next scene’s goal.

You can see how it’s a cycle where each piece beautifully bumps into the next. You don’t have to fully express or dramatize every single part of the scene’s structure. It will depend on how much emphasis you want to put on each part.

If you’re focusing more on fast pacing, drama, and conflict, you’re going to put more emphasis and more time into the action half of the scene. Whereas if you’re wanting to slow it down and make it more character-driven, more introspective and about the inner conflict and the inner consequences of what’s happened previously, then you’re going to want to extend that sequel half and focus more on the character’s reactions. It depends on the pacing.

Planning Your Big Scene TransitionsYou can think in terms of trying to balance these things. So when it comes to the big set-piece scenes like Grace, these scenes are necessarily designed to create consequences. They’re designed not just to create little scene-level consequences of, Oh I didn’t quite get what I wanted. Rather, these scenes feature big, story-level consequences of, Whoa this completely changed my life! or This just completely changed my perspective of the nature of the conflict or my relationship to the plot goal! That creates massive consequences and requires a lot of integration and some introspection from characters.

The action in your story could be literal action as we think of in action movies with car chases and shootouts. But “action” is whatever is the primary drama within your story. So it could be relational. In certain types of story, it could be your character talking to the moon or something like that.

Identify the primary action within your story. Where is the plot is moving? Where the character is making progress toward the plot goal? Then balance that with reaction to the consequences that have been created in their relationship to how they’re moving forward in the world. Now, they have to think about and integrate what’s happened and how it’s going to change them and their perspectives.

Think About Where You Will Develop Character RelationshipsThe sequel section, after a big scene, is often a time where there is a lot of development within relationships between characters as they integrate together. Maybe there’s apologizing, maybe there’s recalibrating, maybe there’s explaining about motivations and things—converstations there weren’t necessarily time for in previous scenes.

These quieter and more contemplative scenes are so important for maintaining the realism within a story. They prove how your characters have changed and why they’ve changed. They create realism for how this change evolves and plays out within a story, so that it mirrors what we experience in real life.

Pay Attention to Pacing in Big Scene TransitionsThe balance of scene and sequel is important in affecting pacing. Without the contemplative sequel parts of the scene, you end up with a madcap story that never quits. Some stories are designed to emphasize the action part of the scene. They don’t slow up too much. But they still require some ebb and flow. Very few stories can survive and be successful without some balance of action and reaction, cause and consequence.

Truly, the most interesting thing about what happens in a story is the consequences. It’s less about the action and what the character does and more about the outcome that results from their actions. Characters have to grapple with the complexity that often comes from those consequences.

Sequel scenes are almost always my favorite to read or watch or write. That’s not to say I don’t love the action scenes, because I do. But there’s just something really juicy about a good reaction scene, a good sequel scene.

You definitely want to figure out how to execute these reaction moments within your story. The single best way to do that is to pay attention to that ebb and flow, that balance in scene structure of action and reaction. It literally allows the transitions to build themselves. You’re just following the characters as they move through the story. They move through the action part where they have a goal, where there’s consequences. From there, they immediately move into addressing those consequences and dealing with them. The consequences then roll over into the next part of the action where the characters try to do something again.

From there, the cycle repeats itself but in an upward spiral, in which the characters are perpetually learning how to be more effective in their actions and how to refine their perspectives in the character arc. That’s what allows the story to evolve and repeat this pattern without feeling repetitive. It feels like it’s evolving and deepening the story.

Use Scene Breaks to Hook ReadersYou want to end your scenes on some kind of a hook, something that makes readers curious about what’s going to happen. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. It doesn’t have to be a jump scare or something where readers are like, “Oh my gosh, I didn’t see that coming!” You don’t need a plot twist every single scene break. But try to make readers curious how the characters are going to respond. When something big has happened, that’s a good place to end because there’s about to be reactions and consequences for the characters to sort through. Readers forward to find out how characters will react.

The best way to think of a hook, in my opinion, is just as a question. It doesn’t have to be an explicit, literal question, but just something that gets readers wondering. It’s a loose end. It’s makes readers think, “We don’t know what’s going to happen here. We don’t know how the character is going to react.” That is often enough to pull readers into the next chapter or scene. It promises a really good scene and readers can imagine, “Oh, this, this confrontation is going to be juicy!” That, too, can be enough to pull them into the next scene.

Use a Bridging Technique for Your Scene BreaksOn a more technical level, one way to create an elegant transition is a bridging technique. This is kind of where choose something at the end of the previous scene break that can be mirrored in the beginning of the next. In film, we often see this in scene transitions where the camera focuses on something that’s a circle in one scene, then the scene fades out and back in to show a circle in the next scene. It’s a visual cue that helps viewers switch over to the new scene.

Obviously, you can’t do that in written fiction, but you can focus on imagery and symbolism, on things that are similar from one scene to the next. You don’t want to be too on the nose about this or draw too much attention to it. When it’s done right, it can allow you to ease readers through that transition.

Something kind of fun I did with in my last work in progress was to challenge myself when I wrote the beginning of a new scene to incorporate a word in the first line of that scene that was also in the last line of the previous scene. For instance, maybe “cathedral” was a word in the last sentence of the previous scene. I would then try to find a way to pull that, or any other word in the sentence, forward into the next scene.

The idea was that it wouldn’t necessarily be something readers would be conscious of, but that it would segue between scenes. Mostly, it was just for fun, but that gives you an idea about bridging and how you can try to create resonance between the closing of one scene and the beginning of the next, just with your language and with your words.

Never Lie to Readers in Your Scene TransitionsThe most important thing to keep in mind when it comes to scene breaks and chapter breaks is you don’t want to lie to readers. You want to pique their curiosity and pull them into the next scene or chapter, but you want to do so honestly. For example, you might create a situation in which it seems like something terrible or something really intriguing or exciting has happened. It pulls readers on and they think, “Oh, that’s interesting!” But when they move on to the next scene, they find out it was all a joke. For instance, they think the bad guys are attacking the base, but it turns out it was just a practical joke from the hero’s buddy. Generally speaking, that’s not effective. Not only is it annoying to readers, but it literally doesn’t advance the plot. If it does advance the plot, that’s different. But don’t construct this fake drama and tension to pull readers in, only to tell them, “Oops, just kidding! It really wasn’t like that!”

There’s a lot to transitions in general, which I didn’t talk about today because I wanted to focus specifically on how to work with the big scenes in comparison to the small scenes. I have linked to resources throughout the post, if you want more information.

Happy writing!

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! How did you handle the scene structure and transitions in the last big scene you wrote? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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[From KMW: I’m taking a quick sabbatical this week. I’ll be back next Monday with a video/post/podcast about “The Three Most Structurally Important Characters in a Story.” Until then, I hope you enjoy this short post on an important topic!]

I have a little game I play when reading a book or watching a movie, especially a violent one. I try to predict if the author will be killing a character. More often than not, I’m right on the money, and it isn’t because I’m prescient or because I cheated and peeked ahead. It’s because character deaths are often formulaic.

Half the time, authors seem to axe characters for no other reason than the characters are likable and the authors want to wring a few honest tears from their readers. However, this isn’t really honest storytelling. Aside from the fact that readers may be righteously indignant over the unnecessary death of a favorite character, they’ll also resent being manipulated should they figure out what’s going on.

Of course, we could argue all of storytelling is manipulation since as authors we purposefully craft words and themes to guide our readers’ thoughts and emotions in the direction we want them to go. Readers accept and even embrace this. What they ask in return is that we manipulate them with style—and subtlety.

That means killing a character, like every other part of your story, must be organic. Character deaths must make sense within the context of the story, and they must move the plot forward.

Snuffing everybody’s favorite sidekick just because somebody’s gotta get hit by a random bullet and because he’s the character readers are most likely to sniffle over is a bad methodology. For a character’s death to work in a story—for it to resonate—it has to mean something. Unless your whole point is to illustrate random violence, make certain there’s a good reason this particular character has to die.

You have to compensate readers for the loss of a beloved personality. Not only will this make it more difficult for them to suspect the death beforehand, it will also allow the death to carry more emotional and thematic weight.

>>For more on how to do this, read “How to Successfully Kill a Character: The Checklist” (as featured on NPR)

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Are you killing a character in your story? What made you choose this character? Tell me in the comments!The post Consider This Before Killing a Character appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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For all writers, there inevitably comes a time when we encounter aspects of the craft that, for one reason or another, we just don’t like. Whether it’s meticulously constructing a setting, creating the intricacies of dialogue, or grappling with a specific writing style, we all encounter elements that trigger a sense of dislike or resistance. The question that often arises is: How can you effectively handle writing the parts you don’t like? It’s a puzzle that demands thoughtful consideration and practical strategies to ensure creative flow remains intact even in the face of elements that might not align with a writer’s personal preferences.

The creative journey is a diverse landscape. Each writer grapples with unique preferences, strengths, and challenges. The key to writing the parts you don’t like lies not only in recognizing these areas of discomfort but also in devising practical approaches to surmount them. Embracing the discomfort as a natural part of the writing process opens the door to growth and improvement. This exploration of the less likable components can then become an opportunity for honing skills, refining one’s craft, and ultimately elevating the entire writing experience.

Today’s post was inspired by a reader’s question. Sionnach asked:

How do you write things you don’t like? For example, I hate setting. Hate it. I skip over it in books I read. I can appreciate when its being done well, but I still find it boring…. I add in just enough setting so that my characters aren’t talking in empty space. One of my beta readers has said she would like a little more scenery. Maybe a little more wouldn’t hurt—except for the fact that I loathe it. I like to hear the characters. They’re the things that interest me. I read your article on setting and am going to try incorporating a bit more in my story, but every writer probably has something they hate. How do you push through it?

Writing a novel is such an incredibly complex and varied artform. It requires so many different aspects writers must learn. We have to learn how to describe settings and people, how to mimic real-life dialogue, how to write character actions, how to share character thoughts, among so many other skills. And then there is the variety of subjects we might need to write about in any given scene—everything from romance to violence to parenting to police procedure to girls’ night out. Really, a writer might be called at any given moment to write about anything within the entire gamut of the human experience.

It’s only natural we won’t resonate or enjoy writing it all. Part of that can come down to the fact that perhaps we haven’t yet developed the necessary skills to write something. Part of it might come down to personal preference. And part of it can even come down to personal triggers and shadows—which can show up every which way, from having trouble staying present with finicky description details to feeling resistance to writing certain subjects.

5 Tips for Writing the Parts You Don’t LikeThe parts we don’t like writing will be unique to each of us. Some of us love setting and hate dialogue. The one thing that isn’t unique is the fact that most of us can identify at least one thing we feel like we’re supposed to be writing into our stories and… we really wish we didn’t have to.

Today, let’s break down the experience of resistance so we can discover possible solutions for easing the hard bits and perhaps eliminating some of them altogether.

1. Identify Why You Don’t Like Writing SomethingThis is always the place to start. Ask yourself, Why? Why don’t you like writing this particular part of your story? Where is your resistance coming from?

If your initial answer is, “Because it’s boring!”—go deeper. Boredom is a mask put forward by deeper motivations and usually signals a different emotion we don’t want to feel. The deeper answers can be vast. At the heaviest end of the scale, maybe there’s something here that’s triggering you or bringing up difficult memories or feelings. At the simplest maybe it’s just difficult to focus your attention when writing this specific part of your story. This could be because your skill in this area isn’t well-developed yet or because you’re trying to write something without the foundation of necessary knowledge (e.g., it’s hard to write descriptive details for a setting you don’t know anything about).

A good exercise when exploring your deeper reasons for experiencing the ick is to compare your feelings about writing a certain part of a story versus your feelings about reading that same element in someone else’s story. For example, you may discover you quite enjoy reading someone else’s love scenes but don’t enjoy writing them yourself. Most likely, however, you’ll find that what you dislike as a reader is also what you dislike as a writer.

Put yourself in your audience’s shoes by exploring your experiences as a reader. Indeed, in my experience, this is the single best way to learn anything about writing and storytelling. Study your own reactions. If you don’t like reading dialogue (and, yes, I have encountered a couple people who don’t), then ask yourself why? If you get bored by lengthy backstories, ask why?

After a little investigation, you may realize you only dislike certain techniques or types of scene when they’re poorly done. When well executed, they may rivet you. If so, examine what makes the difference between one author’s approach and another’s. If you find you have a blanket dislike for this part of the story experience, try to decipher why that might be.

1. Don’t Hesitate to Leave Out the Parts Readers Skip

   Try to leave out the parts people tend to skip.–Elmore Leonard

A simple rule is that if you’re bored when you’re writing it, there’s a good chance readers will be bored as well. The good news is this can excuse you from having to write the parts you don’t like. The bad news is that the fact that it bores isn’t always a sign your story will make sense without it.

If you’ve completed the previous exercise of identifying why you dislike something—as a writer, a reader, or both—you can make an educated decision about whether or not that part of the story is worth keeping. When paying strict attention to your own reading habits, notice what you’re skimming or skipping.

Personally, I’m most likely to skip rehashed backstory, unnecessary subplots, and dialogue with extraneous characters who are just there to add color. From that, I can easily deduce the reason I’m skipping is because, as a reader, I don’t care about this stuff. Put another way, this is the stuff that takes me away from what I really do care about—the main characters in the present-day plot taking actions to further the heart of the story. Even a cursory examination tells me the reason I’m skipping is because these elements are poorly presented within their stories. I’m skipping because the inclusion of these elements is just bad writing.

And who knows? Maybe these authors were super bored and made themselves write these scenes when really their stories would have been so much better off without them. (Of course, it’s also possible the authors wrote these scenes with their self-indulgence glasses on, believing readers would love anything they loved writing.)

The point here is that if you’re writing something you wouldn’t enjoy reading then… don’t. Cut the filler. Instead of a couple paragraphs of setting description, hone the skill of identifying one or two “telling details” that can bring the whole thing to life in readers’ imaginations without wasting anyone’s precious time or attention. For all that we like to emphasize the importance of showing over telling, summarization is a crucial writing technique that should be exercised liberally to keep the narrative moving and the pacing tight.

When writing something you dislike, write the least amount you think you can get away with. Then run it by some trusted betas to see how readers might react. Did they feel they were given all the necessary information to understand the story? Did they feel like everything flowed and the pacing worked—and that it wasn’t choppy and didn’t feel like something was missing? If it works for them, that’s a good sign that your resistance might just have been your own good story wisdom telling you didn’t need it.

1. Uncover the Deeper Reason Why the Part You Don’t Like Is ImportantWhen you feel resistance, it’s usually a sign of inner conflict or cognitive dissonance. If you were totally in alignment with not writing something (as per the previous point), then you wouldn’t be worrying about it. You have to ask why a part of you insists this is important to the story. Although you may still decide less is more, it is important to consciously recognize the deeper reasons why something seems like it should be in your story.

Let’s say you’re writing backstory for your protagonist. It’s boring you to death, but you feel like readers need the context. Ask yourself why this backstory is important in the first place. What is its function within the story?

The top layer of this answer might involve the specifics of your story, your character, and the events of that character’s backstory. You might realize that if readers don’t understand something that happened in the backstory, the events of the main story might not make sense.

You can dig even deeper to an understanding of what we might call the “archetypal” function of backstory, which is to create the verisimilitude of cause and effect by providing a reason for the character’s motivation to pursue the plot goal in the main story.

Once you recognize that, you can examine the bit you’re having trouble writing. Does it fulfill that deeper mandate of backstory (or whatever element you’re working with)? In short, is it functional within your storyform? The answer may be, simply, No, it’s not necessary to fulfill the deeper meaning of the technique. But another answer may be, Yes, it is necessary—but it needs to be written with more finesse in order to achieve its full potential.

1. Brush Up on Your SkillsI’ll admit it: I don’t like doing things I’m not good at. I would even generally say that many of the things I’m not good at bore me—which, of course, points to the underlying emotion of discomfort the boredom is covering up. On the flipside, I find a tremendous amount of satisfaction in doing things I am good at. Even if those things are relatively tedious, there is true enjoyment in moving through a task with skill.

Of course, this applies to our writing as well. Sometimes the resistance we feel to writing certain parts of a story may point less to a lack of functionality or importance and more to our own lack of confidence in executing those parts.

Perhaps we need to do more research. We might struggle with writing scenes of our character’s job place and think it’s because we just don’t like those scenes, when really we’re blocked because we don’t know enough about the details of this career to describe or use it as a foundation for interesting characters or conflict.

It could also be we simply need to practice the actual writing skill involved. As stated earlier, writing a story is not just one skill. It is a host of very different skillsets all bundled up together. Just because you’re aces at one skill doesn’t mean you’ll measure up on the others.

Whenever you encounter a part of your story you don’t enjoy writing, consider how you might practice the skill involved—whether it is description, dialogue, showing instead of telling, telling instead of showing, or whatever else. Study how some of your favorite writers execute this technique. Go so far as to copy out passages or mimic their style.

Dig even deeper and ask yourself what they are trying to achieve at an artistic level with this technique. For example, if you’re working with description, you may begin to notice true wordsmiths are rarely “just” describing something at length. Rather, they may be intentionally using description to achieve other ends—everything from evoking symbolism and mood to furthering the plot or providing commentary on a character.

You aren’t just seeking to become good at a specific technique, you’re seeking to master it—to understand its deeper purposes and uses, so you can employ it in your story with all the skill of a general positioning battalions.

1. Gamify ItFinally, there comes the unfortunate truth that not all of writing is fun all the time. After you’ve explored the above possibilities for either eliminating the parts you don’t like or evolving them into parts you do like, you may be faced with the realization that you have to write the tough stuff anyway.

From there, the only thing you can do is come up with a game plan that will mitigate your resistance as much as possible. Get real with yourself about how this part of your writing is affecting you. Do you feel so much resistance that you end up avoiding that scene—or your entire story—altogether? Do an honesty check and evaluate whether you would be most productive forcing yourself to power through these scenes, or whether you’d be better off leaving yourself a note along the lines of “[WRITE DESCRIPTION HERE]” and then putting off all the hard stuff to the end. (Some of the thoughts in this post talking about the pros and cons of editing as you go are pertinent.)

Whenever the time comes to write the hard stuff, do everything you can to set yourself up for success.

1. Seek InspirationYou might start by psyching yourself up a bit and getting in the right mindset. Seek whatever inspiration would be most helpful. This might be reading similar passages by authors you admire. It might be brushing up on necessary research, so you have all the information you need fresh in your mind. Or it might be browsing related images or music videos to put you in the mood.

1. Set a TimerSet a timer for an amount of time slightly shorter than what you think will be necessary to write this section, up to fifteen minutes. Then write like the wind! If you haven’t finished after the first fifteen minutes, set the timer again and keep going. Writing in short bursts can make the obstacle seem smaller. After all, you can definitely write something you don’t like for just fifteen minutes. Don’t overthink while writing. Leave the editing for later.

2. Bribe YourselfFinally, a well-timed bribe can go a long way toward grounding you and helping you move through grinding resistance. If I’m writing something particularly difficult, I will sometimes provide myself with something to eat that comes in tiny pieces, like craisins or chocolate chips. Even just having a cup of coffee to sip can do the trick. Then I will “bribe” myself with the rule that I get to take one bite or one drink after every paragraph or section I complete. Not only does this give my brain forward-thinking momentum, it also helps contain the impulse toward other distractions.

The ability to navigate and conquer the parts you don’t like writing is a sure sign of resilience and growth. When you embrace the multifaceted nature of the creative process, you have the opportunity to reach toward greater and greater mastery. Even though not every part of the writing experience will resonate equally, you can utilize your own wisdom about your process, as well as these practical strategies, to transform resistance into productivity. The path won’t be without challenges, but each conquered obstacle is an opportunity add a new layer to your expertise and artistry.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What are some of the parts you don’t like writing? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post 5 Strategies for Writing the Parts You Don’t Like appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Need a writing buddy? A critique partner? A beta reader? Here’s your stop!

Writers need feedback. And friends! But sometimes it can be difficult to find someone who is willing to read your work and who is also a good fit for you and your writing.

There are many different forums and groups online designed to help writers link up with each other for beta reading and helpful feedback. You can find some of those groups listed in this post. You can also reach out right here in the Wordplayer community.

Once or twice a year, I post a “writing buddy linkup,” which opens the comments to anyone looking for a critique partner or accountability partner. It is always massively popular, and I have heard from a number of writers who have had success in finding writing partners. I’ve even heard from people who connected in the first link-up I hosted years ago who have become lifelong friends!

If you want to join the fun, keep reading.

LAST DAY for 25% Off My Entire StoreBut… first! This is just a reminder, in case you missed it, that every book, course, and recording in my store (including my brand new Shadow Archetypes course) is 25% off for Memorial Weekend. That means that today (Monday, May 27th) is the last day. The discount is already applied storewide. If you’re in need of a little writing inspiration or guidance, check it out!

Need a Writing Buddy? Here’s HowJust leave a comment! Tell us:

• Your genre
• A short summary of your current story
• Your level of experience (i.e., how many years you have been writing)
• What you’re looking for in a writing buddy
• Your email address (I recommend formatting it as follows to avoid spam: kmweiland [at] kmweiland [dot] com)

You can subscribe to the comments so you can read additional entries as they come in (however, be aware there could be hundreds of comments!). If you see someone you think would be a great match for you, drop them a line!

The writing life works best when we’re able to reach out and offer a helping hand to one another. Jump in, meet someone new, and start taking your writing to the next level!

Wordplayers, tell me your opinion! What are you looking for in a writing buddy? Tell us in the comments!The post Find a Writing Buddy (Latest Edition!) appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Hello, everyone, today we’re going to be talking about how to troubleshoot your story’s ending. Today’s post (which is a transcript of the video linked below) is in response to a couple of questions I received about endings. One is from Ayesha Ali:

How about some posts about crafting endings. I just reached the end of a manuscript, and I realized that my character arc and themes weren’t strong enough to craft a compelling ending. I wrote as much as I could, and jotted down the last few lines I’ve been holding on to, but filed it away to look at in another few months. So, whether you have a strong enough arc or not, how do you decide which bits go in the climax? How do you structure on a smaller level those beats? How do you avoid the climax being a string of sequel scenes and explanation?

Another question was from Esther Gonzalez Bertran:

I support this topic, I would like to know more about how to outline a good ending, and how to write a beginning that is reflected in the ending, or is it the other way around?

The #1 Reason Your Ending Doesn’t WorkOver the last couple of months in the last few videos, we’ve talked about beginnings, starting with the importance of setting up character and then with the importance of setting up plot. We touched on how setting up the beginning is always something you’re thinking about as you’re building into the ending. If you know the ending, that can help you set up the beginning. And vice versa, if you’ve done a really good job in the beginning, you can bring that full circle by the time you get to your story’s finale.

The most important thing to understand about troubleshooting your story’s ending is that if the ending doesn’t work, the ending probably is not the problem. The problem is probably that things weren’t set up in the right way throughout the book. The problem could be just that the Third Act isn’t working, but it could also be a problem that goes all the way back to the First Act and to the beginning.

Structuring Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

You have to take a bird’s eye view of how your story is coming together structurally and how that’s building into the ending you want to create. It is important to hold this idea in your head that the ending is in the beginning. Whatever you write in the beginning—even if it’s very far away from wherever your characters get to in the ending, and even in some instances, if you don’t know yet what’s going to happen in the ending—whatever you’ve set up in the beginning, whatever seeds you’ve planted, even down to the imagery sometimes, that setup will create the cohesion and the resonance that needs to come full circle in your story’s ending.

If your ending isn’t working, it’s either because it wasn’t the ending that was actually set up in the beginning or because the beginning and/or subsequent parts of your story failed to set up the ending by the time you get there. Again, the problem with endings usually isn’t something that’s happening in isolation

The Climactic Moment Defines Your Story’s EndingIt’s important to understand what is the function of the ending.

What are you trying to build toward throughout your story’s entire structure? The point of the ending simply is that in the Climactic Moment, your protagonist definitively ends their relationship to the plot goal.

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

Very often, this is because they definitively gain the plot goal (i.e., whatever they’ve been seeking throughout the entire story). It could also be that the antagonist definitively gains the plot goal, keeping the protagonist from having it. In other stories, it can be perhaps that the protagonist has the plot goal within their reach, but they choose to let it go because of their character arc and how they’ve evolved over the course of the story, they realize this is no longer in alignment with who they are and who they’ve become. So they choose to let it go. Regardless, they are no longer in pursuit of the plot goal that they have been moving toward throughout the story.

As a result, there is no longer any reason for there to be obstacles between them in that plot goal. That’s what creates the conflict. Once you have no conflict, you no longer have a plot. No plot, no story. The story is at an end.

The purpose and the focus of your story’s ending is the Climactic Moment and how it definitively determines whether or not your protagonist will get the plot goal they’ve been chasing throughout the entire story.

Analyze Your Story’s Structure to Troubleshoot Your EndingOnce you know what your Climactic Moment will be, that allows you to look back over your story’s entire structure and particularly the main structural beats.

Click to enlarge.

Pull out the main structural beats and look at them in isolation. We’re talking about things like the Inciting Event and the First Plot Point, the Midpoint (or Second Plot Point), and the Third Plot Point. and making sure they all have thematic unity. They should all be about the same thing. They’re all specifically about the character’s relationship to the plot goal that will be decided in the Climactic Moment. Your Climactic Moment is always going to prove what your story is really about.

If all of your structural moments have been about one thing (for example, a relationship plotline), and then the Climactic Moment is about something else (for example, catching a bad guy), that is an instance where the structural throughline is mismatched. You’re really trying to tell two different stories. It’s fine to have one of those stories as a subplot. But the Climactic Moment needs to be focused on the main structural throughline as proven by what’s happening in all the structural beats.

If you feel like your ending isn’t working or it’s mismatched or the conflict has just kind of petered out, the top thing to ask yourself is, “Is the Climactic Moment in alignment with everything that’s come before?”

Analyze Your Story’s Theme to Troubleshoot Your Story’s EndingWriting Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

You can also determine what your story’s theme is really about by looking at the Climactic Moment. In that moment, what is your protagonist’s relationship to the thematic Truth?

• In a Positive Change Arc, the protagonist will have grown into and embraced that Truth.
• In a Negative Change Arc, the protagonist will have grown away from the Truth.
• In a Flat Arc, they will have maintained their relationship to the Truth, and the characters around them will have evolved into an appreciation and understanding of it.

Identifying which fits your story will also show you what your story is about thematically. Again, you can look at all of the structural beats leading up to the Climactic Moment to make sure the same theme is showing up, that you’re not proving one theme through the character’s actions in earlier structural beats and then highlighting something completely different by the time you get to the Climactic Moment. You want to achieve cohesion, resonance, and thematic unity throughout your entire story.

How to Tell if Your Story’s Ending Is Strong EnoughThe answer to the question about whether or not your ending is strong enough really depends on the particular story. How much of a punch your Climactic Moment packs really does depend on just the nature of the story and how dramatic it has been. The level of impact in your Climactic Moment will correspond to how definitively the character gets the goal.

In some stories, the protagonist’s ending relationship to the goal is actually pretty ambiguous. Particularly in series, what may be a definitive enough relationship to that goal at the end of Book One is then going to evolve in the conflict in future books. And in other stories, it’s purposefully ambiguous because it’s trying to prove a thematic point. In most stories, the more definitively your character ends their relationship with the plot goal, whether they get it or not, will determine how strong that ending feels to readers.

You can also consider how strong your character’s arc is. That will be largely determined by the tension that exists between the story’s Lie and Truth. Some stories have a very dramatic arc where the tension is strong between the Lie and Truth, because they are complete opposites.

For example, the character might arc from hate to love. That’s a huge arc. In other stories, the arc is much subtler, for example moving from indifference to love or apathy to love. That’s a little baby arc. And that’s fine, depending on the type of story. Not all stories want something extremely dramatic. It depends on what’s best for your story. What do you want to have happen? What do you want to accomplish? If you knowing that, you can judge that by the time you get to the end whether or not you are able to accomplish that.

Can the Climax Be a Sequel Scene?Ayesha asked: “How do you avoid the Climax being a string of sequel scenes and explanation?”

The Climax should never be totally comprised of sequels, reactions, or explanations. In scene structure, the sequel is the reaction part of the scene structure. The Climax is about a final deciding action, to reaction. It is the “sceniest” scene in your entire story.

In classic scene structure, we can split scenes into two halves, which we call scene and sequel, which are action and reaction. The action half is made up of goal, conflict, and outcome. And that literally describes the Climax, right? It is the job of the Resolution, the scenes that follow the Climax, to show character reactions and finish any explanations or loose ends that need to be shared.

If you feel like all that’s happening in your Climax is explanations and reactions, then either you’re misidentifying what is really your Climactic Moment (i.e., when the character definitively gets or loses the plot goal), or you’ve skipped it. In the latter instance, the Climactic Moment doesn’t exist and you’ve just kind of petered out with your story. In this case, you can go back and identify your character’s plot goal and how it can be resolved in the end. Then make sure you have a strong scene that demonstrates this to readers. The Climax, above all, is not the place to tell versus show.

Strengthen Your Ending by Having It Mirror Your BeginningHere’s one final thing to think about as you’re troubleshooting your ending and figuring out where the previous parts of the story might have gone wrong so they’re not leading up to your ending in the way you want. Think about the idea of chiastic structure.

Chiastic structure is where the two halves of the story mirror each other. The beats in the first half mirror the beats in the second half in some way. Story structure is just naturally this way, in that the beats in the first half will set up the plot, whereas the beats in the second half will pay it off. You can take this a little further and do it a little more consciously and specifically when it comes to your ending, and we talked about this a little bit in some of the previous posts about beginnings.

Look at how the Hook in the very beginning of your story and the Resolution in the very ending mirror each other. For instance, you have a Characteristic Moment in the beginning in the Hook; you can mirror that with another Characteristic Moment in the ending in the Resolution.

More to the point of what we’re talking about today, you also want to look to the Inciting Event which happens around halfway through the First Act. This is the Call to Adventure that kicks off the character’s pursuit of the plot goal. How does that mirror what happens in the Climactic Moment? How does that set it up? You can think of the Inciting Event as a question that has to be answered by the time you get to the Climactic Moment.

Endings are actually quite simple. Everything funnels down to one single point in the Climactic Moment. It’s actually quite a simple thing. But everything that’s come before to lead up to this is very complex.

In even the simplest novel, you’ve got chapters upon chapters and characters and themes, all these loose ends you’re weaving that have to come together and funnel down into this one single point. Everything that’s come before must make sense and be thematically related to this one point.

It’s a lot to think about and consider. We always say it’s one thing to hook readers with a good beginning and it’s another thing to hook them with a good ending—because then they will want to keep reading. It’s not just about getting them to finish this one book. It’s about convincing them you can give them a satisfying story experience so they’ll want to read on into the next book you may be writing, whether it’s in a series or not.

Endings are, as we all know, extremely important. They prove whether or not a story works. There are many stories people enjoy throughout until they get to the ending and upsets them in some way—because it doesn’t make sense or it doesn’t work or they feel like the writer didn’t play fair with them.

It’s important to understand the technical definition of what you’re trying to accomplish with a story’s ending. You need to understand how it functions structurally and therefore how it’s a part of the structure that leads up to it, in the plot, the character arc, and the theme. This allows you to bring all of these things together in a solid Climactic Moment that ends your story’s conflict.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What are some of your top questions when troubleshooting your story’s ending? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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Love Helping Writers Become Authors? You can now become a patron. (Huge thanks to those of you who are already part of my Patreon family!)The post Troubleshooting Your Story’s Ending appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Welcome back to our journey through the Enneagram types for writers. Last week, we talked about how the complexities of the Enneagram provide valuable insights that can enhance self-awareness and empower your writing journey. The distinctive traits and varying gifts that define different writers’ approaches to the craft create a profound impact on the world of storytelling.

In Part 1, we navigated the intricate landscapes of Types One through Four, unraveling the unique strengths and weaknesses that shape each personality’s creative endeavors. Now, as we embark on the second part of this exploration, we will delve into the rich tapestry of Types Five through Nine. From the introspective Investigator to the harmonious Peacemaker, each type brings its own shadings to the palette of writerly personalities.

Please see last week’s post for a general overview of the Enneagram and comments about the information provided in this little series. For easy reference, here is a list of recommended resources if you want to go deeper with your study of the Enneagram (for yourself or for your characters). Please note that the books lead to Amazon affiliate links.

• Post: 5 Ways to Use the Enneagram to Write Better Characters
• Post: 9 Positive Character Arcs in the Enneagram
• Post: 9 Negative Character Arcs in the Enneagram
• Book: The Road Back to You by Ian Morgan Cron and Suzanne Stabile
• Book: Personality Types by Don Richard Riso and Rich Hudson
• Book: The Complete Enneagram by Beatrice Chestnut
• Book: The Wisdom of the Enneagram by Don Richard Riso and Rich Hudson
• Podcast: Enneagram 2.0 with Beatrice Chestnut and Uranio Paes
• Podcast: The Enneagram Journey with Susanne Stabile
• Post: The Passions and The Virtues of the Enneagram

And now let’s get back to the Enneagram!

Type Five as a Writer: The InvestigatorThe Five’s Vice: Avarice

The Five’s Virtue: Non-Attachment

Core Lie the Five Believes: “It’s not okay to be comfortable in the world.”

Core Truth About the Five: “Your needs are not a problem.”

Also referred to as the Observer, Fives are characterized by a profound intellectual curiosity and a need to be understood. Fives seek knowledge as a way to navigate the complexities of the world, and they often retreat to their inner thoughts for a sense of security. These individuals are perceptive, analytical, and enjoy delving into intricate subjects.

While Fives excel in their capacity for deep thinking, they may struggle with social interactions and may withdraw when feeling overwhelmed. Their desire for autonomy and the accumulation of knowledge contributes to their strengths as thinkers and problem-solvers, making them valuable contributors to various fields.

Overcoming the Weaknesses of the Five as a WriterOutlining Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

The Five’s love of detailed information can send them down endless rabbit holes of researching, world-building, outlining, and revising. They may find that their favorite part of the writing process is the behind-the-scenes work that sets up the story, rather than the writing itself. This can also lead them to overvalue their research or world creation. Not only can this lead to tedious storytelling, it can also rob their stories of necessary subtext and subtlety in exchange for an overabundance of contextual information.

As one of the three head-based types (along with the Six and the Seven), Fives are drawn to the mental challenges of writing fiction but can sometimes struggle with the emotional awareness or vulnerability to create deeply realized characters. Their writing styles can sometimes come across as sparse and overly didactic. Due to their (often justified) emphasis on their own intelligence, they can sometimes hamper their ability to grow through a belief that they know better than others who might advise them or offer constructive criticism.

Enhancing the Strengths of the Five as a WriterFives are particularly well-suited to the introverted introspection of the writing life. They are usually well-read and contemplative and, as a result, extremely intelligent. Their aptitude for pattern recognition and problem-solving allows them to grasp the deeper principles of story theory and to craft well-structured and effective plots. They put their tremendous discipline for the finer details of research and plotting to good use in crafting realized stories of intellectual depth and nuance.

Eminently practical, Fives are able to handle criticism and the ups and downs of a writing career with relative equanimity. Particularly when healthy, they are rarely discouraged by other people’s negative opinions. They have the capacity to receive (and to offer) critiques as impersonal information to be accepted or rejected according to its accuracy and effectiveness, rather than its emotional charge. They can be among the most effortlessly generous with their time and energy in helping other writers, as they genuinely enjoy the nitty-gritty tasks that other types often find onerous.

Examples of Fives as Writers: Emily Dickinson, Agatha Christie, James Joyce, Stephen King, Ursula K. Le Guin, Cormac McCarthy, Vladamir Nabokov, Graham Greene, Patrick O’Brien, Ian McEwan, and Clive Barker

Type Six as a Writer: The LoyalistThe Six’s Vice: Fear

The Six’s Virtue: Courage

Core Lie the Six Believes: “It’s not okay to trust yourself.”

Core Truth About the Six: “You are safe.”

Also referred to as the Skeptic, Sixes are characterized by a fundamental need for security and guidance. Individuals of this type seek safety and support in their environments, often displaying loyalty to trusted institutions or authority figures. Sixes are diligent, responsible, and have a keen sense of potential risks.

While their cautious nature serves to protect them, it can also lead to anxiety and doubt. Sixes may wrestle with a fear of uncertainty and may rely on external structures for reassurance. Despite their inner conflicts, they contribute a sense of responsibility and thoroughness to group dynamics, acting as reliable team members.

Overcoming the Weaknesses of the Six as a WriterThe Six’s core “vice” is fear, which generally manifests as a blanket anxiety that requires them to check and re-check their best options. As writers, this can lead to chronic indecision and uncertainty about everything from signing with the right agent to choosing the right characters for a particular narrative. Sixes are manifestly aware of the larger systems at work in the world and the contexts they create. They use this awareness to seek out the most reliable and trustworthy authorities and sources of information. They respect the rules and wish to follow them, but can get so hung up on listening to outside sources that they lose touch with their own instincts about what is right for their stories.

Sixes can suffer from analysis paralysis, particularly when just starting out. They believe they need to know everything about writing before they can sit down to begin their own stories. Not only is this impossible, but as their research begins revealing conflicting opinions from the “authorities,” they can grow frustrated, jaded, and even more anxious about not knowing how to do it “right.” As one of the three “other-referencing” types (along with the Three and the Nine and in opposition to the six “self-referencing” types), Sixes can lose touch with their own inner vision and wisdom for their story, sacrificing creativity for an obsession with identifying and following the rules. Ironically, this can then enhance anxieties that they are not original and have nothing new to say in their stories anyway.

Enhancing the Strengths of the Six as a WriterI think of Sixes as “the salt of the earth.” At their healthiest, they are incredibly hard-working, practical, responsible, and community-oriented. Nobody shows up and puts in the work like a Six. Their awareness of the big picture and their need to research and test which authorities are truly worth following eventually gives them a tremendous context from which to draw conclusions and make choices. They are usually well-educated and well-informed (even if they may not always be fully aware of the extent of their own knowledge) and the choices they make for their stories are usually extremely conscious. They are good with details, which allows them to make informed decisions for their plots and to create characters of beautiful verisimilitude.

Because of their innate awareness of the interconnectedness of everything and everyone, Sixes are often drawn to create stories of social importance. As a head-based type (along with the Five and the Seven), they are not as inclined toward emotionality or empathy in crafting characters, but they care deeply about society and write about it in a way that often points to where and how systems may be failing to protect and provide for its most vulnerable members. With fear as their core vice, no one understands courage the way Sixes do, and they translate this not only into characters of great bravery but into their own capacity to write stories that push the edges of their growth.

Examples of Sixes as Writers: Mark Twain, J.R.R. Tolkien, and John Grisham.

Type Seven as a Writer: The EnthusiastThe Seven’s Vice: Gluttony

The Seven’s Virtue: Sobriety

Core Lie the Seven Believes: “It’s not okay to depend on anyone for anything.”

Core Truth About the Seven: “You will be taken care of.”

Also referred to as the Epicure, Sevens are characterized by a zest for life, spontaneity, and a constant search for excitement. Sevens are driven by a desire to experience joy and avoid pain, leading them to explore diverse opportunities and possibilities. Their optimism and adventurous spirit make them creative and energetic individuals who thrive on variety. However, this pursuit of pleasure can also be a defense mechanism to distract from deeper emotions or fears of boredom and limitation.

Overcoming the Weaknesses of the Seven as a WriterBecause of their resistance to boredom (and the uncomfortable feelings it often masks), Sevens can struggle with distraction and procrastination more than the other types. They are particularly subject to “shiny object syndrome,” in which new story ideas repeatedly lure them away from existing projects. They are much better at starting projects than finishing them. They may even suffer a certain indecision about what sort of story they want to write, experimenting with genre after genre as a way of satisfying their insatiable desire for new experiences.

Their hesitance to engage with difficult emotions or ideas can negatively impact their writing, encouraging them to remain on the surface rather than going deep. Their instinct is often to engage with stories (both their own and other people’s) as simply entertainment. To begin with, this appeases their neverending search for anything that can distract them from confronting their own depths. More than that, if they are able to remain in the mindset that a story is “just a story,” it allows them to engage with stories without triggering the deeper initiations of growth available in the experience.

Enhancing the Strengths of the Seven as a WriterStructuring Your Novel (Amazon affiliate link)

Another name sometimes used for the Seven is the Entertainer. Although this proclivity often suits them to more dramatic and performative art forms, such as acting or comedy, they are equally proficient at bringing their talents for captivating audiences to the page. They are naturally among the most charismatic, witty, and externally fearless of all the Enneagram types, and the stories and characters they create have the ability to endlessly delight audiences. Although not as intrinsically aware of theme as are Fours or structure as are Fives, Sevens are natural-born storytellers. Their storytelling instincts are often spot-on, in part because of how tuned in they are to what evokes responses from others.

The dynamos of the Enneagram, Sevens’ energy is abundant and seemingly neverending. Once Sevens learn to cultivate discipline, they can put that energy to work in manifesting a nearly unmatched level of productivity. This extends not just to the stories they produce, but to their ability to market them. Loving the spotlight as they do, Sevens are excellent at self-promotion and can create social-media content every bit as entertaining and worthwhile as their stories.

Examples of the Seven as Writers: Henry Miller, Tom Wolfe, Oscar Wilde, Douglas Adams.

Type Eight as a Writer: The ChallengerThe Eight’s Vice: Lust for Intensity

The Eight’s Virtue: Innocence

Core Lie the Eight Believes: “It’s not okay to be vulnerable or trust anyone.”

Core Truth About the Eight: “You will not be betrayed.”

Also known as the Protector, Eights embody strength, assertiveness, and a natural inclination to take charge. Eights are characterized by their self-confidence, determination, and a desire to protect the vulnerable. Driven by a fear of being controlled or harmed, they establish a powerful presence and confront challenges head-on. Eights value authenticity and directness, creating a straightforward and decisive approach to life. While their leadership qualities are admirable, Eights may face struggles with vulnerability and a fear of being betrayed. Despite this, their resilience and commitment to justice make them formidable forces.

Overcoming the Weaknesses of the Eight as a WriterWriting Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

More than any other type, Eights are known for their aggressive approach to life. They believe “anything worth doing is worth overdoing.” This can make them more inclined to burnout and to physical injuries (repetitive stress injuries, carpal tunnel syndrome, etc.). They can conflate their creative urges with their “mission” to positively impact or even “save” the world. Like the Four, their single-minded belief in their vision for their stories can cause them to exempt themselves from the objective principles of good fiction. Eights can struggle with subtlety and subtext, making them prone to writing fiction that is “on the nose” and that emphasizes the story’s message to the detriment of its portrayal of theme.

Although rarely discouraged or even slowed by other people’s negative or ambivalent opinions, Eights can be explosively reactive in their responses, underestimating their effect on others. Not only can this create unnecessary professional enmity, but it can also box Eights into their own blind spots, preventing them from recognizing weaknesses and calibrating their stories and their professionalism so they can achieve the impact they desire.

Enhancing the Strengths of the Eight as a WriterNo one knows their own minds like Eights do. They don’t waste time or effort on anything they are not passionate about. When they write a story, it is because they are all in. They write out of their passionate intensity for life, often drawing on their energetic experiences in other areas and sometimes preferring hands-on research, granting their stories a unique sense of authenticity and verisimilitude. As a body type (along with the Nine and the One), Eights are excellent at realizing physicality on the page, whether in setting details or the finer points of choreographing an action scene.

Even though unhealthy Eights can sometimes alienate others through their uncalibrated aggression and reactivity, Eights are deeply invested in fostering and protecting their communities. This often inspires them to write stories that vividly evoke the suffering or subjugation of certain people, while passionately advocating for them. When healthy enough to consciously move past their innate belief in the “rightness” of their own perspectives, Eights can access the subtlety and subjectivity of the entire human experience, refraining from bias and presenting humanity in all its conflicting beauty and ugliness.

Examples of Writers as Eights: Harlan Ellison, Toni Morrison, Ernest Hemingway.

Type Nine as a Writer: The PeacemakerThe Nine’s Vice: Sloth

The Nine’s Virtue: Right Action

Core Lie the Nine Believes: “It’s not okay to assert yourself.”

Core Truth About the Nine: “Your presence matters.”

Also referred to as the Mediator, Nines are characterized by a deep desire for inner and outer harmony. Nines are easygoing and agreeable. They strive to avoid conflict and seek unity and peace in their relationships. Driven by a fear of disconnection and conflict, they tend to merge with others’ preferences and may struggle with asserting their own needs. Nines value comfort, routine, and a laidback approach to life, making them affable and supportive individuals. However, their avoidance of conflict can lead to procrastination and inertia. Despite this, Nines contribute a calming presence, emphasizing the importance of unity and understanding in the pursuit of a harmonious existence.

Overcoming the Weaknesses of the Nine as a Writer as a WriterNine’s core vice is “sloth,” which although it points primarily to a psycho-spiritual lethargy that prevents the Nine from going deep with their own inner experience, can also show up in a struggle with procrastination. Often, this procrastination results from the Nine’s tendency to avoid their own inner vision and creativity. Without even realizing it, they can devalue their own creative spark by focusing on what they perceive others want them to write or what would be of the most value to others. On the flipside, they can struggle to commit to writing at all if they feel it is not supported or wanted by others in their lives.

Because of their profound value of harmony, Nines can sometimes struggle with writing conflict or making “bad things happen to their characters.” They are not always willing to look at the hardships or ugliness of life, which can limit their portrayal of realistic or dimensional characters and plots.

Enhancing the Strengths of the Nine as a Writer as a WriterNines are sometimes described as “sitting at the top” of the Enneagram circle, which symbolizes their ability to inhabit and appreciate the perspectives of the other eight types. This makes them the unrivaled “perspectivist” of the Enneagram and allows them to enter the minds of characters who are wildly diverse from themselves. Nines have a profound ability to understand the motivations that drive almost any type, and, from this, they can craft compelling characters and rock-solid plots.

Healthy Nines who have accessed the truth within themselves, beyond the voices and wishes of others, will be able to write firmly rooted in their own authentic experiences—while still maintaining understanding and compassion for differing others. Their desire for peace and harmony may prompt them to write stories that inspire these qualities in the world around them, while drawing upon a mature understanding that such stories must also confront the darkness of reality on its way to peace.

Examples of the Nine as a Writer: J.K. Rowling, Jane Austen

Delving into the intricacies of each personality type unveils the complexity of the strengths and weaknesses that shape the creative journey. From the principled and perfectionist lens of the One to the easygoing harmony-seeking of the Nine, each type contributes unique gifts to the full spectrum of the Enneagram. Whether you resonate with the deep emotions of the Individualist, the analytical prowess of the Investigator, the loyal dedication of the Loyalist, or any of the others, there is a wealth of self-discovery awaiting writers on their Enneagram journey.

Previously in this series: Enneagram Types for Writers: Exploring Your Strengths and Weaknesses (Part 1 of 2)

Wordplayers tell me your opinions: Do you identify with any of these Enneagram types for writers? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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The writer’s journey is a quest that transcends the mere act of stringing words together. It is a profound exploration of the self. When navigating the landscapes of our minds, personality tools such as the Enneagram can offer illuminating guidance into our unique inner terrains. Knowledge about Enneagram types for writers can help us decipher what personal strengths and weaknesses shape our narratives and define how we approach our craft.

Systems of personality theory, such as the Enneagram and MBTI, are models that categorize common personality patterns. They offer tools to help individuals better understand themselves, their motivations, their strengths, and their weaknesses. Although the “pop” versions found in Internet quizzes can be fun (if often misleading), the true value is found in using these systems to go deep with your own personal inquiries. As writers, some of those inquiries inevitably investigate our relationships with creativity.

The Enneagram offers a nuanced exploration of not just behavior but specifically the core motivations, fears, and desires that drive individuals. It emphasizes the interconnectedness of its nine distinct types to reflect the complexity and fluidity of human nature. Where the Enneagram stands apart from other personality systems is in its acknowledgement of the potential for individuals to move between healthy and unhealthy expressions of personality and in its provision of a growth path for each type. This holistic approach sets the Enneagram apart, making it a powerful tool for self-awareness and personal development.

As I’ve written about before, I have found personality theories in general and especially the Enneagram to be transformative. Discovering and studying my best-fit type—the Three—offered me one of the most mind-blowing epiphanies in my journey of self-growth. The more I have studied the Enneagram, the more insights it has provided about how to lean into my strengths and address my weaknesses.

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

A while back, I wrote a two-part series mapping the inherent possibilities for character arcs—both Positive Change and Negative Change—for each Enneagram type. This was based on the Lie/Truth specific to each type. Shortly after publishing those posts, I received an email from subscriber Caine Dorr asking how this information could be applied to the challenges of the writing life:

What advice can you give to writers who personally suffer from one or more of the core lies of their personal Enneagram, getting in the way of their writing?

Today, let’s explore the mysteries of each Enneagram type, as we delve into this profound intersection of self-discovery and storytelling prowess. Please note that, necessarily, this post and the one to follow next week offer the briefest of overviews of each type and inevitably present a limited perspective of strengths and weaknesses. Please use the post as a jumping-off point for further reflection and study.

Also, I will just say that it feels a bit cocky to have written what turned out to be a glowing recommendation of the Three toward the end of this article. However, as someone who started out feeling nothing less than horrified to realize she was a Three, I mark it as a sign of growth to now be able to recognize that Threes are awesome! This is not to say less of the other types, and I hope I have done them equal justice, but obviously writing about the Three is an inside-out job for me in a way that the others are not. I don’t claim to have realized all of the Three’s potential (or overcome all of its weaknesses), but I am proud to unabashedly advocate for its beauty.

Also please note that the examples included of authors for each type were mostly drawn from this post and this site and are suggestions only, since in most instances we can only guess at people’s types.

If you aren’t familiar with the Enneagram or aren’t yet sure what type best identifies you, check out the following resources (which include Amazon affiliate links):

• Post: 5 Ways to Use the Enneagram to Write Better Characters
• Post: 9 Positive Character Arcs in the Enneagram
• Post: 9 Negative Character Arcs in the Enneagram
• Book: The Road Back to You by Ian Morgan Cron and Suzanne Stabile
• Book: Personality Types by Don Richard Riso and Rich Hudson
• Book: The Complete Enneagram by Beatrice Chestnut
• Book: The Wisdom of the Enneagram by Don Richard Riso and Rich Hudson
• Podcast: Enneagram 2.0 with Beatrice Chestnut and Uranio Paes
• Podcast: The Enneagram Journey with Susanne Stabile
• Post: The Passions and The Virtues of the Enneagram

Type One as a Writer: The ReformerThe One’s Vice: Anger

The One’s Virtue: Serenity

Core Lie the One Believes: “It’s not okay to make mistakes.”

Core Truth About the One: “You are good.”

Also referred to as the Perfectionist, Ones are characterized by a strong inner drive to improve themselves and the world around them. They are principled, responsible, and hold high standards for themselves and others. They have a keen sense of right and wrong, striving for perfection in their actions and endeavors. Driven by a desire to make a positive impact, Ones can be advocates for justice and moral integrity.

However, their pursuit of perfection can lead to self-criticism and a tendency to be overly critical of others. The inner critic, a prominent aspect of Type One, pushes them to constantly seek improvement but can also contribute to feelings of frustration and guilt. Understanding and navigating these dynamics is essential for personal growth and balance for Type One individuals.

Overcoming the One’s Weaknesses as a WriterIf perfectionism is a common downfall for many writers, it is nowhere more potent than in the One’s experience. For Ones, the inner critic can be especially barbaric. It is never satisfied, always nitpicking at the smallest of punctuation doubts, and translating practical opportunities for improvement into proof of general unworthiness. When unaddressed, this can lead Ones to give up in despair. Ironically, although Ones take criticism from others harder than just about anyone, they are also capable of turning the brutal criticism of their own inner critic outward onto fellow writers whom they believe must also live up these impossible standards.

One of the greatest challenges for this type as a writer is to learn to cultivate a healthy relationship with the inner critic. This can be especially deep work for Ones, who have internalized authoritarian voices that equate their self-worth with their ability to do things “right.” Simply becoming aware of the inner critic’s voice as a voice that is not inherently one’s own can be a tremendous step toward reclaiming a realistic relationship with the necessity of making mistakes and creating growth in one’s own writing.

Enhancing the One’s Strengths as a WriterOnes possess a tremendous awareness of details. They understand how the pieces of a whole come together to make it work. Their competence at anything they set their minds to is arguably unmatched. Especially when freed from the burden of the unhealthy inner critic, Ones have the capacity to harness their talent and create a mind-blowing level of effectiveness.

More than that, the beautiful Truth at the heart of the One’s doubts about their worthiness is their tremendous potential for goodness. Their drive to improve the world can inspire them to create stories that redress society’s wrongs and encourage audiences to strive toward peace and cooperation.

Examples of Ones as Writers: C.S. Lewis, George Bernard Shaw, George Orwell, Tina Fey.

Type Two as a Writer: The HelperThe Two’s Vice: Pride

The Two’s Virtue: Humility

Core Lie the Two Believes: “It’s not okay to have your own needs.”

Core Truth About the Two : “You are wanted.”

Also referred to as the Caretaker, individuals of this type are characterized by their innate desire to meet the needs of others and build meaningful connections. Twos are empathetic and generous. They thrive on creating a sense of warmth and support in their relationships. They often put the well-being of others before their own, seeking validation and love through acts of service and care.

While their giving nature is a strength, Twos may struggle with setting boundaries and acknowledging their own needs. The fear of being unwanted or unloved can drive them to overextend themselves, leading to potential burnout. Understanding the balance between supporting others and caring for themselves is crucial for personal growth and fulfillment in Type Two individuals.

Overcoming the Two’s Weaknesses as a WriterSome Twos may struggle to maintain a dedicated writing practice because “putting their writing first” feels too much like “putting themselves first.” As Twos work through their challenges with equating their self-worth with their service to others, they may find that disciplining themselves to focus on a dedicated writing habit can offer a tremendous leverage point for growth. They can also flip the script and practice recognizing how the act of writing can, in itself, be of service to others.

Twos may also tend to over-identify themselves with their writing, making it difficult to separate constructive criticism or rejection of their stories from personal criticism or rejection of themselves. Pride can be a reflexive defense for Twos, in which they swing from a humility arising from poor self-esteem into an arrogance that rejects the authority or wisdom of anyone who doesn’t appreciate them.

Enhancing the Two’s Strengths as a WriterThanks to their natural empathy, Twos have the capacity to write powerfully authentic characters with complex motivations and arcs. They are often highly emotionally intelligent and are able to translate this into an understanding of the subtle emotions that drive characters and create realistic story development. They may feel more comfortable writing from the heart rather than from the head, which can make plot-heavy or planning-forward approaches more challenging. They may instead thrive when turning their characters loose on the page and “watching to see what they will do.”

Twos are often the heart and soul of writing communities. Not only do they naturally seek to build community—whether of fellow writers or of their own community of readers—they foster it out of true love and devotion. They take great pride in putting people first, and their talent for empathy can again serve them well in understanding how to connect with and market to their audiences.

Examples of Twos as Writers: Lewis Carroll

Type Three as a Writer: The AchieverThe Three’s Vice: Self-deceit

The Three’s Virtue: Hope

Core Lie the Three Believes: “It’s not okay to have your own feelings and identity.”

Core Truth About the Three: “You are loved for yourself.”

Also referred to as the Performer, individuals of this type are characterized by their ambition, drive for success, and desire to achieve their goals. Threes are highly adaptable, charismatic, and skilled at presenting themselves in a positive light. They often set high standards for themselves, seeking external validation and recognition for their accomplishments. Threes are efficient, focused, and goal-oriented, using their natural talents to excel in various areas of life.

However, their relentless pursuit of success can cause them to neglect their authentic selves and emotions. The fear of failure and the need for approval can drive Threes to prioritize image over genuine fulfillment. Balancing ambition with self-awareness and authenticity is crucial for Type Three individuals on their journey of personal development.

Overcoming the Three’s Weaknesses as a WriterThrees are extremely aware of what any given segment of society holds as its ideal, and they are driven to achieve that ideal. Although this awareness and drive can provide extraordinary opportunities for advancing both their talent and their careers, it can come at the high cost of separating them from their deep authenticity. They can easily lose touch (or realize they were never in touch) with their own personal vision for their writing. As they embark on a madcap dash to the top of their field, they can lose sight of the unique story they were meant to tell in this life.

Although Threes (like Twos and Fours) are a heart-based type, they generally feel safer leading from their heads. Their overvaluing of the mental can come at the expense of the emotional, to the detriment of both their art and their careers. Unlike Twos, it can initially be difficult for Threes to access the empathy necessary to write deeply authentic characters. They are more comfortable with the cause-and-effect of plotting. They can also struggle with burnout as they distance themselves further and further from the spark of inspiration that attracted them to writing in the first place, viewing writing more and more as a job rather than a creative act.

Enhancing the Three’s Strengths as a WriterThrees’ value for competence and efficiency gives them the opportunity to be incredibly productive, both in the writing itself and in any related business endeavors. They understand what is required for success and can translate this into a keen awareness of what creates a successful story. They are exceptional at translating their mental vision into practical results. Charismatic and (seemingly) fearless, they relish challenges and are rarely discouraged by criticism, even when it stings.

When healthy Threes get in touch with their hearts, they are able to dedicate themselves to writing only what aligns with their own genuine vision. They have the capacity to write deeply truthful and inspiring works that touch on the deepest chords of humanity’s frailties and strengths. This allows them to access their core virtue of hope in writing authentic characters who plumb the depths of the human experience.

Examples of Threes as Writers: Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald (although neither were particularly healthy Threes)

Type Four as a Writer: The IndividualistThe Four’s Vice: Envy

The Four’s Virtue: Equanimity

Core Lie the Four Believes: “It’s not okay to be too functional or too happy.”

Core Truth About the Four: “You are seen for who you are.”

Also referred to as the Romantic, Fours are characterized by a deep sense of uniqueness and a desire to express their authentic identity. Fours are keenly attuned to their emotions and are inclined to navigate the world through the lens of their subjective personal experiences. Driven by a longing for significance, they are naturally drawn to creativity and self-expression—in part as a way to distinguish themselves from others. Fours enjoy introspection and may grapple with feelings of melancholy. This emotional depth fuels their artistic pursuits. Their creativity shines in the form of unique perspectives, artistic endeavors, and genuine authenticity.

Overcoming the Four’s Weaknesses as a WriterBecause Fours create out of the deep well of their own subjective perspectives, which they may tend to over-romanticize, they can struggle with following “the rules” or accessing the necessary objectivity to hone their stories into effective finished products. Perhaps more than any other type, they can struggle with fears of diluting their personal vision for their work. “The rules” of fiction can feel like an intrusive constriction to their unbounded creativity—which, in turn, can feel like a betrayal of the Four’s very self since this subjective creativity is so inherent to their experience.

Fours may also struggle with insecurity and pessimism—about themselves and about the industry. They can struggle to trust that systems will support them and their unique vision. The Four’s core “vice” is that of envy, born of a general feeling of personal lack, which can cause them to endlessly indulge in unfavorable comparisons between themselves and others whom they view as more successful. A huge leverage point for a Four’s growth can be found in learning to genuinely celebrate fellow writers’ successes and to change the perspective that there isn’t “enough” success in the writing world to be shared by everyone. Instead, Fours may learn to recognize feelings of insecurity when faced with another writer’s success and to exchange it for gratitude toward this other writer for inspiring them and showing them what is possible.

Enhancing the Four’s Strengths as a WriterAnother of the suggested names for the Four is that of Artist. This recognizes their inherent passion for beauty and their intrinsically creative nature. Because they draw so much of their perspective of life from their own subjective experiences, they have the ability to create wildly original stories and effortlessly authentic characters. More than any other type, Fours are not afraid to look at the dark side. Not only are they capable of fearlessly revealing the shadows of humanity, their ability to see beauty in almost anything lets them shine a light into that darkness and transform it.

Writing Your Story’s Theme (Amazon affiliate link)

Fours are often effortlessly skilled at evoking holistic themes from their stories. Not only does their intense emotionality allow them to create dimensional and realistic characters, it also extends to the creation of thematic plots and settings that naturally arise from the internal struggles of those characters. Just as Fours themselves tend to project their inner experiences onto the outer world, they are able to translate the core themes of their characters’ arcs into plots that function as nuanced metaphors for those inner journeys.

Examples of Fours as Writers: Edgar Allan Poe, Virginia Woolf, Anne Rice, William Faulkner, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Tennessee Williams, and J.D. Salinger.

In this two-part series, we’ve so far journeyed through the dynamic landscape of Types One, Two, Three, and Four, unraveling the distinct qualities that shape how writers of the different types approach storytelling. Next week’s installment will shed light on Types Five, Six, Seven, Eight, and Nine, providing a comprehensive understanding of the diverse traits that influence writers in their creative endeavors. Stay tuned for the next installment as we continue our exploration and offer guidance on harnessing the unique attributes each Enneagram type brings to the writing process!

Stay Tuned: Next week, we will explore Types Five, Six, Seven, Eight, and Nine of the Enneagram.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Do you identify with any of these Enneagram types for writers? Tell me in the comments!Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).

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From KMW: On the one hand, deciding how to build a character arc is pretty simple: the character changes, the end. On the other hand, building a character arc can often seem monumentally overwhelming. How can we possibly take so nuanced and complex an experience as personal change and convey it realistically through the events of a story?

As you all know, I love tools that help writers zoom out to look at the big picture, allowing us to break down the complexity of creating a story into simpler categories. Today, I’m pleased to share with you a guest post from Becca Puglisi, of Writers Helping Writers and co-author of The Emotion Thesaurus, that offers an accessible tool for creating, enhancing, and guiding your characters’ Positive Change Arcs.

She starts out with a handy list of opportunities to help you show how your character has or not changed, then shares the technique of using “emotional amplifiers” to catalyze character growth through dramatic story situations. Read on to find out all about it!

While there are many kinds of stories, most of them today are about a protagonist navigating a change or growth arc. In this model, the character undergoes a personal journey of evolution; they realize their hurts, habits, or hang-ups are keeping them from success and, over time, adopt healthier responses and behaviors that enable them to achieve their story goal and become fulfilled.

Now, this isn’t a straightforward process. It’s a two-steps-forward-one-step-back journey that requires a lot of difficulties and poor choices before the character realizes the need for change. As authors, we put a ton of thought into planning and incorporating those conflict scenarios.

Creating Character Arcs (Amazon affiliate link)

What we don’t spend so much time on is the second half of the arc, when growth is underway.

Once characters decide to change course, they’ll start moving in the right direction. But they won’t always stay on the straight and narrow. Their old responses may be ineffective, but they’re comfortable and familiar. And change is hard. So the path to success (or failure, if your story showcases a Negative Arc) will be messy, alternating between forward progress and regression.

Growth should happen gradually, and readers need to see this because it provides hope the character could actually succeed. Luckily, there are many growth milestones—changes in the character’s responses—you can include in your story to show they’re evolving.

7 Possible Growth Indicators to Build a Character Arc1. Trying a New ResponseAs the characters realize their old ways are inadequate or even harmful, they’ll become desperate enough to try something new. The outcome may be positive, ineffective, or mixed, but it doesn’t matter. Just the act of stepping out of their comfort zones and taking a risk is a sign growth is happening.

1. Recognizing LandminesIn the past, the characters failed to spot danger until it was too late, and they suffered terribly. The upside of this experience is they’ve learned to be attentive and prepare more thoroughly. If something happens now, they can react from a place of strength, better positioned to save themselves from preventable fallout.

2. Setting BoundariesThe characters see how their inability to say no in the past generated unwanted results. Setting reasonable boundaries now to protect themselves is an indicator they’re becoming more self-aware and are willing to make hard choices.

3. Asking for HelpSome trials are too difficult to navigate solo—a lesson that a stubborn, independent, or untrusting character may have to learn the hard way. Once they do, however, the desire to avoid needless suffering teaches them to recognize when they need help, and by asking for it, they demonstrate maturity.

4. Choosing PositivityIf characters tend to be negative, show growth by shifting their mindset. This could mean they focus on strengths instead of weaknesses, engage in positive self-talk, or practice gratitude. Transformation typically begins in the mind, so even a small change, like finding the silver lining in a bad situation, shows readers that change is underway.

5. Regulating EmotionsSelf-control is a major aspect of emotional maturity. Things are simple when life is peachy but become harder when conflict rears its head. Recalling the problems that were caused by a past loss of emotional control in the face of difficulty may encourage characters to restrain themselves this time around.

6. Not Giving UpThe journey to change is hard, with the characters getting knocked down repeatedly. At first, they may not get up right away; they’ll retreat to their old ways because they don’t want to be hurt again. But struggling back to their feet and pushing forward is a sign they realize the value of internal change and are willing to take risks to achieve it.

Use an Emotion Amplifier to Show Progress and Build the Character ArcThe above are just a few ways you can show your characters’ development, and you’ll need to use many of them throughout the story because evolution is an active process. The characters will need to choose, over and over, if they want to take risks and pursue change or cling to their status quo. It’s up to us to provide those opportunities and position the characters for growth. How do we do that, exactly?

Emotion amplifiers are perfect for this because the characters’ responses to these challenging situations will highlight their growth (or lack thereof).

Amplifiers are states or conditions—such as bereavement, attraction, and isolation—that activate characters’ emotions and increase the chances of them reacting impulsively rather than carefully. As a result, they often lead to mishaps and mistakes that create more problems. But they can also be used to show that change is happening.

For Example: Let’s look at one character’s growth journey fueled by an unsettling amplifier that everyone has faced: indecision.

Amir is a recent university graduate with great job prospects. Three companies have offered him positions that would kick-start his career in biometrics—exciting but nerve-racking, because it’s such a big decision. It doesn’t help that one of his classmates is a few weeks into her first job and already regrets her choice.

With each passing day, Amir grows more conflicted, unable to choose. He has trouble sleeping, and his temper flares at the smallest thing. His girlfriend, tired of getting her head bitten off, has had enough and calls it quits. Then, after weeks of waffling, the most promising offer is rescinded, leaving Amir with the two least favorable options.

Here, we see Amir’s default responses to indecision, and they’re not doing him any favors. As readers witness his reactions, they’ll know exactly how Amir will have to change if he’s going to thrive. We can create opportunities for him to do better and show his evolution by hitting him with the same amplifier later in the story.

For Example:

Fast forward six months, and Amir is facing indecision again—this time, regarding his living situation. A big rent increase is coming, so he must choose to remain in a cramped, expensive apartment near his friends or relocate to a more affordable place closer to work. The hold on the new apartment expires in a few days; as the deadline looms, his old insecurities and panic rise.

Once more, everything seems to set Amir off. He becomes aware of how often he’s apologizing for being a jerk, and he remembers what that cost him last time. His decision paralysis is familiar, too; it cheated him out of a great job opportunity before, and he doesn’t want that to happen again. He realizes he must change the way he responds to indecision, so he sits down and creates a list of pros and cons for moving. An obvious choice emerges, and he informs his current landlord that he’ll be gone at the end of the month.

The first time around, Amir flounders and flails. But the second time he faces indecision, armed with hindsight and a new sense of self-awareness, he rises to the occasion.

There are other ways to highlight growth, but I find amplifiers to be effective because of their universal nature. Readers are familiar with indecision. They’ve all struggled with it to varying degrees at multiple times in their lives. They know the intensely uncomfortable feelings associated with facing a difficult decision, and they know the fallout that occurs when an important choice is put off—or when the wrong choice is made. Readers will feel for Amir because they’ve been in his shoes.

Amplifiers also work even when they’re unfamiliar. Readers don’t have to experience addiction or compulsion to empathize with characters who are enduring them. Readers will see the pattern of dysfunctional reactions, how they create conflict and push the characters’ goals out of reach, and they’ll notice the shift in mindset and responses that signal change for the better.

When you need to show a character’s growth, consider employing an amplifier. (At Writers Helping Writers, we’ve got a list to kickstart the brainstorming process.) As your characters evolve, use the growth markers above to highlight their forward progress.

For more information on amplifiers and how they can encourage character growth (and steer story structure, generate conflict and tension…the list goes on!), keep an eye out for the 2nd edition of The Emotion Amplifier Thesaurus, releasing on May 13th.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What other markers can we use to build a character arc? Tell me in the comments!The post 7 Growth Milestones to Build a Character Arc appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.

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Story settings serve as the backdrop, providing a tangible environment in which characters interact and events unfold. Most settings are realistic and straightforward, providing physical attributes of necessary locations in the story. But writers can raise stories to a higher level by employing symbolic and archetypal settings that go beyond mere description to act as metaphors for abstract concepts, emotions, or themes.

As representatives of the collective human experience, symbolic and archetypal settings enable writers to explore profound themes, create resonance, and immerse audiences in narratives that transcend the confines of the tangible world. Symbolic settings imbue narratives with layers of meaning, allowing writers to convey emotions, themes, and abstract concepts. Taken a step further, archetypal settings tap into shared cultural symbols and myths, offering familiar frameworks that connect deeply with readers.

Over the last few years, I have taught quite a bit about the power of archetypal stories. Specifically, in the many articles on this site, in my book Writing Archetypal Character Arcs, and in my recent Shadow Archetypes course, I have talked about how character archetypes can be used to create potent character arcs. Inherent to all those discussions are many other archetypes and symbols. If you’ve read the beat sheets I’ve provided for the six primary archetypal journeys, then you know they are steeped in mythological and metaphorical language. Something I’ve touched upon in those discussions but never directly addressed are archetypal settings.

A while back I received the following email from Matt Wright:

I’ve been looking into “setting archetypes” as tools for writers to use in their stories but haven’t found much out there. Symbolism.org calls it “Place Symbolism.” … I wonder if you have any thoughts on this?

Today, I thought it would be fun to dive deeper into this topic. Setting is such a crucial element within fiction. Often, we will refer to it as “a character in its own right.” When done well, setting exists as so much more than simply a physical background designed to convince readers of a certain degree of realism. Rather, setting functions as context for everything in a story, which is what, in turn, deepens the opportunity for thematic subtext.

>>Click here to read “How to Choose Story Settings: The 4 Basic Types of Setting”

Although setting’s ability to offer commentary upon the rest of the story can, and often will, arise naturally from the writer’s own subconscious during creation, it is valuable to bring a deeper understanding to the symbolic and archetypal possibilities available for your stories’ settings.

There is much overlap between symbolic and archetypal settings. The distinction lies in contrasting their respective scope and significance.

A symbol is a specific object, image, or element that represents a broader, often abstract idea, theme, or concept. It carries meaning beyond its literal interpretation and can evoke emotions or convey complex notions within the context of a story. Symbols are versatile and can vary in interpretation across different cultures and contexts.

On the other hand, an archetype is a recurring pattern, character, theme, or setting that embodies universal symbols and resonates similarly across cultures and time. Archetypes are deeply rooted in collective human experiences and myths, representing fundamental aspects of the human psyche. They serve as timeless, recognizable molds that shape characters, narratives, and settings, providing a shared framework for how we understand and interact with stories.

While a symbol is specific and context-dependent, an archetype is broader and taps into the fundamental, archaic elements of storytelling that transcend individual tales. In essence, symbols are components within a narrative, while archetypes are overarching, recurring motifs that underpin the very structure of stories.

What Are Symbolic Settings?Almost every story you can think of features a setting that qualifies as symbolic. Indeed, sometimes the entire story will be created around a specifically symbolic setting. This needn’t be overt. Although a story such as Labyrinth may be obvious in using its titular setting to explore the inner maze of the evolving self, stories such as Gilmore Girls or Sweet Magnolias may use the cozy confines of a small town to symbolize safety, support, and friendship in a much more natural and invisible way.

Sweet Magnolias (2020-), Netflix.

Even stories that aren’t explicitly aware of their own symbolism often end up using settings that reflect characters’ moods or internal struggles. For example, graveyards are commonly used as backdrops for explorations of grief, terror, or mortality.

A skilled writer who is conscious of the power available in setting will tweak settings to create important symbolism. For example, both the James Bond and Jason Bourne movies are about globe-trotting spies, but the way the international settings are used evoke totally different moods and metaphors to support the respective characters’ personal journeys.

The Bourne Identity (2002), Universal Pictures.

Following are some of the more common symbolic settings you might use in your stories.

1. Maze or LabyrinthRepresents the journey of self-discovery, challenges, and the complexity of life.

For Example: Labyrinth, Pan’s Labyrinth, The Maze Runner, Inception

Inception (2010), Warner Bros.

1. ForestSymbolizes mystery, danger, the unknown, themes of transformation and growth, healing, connection to nature, and harmony.

For Example: The Lord of the Rings, Where the Red Fern Grows, Princess Mononoke, Robin Hood, Where the Wild Things Are

Princess Mononoke (1997), Studio Ghibli.

1. DesertConveys isolation, hardship, emptiness, and spiritual journey.

For Example: Lawrence of Arabia, The Ten Commandments, Dune, Mad Max: Fury Road, The Alchemist, The English Patient

Mad Max: Fury Road (2015), Warner Bros.

1. CaveRepresents secrets, hidden truths, self-reflection, and the concept of rebirth.

For Example: The Empire Strikes Back, The Descent, Plato’s allegory of “The Cave.”

Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back (1980), 20th Century Fox.

1. Castle or FortressSignifies power, authority, protection, and can also represent imprisonment or confinement.

For Example: Dracula, The Last Castle, Harry Potter, Beauty & the Beast

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (2001), Warner Bros.

1. Ocean or SeaSymbolizes the subconscious, vastness, exploration, the unknown, and the mysteries of life.

For Example:Life of Pi, Moby-Dick, The Old Man and the Sea, Moana, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Finding Nemo, Cast Away, Ponyo

Moana (2016), Walt Disney Pictures.

1. IslandRepresents solitude, isolation, self-discovery, and serves as a microcosm reflecting society.

For Example: Lord of the Flies, Robinson Crusoe, Swiss Family Robinson, The Tempest, And Then There Were None

Lord of the Flies (1963), British Lion Film Corporation.

1. CityscapeCaptures the essence of modern life, complexity, anonymity, and the opportunities and challenges of urban existence.

For Example: Blade Runner, Metropolis, West Side Story, The Great Gatsby

West Side Story (2021), 20th Century Fox.

1. MountainsSignifies challenges, obstacles, spiritual ascent, and isolation.

For Example: Into Thin Air, Seven Years in Tibet, The Mountain Between Us.

Seven Years in Tibet (1997), Sony Pictures.

1. RuinsEvokes themes of decay, the passage of time, and the aftermath of civilization.

For Example: The Road, I Am Legend, Indiana Jones, City of Ember, The Time Machine

The Road (2009), 2929 Productions.

1. GardenSymbolizes Eden, innocence, the healing power of nature, and personal growth.

For Example: The Secret Garden, The Gardener

The Secret Garden (2020), StudioCanal.

1. TunnelsSignifies hidden truths, the passage between worlds, and the exploration of the subconscious.

For Example: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Pan’s Labyrinth, The Great Escape

The Great Escape (1963), The Mirisch Company.

13. Outer Space

Represents infinity, the unknown, exploration, and the cosmic forces that shape human existence.

For Example: 2001: A Space Odyssey, Solaris, Interstellar, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, The Martian, Ender’s Game

The Martian (2015), 20th Century Fox.

What Are Archetypal Settings?Archetypal settings make use of symbolism, but take everything to a deeper place. In part, this depth is achieved through the shared understanding between writer and readers that the archetype represents not just thematic resonance, but a potential initiation of the psyche.

Archetypal settings may be literally archetypal in their presentation. For example, you may represent the Underworld in your story as Hades or some other equivalent. But it can also be represented more symbolically. In some stories, an underground tunnel, a graveyard, or the criminal “underworld” may be understood to represent more than just the setting’s practical function within the story.

An archetype holds the quality of transformation and transcendence. It represents the thresholds of the human experience—aka, the big changes in life, the moments that forever shift our perspectives. We may all walk by a hundred cemeteries in our lives. We may even connect to the shared symbolism of grief and the recognition of our mortality when we visit them for loved ones’ funerals. But none of these casual encounters will necessarily invoke the transformational archetype experienced by Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol‘s use of this setting to catalyze permanent change.

Mickey’s Christmas Carol (1983), Walt Disney Pictures.

Here are some examples of possibilities for archetypal settings in your stories:

1. The UnderworldRepresents the descent into the dark realm, representing either Death or the shadows of the unconscious mind. To go there and return is indicative of the archetypal experience of Death/Rebirth.

For Example: The Inferno, Corpse Bride, What Dreams May Come, Coco, Soul

Corpse Bride (2005), Warner Bros.

1. Garden of EdenAn idyllic, perfect setting that often symbolizes innocence and sets the stage for temptation and awakening. It is indicative of the archetypal experience of Innocence and Innocence Lost.

For Example: Paradise Lost, The Giver, Avatar, The Magician’s Nephew, The Poisonwood Bible

Avatar (2009), 20th Century Fox.

1. The KingdomThe archetypal seat of power, representing authority, leadership, and often the central location for epic tales. It represents the central archetype of psychological transformation, representing the Self. Its relative state of corruption or safety indicates the lessons to be learned in the story.

Example: The Grail legends, Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, The Lion King, Ella Enchanted, The Princess Bride