Prologue as Prelude to Shooting Writing Teachers!

Recently, I finished "guest teaching" at a well-known writer extension program here in Los Angeles. The class was an advanced novel writing workshop. The teacher, who lets me come and teach from time to time, is a master writer with an amazing skill set, and I always enjoy the experience. This time, however, something happened that truly threw me for a loop.

One of the students said something to me that nearly knocked me out of my chair. I had just answered a question about whether or not another student should use a prologue in her novel. And the writer came back with the statement, "Oh, I was told not to bother using a prologue. People aren't using them anymore because nobody reads them."

I asked, "Who gave you this piece of advice?"
"Oh," came the response, "One of the people at [writing program name redacted]."
"People" meaning someone teaching through the writers program.

(I'm not mentioning the program because my beef here isn't against them; they are fine people. My beef is against the bonehead who gave this advice.)

I was speechless, or more correctly, I was keyboardless. I literally couldn't type I was so astonished at the utter badness of this advice. If it had come from some writing hack over the Internet I'd have just sloughed it off and corrected the error. But no, this came from a writing teacher at a prestigious writing program. DON'T USE A PROLOGUE; NOBODY'S READING THEM ANYMORE! Really?

I know exactly from where this sentiment evolved. The teacher, up on all the hipster authors and new YA superstars and hipster trends from hipster agents at all the hip new publishing companies saw that all these hip people were not using prologues—thus the new flavor of the month writing rule: no more prologues; the hipsters don't write them anymore.

I want to just go running, screaming down the hall when I hear this s@#t. I read almost 300 manuscripts a year. Most of them are genre (suspense, thriller, horror, mystery). Almost all of them try to use prologues, but fail only because they don't know what a prologue is or what it's supposed to do. Those who don't use them do so only because they don't know that they could, or should.

Let me be clear: this is no trend. This is no form of advice worth listening to; this is crap! A prologue is not a trend, it is a literary device used to enhance the opening of a story. The writer chooses to use one (or should do so) based on whether it will work with the story and genre, not based on some mythical statistic that readers aren't reading them anymore (and who tracked that little factoid anyway?).

Here is my prologue speech that I give writers who don't know a prologue from a steak sandwich:

" The prologue in a novel is the opener, the bang, the teaser that sets the tone and context for the introduction of the hero-heroine. If you look at any well-known genre author, most of them use prologues in their stories to set up the action. In mysteries the prologue is where the first murder occurs and the reader “watches” this happen, in a suspense story the prologue is where the opponent is first introduced, sometimes along with the first crime or physical threat; in a thriller the prologue is where the first death/danger/jeopardy is introduced that sets the tone for the adventure, also often the agent of the central opponent is introduced. The prologue is where the story hits the ground running and then stops on a dime with a big question: who got killed and why, who’s responsible, what’s going on here? Then the first chapter is where the hero-heroine is introduced in a benign way, usually showing daily life, some basic exposition about their lives, work, etc. The first chapter usually gives the basic context for the hero-heroine so the reader understands why he/she is the main character and where they fit into the adventure, and then the first chapter ends with them being sucked into the story through some raising of the stakes or some incident that pulls them into a mystery that grows more dangerous and more personally threatening as things progress—okay, maybe in the second chapter."

End lecture.

If a prologue is there, readers will read it. Especially if the book is a genre book. Television shows and feature films use prologues all the time as openers for the show. Viewers don't skip the opening of a movie because it is a prologue! They watch the darn thing. It sets up the adventure. It works the same way in a book.

So, once again I make the grand plea for you to use discernment and common sense when listening to people like me, i.e., writers who teach other writers. Just as in used cars, aluminum siding sales, and stock swaps there are those who sell trends when they should be selling substance.

Stay vigilant, listen to everyone, read everything, follow no one! Repeat the mantra after me ...

Now, go be brilliant.

Writing and the Archetypes: Are They the Best for Developing Characters?—Part 2

So, in part 1 of this 3-part series I introduced the concept of the archetypes and why writers use them. And, like I said there, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why archetypes might be useful tools for developing characters in fictional settings.

But, here’s the problem: they’re not characters, they’re archetypes!

This is the essence of the problem. Archetypes are by definition not people. They are aspects of people, aspects of being human, aspects of … you get the point (actually, it's the other way around ... we're aspects of the archetypes!). Archetypes make for great traits, characteristics, qualities, but they do not make for whole characters. They make pieces of characters.

Stories are about us. Stories are about human beings and the human condition. Every story, any story, all stories MUST be about a person on a journey. If the story is not about a person on a journey it is not a story, it is something else: a situation, a problem, a predicament to be solved, whatever; but it’s not a story (I’m sure I’ll get some mail on this one).

A human being is a character. A character has traits-characteristics. The human is an aggregate of behaviors and these traits-characteristics. Taken separately (i.e., an archetype) these traits-characteristics-behaviors cannot standalone. They do not have choice, they do not have will, they cannot act in pursuit of a goal, they cannot be flawed by some moral conflict that speaks to some inner lesson to be learned (or not). Only a fully formed human being, a multidimensional person, a protagonist can stand alone to drive a narrative forward. Archetypes help, but they do not drive. Motivation drives a story and a protagonist. Motivation is the crankshaft of every story (or at least the best kinds of stories). Archetypes reflect motivation (i.e., a trickster is motivated to trick), but they are shadows in this regard. Without human desire and choice the motivation is shallow and thin. Only a human gives meaning, significance, and purpose to motivation—not archetypes.

So, herein lies the problem. All those great writers out there who have written books on this, who have built careers on pushing the archetypes as the foundation of all storytelling, who have banked their entire story-development theory on the primacy of archetypal development are not bad and wrong, but they are gilding the lily in my opinion. You can write a great trickster character, but that will take you just so far. You can write a great villain, but that will take you just so far. You can write a great ally, but—

Maybe this metaphor will help clarify the relationship between a pattern (archetype) and the thing is generates (human being):

Say you are a knitter and you want to make a quilt. So, you buy a knitting pattern that comes in the mail and when it arrives you open it and hold it in your hand. You are not holding a quilt, you are holding a patten for a quilt. The pattern is a piece of paper with instructions, knitting code, and directions: i.e, it is an abstraction of something it will help to create. It is the raw material for making a "real" quilt, which is something you can use to warm yourself or lay on a couch to look pretty for the neighbors when they come over to spill coffee all over it.

Let's take this one step further. You are a writer (okay, a stretch, but go with me) who wants to write a story about a quilt. Which is going to be the most useful to you as a storyteller: the abstract pattern, or the physical quilt? Obviously the latter and not the former. Having a big, warm, wooly quilt gives you a fully dimensional object that you can describe and interact with as a writer. A pattern for this object cannot do those things; it's just a pattern.

And so the difference between the Enneagram and the archetypes. The Enneagram is the fully dimensional and realized object that functions in the world with form. The pattern (archetype) is the function without form. The pattern is essential, the pattern will inform, the pattern will guide, but the pattern is not as rich or useful as the thing it helps to create. Patterns can exist without the things they represent. The things they represent can not exist without the patterns. We can't exist as human beings without the archetypes, but they can exist (and do) without us.

And this is how using archetypes as the foundation of story development can derail and undermine your process, rather than support it. Using patterns of human behavior to cobble together a whole character is not unlike a Victor Frankenstein approach to storytelling. You can't piece together a great character or a great story like a quilt. You must find the crankshaft for motivation and you must find it in the full dimensionality of a protagonist, if he-she is going to drive a story from beginning, through the middle, to the end. Archetypes give wonderful, recognizable, and universal conceits all humans can recognize despite culture or upbringing. But they can’t carry the narrative. For that you have to find what I call the “narrative crankshaft."

In the world of character development (and in story structure, in my opinion) the best tool for discovering, developing, and implementing motivation in a narrative is the Enneagram System. The Enneagram is, in fact, the best tool available for describing human motivation and its related behaviors—period. This is why it has become one of the most popular tools today used by therapists, organizational development consultants, coaches, and a host of other personal-growth and business-development gurus.

I can already hear the objections. “Oh, really? So, all the other personality-typing systems out there (MBTI, DIsC, BPP, etc.) are all chopped liver?” No, of course not. But, they are personality-typing systems. They do not cover motivation; they describe behaviors and traits, not unlike the archetypes. The Enneagram System is not a typing system (despite what many Enneagram practitioners think). It is a holistic paradigm for modeling what motivates human behavior, thought, and feeling in all realms of life. That's what makes it such a gold mine for writers and storytellers. And this is the essential difference between the Enneagram and all other "personality systems," including the archetypes.

When it comes time to write a story and develop characters, a writer needs to be able to see the whole picture, not just the pieces of what is under the hood. Archetypal models won’t do the job, nor will running characters through some personality-typing test. What will do the job, however, is the Enneagram because only the Enneagram shows you the crankshaft for human personality; it is not personality, but it is the driver of personality. The Enneagram, not the archetypes, drives human action and thus creates the narrative crankshaft responsible for driving a story from beginning to end.

In part 3 of this series we’ll look at the Enneagram more specifically and why it is not only a fantastic tool for character development, but also for discovering a story’s natural, right, and true structure. This is something I call the Enneagram-Story Bridge™ and it can be the springboard for liberating any constrained writing process.

Big words, I know. But, it’s a pretty big bridge.

Writing and the Archetypes: Are They the Best for Developing Characters?—Part 1

A friend recently asked me to refer her to a “good” book on how to use the archetypes to write stories. I referred her to the book that has cornered the market on this area of writing: Christopher Vogler’s The Writer's Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers. Chris’s book is great and it presents a seamless examination of how some archetypes work with the classical myth structure, specifically the hero’s journey. Based on the seminal work by mythologist and teacher Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Vogler’s book has been a staple around Hollywierd for years (in fact, that’s where it was born—long story).

I’m not trying to give a sales pitch for The Writer’s Journey, though you should buy it—it’s wonderful stuff. No, my point is to explore a broader issue, an issue raised by my friend’s innocent request. The issue is: are the archetypes really the best source for developing characters and developing stories? My response to this question is a resounding, no.

But first, a digression: what the hell are the archetypes and what the blazes do they have to do with writing? This is a topic worthy of several books in and of itself, but to give you the Cliffnotes version, read on:

What is an archetype?

The word can be broken down into two parts: arche and type. Arche, from the Greek means origin, beginning, primal, and tupos means pattern, stamp, or model. So, an archetype is a primal stamp, the first or original pattern of “something,” usually describing a human behavior or characteristic (i.e., trickster, magician, villain, etc.). The great psychologist Carl Jung made the term famous. Jung’s Analytic Psychology broke away from the rigorous mechanics of Freud’s Psychoanalytic approach around 1912; indeed, Freud was Jung’s mentor for many years, before the two had an intellectual falling. Nonetheless, Jung went on to found his own “school” and is responsible more than any other person for popularizing the idea of the archetypes in everyday life (i.e., father complex, anime-animus, etc.) His version of the archetypes is the basis of the popular, and often used by writers, personality typing system call the Meyers-Briggs Typing Inventory (MBTI).

What do the archetypes have to do with writing?

A lot. There are many fine books written about the archetypes and their relationship to writing, especially in developing characters. The archetypes represent the essential patterns of human behavior and personality (according to many). The archetypes are a part of every human being, and we find them in every culture in every human anywhere on the planet. They represent part of the “monomyth,” i.e., the common myth that can be found weaving its way thorugh every human culture throughout time. For Joseph Campbell (and by osmosis Chris Vogler), that monomyth is the hero’s journey. What better tool to use to create characters, right (wrong)?

For example, according to Vogler, every story is populated by archetypes. They are the recurring patterns of human behavior symbolized by standard types of characters in any story (Source: Wikipedia):

1. Heroes: Central figures in stories. Everyone is the hero of his or her own myth.

2. Shadows: Villains, antagonists or enemies, perhaps the enemy within. The dark side of the Force, the repressed possibilities of the hero, his or her potential for evil. Can be other kinds of repression, such as repressed grief, anger, frustration or creativity that is dangerous if it doesn’t have an outlet.

3. Mentors: The hero’s guide or guiding principles, for example Yoda, Merlin, Gandalf, a great coach or teacher.

4. Herald: One who brings the Call to Adventure. Could be a person or an event.

5. Threshold Guardians: The forces that stand in the way at important turning points, including jealous enemies, professional gatekeepers, or your own fears and doubts.

6. Shapeshifters: In stories, creatures like vampires or werewolves who change shape. In life, the shapeshifter represents change or ambiguity. The way other people (or our perceptions of them) keep changing. The opposite sex, the way people can be two-faced.

7. Tricksters: Clowns and mischief-makers, Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck, Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy. Our own mischievous subconscious, urging us to change.

8. Allies: Characters who help the hero through the change. Sidekicks, buddies, girlfriends who advise the hero through the transitions of life.

(List Source: Wikipedia)

It does not take a rocket scientist to see the potential benefits from relying on these “primal patterns” to shape and build fictional characters. Indeed, for many the archetypes help shape the very structure of a story itself, as in this case with The Writer’s Journey.

But, the bolded-italicized text above (which introduces the list) flags the central flaw in this approach. Any approach relying on archetypes must be reductionist, not additive. Characters are based not on their complexity, but rather on "standard types" and "recurring patterns of characteristics." This is a house of cards waiting to fall, in my opinion. Where is desire? Where is motivation? Where is choice? Nowhere is where. There's nothing wrong with using patterns and recurring characteristics, but they can't be the starting point for real characters, let alone structuring a story.

As we will shall see in part 2 of this 3-part series, while there are great benefits from using the archetypes in writing, there are also huge dangers that can derail your story and cripple your characters before they even get started. Stay tuned for part 2 and learn why the archetypes should not be a writer’s first choice for story or character development. That all-important choice should instead be something called the Enneagram System.

The Greatest Screenwriting Secret I Ever Learned

Like every screenwriter I thought my job was pretty much done after I wrote and finalized my submission draft. Screenplay done, edited, vetted by my trusted supporters, and ready for the cold, hard world of the screenplay spec market.

But, no, not so fast. A dear and experienced friend of mine, Director Stephen David Brooks (HeadsNTailz:Video Review ), revealed to me what has become one of my most valued lessons in the screenwriting trade. When we started collaborating on projects together, he revealed that the pros know a simple truth: you never write one screenplay; you need at least four. In other words, every script you write will need four separate versions (not rewrites). Each draft is targeted for a specific stage of the green light minefield. Pass through all the stages, and your script might just get to principle photography.

The logic (which is irrefutable) goes like this:

The Reading Draft:

The first draft you write is meant for the gatekeepers. These include studio readers, freelance story analysts, creative executives, agents and literary managers. These are the first line of defense of the movie industry’s immune system and their job is to seek out and destroy all screenplays that make it past the permeable membrane of Hollywood. The only way your screenplay will not end up absorbed and digested by the killer reader-cells is if your screenplay is written to appease their sensibilities. This means that the first script’s job is to be read. The script must not be geared for a director to shoot, it must not be skewed in any way to appear “camera ready.” No, the primary job of this first draft is to be read. So, the script should be written to be read, not shot. This is a huge point, as most newbie screenwriters think they should write a script that is ready for production. No, just the opposite is true. Think readers, not filmmakers. If the first draft is a good read, then it might survive the Hollywood immune response and make it to the next stage.

The Talent Draft:
Whew! You made past the gatekeepers. Now the agents or the studio creative executives want to package the script. They want to “attach elements.” This is Hollywoodese for “let’s find people to act in this fine film.” Any good agent or creative executive will then ask the writer to make some changes. While the writer will have to respond to what will most likely be inane suggestions, this is actually the time the smart writer will tweak the script so talent will find it irresistible. Now the job of the script is to be acted, not read. The writer wants the dialogue to pop, the characters to shine through the action, and the emotion to swell in the actors' hearts. You want the "key" talent to find their Oscar moment in your text. The script’s job now is to sell itself as a career vehicle, not as a good read for the weekend. The entire script should be rewritten to emphasize an actor's participation; at this stage the play’s the thing.

Distributor Draft:

Double whew! Gatekeeper killer-cells pacified, talent attached, now the producers of the film, if they’re clever, will ask the screenwriter to do another draft for the distributors. If a studio is already involved this won’t be necessary. But, if it is an indie film then this may be needed. The distributor draft is designed to show the company(ies) partnering with the producers that the filmmakers value their input and respect their draconian contract terms. The job of this draft is to show the market potential for the story. Where could product placement go, what action elements are highlighted to attract the right demographics, etc.? While the play’s the thing in the talent draft, here the market’s the thing. The writer now tweaks the script to highlight market potential and the global reach of the story. This may be subtle and anything but drastic in terms of real changes, but smart writers know they need to do this to be competitive.

Shooting Draft:

Reader killer-cells appeased, talent emoting, distributors counting beans; all is finally ready for the real deal. Now, the filmmakers can finish the shooting draft that will be used for principle photography. Now (shhh, don't tell anyone else), the writer and director can write the movie they want to shoot. They can undo, rewrite, delete, and reinvent anything they had to do previously to get to this final stage. Now the original vision can be re-written back into the script, if it was lost along the way. Were all the earlier drafts and stages of the process pointless, if now the writer just brings it back to where it all started? No, film making and screenwriting (unlike playwriting) is a collaborative process. The tweaks from all the earlier stages will not be totally undone, especially if a studio is involved, but this is a safe plateau in the process for realigning vision and dramatic focus, if necessary.

So, this is the greatest secret I’ve ever learned about screenwriting. Writers need to be adaptive to the requirements of the business of writing, and be ready to be responsive to all the stakeholders in a project—money rules, not creative vision. There’s plenty of time for re-establishing vision when you get to the shooting draft. In the meantime, learn the secret and have a long career.

Now, go write four drafts.

High Concept: Yes—It Actually Means Something!

As writers we have all come up against the agent, publisher, studio hack or fellow writer who, when asked to give feedback on our story retorts, “Yeah, good idea, but … it needs to pop more. There’s no high concept.” Sigh. And what the heck does that mean? What are you supposed to do with that? People throw this phrase around like the definition is common knowledge.

But when asked to explain their sorry selves, these same people only deliver cliches, like:

• It’s your story’s hook
• It’s what’s fun about your story
• It’s your story in a single image
• It’s your story’s heart
• It’s your story as a movie one-sheet
• It’s the essence of your premise
• And so on …

All of these have some truth to them. All of these speak to the idea of a high concept, but none of them really explain the darn thing. “High concept” has become a term d’art that everyone uses and that no one really understands.

After much hair pulling, moaning, and sleepless nights analyzing this idea, I have stumbled upon an elegant construct that I think will with both define the term accurately, but also give writers a tool for testing their ideas to quickly see if there is a high-concept component present. It goes like this:

High concept applies to any idea: motorcycle design, toothpaste, cooking, comic books, novels, movies, the list is endless. High concept is about essence; that visceral thing that grabs you by the scruff of the neck and doesn’t let go. From a writing perspective, a story idea that is high concept captures the reader’s or viewer’s imagination, excites their senses, get’s them asking “what if,” and sparks them to start imagining the story even before they have read a word. High concept drives the commercial book business, as well as the film and television industries. A high-concept idea has the following seven qualities:

The 7 Qualities of a High-Concept Idea™:

• High level of entertainment value
• High degree of originality
• High level of uniqueness (different than original)
• Highly visual
• Possesses a clear emotional focus (root emotion)
• Targets a broad, general audience, or a large niche market
• Sparks a “what if” question
  (Excerpted from my book How Not to Write Your Self-Published Book: Top 25 Writer Fails & Fixes. Xela Opus Press, publication date 2013)
  

Let’s look at each of these to get a better idea of what they mean:

High-level of entertainment value: This can be elusive. Defining “entertainment value” is like trying to define pornography; it’s in the eye of the beholder. Simply put, you know if something is entertaining, or not, if it holds your attention and sparks your imagination. If you are distracted easily from the idea or interested purely on an intellectual basis, then it is safe to say that the idea may be interesting, engaging, and curious, but not entertaining.

High degree of originality: What does it mean to be original? Some common words associated with originality are: fresh, new, innovative, novel (no, not a book). Think of originality as approach-centric. The idea may be centered in a familiar context, but the approach (original take) offered to get to that familiar context has never been used before, for example:

Frankenstein:
Familiar idea: evil monster terrorizes the humans.
Original take: the monster and humans switch moral ground and the humans terrorize the monster.

Dog Day Afternoon:
Familiar idea: man robs a bank for money.
Original take: man robs a bank to get sex change for his transsexual lover and wins the hearts and minds of the people.

Lord of the Flies:
Familiar idea: survivors shipped wrecked on an island.
Original take: the survivors are proper English schoolboys who abandon all civilized norms reverting into primitive savages.

So, originality is more about finding new ways to present the familiar, rather than inventing something new from scratch.

High level of uniqueness: Whereas originality is about approach and fresh perspective, uniqueness is about being one-of-a-kind, first time, and incomparable. Being original can also involve uniqueness, but being unique transcends even originality.

Highly visual: high-concept ideas have a visual quality about them that is palpable. When you read or hear about a high-concept idea your mind starts conjuring images and you literally see the idea unfold in your mind. This is why high-concept books make such good films when adapted. Books with cinematic imagery are almost always high-concept stories.

Possesses a clear emotional focus: Like imagery, high-concept ideas spark emotion, but not just any emotion, usually it is a primal emotion: fear, joy, hate, love, rage, etc. There is no wishy-washy emotional engagement of the reader. The involvement is strong, immediate, and intense.

Possesses mass audience appeal: The idea appeals to an audience beyond friends and family. The target market is broad, diverse, and large. Some ideas are very niche, appealing to a specific demographic, but this is usually a large demographic. High-concept ideas are popular ideas, mass ideas, and often trendy ideas.

Usually born from a “what if” question: What if dinosaurs were cloned (Jurassic Park)? What if women stopped giving birth (Children of Men)? What if Martians invaded the Earth (War of the Worlds)? High-concept ideas are often posed first with a “what if” scenario and then the hook becomes clear. The hook is that part of the high concept that grabs the reader. It is often the one piece of the idea that is the original concept or the unique element. In the three examples just given, each of them has a clear hook that leads to a high-concept premise line (the "premise line" will be the subject of a later post).

Do you have to have all seven qualities for an idea to be high concept? No, but the more of them you have, the more likely you will have a strong high concept. When the idea of high concept is put in the context of these seven qualities, it becomes easier to see that commercial ideas and literary (i.e., soft) ideas often have a clear line of demarcation. That line is the high concept. The next piece of this concept concerns the log line, which is a practical tool for realizing the potential of your high concept. In other words, your log line (different than a premise line!) is your high concept stated in a short, concise sentence. But, this is the subject of a later post.

I hope this helps. It sure helped me when I figured it out.

Now, go be brilliant.

Death to Story Gurus (metaphorically of course)!

Gurus: it seems the world is over-run with them. Cults, cults of personality, cults of politics, cults of religion, therapy cults, food cults, sexual cults the list goes on. There is at least one more type we should list, sadly: the story cult.

Yes, story gurus abound these days. Throw a stone and you’ll hit one. I won’t name names (you know who you are), but writing and story gurus use the same tactics as any cult leader to recruit, retain, and indoctrinate their “followers.” Here are some of the red flags to know if you are getting sucked into the web of a story guru:

• “You need me to help you become a better writer.”
• “You need my methodology/system if you are going to succeed.”
• “One class isn’t enough, you have to do the whole series to really get the benefit.”
• “Sign up for the next class series or you’ll fall behind in your development as a writer.”
• “My next book has exactly what you need, so make sure you buy it.”
• “If you really want to succeed, sign up for this writing retreat; you won’t get this information from anyone else.”
• “Join my writing group, or you won’t make any progress as a writer.”

The message is clear: you need me, you can’t do this alone, and you need a guru/teacher.

(Dramatic pause) … NO, YOU DON'T! You do not need a guru; you do not need a teacher. And anyone who tells you that you do is selling you snake oil and pulling a flimflam on you. But, let me explain why I feel this way.

The word “guru” has developed a bad connotation because of all the vampires out there that suck people’s power and money under the guise of “teaching.” There is nothing inherently wrong with listening to a guru or a teacher. We all benefit from teachers who teach. We all become more for learning from people who have been through experiences we have not, and who can transfer their knowledge to us as a gift. But, when getting that help demands us giving up our personal power, AND our bank accounts, then I certainly have a problem with that—and I hope you do too.

Sadly, there are many people who line up to give up their power to so-called experts in every field, least of all in the story-consulting world. I know, I work in that world, I teach in that world—but hear me, I am no guru! My approach is simple: take classes, buy books, listen to everyone; but, follow NO ONE! My tweet version of this philosophy is: Death to gurus! I speak metaphorically, of course.

Teachers and gurus are never a necessity. You can learn everything you need to learn on your own. But, it saves time to have someone teach you things if they already have the experience and insights you lack. You will have those experiences eventually yourself. You will gain those insights yourself. But, why not take a shortcut if one is offered; ala a teacher or guru? Nothing wrong with that.

But, the job of teachers is to teach themselves out of a job. Their job is not to produce perpetual students, but to produce more teachers. Any good therapist should therapize themselves out of a job by getting patients better, not keeping them hooked on years of therapy. Any good leader does not produce followers, they produce more leaders who change the world and make life better for everyone. The same goes for story gurus.

I teach classes; I sell books; I consult with clients. And you will pay me for the privilege because it has cost me years of time and money to gain my skills and knowledge. I’m worth the price of admission! But, I make no demands that you follow or keep buying, or ever use me again. If you choose to continue to work with me, great, that’s a preference, a choice you make consciously, NOT a necessity that is foisted upon you by my guilting you into following my methodology or “teachings.” You don’t need any story consultant or me. We need you, however, if we want to do what we love to do, i.e., teach and work with great writers.

So, to sum up: Death to story gurus. You are your own guru. You are your own teacher. Use us out of preference, not necessity. We don’t want your power. But, we don't work for free, so there’s the tradeoff. We who do this story work are lucky to have you , so thank you.

Now, go write.

Twitter-lit Redux

A few days ago I wrote a post on something called Twitter-lit. Twitter has always been about real-time reality, being in the moment, life in the raw in 140 characters (or less) at a time. Then, one day, someone decided to depart from reality and just make stuff up (like no one ever makes things up on Twitter)—voila, fiction and Twitter meet: Twitter-lit.

Today The Huffington Post (wonderful online newspaper) started a Twitter-lit contest. It invited its readers to submit their version of the great books in literature. In other words, give them a 140-character version of War and Peace. If you know about screenwriting, or have ever worked in the entertainment business in story development, then what you are going to see next will look familiar. Here are some samples of what the Huffpo readers submitted:

Mary Shelley’s Frankinstein by AskMrScreens:
Misunderstood monster only wants a friend in a recycling project run amok, with an ending that goes up in flames! (Huffington Post, 10/06/09)

Bram Stoker’s Dracula by marcywoody:
Creep preys on the veins and sexual desire of eager young women. Despite immortality, his thirst is forever quenched by one heroic doctor. (Huffington Post, 10/06/09)

Jane Austin’s Sense and Sensibility by LolaDanger:
One sister wanting romance, the other craving good chat (both hot for rich brits) outplay a manipulative bitch and an emasculated gigolo. (Huffington Post, 10/06/09)

(Read more at: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/10/29/huffpost-twitterature-con_n_333974.html?slidenumber=grlh7L0PxJM%3D#slide_image&cp)

Okay screenplay hounds. The Internet culture calls these examples Twitter-lit. But, screenwriters will recognize these as something else, something we use and agonize over for hour, days, sometimes weeks (or more). These little flavor-of-the-month masterpieces above are nothing more than loglines!

A logline is your movie (or book) in a sentence. It is a complicated, complex, and challenging little beastie. The logline has to capture the essence of your story, meaning it has to give a sense of the core relationship driving the story, the high-concept conceit of the story, and a hint of the conclusion without giving too much away. Loglines are essential tools for anyone who works in the movie and/or television business. Anyone who has done script coverage has had to come up with a logline. And any writer pitching a story to an agent has had to get that logline perfect for their elevator pitch. It is also important for novelists, though less so. Loglines get movies made, when they’re good. And when they’re bad—well, you know the rest.

What I find fascinating about this little exercise by Huffpo is that this “new thing” is being touted as a new thing, when it is as old as the hills. This all speaks to an important idea to always keep in mind: nothing about writing on the web or for new media is really “new.” Take away all the SEO (search engine optimization) gibberish, all the IA (interactive architecture) interfaces, and all the Web 2.0 gobbledygook and you are left with words on a page. It’s all “just” writing. You can put all the lipstick you want on that pig; you still have pork. I’m all for repackaging and re-branding ideas, but it is important for writers not to get too caught up in the hype of “the next big thing.”

I’m enjoying all the new formats, platforms and delivery windows that are opening up for writers thanks to the Internet, but I’m taking my own advice. I will just keep my wonder and awe reserved for the simple written word that knows no gimmicks, attention-grabbers, or leaps in the technology zeitgeist. Trust me, I’m no Luddite, I’m a technology champion. I just think it’s important not to lose sight of the fact that so much of what we’re seeing in new media content delivery is really just a variation of the old notion, “What was old is new again.”

I’m Talented—Dammit! Why Can’t I Sell Anything?

I recently worked with a writer who was beside himself with despair. He has been writing for years. He has been writing in every genre. He has been writing in every form: poetry, novels, short stories, narrative nonfiction, screenplay, play, automatic writing, everything. He has tried writing partners, writing alone, following a schedule, writing at random, dictating, stream of consciousness, writing software, you name it. With back against wall and painted into his own little corner of literary Hell, he decides he needs consulting help and that this will, at long last, reveal to him the secrets of why his writing is going nowhere fast.

He knows he’s talented (and he is). He knows he’s a storyteller (and he is). And he knows this is the work he must do (and it is). So—why can’t he sell anything? And then the plaintive cry, “Isn’t it enough to be talented? What the hell to they want from me?” “They,” of course, meaning agents, studios, producers, etc.

And so, here lies the problem. And herein lies the lesson. In all his fussing, ruckus, commotion, and tumult no one ever told him the greatest truth every writer (or artist) needs to hear on day one of their writing career: No! The beaches of Malibu are littered with the bodies of talented writers. Talent isn’t enough. “WHAT?!” Comes the shocked reply, “Then what the #@!% is?”

The response to this greatest truth is a single word: craft. Craft is what makes talent enough. Here was a guy who had a magical way with phrases, wording, subtext, and verbal imagery. But he didn’t know a semi-colon from a steak sandwich and was clueless about the basics of English usage. Beyond the idea of using three acts and having a main character, he had as much use for story structure principles as a concussion.

This poor soul was never told that craft informs talent; not the other way around. There are lots of talented people out there. In fact, everyone has a talent of some kind. Talent is given (by God, Goddess, The Great Pumpkin, whoever). Craft is learned taught by a master, teacher, mentor, or drill sergeant. Talent is part of who you are. Craft is part of what you do. Without craft, talent will always remain in potential; it will never be more than a pale reflection of what it could become.

Craft takes discipline, confidence, perseverance, and practice. Talent takes passion, intuition, trust, and spontaneity. Marry all these together and you find the artist. Lose or deny any one of them and you have the artisan. This is not to say that an artisan is less than an artist! No, no, no. In fact, artisans who master whatever craft ALWAYS find their talent and cannot help but become artists of that craft. But, there is a relationship that exists between craft and talent that must be understood. Even if you come at it through your talent first, you must always come back through craft to truly find the full expression of talent.

To be the artist, as writer, you must learn your craft. This means: grammar, spelling, punctuation, story structure principles, formats and styles, vocabulary, and the tools of the trade. Then with discipline, confidence, perseverance, and practice, practice, practice master the trade; become a master artisan. This takes time. This takes effort. This takes work. This takes patience.

Then something magical happens. Craft skills lift. Talent, always present, begins to stir. Craft gets honed. Talent finds its avenue and begins to flow. Craft becomes second nature, elegant, graceful. Talent finds its voice and soars. Okay, kind of corny and romance novelish, but this is what happens. It's a beautiful thing. Craft is the door and talent is what passes through it from potential to actuality. In time, the two are indistinguishable. You are the craftsperson and the artist and there is no telling them apart. This is the master of their craft and the self-realized creator. This is what we all strive for and what takes a lifetime to achieve—AND WE NEVER GET THERE. As good as we get, there is always more. As frustrating as this may sound, that we never get there, the good news is we become more for the striving.

Craft and talent; learn one to release the other. Learn your craft. And practice, practice, practice.