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.

LitReactor Launches Site for Writing, Learning, and Community: Is it Worth It?

Tomorrow, Oct 1, a new website is being launched to create a working community and learning environment for writers. Huffington Post was granted exclusive access to the site early and wrote a little post on it, singing its virtues (for the most part). In fact, it lead off the mag's book section (under "Media") with the post.

I find it fascinating that another website geared toward charging writers for the privilege of getting peer feedback is being given so much attention. There are tons of similar websites out there (including mine!) geared to this end, all set up by writers like me who are trying to make ends meet by doing what they love—sharing their knowledge and giving advice. I guess we could all get a day job, oh wait ... THERE ARE NO DAY JOBS! Not in California anyway (at 12+% unemployment).

So, we do what we all do best: write, teach, try to make it in the writing life.

I love that LitReactor is launching. I love that "name" authors are participating like Chuck Palahniuk (who I think walks on water as a writer). I love that some innovation and creative thought is going into this new site. But (yeah, isn't there always a "but"), is it really worth it to pay for peer feedback? Here is what the Huffpo post said:

"... peer critique has become quite common in sites such as these; in return, users can usually expect a more moderated, and considerate feedback space. A community is only as good as its members ..."

I've made no secret of my hatred of writing groups. I think they are a complete waste of a writer's time. Mr. Palahniuk has a quickie video on the new LitReactor site that gives his reasons for why writing groups are important: to paraphrase—they help keep you on track with goals and force you to be accountable for results. Okay, but you can hire someone to call you every day to do that. We all have to be accountable. But what about the critique part? Do you really want to pay to have other writers who don't know any more than you do tell you:

"Loved the story"
"Sorry, didn't work for me."
"Great characters .. .but maybe you should turn everyone into a robot?"

I'm sorry, but this kind of "feedback" is utterly useless to me as a writer (and I suspect to you to). Read my post on writing groups for a fuller version of my rant : writing groups post.

I think it is disingenuous to taught this site as more than it is: a nicely thought out, but run-of-the-mill money generator. I'm all for making money and doing so doing what I love to do. But, I would never charge anyone for the "privilege" of crowdsourcing feedback. If the source of the feedback was the likes of Stephen King, or Caroline Leavitt, or Masha Hamilton—fine. I'll gladly pay.

But, in this context, sorry. I don't need any more writer friends, I don't need to hear how "bitchin'" my story idea is, I don't need to get validated by anyone who's bailing out their writing boat at the same speed I'm bailing out mine, and I just bloody don't have the time to maintain another bloody social website that requires me to accumulate badges and "rewards" for participating so I can see my name in "lights," like I've just scored the highest hit-count in World of Warcraft. I'm all for incentivizing writers—but you can keep your badges and pats on the back.

What do you think?

Now go be brilliant.

Premise Line–Log line Conundrum: Aren’t They the Same Thing—NOT!

Wending one's way through the language of the story development jungle is one of the most crazy-making issues faced by new authors and screenwriters. This problem is wonderfully exemplified by the phrases “premise line” and “log line.” Yes—now is a good time to go running screaming down the hall.

We hear these phrases used interchangeably all the time. Well-intentioned advice given by so many writing teachers and gurus becomes migraine material when "premise line" and "log line" are actually used in the same sentence referring to the same thing. I’ve actually heard this done by story consultants, “Yes, you need a great premise line. In fact, the log line is the key to any good premise. So, take the time to develop a great premise line.” Still running screaming down the hall, FYI.

Okay, I didn’t hear this exact exchange; I paraphrase. But this is what happens. Writing teachers mix these two critical concepts up and spew them out as if they were Twiddle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Premise line and log line are two DIFFERENT tools, two DIFFERENT concepts, and two different skills. Okay, stop running down the hall now and listen.

So, what is the difference?

The premise line is your story. Period. The premise line is a complex and subtle construction that reveals not just a main character and an adventure; it actually delivers the basic structure of the story to the reader-viewer. The art of the premise line is the art of precision and clarity of ideas. A well-formed premise will “click” when you read it to someone and they will say, “Yeah, I see that story. I’d read that.” They “see” the story in just a few short lines. But, getting those lines just right might take hours, days, or even weeks. I’ve known some to take months. What is it they “see”?

The premise line gives them a clear vision of a protagonist acting with a purposeful desire toward a goal that is opposed by some force, and all this leading to some dénouement. This is a simplistic definition, but it captures the essence of what a premise line accomplishes. I will be writing a later post that breaks this down specifically with examples, but for now, know that the premise line is the structure of your story told as a single sentence (that’s right—1 sentence; and not a long run-on sentence sprinkled with comma splicing!) that has forward movement and gives a sense of the story’s beginning, middle, and end (no, don’t give away the ending).

Here is an example of a good premise line (three guesses what book/movie):

When the innocent, youngest son of a powerful mafia godfather discovers his beloved father has been shot as part of a turf war, he agrees to join the family to exact revenge and re-establish the family’s honor, until his actions force him to cross a line he was never meant to cross, dooming him to become the next Godfather.

Contrast this to a log line. The log line is your story’s high concept in a short sentence. If you don’t know what high concept means (yes, it means something) then check out my post on this concept.

The log line, unlike the premise line, does not show the overarching shape of your story, it does not give you the action line of the protagonist, nor does it give you a sense of the big picture. No, the log line’s job is to grab you and get your mind and emotions churning. There are seven components to 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 The Anatomy of a Premise Line: 7 Steps to Foolproof Premise and Story Development. Bookbyte Digital, publication date 2012)

When a story has one or more of these components, then it can say it is high concept. The more the merrier. If it only has one or two, the claim can get iffy. Each of these bullets means something specific and are important to understand. Please refer to my post for more explanation. But, for the purposes of this post understand that the log line exemplifies these seven components of the high concept, and it does so in few words. Here are some examples:

• A monster shark terrorizes a small coastal town [Jaws, Peter Benchly]
• A cop battles uber-thieves when they take over an office building. [Nothing Lasts Forever, Roderick Thorp (film: Die Hard)]
• A young boy discovers he’s a wizard and goes off to wizard school. [Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling]
• A man saves a pregnant woman in a world where women no longer give birth. [Children of Men, P.D. James]

None of these tell you about a hero or heroine, none of them give you any idea about the journey to be traveled, but they do grab you and get you wondering “what if.” That’s the job of the log line.

These are the differences between the two tools. It does not take a rocket scientist to see how they work together to form a powerful effect in pitching a story. One grabs you and the other satisfies the “what if” with a bit more detail. Together they sell the story and get you that next meeting.

So, to summarize: premise line and log line are two different tools that work synergistically to create a powerful image of your story. They were built to work together, not separately. If you build them well, you will take many lunches—and you won’t have to pay either.

Now go be brilliant.

Attack of the Three-Act Structure: Run for Your Lives!

As writers we have all been bamboozled! We have done the one thing we, as writers, should never do—assume. We have assumed that because someone writes a bloody book and gives advice about writing that: 1) they know what the hell they’re talking about, 2) they are right, 3) because they wrote a book they have something original to say.

All of these assumptions are dead wrong. And you can extrapolate all this to writer-bloggers (including me!). Like I always say, my mantra if you will: listen to everyone, follow no one. So listen up—

One of the great lies we have all swallowed, only because the source of the lie spoke with some authority or sold books or screenplays, is the lie of the three-act structure. The idea that a story is told in three acts is about as true and real as Area 51, or the Legion of Doom, or Elvis still being alive (sorry, he’s really dead). Three acts have NOTHING to do with storytelling. However, three acts have a great deal to do with physical stage production. Let me explain.

Way back in the days of the Greeks, we’re talking pre-default days—circa 500–300 B.C.—drama was king. Theater, in the form of epic poetry, was the Comic-Con of the age. Physical plays performed by human beings on a stage that required moving sets and technical setups (some amazingly elaborate) were an unavoidable part of physical production of a play. Even then it was not thought smart to have the audience sit and watch the sausage being made, so some enterprising Greek came up with the idea of curtains or screens that could be put into place to shield the audience from the gross happenings between transitions. Curtains were one way to not break the mood, to not lose the tempo, etc.

Thus, acts were born. Writers started writing to accommodate these changes in the physical requirements in their plays. Acts were sometimes three, sometimes two, and sometimes ten! Even 2500 years ago there was no hard and fast rule about the number three. So, the idea of acts is not an idea related to telling a story, it is an idea related to a specific form of delivering a story: i.e., a stage play. Acts are about the constraints of physical production, not writing or storytelling. 

Commercial television is another place where acts make sense, because of commercials.  Every 17 or 20 minuets you have to break the story to sell soap—thus an act.  TV shows have anywhere from 4–6 acts due to commercial breaks.  Again, not a part of storytelling; a part of selling soap, i.e., how the story is delivered due to the constraints of the storytelling environment! (Remember, TV is not an entertainment medium, it is a sales medium—TV shows exist so you'll watch the commercials, not the other way around.)

So, where the hell did we get this cockamamie idea that screenplays or novels should be told in three acts (or four or six)? “Oh,” replies the literary critic, "it comes from Aristotle. In his foundational work Poetics he laid out the necessity of three acts in drama and comedy.”

WRONG!

Aristotle (384–322 B.C.) never talked about acts. He talked about a beginning, middle, and end in any drama or comedy, but he laid down no such rule about acts. So, don’t blame him.

Not to point fingers, because I think the actual origin of this in modern times is impossible to “finger,” but one influential source for this monstrosity of an idea is Syd Field. We all have a debt of gratitude to this man for trailblazing the field of screenwriting for popular audiences. He is a great man and he deserves his place in the pantheon of marketing mavericks. Yeah, I know … here comes the “but.”

But—Syd, more than anyone, popularized the idea of three acts through his “Paradigm” theory; the idea that stories are told in three acts, but that the second act should be broken up into parts A and B. And because he was "the first," and because he was articulate and made sense, people assumed this must be true; this must be the way of things. In Hollywood this notion of three acts took hold like a pernicious weed. To this day, at the highest levels of creative power, creative executives all talk about three acts. Agents, managers, all manner of industry blowhard talk about three acts. Even, sadly, we screenwriters smoke this nasty weed. In the publishing world, the problem is less pronounced, but it is still an issue. Literary novels, especially, are less prone to this infestation, but commercial, genre fiction is more likely to succumb.

Run, run, run—for your creative lives! Three acts have nothing to do with storytelling. Shake loose this idea and free yourself. Three acts will not serve you or your story, unless you’re a playwright. So, what should you do instead? How should you structure your story?

What story development tool is best for you is a highly personal and complicated issue. There are some good story structure teachers out there (“story gurus”—see my post http://bit.ly/qW9Bww) who have alternative approaches to the three-act structure. Many of them do some modified version of the three or four act structure, but some like the fabulous John Truby (The Anatomy of Story) have created real solutions to the problem. Chris Vogler (The Hero’s Journey) is another. I can’t recommend John Truby highly enough, though. His work is truly seminal in the field. My own methodology is also good (Enneagram-Story Bridge™), but my approach is better suited for building a development foundation that can then be ported over to a more determined system, like Truby's or Vogler's. For now, I will just leave it at that, as this topic of story-structure methodology deserves a more detailed examination all its own—at a later time.

Just know that there are useful alternatives out there and that you will be hugely benefited in your creative process if you just walk away (nay, run) from the model of three acts, and look instead for an approach that focuses on classic story development and not the same ol’ same ol’, story-structure straightjacket.

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.