A Story is Not Reducible to Its Controlling Idea

Today, and continuing throughout November, I am presenting a series of posts I’m calling The Happiness Plot, which will make up a very brief introduction to storytelling structure. A perfect way to stay in the groove for NaNoWriMo2014.

For BONUS CONTENT related to The Happiness Plot, as well as special offers of FREE CONSULTING for writers, sign up below for The Comic Muse Email Newsletter. It’s free!

Ready to uncover the plot? 

The Game is Afoot!

To find the beginning of The Happiness Plot, click here or “The Happiness Plot” category listing to the right. 

Now, we continue with The Happiness Plot

A Story is Not Reducible to Its Controlling Idea

16.

Christopher Nolan’s latest film, Interstellar, would have for its Controlling Idea something such as: “Earth’s inhabitants are saved (positive value) when the hero, I.e., Matthew McConaughey’s character Cooper, risks his life to enter the black hole in order to gather data on the “singularity” (cause).

In Jane Austen’s Emma, Emma finds marriage and felicity with Mr. Knightly (positive value) when she humbly recognizes and corrects her prodigious habit of self-deception (cause).

In Sophocles’ Antigone, death and destruction fall upon Creon’s house (negative value) after Creon unwisely sentences Antigone to death for according her dead brother, Polynices, the appropriate burial rites (cause).

The point of any story can thus be encapsulated in the Value + Cause of a Controlling Idea. But we must be careful. We mustn’t allow the Controlling Idea to turn into anything but a rough summary of the story’s theme, enough to give direction to the writer’s efforts but not a substitute for the story itself. It is well to keep in mind Flannery O’Connor’s wise words: “People talk about the theme of a story as if the theme were like the string that a sack of chicken feed is tied with. They think that if you can pick out the theme, the way you pick out the right thread in the chicken-feed sack, you can rip the story open and feed the chickens. But this is not the way meaning works in fiction.”

A story, in other words, embodies the theme or Controlling Idea of a story to such an extent that to separate Controlling Idea from story, to reduce a story to its Controlling Idea, is to undermine the audience’s experience of the truth of the story. The examples of Controlling Ideas given above are not supposed to compel any audience apart from their embodiment in narrative. As noted earlier, a story is not a mere vehicle for a philosophy. The Controlling Idea or philosophy exists in the story like the impress of a signet ring in wax.

“You tell a story,” says O’Connor, “because a statement would be inadequate.”    

Robert McKee and the Controlling Idea

 

Today, and continuing throughout November, I am presenting a series of posts I’m calling The Happiness Plot, which will make up a very brief introduction to storytelling structure. A perfect way to stay in the groove for NaNoWriMo2014.

For BONUS CONTENT related to The Happiness Plot, as well as special offers of FREE CONSULTING for writers, sign up below for The Comic Muse Email Newsletter. It’s free!

Ready to uncover the plot? 

The Game is Afoot!

To find the beginning of The Happiness Plot, click here or “The Happiness Plot” category listing to the right. 

Now, we continue with The Happiness Plot

Robert McKee and the Controlling Idea

15.

The argument of the story is its plot. But just how does a plot argue?

McKee is quite good on this point. Storytelling, he tells us, is the creative demonstration of truth, the conversion of idea into action. But how does the “demonstration” work? “A story’s event structure,” explains McKee, “is the means by which you [the writer] first express, then prove your idea…without explanation.”

So it’s the “event structure,” the plot, that does the arguing. But somehow it does so without a lot of explaining on the part of the author. Master storytellers, says McKee, never explain. As David Mamet once put the same thought, the whole trick is never to write exposition (i.e., explanation of the events).

Now, setting aside the fact that some pretty good storytellers are also some pretty fulsome explainers (e.g. Dickens, Henry James, and, in a much quirkier way, Muriel Spark), we need to know what it is about the plot of a story that, all by itself, without the author holding its hand, is capable of arguing for the truth.

Let’s begin with McKee’s concept of the Controlling Idea. McKee prefers the term Controlling Idea to that of “theme” because “like theme, it names a story’s root or central idea, but it also implies function: The Controlling Idea shapes the writer’s creative choices.”

A Controlling Idea, McKee explains, can be reduced to the following equation:

VALUE + CAUSE

The Controlling Idea “identifies the positive or negative charge of the story’s critical value at the last act’s climax, and it identifies the chief reason that this value has changed to its final state. The sentence composed from these two elements, Value plus Cause, expresses the core meaning of the story.”

In her posthumous collection, Mystery and Manners, Flannery O’Connor remarks about her famous short story, “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” that the free act, the moment of grace, that makes the story work is “the Grandmother’s recognition that the serial killer known as the Misfit is one of her own children.” Here we have a Controlling Idea, or part of one. At the story’s climax a positive value or charge comes into being: the Grandmother experiences a moment of grace in recognizing the brutal killer confronting her as one of her own babies. What brings this positive value into being? What is its cause? Ironically, it is the very brutality and theological confusion of the Misfit. O’Connor was fascinated by the way in which violence and the grotesque distortion of human dignity can often be the means by which the spiritually complacent are returned to reality and prepared to accept their moment of grace.

*The image above of Robert McKee is reproduced courtesy of Aleksandr Andreiko via Wikimedia Commons under the following license.

Exclusive Content for Subscribers

Last night my wife and I went to see Christopher Nolan’s new film, Interstellar. Our discussion afterwards about the problems in Interstellar‘s plot inspired me to create an exclusive podcast for subscribers to The Comic Muse Email Newsletter.

In the podcast, I use Interstellar to zip you through the basics of storytelling structure. Just 15 minutes and you’ll have completed your mission to a new storytelling galaxy.

Don’t get left on the ground! Enjoy the podcast by signing up right here for The Comic Muse Email Newsletter. It’s FREE!

I'm Ready for the Turning Point

Also, please keep in mind that throughout November I am presenting a series of posts at danielmcinerny.com which will itself comprise a very brief introduction to storytelling structure, a series I’m calling THE HAPPINESS PLOT. It’s perfect for fiction writers of all kinds as well as writers of narrative non-fiction, not to mention those doing work in brand storytelling.

I hope you’ll stop by and that you’ll sign up for The Comic Muse Email Newsletter and enjoy the exclusive content.

Storytelling as the Creative Demonstration of Truth

Today, and continuing throughout November, I am presenting a series of posts I’m calling The Happiness Plot, which will make up a very brief introduction to storytelling structure. A perfect way to stay in the groove for NaNoWriMo2014.

For BONUS CONTENT related to The Happiness Plot, as well as special offers of FREE CONSULTING for writers, sign up below for The Comic Muse Email Newsletter. It’s free!

Ready to uncover the plot? 

The Game is Afoot!

To find the beginning of The Happiness Plot, click here or “The Happiness Plot” category listing to the right. 

Now, we continue with The Happiness Plot

 

Story as the Creative Demonstration of Truth

14.

I’ve been talking about stories as “promoting” either “thick” or “thin” conceptions of justice or love or whatever. This is an assumption well worth challenging. Do stories tell us truths about life? Is there any relation between stories and philosophy?

C.S. Lewis, in An Experiment in Criticism, appears to say “no.” In speaking about the differences between tragedy, comedy, and farce he writes: “None of the three kinds [of drama] is making a statement about life in general. They are all constructions: things made out of the stuff of real life; additions to life rather than comments on it.”

Lewis qualifies his point. Any story “will be impregnated with all the wisdom, knowledge, and experience the author has; and even more by something which I can only vaguely describe as the flavor or “feel” that actual life has for him.” However, to regard the story “as primarily a vehicle for that philosophy” is for Lewis an “outrage” to the thing the author has made for us.

What Lewis is keen on stressing here, rightly, is that stories, novels, plays–narrative art in general–should not be taken as mere vehicles for the dissemination of an author’s philosophy. A play, for example, is not just a delivery system for abstract comments about life—more diverting than reading Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, to be sure, but essentially no different from Kant in being a philosophical proclamation. No story can simply be reduced to a statement of whatever wisdom the author may possess. “Don’t be indecisive” (I jest) is not a substitute for Hamlet.

A play, in other words, is not a philosophical statement plus some literary qualities that we may dispense with if we choose.

And yet, Lewis fails to do justice to the way in which stories do tell us truths. Robert McKee, in his wonderful book Story, formulates this idea quite nicely: “Storytelling is the creative demonstration of truth. A story is the living proof of an idea, the conversion of idea to action.”

A story is not a work of philosophy, but there is at least a perceived wisdom embodied in the decisions the author has his characters make. The “argument” of the story is its plot, which in its climax aspires to conclude something about the way life ought to be lived. But this truth, if it is one, will only be convincing to an audience who attends to the literary qualities of the piece.

* The image above is reproduced courtesy of James MacMillan at Wikimedia Commons under the following license.

So a story is not a mere vehicle for a philosophy, but a philosophy is embedded in every story like the seal of a signet ring is embedded in wax.

 

Why Your Organization Needs to Embrace the Art of Story

If Seth Godin is right, and I believe he is, we now live in a post-industrial, “connection economy.” It thus behooves your organization–business, school, volunteer group, parish, what have you–to learn the language of connection.

Think about it: what do you connect with? What makes you feel like you’ve really established a bond with a person or an organization or a brand? 

For me, it’s the sense that I’ve been listened to and understood.

The sense that I’ve been valued.

The sense that someone is “speaking my language.”

In business, it’s the sense that a product or service or event taps into my most cherished interests and desires–followed by an impatience to share the experience with others.

But for a great connection to happen, there must be great communication. Someone has to speak or otherwise convey the understanding and the appreciation and the excitement that creates a bond. 

This usually doesn’t happen in a PowerPoint presentation. Or a white paper. Or a memo. Or a speech. Or a boilerplate newsletter. Or a banner ad. Or standard web copy. 

Perhaps sometimes, but not often. 

So where does it happen? 

The customary medium of great communication is that of a story.

Tell Us a Story

In a story, as screenwriting guru Robert McKee defines it, idea is wedded to emotion and a connection is made between two or more human beings. 

Godin argues that what drives the connection economy is “art.” Works of “art,” broadly defined, are works that communicate ideas that connect to our most cherished, most human interests and desires. 

And what’s the paradigmatic human art? Storytelling.

So this is my syllogism:

We live in a connection economy.

Connections are best made through great stories.

The connection economy requires great stories.

So how are you and your organization adjusting to the connection economy?

Are you relying on conventional advertising and conventional website presentation to spread your message, or are you really trying to connect to your audience through the power of great storytelling? 

In what ways is it possible for you to incorporate great stories in your media? Consider one famous example. 

1984

Drones in baggy grey uniforms stomp in formation as a weird techno-beat pulsates around them.

On an enormous video screen, a grey Big Brother pontificates about unity, ideology, and blah blah blah.

Suddenly a woman, chased by security guards, breaks through the crowd. She is a shock of color with her blonde hair, orange shorts, and white t-shirt. And she carries a sledgehammer.

Perhaps you remember the voiceover as we watch her race toward the video screen:

“On January 24th Apple Computer will introduce Macintosh. And you’ll see why 1984 won’t be like 1984.” 

Finally comes the iconic moment when the woman spins around and heaves her sledgehammer into Big Brother on the video screen, and the screen explodes in a flash of light. 

Yes, this is the famous television ad for the Apple Macintosh, a commercial which first aired in January 1984 during the third quarter of Super Bowl XVIII. Created by Lee Clow and his team at the Chiat/Day advertising agency, and directed by film director Ridley Scott, who had just made the hit movie Blade Runner, the Macintosh ad created a sensation. As Walter Isaacson reports in his biography of Steve Jobs, that very evening all three major television networks and fifty local stations carried stories about the ad. Eventually, TV Guide and Advertising Age would hail it as the greatest commercial of all time. And meanwhile, it helped make the reputation of the world’s most famous personal computer.

Why did the Macintosh ad create such a sensation?

Because it showed us a dramatic world populated by intriguing characters.

Because it compelled us by conflict.

And because it brought that conflict to a riveting climax.

In short, the Macintosh ad told us a story.

And it did it in less than 60 seconds.

What would you rather experience? Sixty seconds of “Buy my new computer!” Or 60 seconds of a short film?

I thought so. 

This is why your marketing needs to become enthralling, memorable storytelling.

Stories as Ethical Persuasion

But telling great stories involves more than knowing how to plot and create characters. These are essential ingredients, but more is necessary. For storytelling to be insanely great, it also has to be effective as ethical persuasion

What does that mean?

The word “ethical” comes from the Greek word ethos, which most literally means  “accustomed place” or “habitat.” One’s ethos is where one lives–not only physically, but also morally, socially and psychologically. Stories are forms of persuasion in that, through word and image and sometimes music, they try to convince us of the truth about something. As forms of ethical persuasion, stories try to convince us that a certain space or outlook should become our true “accustomed place.” 

With the Macintosh ad, Jobs didn’t just want to create a TV commercial; he wanted to draw us into an ethos.  

As Isaacson writes: 

the concept of the ad had a special resonance for [Jobs]. He fancied himself a rebel, and he liked to associate himself with the values of the ragtag band of hackers and pirates he recruited to the Macintosh group. Even though he had left the apple commune in Oregon to start the Apple corporation, he still wanted to be viewed as a denizen of the counterculture rather than the corporate culture.

But the Macintosh ad resonated with so many, not because everyone who saw it was persuaded that he belonged to the hippie (or former hippie) counter-culture–though no doubt many who saw it were so persuaded. The ad resonated with so many because it hit upon a fundamental truth about being human, namely:

That human beings are not made to be drones in service to Big Brother–political or corporate.

That a truly human life prizes creativity and individuality over mindless compliance to those who would seek to control us.   

Who doesn’t want to be a shock of color in a grey world? 

The Macintosh ad was successful because it compellingly tapped into this truth about our “accustomed place” as human beings. And the Macintosh itself was successful because it delivered on its promise to be a powerful instrument of creativity and individuality. 

Interestingly, too, the resonance of the ad depended to a great extent on the connection with George Orwell’s novel, 1984. The Macintosh ad manifests the techniques of great fiction, but it also pays deeper respect to the craft of storytelling by playing upon the themes of a great novel. Someone at Chiat/Day knew their literature, and that knowledge became a huge payoff for the Macintosh campaign. 

Now, what story do you want to tell? 

Why I May Not Be Able to Help Your Organization Tell Its Story

The use of storytelling techniques in branding and marketing is not anything new. (Hey friends from the ’80s, remember these?) Brand storytelling has been around for some time. Nevertheless, it’s currently enjoying a surge of interest. 

From those offering to teach storytelling techniques, some valuable things can be learned. For example, about the beauties of the Pixar Pitch. Or the need for even a blog post to have a beginning, middle and end. Or about the importance of making the visitor to your site feel like the hero of the story you want to tell them.

Yet the shortcoming with these sorts of approaches is this: storytelling is not reducible to a set of techniques. Harry Potter went from being a series of children’s books to becoming a worldwide pop culture icon not merely because J.K. Rowling learned that “if you want to hook your audience, you have to keep them in suspense.” 

The Harry Potter books became a sensation, in large part, because in writing them J.K. Rowling struck some deep chords in our shared humanity. Ultimately, Rowling wanted to persuade us of the truth, goodness and beauty of a certain ethos, one in which sacrifice for those we love–even to the point of death–is the highest expression of human nature. This ethos is not a set of techniques. You don’t pick it up like chess or cupcake baking. An ethos, again, is an “accustomed place,” the place where one lives not only physically but psychologically, morally, spiritually. It is a way of being in the world. 

And that is why I may not be able to help you with your brand marketing. Because while I want to talk with you about how storytelling can be an invaluable asset to your organization, I also want to talk with you about telling stories that will resonate with us as people, and not just customers, clients or leads. Some may not be interested in doing this much work. Others will only be interested in an ethos which panders to our less noble appetites.

But for those who wish to explore storytelling as ethical persuasion, as a way of speaking to the deepest motives of our shared human nature, then I just might be able to be of service to your organization.

On Moralizing and Morality in Fiction

“The artist whose chief goal is not to make everything more beautiful but to enlist his audience in a cause—no matter what that cause may be—is rarely if ever prepared to tell the whole truth and nothing but. He replaces the true complexity of the world with the false simplicity of the ideologue. He alters reality not to make everything more beautiful, but to stack the deck.”

–Terry Teachout, remarks upon accepting his recent Bradley Prize

We’ve all encountered works of art that suffer because the artist’s missionary zeal for whatever cause got in the way of his or her submission to the demands of the beautiful. But as I argued yesterday, dedication to the beautiful does not rule out the effort to persuade. (For more on this, see my “On Fiction and Philosophy.”) Art in all media, and stories in particular, strives to prove to an audience a certain truth. So how does the artist avoid moralizing?

Teachout continues: “In writing about art, I try never to moralize, nor do I look with favor upon artists who do. But I seek to be ever and always alive to the moral force of art whose creators aspire merely to make everything more beautiful, and in so doing to pierce the veil of the visible and give us a glimpse of the transcendently true.”

So there’s a distinction, Teachout suggests, between moralizing and the moral force of art, a force that infuses the beautiful elements of a successful work of art and gives us a glimpse into the transcendent. So how does an artist articulate this moral force without moralizing?

In his book Story, screenwriting guru Robert McKee has some interesting things to say about didacticism (or moralizing). When the premise of a story, he says, “is an idea you feel you must prove to the world, and you design your story as an undeniable certification of that idea, you set yourself on the road to didacticism. In your zeal to persuade, you will stifle the voice of the other side. Misusing and abusing art to preach, your screenplay will become a thesis film, a thinly disguised sermon as you strive in a single stroke to convert the world. Didacticism results from the naive enthusiasm that fiction can be used like a scalpel to cut out the cancers of society.”

One way for the writer to avoiding moralizing, therefore, is to create a story in which two or more points of view conflict–what philosophers call a dialectical engagement. About this McKee goes on: “As a story develops, you must willingly entertain opposite, even repugnant ideas. The finest writers have dialectical, flexible minds that easily shift points of view. They see the positive, the negative, and all shades of irony, seeking the truth of these views honestly and convincingly.”

This doesn’t mean that one point of view won’t “win out” in the story’s climax. But it does mean that this moral truth, if it is one, will only manifest itself and reveal its force through a spirited combat with points of view that oppose it, but which also seem to have some truth to them. This is the case, at least, in the most humanly complex kinds of story.

The Inciting Incident in Saving Mr. Banks

Do extremely difficult work.

That seems obvious, right? If you do something that’s valued but scarce because it’s difficult, you’re more likely to be in demand and to be compensated fairly for what you do.

The implication is stunning, though: When designing a project or developing a skill, seek out the most difficult parts to master and contribute. If it’s easy, it’s not for you.

–Seth Godin on “The Proven Way to Add Value” 

So let’s get down to the extremely difficult work of mastering story structure, beginning with the Inciting Incident.

The Inciting Incident is that event or choice without which we would not have a story. It is that which kick-starts the adventure.

In Story, Robert McKee defines the Inciting Incident as that which “radically upsets the balance of forces in the protagonist’s life.” He continues:

“As a story begins, the protagonist is living a life that’s more or less in balance. He has successes and failures, ups and downs. Who doesn’t? But life is in relative control. Then, perhaps suddenly but in any case decisively, an event occurs that radically upsets its balance, swinging the value-charge of the protagonist’s reality either to the negative or to the positive.”

(Here are some further articulations of the definition of the Inciting Incident.)

Let’s make this more concrete by identifying the Inciting Incident in Saving Mr. Banks, written by Kelly Marcel and Sue Smith (the entire script is available here).

P.L. Travers (played by Emma Thompson) is the protagonist of Saving Mr. Banks. We meet her, after a brief opening image of herself as a child in Australia, in her London home in the year 1961. Her agent arrives, thinking to see her off on a trip to California to meet with Walt Disney about selling the rights to her Mary Poppins books. Travers, however, has cancelled the car her agent has scheduled to take her to the airport. She is refusing to go, afraid what Disney will do to her beloved characters if she relinquishes the rights. But her agent explains that she has to go and at least consider Disney’s offer. For there is no more money coming in from her books. She will be broke if she doesn’t do something.

There is no waste of time setting up the conflict in this scene. But we haven’t yet gotten to the Inciting Incident itself. So in what sense is Travers’ life even in relative balance?

While it may not be in balance financially, it is in balance psychologically. As she, that is, would have it so. And in terms of the deal with Disney she has insisted upon, and gotten, “final say” in regard to the script. She is exercising the kind of iron control over the situation she is used to exercising in her affairs.

Yet her financial situation is upsetting the balance of her world. If she is going to avoid going broke, she will have to make a decision about whether to sign over the rights to Disney. She will have to relinquish a large degree of control. The Inciting Incident is her decision, at the end of this first scene, to go to Los Angeles for two weeks to meet and collaborate with Disney and his team. At the very end of the scene, when her agent tries to console her by saying, “It’s an exploratory trip. What do you say?” Travers replies: “I want to keep my house.” That line of dialogue expresses her decision to go and starts her off on her adventure.

Is her decision a swing to a negative or positive value? For Travers, it’s both. There is the positive prospect of making money, but also the negative prospect of Disney ruining her creation. But her line, “I want to keep my house,” tells us that the need to make money is driving her decision to go to LA, so overall the swing is to a positive value.

Observes McKee: “In most cases, the Inciting Incident is a single event that either happens directly to the protagonist or is caused by the protagonist.”

In the Inciting Incident of Saving Mr. Banks both things occur: dire financial straits “happen” to P.L. Travers but her decision to go to LA and meet with Disney is the cause of all that later occurs. If she had chosen to remain in London and keep the rights to Mary Poppins, there would have been no story.

 

The image above is reproduced courtesy of Walt Disney Studios.

The Books on Writing I’ve Learned From Most

Aristotle, Poetics

The first principles of storytelling briefly and sometimes cryptically stated.

 

Linda Seger, Making a Good Script Great

I discovered this book some years ago now in a public library in Houston, Texas. Broke open for me the whole idea of story structure: inciting incidents, turning points, etc. Not just for screenwriters.

 

Robert McKee, Story

It’s big. It’s theoretical. It repays attention a hundred-fold. Read Seger first then let McKee take you even deeper into what makes a story work. If I could keep only one writing book on my shelf, it would be this one. Not just for screenwriters.

 

Dorothea Brande, Becoming a Writer

A book about what the title says. Invaluable advice on how to focus the mind for writing fiction.

 

Flannery O’Connor, Mystery and Manners

Wit and wisdom from one of the greatest writers of the 20th century.

 

Viki King, How to Write a Movie in 21 Days

Think the title sounds cheesy? I followed the program and produced a script, my very first, which got me a reputable agent in LA. A great resource for the overly-analytical.

 

John Vorhaus, The Comic Toolbox

Broke open for me the principles of comedy. If we can’t have Aristotle’s lost book on comedy, at least we have Vorhaus.

 

Stephen King, On Writing

I’ve never read a Stephen King novel but I’m greatly in his debt for this book.

 

David Mamet, Bambi vs. Godzilla

In this book Mamet reveals the Long Lost Secret of the Incas. Learn it. Memorize it.

 

I have on my shelf Percy Lubbock’s The Craft of Fiction, a book Graham Greene mentions in his autobiography. I’ve never looked at it but I aim to now.

Character Wants and Character Needs

Create memorable characters for your stories with the help of the distinction between character wants and internal character needs. Our discussion on today’s The Comic Muse Podcast.

In this podcast you will learn about

  • the most basic question a writer needs to answer in order to develop a compelling character
  • why what a character wants is not always exactly what a character needs
  • how a character’s internal need is connected to your story’s Controlling Idea

Works discussed in this podcast:

  1. Flannery O’Connor’s essay “Writing Short Stories” in her collection of essays, Mystery and Manners.
  2. David Corbett’s The Art of Character.

Character Wants and Character Needs 3

 

10 Simple Ways to Eliminate Simplistic Rule-Following from Your Writing

Not to worry. Help is on the way.

 

If you’re anything like me, you’re always on the qui vive for a way to help you over your second act hurdles, or enliven your stilted dialogue, or punch-up some punchless characters. In brief, you’re a sucker for any article you stumble upon with a title such as:

“Five Rules for Creating Suspense (Doled Out One Day at a Time)”

or:

“7 Things the Fiction Writer Can Learn from the Pre-Socratic Philosophers”

There’s just something irresistible about an article that promises to deliver the Long Lost Secret of the Incas in a handful of bullet points.

Speaking of the Long Lost Secret of the Incas, David Mamet claims to have definitively located the Long Lost Secret of the Incas–that is, the secret to writing successful fiction–in three simple questions that any author must answer for himself:

Who wants what from whom?

What happens if they don’t get it?

Why now?

These questions are as good as any I’ve found. But the problem is, answering them is notoriously difficult, and so I often find myself running back for help in some “How-to” article. I don’t think there’s anything terribly wrong with this. After all, I’m sure even Shakespeare nicked one or two useful items from

“3 Things To Do with Your Melancholy Protagonist When He Refuses To Perform His Princely Duty and Knock-Off His Usurping Uncle”

1. Get him monologuing

2. Introduce a play-within-a-play

3. More monologuing

But bullet points, just like bullets, can be taken too far. Fiction does have its rules–or better, principles, as Robert McKee calls them in his book, Story. But because fiction is an art, the closer the practitioner stays to the “stuff” of his craft the better. Discussion of principles in the abstract must always be balanced by the study of actual specimens.

That is why I love the approach in novelist David Lodge’s The Art of Fiction. In these fifty short pieces, originally published in The Independent on Sunday in the UK and The Washington Post Book World in the U.S., Lodge teaches the art of fiction by putting before the reader specimen after specimen as illustrations of one or other aspect of the craft.

For example: Jane Austen and Ford Madox Ford on “Beginning”; George Eliot and E.M. Forster on “The Intrusive Author”; Thomas Hardy on “Suspense”; James Joyce on “Interior Monologue”; Henry Fielding on “Showing and Telling,” et cetera.

The result is fifty master classes that show the principles of excellent craftsmanship embedded in their proper context.

Indeed, Lodge’s approach is so good that I think I’m going to steal from it here at The Comic Muse. Why should Lodge have all the fun?

Oh. And as for the “10 Simple Ways to Eliminate Simplistic Rule-Following from Your Writing,” they’re right there in your hands. Use those ten digits to order, or to pick up again, Lodge’s delightful book.