Insert Break – when to start a new paragraph, scene, or chapter

by Mikhaeyla Kopievsky

When I first started writing seriously, I was surprised at how I suddenly started to second-guess myself about the most basic things. I found myself googling “What is a sentence?” and “When should you start a new chapter?” I was worried that the chunks of text that made up my story were too long, or too brief, or too convoluted, or too sparse.

Breaks are important. They create ‘white space’ – breathing points for the brain that reduce cognitive load.

There’s a lot of great stuff out there on the internet on cognitive load if you want more detail, but – to put it simply – cognitive load is the equivalent of asking you to carry 100kg in one trip or 10kg in ten trips. It’s the reason long number sequences, like phone numbers or credit card numbers, are written as smaller groups of numbers with spaces. Or why you can’t remember the order of the planets but can remember ‘My very educated mother just showed us nine planets’ (back in the day when there were nine planets…Ah, good times).

So, yes, breaks are important. But, just as important, is where you put those breaks.

You don’t want to just go

ahead and p

ut them anywhere.

(See what I did there? ūüôā )

Jamming some white space in a block of text just to free it up is a bad idea. At best, it’s mildly irritating, at worst it is confusing and exasperating. That’s because white space lessens cognitive load by separating and grouping elements into things that belong together and things that don’t.

Categorising is something we humans learn as early as eight months old. It is something we are conditioned to do – forks go together in that space, cutlery goes in that drawer, pants get hanged, jumpers get folded, white wine goes in the fridge, red wine goes in my glass, thank you very much ūüôā

Humans love to categorise Рwe categorise everything from the smallest atom to the largest solar system. It can help us (when understanding why that crocodile is laying an egg instead of giving birth to live young) or can hinder us (when making us racist bigots because all we see is how that person or group of persons is different to us). We do it, because it helps us to identify and focus on something, it gives that element clear dimensions, which in turn allows us to understand how it is related to other elements.

Take the work of Ursus Wehrli, who ‘tidies up’ things:

Ursus Wehril

The picture of the left is chaotic with no white-space (because the textural depiction of the sand makes it a dynamic element of the picture, not just a passive background). Where do you focus? What is the story?

Now look at the picture on the right. It amazes me the physiological sigh of relief my eyes and brain take when I look at that picture. My whole body seems to relax when I move from the one on the left to the one on the right. Because I get it. I understand it. I can move my attention to parts of the picture and study each element in turn. Because the elements have been separated and grouped.

In the picture on the right, they have been grouped by function/shape. They could have just as easily been grouped into colour and I would have the same reaction.

What’s interesting about the picture on the right (to me at least), is that not everything has been tidied up. While the elements have been separated into columns based on function/shape, and the columns themselves are arranged from top to bottom in increasing size, there is still some ‘creative chaos’ in play. All the yellow buckets¬†haven’t been grouped together. All the spades with circular/closed handles haven’t been grouped together. The columns aren’t arranged from tallest to smallest.

The marriage of structure and creativity is important – because as writers or artists, we need to be creative. As I’ve written before, the relationship between art and science doesn’t have to be antagonist. It can be symbiotic. The maths behind the music. The chemistry behind the colours. The structure behind the words.

So, for me, ‘tidying up’ a written work is all about introducing white space or breaks that separate out particular elements to increase reader focus on them.

Instead of a wall of text, I choose to insert breaks between sentences, paragraphs, scenes, chapters, and acts to ensure they contain one single element of focus:

  • One idea per sentence; e.g. Joan walked the dog around the block. (Joan is walking a dog)
  • Once concept per paragraph; e.g.Joan walked the dog around the block. The terrier was massive, its muscular body taut and heaving with barely-restrained energy. It occasionally growled, a low guttural sound that left Joan shivering despite the afternoon heat. (The dog is big and scary)
  • One situation per scene; e.g. (The dog bites a small child)
  • One conflict & consequence per chapter; e.g. (Joan is ordered to destroy the dog, the last link she has with her long-estranged and now deceased father)
  • One value transition per act; e.g. (Joan loses all tangible connection with her deceased father, goes from saddened at his loss to distraught that she has nothing that links him to her).

I’ll go into more detail about these breaks in future blog posts, but, for now, it is enough to recognise they each contain just one element and that each element is more complex than the one preceding it.

Yes, it is a hierarchy Рthe values range from basic to complicated and are interrelated: Every sentence in a paragraph must work to generate or clarify the concept of that paragraph; each paragraph must give colour and meaning to the scene’s situation; each scene must trigger and rationalise the chapter’s conflict and consequence; and each chapter must set up the various stages of the act’s transition.

What about you? Does a bit of structure help you to draft or edit your WIPs?

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Insert Break – when to start a new paragraph, scene, or chapter

Critique Enlightenment – What you can learn from critiques of your creative work

by Mikhaeyla Kopievsky

My debut adult sci-fi novel, Divided Elements,¬†is currently going through its final pass by my critique partners before it gets shipped off to the copyeditor. (Yes, it turns out that I still love this manuscript and we are finally ‘tying the knot’). Getting your creative work critiqued by an objective outsider, while crucial for elevating the work to its maximum potential, is never easy. For insecure writers, critiques can lead to wholesale changes. For stubborn writers, critiques can trigger lots of defensive replies about why their work doesn’t need changes. So, which response is the correct one?

A recent blog post by a fellow CP, Angela Sylvia, got me thinking about this and here is what I have come up with:

For every critique I receive, I have one of three reactions:

  • The¬†lightbulb moment, where I say to myself “How did I miss that? (despite the seven times I’ve already re-read it!)”
  • The dig my heels in¬†moment, where I say to myself “Nope, you just don’t get it”.
  • The let’s agree to disagree moment, where I say to myself “This is more about you as a reader, than the writing itself”.

The lightbulb moments are great – they are an immediate call to action to fix something you can see is broken (even if it took a critique to reveal it as broken). I tend to find lightbulb moments gravitate towards:

  • Areas I know that I am weak in (e.g. overcomplicated sentences, dialogue tags, adverbs)
  • Areas I have a limited grasp of/exposure to (e.g. dangling modifiers)

When you can recognise your weaknesses, it’s easy to be grateful to critiques that point them out and offer solutions.

The dig my heels in moments usually fit into two categories:

  • Stubborn, obstinate author ego (e.g. “That’s my darling, how dare you demand that I kill it!”
  • Confident¬†author authority (e.g. “I can see this objectively and know that it is right for this scene/chapter/story”)

Correction - Dave Mathis

That being said, it’s hard to know at the time which category my response falls into, which is why I employ these two methods for finding out:

  • Look at other reviews by the critiquer – do you agree with them? do they seem reasonable?
  • Review the critique again in time (usually on the next edit pass) – does it seem more relevant/necessary now?

If the answer is ‘yes’, I then have a begrudging acceptance moment (“Okay, you may have a point”) and enact the required changes – sometimes as suggested, sometimes with my own spin.

If the answer is ‘no’, then I sit back and try to understand the motivation of the critiquer – which inevitably ends up at the let’s agree to disagree moment. I find there are generally three reasons why a person is critical of something:

  1. It legitimately doesn’t work – in which case, you fix it.
  2. They don’t have the skills/expertise to offer accurate critiques (e.g. someone telling you that you need more adverbs in your dialogue tags) – in which case, you run a mile! (Or maybe just ignore that criticism)
  3. They are projecting their preferences, rather than pointing out an issue – in which case, you politely thank them for their suggestion and move on.

The third reason is an interesting one. It reminds me of a point made in the writer’s manifesto of Joanne Harris (author of¬†Chocolat):

…¬†most writers value feedback and dialogue with their readers. But ultimately, a reader‚Äôs role is different to that of a writer. And a writer‚Äôs role is to try to convey a series of ideas as honestly and as well as we possibly can, with minimal interference, and most of all, without being distracted by heckling from the audience.

The fact is that the writer cannot please everyone all of the time. We shouldn‚Äôt even try ‚Äď fiction, by its nature, should present a challenge. Books allow us to see the world in different ways; to experience things we might never encounter ‚Äď or wish to ‚Äď outside the world of fiction…¬†Fiction is often uncomfortable; often unexpected.¬† Most importantly, fiction is not democratic. It is, at best, a benign dictatorship, in which there can be an infinite number of followers with any number of different ideas, but only ever one leader. Like all good leaders, the writer can (and should) take advice from time to time, but where the actual work is concerned, they, and no-one else, must take final responsibility.

The manifesto was most likely penned after this incident, where Joanne responded to a critical review of her book – labelling it as a¬†“Terrific example of the ‚Äúif I‚Äôd written this book I would have done it differently” review”.¬†Now, I’m not going to get into that whole ‘authors behaving badly’ debacle, because that is just a nuclear bomb waiting to go off (everyone gets so twitchy around that button…) – but I agree with her point – “A review should be about the book you‚Äôve actually read, not the one you wanted to read, or worse, the one you wanted to write.”

Same goes for critiques. Sometimes a reviewer will have an issue with your protagonist’s characterisation, or the tone of your opening chapters, or your word selection, or the pacing, or… (you get my drift). Sometimes these can be legitimate, objective concerns rooted in a solid understanding of best practice. But, sometimes, it can just be what they like as a reader OR how they write as an author.

If they are your target audience, you may wish to listen to them a bit closer,  but never forget that there are two goals in writing a book:

  1. Engaging the reader
  2. Creating something in your unique voice from your unique perspective

Long live the benign dictatorship!

How do you respond to critiques and/or deal with ones you disagree with?

 

Image courtesy of Dave Mathis via Flickr Creative Commons.

 

Critique Enlightenment – What you can learn from critiques of your creative work

Reversing Chekhov’s Gun – Why you can’t introduce new information in Act III

by Mikhaeyla Kopievsky

There is a well-worn narrative principle that often does the rounds in writer’s circles. You would have seen it on Twitter or quoted in blogs and books on writing. Chekhov, the Russian playwright and master of the modern short story, is credited with saying “If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it’s not going to be fired, it shouldn’t be hanging there.”

The principle is often invoked to caution writers against irrelevant details – if it has no impact on the plot, remove it. It is sage advice, but it has a counterpart that is often overlooked – a reversal of the idiom that I would like to phrase as:

If a rifle is going to be fired in the third act, in the first act it absolutely must be hanging on the wall. 

gun

This kind of philosophy harkens back to my school debating days (sigh. remember those? good times.) As the Third Opposition Speaker (which sounds like a key¬†councillor role in a fictional dystopia, but is not), you couldn’t bring up new information – it wasn’t fair to raise new arguments or introduce new concepts that weren’t accessible to the other team for response (and rebuttal).

It’s the same with stories. If you have something major happen in your Third Act, you must introduce it – explicitly or through foreshadowing and hinting – in the First or Second Acts.

Introducing new characters (or other plot devices) too late in the piece is disingenuous. The reader enters the Third Act expecting that everything that is to transpire is a natural progression (likely or unlikely) from the components that have already been built and developed in earlier chapters. Bringing something new in feels like a cheat.

The most common transgression of ‘reverse Chekhov’s gun’ is the much maligned ‘Deus ex Machina’ (which sounds like an awesome futuristic sci fi, but is not (although 2015’s ‘Ex Machina’ deserves a mention…)).

As Wikipedia so eloquently elaborates, Deus ex Machina (literally, God in the Machine) is “a plot device¬†whereby a seemingly unsolvable problem is suddenly and abruptly resolved by the contrived and unexpected intervention of some new event, character, ability or object.” The internet is full of examples.

But, more subtle transgressions are where minor characters or plot devices that make brief appearances in earlier chapters or Acts, suddenly and inexplicably become crucial elements that are central for tying up the loose ends of Act III.

If you find your story falling into the latter category, fear not! There is a solution (and it is simple):

Go back and add some foreshadowing and hinting in earlier chapters/acts. 

That junior intern that has a whole two lines of overlooked dialogue in that scene jammed into the middle of chapter four? The one that will end up saving the day with her personal rocket launcher project that isn’t even mentioned in the story? Go back and beef up her role. Hint at her ingenuity. Give us a glimpse of that awesome rocket launcher. Let her reappear throughout the story, maybe at the pinch points, or points of high tension. Keep her simmering in the back of our minds, so that her reappearance will be welcome and logical (even if it is a little surprising).

 

What about you? Have you introduced a Deus ex Machina in your WIP or are you committing a transgression against the reverse Chekhov’s gun? Offload your guilt in the comments… ūüôā

 

Image courtesy of Don Stewart via Flickr Creative Commons
Reversing Chekhov’s Gun – Why you can’t introduce new information in Act III

Troubleshooting a Problematic Chapter: The issue isn’t where you think it is

by Mikhaeyla Kopievsky

So, I’m still working on this ‘editing journey’ with Divided Elements. It’s not so much a journey of ordered paths and clean lines as it is a 90s mosh pit that spits me in and out and jams me up against a whole slew of obstacles. But, in any case, I’m on it and I’m making some progress.

The hardest part has been writing new scenes to plug plot gaps and/or correct timelines.

This is for a number of reasons:

1) It pulls me out of full editor mode and into a quasi- (and much restrained) creative mode,

2) It demands consistency not only with what came before, but also what comes after, which entails a lot of reading and attention to detail, and

3) It happens in a kind of vacuum, outside of the original flow of¬†writing. It’s not an organic process of creation, with the drafting momentum pushing it along a nice trajectory. It’s forced – a manipulation of a newer puzzle’s piece to fit an older puzzle – a shaving here and snipping there to jam it into place with (hopefully) some finesse that makes it appear seamless.

I’ve struggled with these scenes (hence the angst that’s poking through in the above para). I’ve written each of them close to ten times over. Nothing seemed to be working, no matter how many changes and revisions.

And then I realised that the problem wasn’t in the new scene, it was in the preceding one.

Remember those Bugs Bunny episodes where he would end up in some random place? He would poke his head up, look around, pull out his map and frown in concentration. And then the epiphany would arrive and he would realise his error – he should have taken that left, all the way back in Albuquerque.

It was the same with me. I realised my problem with the troublesome scene wasn’t in the preceding sentence or paragraph. It wasn’t in the scene at all. It came long before that, in my story’s metaphorical ‘Albuquerque’.

So instead of just manipulating the new puzzle piece, I also began to rearrange the older puzzle piece.

I went back to earlier scenes and chapters to add subtext and foreshadowing. I slightly tweaked the trajectory of earlier plotlines to allow a connecting piece that would fit the overall story better.

And it’s working.

So, if you’re in the same problem that I was, ask yourself:

1) What gap are you trying to fill with this new scene/chapter? 

2) What does it need to achieve? 

3) How do earlier scenes/chapters compromise this goal? 

4) How can you alter them to make for a smoother transition to the new scene?

I hope that helps. Good luck and happy writing/editing!

Troubleshooting a Problematic Chapter: The issue isn’t where you think it is

Understanding Story Structure – Part 3: Micro Structure

by Mikhaeyla Kopievsky

Over the last couple of weeks I have been looking at story structure – from the global level of the story itself, to the macro level of each act within the story. This week, I am looking at story structure at the micro level – Sequences, Scenes and Beats.

Before we move on into the discussion, let’s do a quick recap:

1. The novel is like a Russian Doll – the¬†biggest doll (our novel) contains smaller replicas of itself within itself. The content won’t necessarily replicate in miniature, but the structure will (as will, to different degrees, the tone and theme).

2. The structure is many things to many people – countless authors and writing gurus have all attempted to distil structure into the key building blocks (Snyder’s¬†Save the Cat, Aristotle’s¬†Three Act Structure,¬†Bell’s LOCK and Two Doorways, Coyne’s¬†Story Grid,¬†Brooks’ Four Boxes) – but sometimes you just have to build something that works for you.

My structural breakdown goes like this:

1. Status Quo

2. Call to Action

3. Engagement

4. Crisis Point

5. Directed Action

6. Outcome

 

So far we have seen this model present across the entire novel and across each of the three acts that a novel comprises.

Today, let’s see how the model presents in the micro components of a novel – sequences, scenes and beats.

Sequences, Scenes and Beats

Sequences, scenes and beats are possibly the hardest parts of structure to bed down – primarily because there are lots of definitions out there on what each of them is, but also because they are more directly associated with films rather than novels.

Let’s look at each in turn…

Sequences

Sequences are the next doll to come out of the shell – the miniature replica of the act.

I find that Wikipedia has the best definition:

In film, a sequence is a series of scenes that form a distinct narrative unit, which is usually connected either by unity of location or unity of time. 

When I first started planning my debut novel,¬†Divided Elements – Resistance,¬†I found that my outlining process consisted entirely of acts and sequences. Sequences are the large chunks of story that give structure to the acts. They’re also likely to be the structural elements people use to summarise your story.

This happens to me all the time – I’ll be talking to someone about a movie I saw on the weekend and the¬†first question they will ask is “What was it about?”

“Well,” I’ll say. “It was this sci-fi movie called Snowpiercer,¬†where there is this train hurtling through the snow and ice, and people are divided into classes and designated to different carriages, and there’s a plot afoot to get to the engine and basically start a revolution – you know, power to the people.”

And¬†then, if they’re not particularly interested in seeing the film, but still a little intrigued, they¬†will ask¬†“What¬†happens?”. And this is where I launch into the rundown of sequences:

“Well! The¬†plebs in the back carriage are receiving revolutionary messages and intel in the soylent green like food bars they get dished up¬†and so they stage a revolt to find the one person who can get them to the engine room.¬†They¬†make it to the jail carriage where they release the drug-addled¬†¬†mastermind that can get them through the next few carriages and all the way to the engine room – He gets them to the¬†the next carriage but it is filled with murderous guards with some serious technology and killer weapons, leading the charge is ¬†the creepy Prime Minister of the train. She gets captured and forced into helping them get to the front on pain of death…” etc etc

It’s the Cliff Notes version of the story – just enough detail to get a sense of the story and how it unfolds, but not enough detail to get a sense of the world complexities or character motivations and development. In this way, sequences tend to be action-driven – they detail what is happening – the physical/tangible triggers for ¬†story and character development.

The sequences focus on what happens, leaving it to the scenes to answer the more difficult questions of why and how, to explore the more complex story elements of worldbuilding, character development, inner turmoil and tension.

But like their own mama doll, sequences still follow the same structure of status quo, call to action, engagement, crisis point, directed action and outcome.

Let’s take the Snowpiercer example – Sequence 1 would be the “Stage revolt and get to jail carriage”.

The status quo details the conditions of the last carriage and the frustration and fears of its occupants. The call to action¬†is the latest message found in the food bar – it’s time to start this revolution. The engagement is the fight with the guards. The crisis point¬†is where the protagonist is confronted with a gun-bearing guard and he has to decide whether to trust the intel (that the guns aren’t loaded) or back down. The directed action¬†is where he back the intel and his instincts and doesn’t back down. He leads the surge through to the next carriage. The¬†outcome¬†is arriving at the jail carriage and the cell of the key person they are after.

 

Scenes

Scenes are the next doll to emerge. If I could establish a definition for them, I would use something very similar to that of sequences:

A scenes is a collection of beats that form a distinct event, which usually takes place within one location or one time period. 

Think of them like the building blocks you need to achieve the overarching premise of your sequence. The protagonist and his friends need to successfully stage a revolt and make it to the jail carriage. What ingredients are needed to make this cake rise? Well, we will need a scene that shows a kind of ‘tipping point’ of frustration amongst the occupants of the carriage and the introduction of a ‘safe breaker’ – something that will enable them to vent their frustrations. That’s our scene:¬†“Just as the tension is about to turn critical, they receive a secret message that gives them the key to success”.

Like a sequence, it also gets fleshed out with the structural elements. The status quo is the tension. The call to action is the realisation that the tension will hit the tipping point soon and potentially cause a lot of grief Рsomething needs to be done. The engagement is the futile attempts to calm everyone down. The crisis point is when the protagonist considers starting the revolt without knowing it is the right time. The directed action is the protagonist waiting Рtense, yet patiently Рto receive word before he acts. The outcome is the protagonist being rewarded with the secret message that tells him the time is right.

Building Blocks

Beats

Beats are tricky things. I am wary of approaching them – they seem as if they exist on Planck Scale, where things don’t play according to the normal rules.

Like most of the other dolls that have gone before them, beats are indeed a miniature replica. Unlike the other dolls, they have no additional, smaller doll within them. They are the last component. As such, beats themselves are not further divided into smaller parts Рthey are the smaller parts.

Film-makers like to break down their scenes into two components Рthe beat and the shot. Both are like twin atoms Рequally representing the smallest unit of the story. The beat refers to the narrative unit, the shot to the visual unit. Both explain what is happening Рthey literally tell the story.

Let’s use an example: Let’s say that in this paticular scene in your story you want to write about¬†a teenager named Izzy¬†switching on the memory-erasing machine.

Okay, let’s start with the ‘beat’. From what I can understand, there a few types of ‘beats’ – the most common being action beats, dialogue beats and internalisation beats. There are also, from my observation, explanation/exposition beats, description beats and flash-back beats:

The time machine stood gleaming like a metal meerkat, perched on tippy-toes, standing as straight as could be in anticipation of the excitement or danger that could come next¬†[description]. Izzy crept forward, her grin growing wider with each step¬†[action]. “Eliana would be¬†flipping¬†out…”, she whispered to hersel¬†[dialogue]. The thought of her best friend, Eliana –¬†former best friend [internalisation] –¬†draws Izzy up short. Her grin wavers as she recalls their last conversation. Ten years as best friends had fizzled in a space of ten minutes

.

“You are so¬†selfish!”¬†Eliana had raged.
“I’m not selfish,” Izzy had retorted. “
You’re¬†scared!”¬†[flash-back]

Okay, so the above example is a little convoluted – courtesy of trying to fit in all the beat types – but you see the point. There are a lot of beat types and each presents an interesting way of conveying information.

Now, let’s turn to the less popular ‘shot’.

Again, Wikipedia brings the goods with a useful description:

[A] shot is a series of frames, that runs for an uninterrupted period of time. Film shots are an essential aspect of a movie where angles, transition and cuts are used to further express emotion, ideas and movement.

Film shots are typically defined by three criteria – Subject (who or what is predominantly captured); Field Size (how much of the subject and its surrounding environment is captured); and Camera Placement (from what angle or perspective the image is being captured).

Compare the following:

Subject: > Backyard > Fountain > Foliage

Screenshot 2015-03-06 11.38.50

Field Size: Wide Shot > Mid Shot > Close Up

Camera Placement: Aerial > Profile > Behind

Screenshot 2015-03-06 11.39.04

 

Even though, as authors, we are dealing with the narrative (and not the visual) – we can still take some lessons away:

The true importance of beats lies not with them, in and of themselves¬†–¬†but with the juxtaposition of, and transition between, them.

Positioning a wide-shot beat (where we see the chaotic movement of a crowd, which includes the protagonist) next to a close-up beat (where we see in full detail the protagonist’s smile) – conveys a very precise tone and emotion. Without any explanation necessary, we know instinctively that the protagonist is smiling either because she likes the chaos or feels responsible for it.

Positioned deep within the large crowd of frenetic bodies, Jane whirled her limbs in a frenzy, mimicing and leading the replicated chaos around her. Shouts and smells assaulted her senses as she jostled, and was jostled back.

She smiled. 

 

This tone can be sharpened by using a cut-away shot – i.e. juxtaposing a ‘shot’ of the crowd in chaos, with the protagonist nowhere to be seen, and then cutting sharply to a close-up of the protagonist’s smile.

The crowd was an angry mass of frenetic limbs. People of all shapes and sizes jostled and heaved. From the balconies above it appeared as if the large gathering was boiling, bubbling desperately and breaking into large pockets of isolated and connected violence.

Away from the crowd, on the isolated street corner, Jane watched on. Her eyes never wavered from the chaos – taking in every movement, every assault, every climbing degree of violence.

Alone and unwatched, she smiled. 

 

Each beat conveys a very specific tone and emotion. In the first example, seeing Jane in the midst of the chaos from the very beginning, gives us a very different feel to the second example, where we don’t know of Jane yet and don’t know where she is. Finding her alone and isolated from the chaos provides a darker tone. And, even though both examples end with her smiling – one feels more sinister than the other.

Both seem to also serve different purposes for the scene. The first is more likely to be an Engagement beat – it speaks of fun & games. The second appears to be a Directed Action beat – there is something decidedly conscious and calculating about this smile.

Within any given scene, there will be multiple and various beats – some will be status quo beats, some will be call to action beats. You could have multiple call to action beats, all ‘shot’ from different lengths and perspectives and juxtaposed to create the overall mood you are aiming for, and just one outcome beat – a final ‘fullstop’ at the end of the scene.

In that way, beats live up to their musical etymology – stringing together short beats and long beats, loud beats and soft beats, slow beats and fast beats – it’s what gives you the narrative music ūüôā

 

So, there you have it – the final look at Story Structure from a micro perspective. I hope you have found it useful!

 

(Featured Image derived from “365/173: Building Blocks” courtesy of¬†Kaytee Riek via Flickr Creative Commons)

Understanding Story Structure – Part 3: Micro Structure