Writer’s Block: The two most terrifying words in a profession that deals in vocabulary. Over my last quarter century as a teacher of creative writing and story structure, it is the most common complaint of my students.
In response, I’ve developed a number of techniques over the years that have proven to help them escape from the creative doldrums. Some are general approaches to finding inspiration or boosting creativity. Others are specific methods that can be applied to particular obstacles. Collectively, they pretty much cover the spectrum of productive difficulties when the Muse becomes mired.
Let us begin with the general and move to the specific, starting with one of the most simple yet immediately beneficial “block” busters:
Finding Your Creative Time
You sit in your favorite writing chair, by the window, on the porch, or in the study. You wear your favorite tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches, or your blue jeans, or your “creative shoes.” You look around at the carefully crafted environment you spent months arranging to trigger your inspiration. Reaching eagerly forward you place your hands on the keyboard or grasp the pen or pencil, and… Nothing happens.
You look around the room again, out the window, sip your coffee, cross or uncross your legs, finger your lucky charm, reach forward and… Still nothing
What in blazes is wrong? You know you are full of inspiration; you can feel it! Why the ideas were flowing like a deluge just this morning, last night, or yesterday. Frustrated, yet determined, you try several more times to get the words to flow, but to no avail. “Good pen name, ” you think,” Noah Vale.”
So what’s the problem? How can you feel all primed to write, sit in your favorite environment with everything just perfect and still nothing comes?
Perhaps the problem is not where you are trying to write, but when!
Each of us has a creative time of day and a logistic time of day. Never heard of this? I didn’t discover it until well into my own career. As a writer, I always thought creativity came and went with the Muse, sometimes bringing inspiration, sometimes spiriting it away. Like most writers, I had found that creating a quiet refuge, a creative sanctuary, increased the frequency and intensity of visits from the Muse. What I didn’t know was that the Muse keeps a schedule: she comes and goes like clockwork.
Here’s my scenario and see how it might apply to you… I’ve always felt guilty when I write – guilty that I’m not out cleaning something, building something, visiting someone, or even just getting out in the real world and living a little. But writing always draws me back. I find it therapeutic, cathartic, invigorating, stimulating, and, well, just plain fun.
Sometimes… no, make that ALL the time, it’s as good as… no, make that BETTER THAN sex! And food! And earning a living! I often feel (when writing) like that rat with the wire connected to his pleasure center who kept pushing the stimulation button until it starved to death because it forgot to eat!
Well, the urge to write is there all the time. But, because I feel guilty I try to get all of my chores done I the morning, clearing the way to spend the afternoon or evening writing guilt free. But then I sit there watching the sun go down, full of the desire to write but completely unable to do so.
One day, however, I had the good fortune of actually finishing all my chores the night before. I found myself with the whole morning free and guilt-free as well! At first, I was just going to goof off, do some reading, watch some TV, but then that old Writing Bug took a nip of my soul and off I was to my study to pound the keys.
And you know what? The words just spilled out like secrets from the town gossip! This was wonderful! What an experience! I was pelting out the thoughts without the least guilt and without the slightest hesitation. I was flying through my own mind and playing it out on the keys! It felt very much like when I play music.
But why was this happening? I was truly afraid the feeling would go as quickly as it came and I would be lost in the creative doldrums again. In fact, it did fade with time – not abruptly, but gradually… slipping away until it was no more. But it did not leave a vacuum. In its place was a rising motivation to clean something, build something, visit someone, or get out in the real world and live!
Then, it hit me… Perhaps my creativity does not spring from where I write, but when! Perhaps the morning is my creative time and the afternoon, my practical time! I experimented. Try to write in the afternoon, the evening, at night, the morning. Quickly I discovered that if I felt free from the guilt of non-practical activity, I could write in the morning as if I were designed to do nothing else! But no matter how many chores I might accomplish in the morning, by the time the sun dropped below the horizon, my inspiration dropped away as well.
In fact, my creative time seems tied to the sun. For me, it brightens in the morning, peaks around noon, and fades away to nothing at dusk. Interestingly, I recently moved to the mountains and dusk comes early hear in the canyon this time of year – far earlier than when I lived down in the flatlands of the city.
Looking back over the years, I could see that my daily creative cycle depended upon the direct rays of the sun, not the time of day. And all those years I tried to get the practical stuff done in the morning to avoid guilt didn’t help my creativity but hindered it!
Lately, I just know that when the sun goes down it’s time to get practical. As a result, I know in the morning that I’ll accomplish real world logistic things later in the day. That eliminates guilt because the work part is already scheduled. And, that frees my mind to play with words all morning long.
When is your creative time? Just being a “morning person” or a “night person” isn’t enough because that only determines when you have your most energy. But what KIND of energy? Perhaps you are more energetic when you are working on the practical, so you think that just because you get your greatest energy at night you are a night person. This is not necessarily so! Suppose your creative side is NEVER the most energetic part of you, but is strongest in the morning. Then you are a Practical night person and a Creative morning person.
Your Creative Time might be any span of hours in the day. Or, it might even be more than one time. For example, you might be most inspired from mid-morning until noon and again from mid-afternoon to dusk. Everyone is a bit different. The key is to find your Creative Time and then adjust your daily schedule to fit it. It is important to remember to avoid guilt feelings while trying to determine your Creative Time.
To do this, don’t just focus on when you are going to try writing, but make sure to also schedule other time to concentrate on chores. This way your “reading” of the level of your creativity will not be tainted by negative feelings of guilt, and you should arrive at more accurate appraisals.
After a week or so of trying different combinations, you should be able to determine the best creative and most practical times of the day. From that point forward, you will almost certainly find inspiration is present more than it is absent, and writing becomes far more joyful a process and less like work.
But there is a little bit more… Our lives are not just creative or practical. In fact, there are four principal emotionally driven aspects to our days: Creative, Practical, Reflective, and Social.
We need our Reflective time to be alone, to mull the events of our life over our minds eye, to let our thoughts wander where they will: to daydream. We need our Social time to recharge our batteries in the company of others, to express ourselves to our friends, to de-focus from our own subjective view by standing in the shoes of those around us.
I’ve found for myself that Saturday is a Social day for me, and that Sunday a Reflective day. I don’t do much of either on the weekdays at all. Whether this is nurture, nature, or something else altogether I can’t say, and to be truthful, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I have come to recognize it.
When is your Reflective time? Do you have some every day, just on weekdays, only on weekends, or some combination of these? How about your Social time? Do you ever feel guilty wanting to be alone? Do you ever feel deprived because you ARE alone? Part of these feelings may come from trying to do each of these activities in times that (for your) are actually geared toward the other.
Once you have mapped our your Creative, Practical, Reflective, and Social cycles, you’ll find that you get so much more accomplished, and with so much more fulfillment. All four aspects of your life will improve, and the improvement in each will remove emotional burdens and therefore increase the energy in each of the other three!
In short, you can be in phase with your emotional cycles, or out of phase. The more you schedule your activities to match the flow of your feelings, the more your life experience will buoy itself higher and higher with less and less effort. And best of all, the more inspiration you will find when you sit in your tweed jacket and reach for the keyboard.
We hope you have enjoyed this free chapter.
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Before the final version of “Dramatica – a New Theory of Story” there was an earlier draft that contained unfinished concepts and additional theory that was ultimately deemed “too complex”. As a result, this material was never fully developed, was cut from the final version of the book, and has never seen the light of day — until now! Recently, a copy of this early draft surfaced in the theory archives.
Included in this “lost” text – 24 new archetypal characters beyond Dramatica’s “official” 8 archetypes, an exploration of the character justification process, exploring the chemistry of characters, plus alternate explanations of the Story Mind concept, origins of the Story Mind, Objective and Subjective Characters and more!
I designed the original Throughline because I couldn’t find a program that would help me organize my story ideas in the manner I create.
Now version 3 has Five Layout Views – Freestyle, Single Line, Multiple Lines, Timeline and Snap-to-Grid. Click and Drag to rearrange cards, create infinite sub-cards, link to files on your drive or on the internet and much more!.
If you are only writing with Heroes and Villains, you are limiting your stories!
Heroes and Villains are stereotypes, not archetypes. As such, they are comprised of a number of different attributes which can be reassembled in different ways to create far more interesting and original leading characters.
In this new eBook, I pull together several of my best articles on heroes and villains along with new material to help your characters break free from the shackles of tired, cliche storytelling conventions.
About the book – It’s not just what you say but how you say it. These fifty powerful and immediately useful “sure-fire” tips, tricks and techniques will super charge your storytelling and add life, interest, and sophistication to your novel or screenplay.
The last couple of days I’ve been thinking about what elements would be in quads of dynamics. In the current Dramatica structural model, dynamics are only in pairs, such as Timelock and Optionlock. So, if these two items were in a quad of dynamics, what would the other two items be?
Today, I have my answer, and its ramifications and implications range much farther than I thought – all the way into new perspectives from which to appreciate the existing Dramatica structural model. In fact, it turns out that every structural quad already contains shadows and influences of dynamic quads inherent within and integral to their functioning. In other words, the structural model would not operate at all, if it did not already include reflections and harmonics of the dynamic model which had not yet been developed.
Think of a hologram as opposed to a photograph. if you cut a photo in two, each has only half the object. But if you cut a hologram in two, each half sees the whole picture but only from half the points of view. In the current model of Dramatica we only have the half of the hologram, yet it sees the entire nature of narrative, just from a portion of the available perspectives.
In fact, just as in the Dramatica model itself, there are four points of view from which to explore narrative – a Structural view of Structure, a Structural view of Dynamics, a Dynamic view of Structure, and a Dynamic view of Dynamics.
The current model provides only the first of these – the Structural view of Structure. But wait a minute…. How then is it possible that it contains dynamics at all? Because the nature of a quad of anything is that three of the four items will appear to be of the same family while the fourth item will seem a bit out of place – out of left field – as it sort of belongs halfway but has a foot in another camp.
In fact, this is true. Quads are not truly all part of the same plane, but a squashed helix. They are a flat projection onto a two dimensional plan of a 3D phenomenon – like looking at a Slinky toy end-on so that it appears to be a circle.
From this perspective, we perceive one circuit around the helix as a family passing through four quadrants – like going through 90, 180, 270 and 360 degrees in a cartesian plane in trigonometry.
But that vertical rise that is flattened out doesn’t disappear, it is just swept under the carpet as we mentally try to make the first three items in a quad appear as much as possible as part of the same family so we can get a mental grip on them – ascribe a common umbrella understanding to the group.
Still, by the time you get to that last item in the quad family, you have all this left-over vertical rise in your pocket and you have to shove it into the quad before you move on to the next. And so, the last item in the quad picks up all the slack which moves it halfway between belonging in one family and half way into belonging to the next by nature, by meaning.
This is the structural view of a quad. A more accurate view would see each element as moving 1/4 of the way toward the next family, but then the whole quad could no longer be treated as a single family unit. So what’s wrong with that? Only by grouping four perspectives (the Mass, Energy, Space and Time of a thing) into a single family, are we able to understand the structural nature of the thing as it exists.
This is why the circle seems closed, why it becomes a closed system as a quad, why it appears to create a family, why it seems structure, why it seems as if each family is a closed unit within that circle that make it a structural element in an even larger quad.
What we lose, however is the vertical aspect – the vertical quad as the helix continues upward through the Z axis through four iterations – for levels – a quad of dynamics which represent that we cannot see any thing from all four perspectives at once. We can only take one point of view at a time. To see all four, we must shift from one to another, and that takes time, as represented in the vertical axis.
Essentially, this accounts for the fact that by the time we have seen all four perspectives, what we are observing may have changed, or we may have changed in the process. Again, this creates a new quad – the the Object is the same and We are the same, the Object is the same and We are changed, the Object has changed and We are the same, the Object has changed and We have changed.
That was the structural view of those four relationships. The dynamic view would be: The Object and Observer do not change each other, the Object changes the Observer, the Object is changed by the Observer, the Object and the Observer change each other.
If the Dramatica chart were only seen in the flat projection, the whole vertical progression – the structural view and therefore also first step toward a dynamic view of narrative – would be all we had. But, since the Dramatica model can also be seen in a three-dimensional chart (the familiar four towers) – the nature of the helices can be seen in the progression around the quads, families of quads and so on, from the bottom of the model to the top, or from the top down.
With this in mind, we can see that the flat projection, the 3D projection, and the sequence of progression through the elements along the helices are three parts of another quad family in the current model. What is the fourth part? The eight dynamic questions themselves.
These questions are the part of the model that is most out of left field, most different from the other three, and the one that picks up all the slack of the journey toward a purely dynamic model.
The eight dynamic questions function to twist and turn the model, whereas the other three aspects are passive, structural, positioned by their “natures” as opposed to their functions.
Keep in mind, now, that every element of the Dramatica model actually represents a process of the mind. These are not elements so much as named processed. For example, in truth we don’t have faith, rather we are engaged in the process of being faithful. The mind is a machine made of time; every gear and pulley is a process, not an object. These functions must be continuously in process or they cease to exist. If the mind stops, it dies. But, from a structural view, if we see a process perpetually ongoing within the span of our observation, such as the Red Spot on Jupiter, we treat the process as an object and call it a storm or even a feature. So, from this perspective, the dynamic questions differ from the rest of the structural model by describing the processes the twist and turn the model into different arrangements. In other words, dynamics in the current model are the processes that arrange the other processes.
Simply put, if the structural model can be seen as fractals of families within families – quads within quads – then each element or item in the model can be seen as a variable in which the value is the intensity or power of each process. Change the power and you fill a different number in the variable and get a different kind of iteration from one fractal level to the next.
The dynamic questions then, are not changing the value of the variables, but the value of the operations in the equations. In other words, dynamics are changing the value of the functions in the equations – which operations will be employed in which order, which changes not the nature of the iterations, but the nature of the iterator.
Now this is pretty much what we already knew. But I was always plagued by wondering why the dynamics were in eight pairs rather that eight quads. I had tried to combine these sixteen values into four quads of four, but they never fit. It was like each pair was half a quad. But why would that be?
My best guess was that, like the four item in any quad, you can only see one foot, while the other is in a different family. So, from a structural view of structure, you can only see half of each of the dynamic quads.
Now that just motivated me. While I realized that for the structural view of structure, the Dramatica model was complete and, therefore, both accurately analytic and predictive, but it was only one fourth of the capital “T” truth. I wanted to know what was in the other three fourths – especially that final fourth – that last of four complete models that is the dynamic view of dynamics – the one that will contain four aspects of its own and the very last one will half one foot in the next family – the family beyond mind, beyond universe, a hint of something outside our own existence, just as the dynamic questions are a hint of what lies beyond structure.
I’ll probably never see it through that far in my lifetime, but that tantalizing possibility keeps me working, every day, on trying to get there, to catch a glimpse of that Great Unknown before I shuffle off this mortal helix.
Which brings me (at last) to the subject of this article: my new discovery that finally allows me to bridge the gap from the dynamic questions (the fourth aspect of the current structural model, the current super class, to the next super class: the structural view of dynamics.
It began, as stated, with my recent ponderings as to what dynamic quads would contain. Specifically (as my mental example for a thought exercise) if the current pair of dynamics of Timelock and Optionlock were in a quad, what would the other to items be?
I tried a number of different candidates, but all of them were insufficient to the task; they did not meet all the requirements of a truly balanced quad. But of late, there was one pair that seemed, at least initially, to satisfy all the test I know for determining if a potential quad is fully functional.
This part isn’t much of a revelation – just the first step to some really astounding discoveries, but it is an essential step…. So, here’s were the best candidates I had: the promising pair of dynamics was Constricting and Loosening.
Simply put, while the current pair of Timelock and Optionlock describe narratives that are brought to a conclusion by running out of time or running out of options, the new pair describes narratives that, at the conclusion, finds time or option (space) constrictions to be becoming tighter or looser. In essence, are time or space opening up into more possibilities or are they closing down into fewer?
Now at first, this didn’t ring quite true. There was something about it that bothered me…. From a purely structural view of structure, this new pair should be simply Tighter or Looser at the end, not becoming Tighter or Looser.
But then I realized that I had it right the first time. This is no longer the structural view of structure super class. We are now in the structural view of dynamics super class. And so, just as a piece of the hologram has the whole picture but only part of the perspectives, for the first time in my quarter of a century of Dramatica theory development, I had to engage in the one cardinal sin of narrative model construction – “never shift perspective.”
Chris and I drilled that mantra into ourselves all of these years so that the current super class is all K-based (Knowledge based) while the other three super classes would be T, A, and D based (Thought, Ability and Desire). KTAD are the mental equivalents of MEST (Mass, Energy, Space and Time). They are the mental harmonic of the physical world, for any dynamic system that is generated from a structure will reflect the same patterns as the structure from which it is born. In other words, form and function follow each other, just as our mental dynamics lead us to reorganize the universe in our image, structurally.
But in this case, we have actually moved for the first time into a new super class – the T (Thought) super class. And therefore, while the development of this new model would also require a consistent perspective, it would, naturally, be a different perspective.
So, recognizing that the structural view of structure could only see half of the quads of dynamics in the pairs of dynamics, then the other pair of dynamics in these quads would need to be seen from the T super class perspective. And, from that point of view, processes cannot be seen as states (as having tightened or loosened by the end) but as processes (tightening or loosening by the end). Subtle but essential, for wherever one might begin to pull a loose thread to unravel the new dynamic model, all that follows will grow from these first seeds.
(As a side note, I expect that in the final super class (the dynamic view of dynamics), it will require a continuously shifting perspective within the model itself, rather than a consistent one, as it must represent, ultimately, the rate at which the nature of change is changes as one process iterates into another.)
Back to the subject at hand, there is a second thought exercise I had been cogitating upon yesterday while making the 90 minute drive back to my home in the mountains from a meeting at Write Brothers (the company Chris – co-creator of Dramatica – co-owns with Steve – programmer of the Dramatica engine).
This thought exercise was: If we think about something round and round in circles, such as worrying about the potential outcome of something, our anxiety grows and grows. Why does this happen, and how is it reflected in the dynamic model I’m building?
This thought came about because we had to re-register our car in California when we moved back here from Oregon for the project I’m doing with Write Brothers Incorporated (WBI). I had been putting the smog check off right to the last possible minute before the deadline because the more I thought about the ramification of it possibly failing the text (money, inconvenience, perhaps the need to buy a whole new car), the more anxious I became.
And yet, there was no new information – just running around the same mental circle over and over. Still, with every circuit my anxiety grew. How is that reflected in the current model? It isn’t. Clearly it is a dynamic, so how would it be reflected in the dynamic model? Didn’t have a clue.
Then, this morning, I put two and two together and combined my thoughts about Tightening and Loosening with the problem of increasing anxiety from an unchanging mental process endlessly repeated. And it hit me. Mental processes don’t operate in a vacuum as it would appear in the structural model. Rather, they generate results. They create product, they manufacture yield.
Every process manufactures something. In the case of my smog check, the yield was increasing amounts of anxiety. The more I thought about it, the more anxious I became. In the dynamic half of the Timelock/Optionlock quad then, it wouldn’t be about process but about yield. Essentially, are the result of the narrative such that the constriction of time or options is becoming tighter or looser?
Extending this, might not the whole next super class – the structural view of dynamics – be looking as the results or yield of a narrative – the increasing or decreasing forces at play? I think so. I believe this perspective defines the nature of the new dynamic model – how building or diminishing forces influence one other in a series of ups and downs by every point measured until the end of the narrative is defined by reaching an equilibrium – not a fixed state as in the structural model in which all processes of change have ceased and all potential is gone – but in a stability of ongoing processes in which, collectively, all forces hold each other in check and no further increasing or decreasing of any of them will occur.
Well, then, what does this mean to the current model and how does it fit in with my other recently published speculations about the nature of narrative dynamics? The first thing that came to mind was a recent article I’d written describing how new patterns can be formed in the mind and then locked in place impervious to any internal ability to change them, and how external forces can be applied to the mind to affect change from the outside.
The mind is a closed system, just as narratives are closed systems. They deal only with the elements within the narrative, which is the scope of the story, and make the assumption that no other forces outside that scope have any impact on the narrative.
In real life (which narrative seek to document), our minds are constantly assaulted by forces outside our own internal cogitations. How others respond to us or act for or against us and physical maladies that have nothing to do with the nature our mental processes yet greatly affect their operation are both examples of why our minds are not truly closed systems.
While the operating systems of our mind may be closed barring physical damage to the brain, just as the structural view of structure never changes in an unbroken narrative, forces outside the system will determine the patterns into which it falls, just as the dynamic model (the structural view of dynamics super class) works outside the current structural model to determine how the structural operating system of the narrative is twisted and turned.
The eight pairs of dynamics in the current model are not the outside forces of change themselves – just the tip of the iceberg – the interface between structure and dynamics as seen from the structural side, the other half of the interface being seen from the dynamic side in the additional eight pairs of dynamics, such as Tightening and Loosing, that will complete the quads of dynamics – complete the hologram.
In my previous speculative article, I compared mental “states” (or patterns of cognition and/or affection [emotion]) to standing waves – ongoing forces that have reached an equilibrium within the mind. But why would such patterns maintain themselves (as commitments and responsibilities, as obligations and rationalization) in the face of external pressures that should alter them. How do patterns of the mind end up fixed in place, like prejudice or fixation, like a black hole in space that exerts gravity but will not open up regardless of the outside environment?
In the article, I used a personal experience of an acquaintance to describe how we initially respond to our environment to achieve equilibrium with it. But these are merely standing waves of processes, like the new dynamic model, that are easily undone when our environment changes.
But if the external forces that established these standing waves are suddenly removed (like moving out of a family due to an argument or like having a sudden relief of anxiety) it is like compressed gas in a can being suddenly released – it chills all that is around it and freezes things in place – in this case mental patterns.
If the release of pressure is gradual, there is no chill, no freeze, and the standing waves realign. But if it is fast enough, the effect will range form a firming up into slush (increase in resistance to change) to a complete freeze (maximum resistance to change) and that pattern will remain until another outside force melts that which has been frozen.
To unfreeze new pressure must be brought to bear on the mind with sufficient speed to create heat – heat enough to melt the previously frozen patterns. This compression can happen quickly for a flash-thaw (which is the equivalent of a leap of faith where a character changes its nature in an instant) to a slow thaw in which a character is gradually warmed into flexibility.
And, naturally, these processes can completely fix in place or remove patterns of mind, but may also only serve to make them slushy.
And so, we return to the new dynamic model (the second of the four super classes) in which Tightening or Loosening are the dynamic side of these interface quads. While the current structural view of structure model describes how forces completely freeze or melt patterns of mind, the new structural view of dynamics model describes how patterns of mind are made more sluggish or more slushy.
If the current super class is focused on determining position, the new dynamic model will focus on velocity. The third super class (dynamic view of structure)will center on changes in velocity and the final super class (dynamic view of dynamics) will explore changes in the rate of change of velocity.
So, it all ties in together – structure, dynamics, a fluid mind or one firming up through the four quads of justification (as seen in the current structural model as progressing from Knowledge, Thought, Ability and Desire to Can, Need, Want and Should, through Situation, Circumstances, Sense of Self and State of Being to Commitment, Responsibility, Rationalization and Obligation).
Next step – figure out the other halves of the other seven dynamic quads and then use that information to iterate into a complete dynamic model of identical size and resolution to the current structural projection.
These days, everyone is talking about “narrative.” But the common understanding of narrative structure is an uneven amalgam of statistics and truisms. In actuality, narrative structure is the clockwork that serves up creativity.
Over the last twenty-five years, I’ve written thousands of articles on story structure and storytelling. Here, I’ve gathered together a few of the best on the topic of theme. I hope you find them illuminating in concept and practical in application.
Coming Apart at the Themes
Even when a story has memorable characters, a riveting plot and a fully developed genre, it may still be coming apart at the themes.
Theme is perhaps the most powerful, yet least understood element of story structure. It is powerful because theme is an emotional argument: It speaks directly to the heart of the reader or audience. It is least understood because of its intangible nature, working behind the scenes, and between the lines.
When mis-used, theme can become a ham-handed moral statement in black and white, alienating the reader/audience with its dogmatic pontifications. When properly used, theme can add richness, nuance, and meaning to a story that would otherwise be no more than a series of events.
In this article, we’ll separate the elements of theme by their dramatic functions so we can understand the parts. Then we’ll learn how to combine them together into a strong message that is greater than the sum of the parts.
What do we really mean by the word, “theme?” In fact, “theme” has two meanings. The first meaning is not unlike that of a teacher telling a class to write a theme paper. We’ve all received assignments in school requiring us to express our thoughts about “how we spent our summer vacation,” or “the impact of industrialization on 19th century cultural morality,” or “death.” Each of these “themes” is a topic, nothing more, and nothing less. It functions to describe the subject matter that will be explored in the work, be it a paper, novel, stage play, teleplay, or movie.
Every story needs a thematic topic to help hold the overall content of the story together, to act as a unifying element through which the plot unfolds and the characters grow. In fact, you might look at the thematic topic as the growth medium in which the story develops. Although an interesting area to explore, the real focus of this article is on the other element of theme.
This second aspect of theme is the message or premise of your story. A premise is a moral statement about the value of or troubles caused by an element of human character. For example, some common premises include, “Greed leads to Self-Destruction,” and “True love overcomes all obstacles.”
A story without a premise seems pointless, but a story with an overstated message comes off as preachy. While a premise is a good way to understand what a story is trying to prove, it provides precious little help on how to go about proving it.
Let’s begin by examining the components of “premise” and then laying out a sure-fire method for developing an emotional argument that will lead your reader or audience to the moral conclusions of your story without hitting them over the head.
All premises grow from character. Usually, the premise revolves around the Main Character. In fact, we might define the Main Character as the one who grapples with the story’s moral dilemma.
A Main Character’s moral dilemma may be a huge issue, such as the ultimate change in Scrooge when he leaves behind his greedy ways and becomes a generous, giving person. Or, the dilemma may be small, as when Luke Skywalker finally gains enough faith in himself to turn off the targeting computer and trust his own instincts in the original Star Wars movie (Episode IV). Either way, if the premise isn’t there at all, the Main Character will seem more like some guy dealing with issues, than an example in human development from whom we can learn.
Traditionally, premises such as these are stated in the form, “This leads to That.” In the examples above, the premises would be “Greed leads to Self Destruction,” and “Trusting in Oneself leads to Success.” The Point of each premise is the human quality being explored: “Greed” in the case of Scrooge and “Self Trust” with Luke.
We can easily see these premises in A Christmas Carol and Star Wars, but what if you were simply given either of them and told to write a story around them? Premises are great for boiling a story’s message down to its essence, but are not at all useful for figuring out how to develop a message in the first place.
So how do we create a theme in a way that will guide us in how to develop it in our story, and also sway our audience without being overbearing? First, we must add something to the traditional “This leads to That” form of the premise. Beside having a thematic Point like “Greed” we’re going to add a Counterpoint – the opposite of the point – in this case, “Generosity.”
Arguing to your audience that Greed is Bad creates a one-sided argument. But arguing the relative merits of Greed vs. Generosity provides both sides of the argument and lets your audience decide for itself. Crafting such an argument will lead your reader or audience to your conclusions without forcing it upon them. Therefore, you will be more likely to convince them rather than having them reject your premise as a matter of principle, making themselves impervious to your message rather than swallowing it whole.
To create such an argument, follow these steps:
1. Determine what you want your story’s message to be
We all have human qualities we admire and others we despise. Some might be as large as putting oneself first no matter how much damage it does to others. Some might be as small as someone who borrows things and never gets around to returning them. Regardless, your message at this stage will simply take the form, “Human Quality X is Bad,” or “Human Quality Y is Good.”
If you are going to create a message that is passionate, look to what truly irks you, or truly inspires you, and select that human quality to give to your Main Character. Then, you’ll find it far easier to come up with specific examples of that quality to include in your story, and you will write about it with vigor.
This is your chance to get up on the soapbox. Don’t waste it on some grand classic human trait that really means nothing to you personally. Pick something you really care about and sound off by showing how that trait ennobles or undermines your Main Character.
As a last resort, look to your characters and plot and let them suggest your thematic point. See what kinds of situations are going to arise in your story; what kinds of obstacles will be faced. Think of the human qualities that would make the effort to achieve the story’s goal the most difficult, exacerbate the obstacles, and gum up the works. Give that trait to your Main Character, and you’ll be pleasantly surprised to see it take on a life of its own.
Of course, you may already know your message before you even get started. You may, in fact, have as your primary purpose in creating the story the intent to make a point about a particular human quality.
No matter how you come up with your message, once you have it, move on to step 2.
2. Determine your Counterpoint.
As described earlier, the Counterpoint is the opposite of the Point. So, if your story’s message is “Being Closed-Minded is Bad,” then your Point is “Being Closed Minded,” and your Counterpoint is “Being Open Minded.” Similarly, if your message is “Borrowing things from others and not returning them is Bad,” then your counter point is “Borrowing things from other and returning them.”
Note that we didn’t include the value judgment part of the message (i.e. “Good” or “Bad”) as part of the point or counterpoint. The idea is to let the audience arrive at that conclusion for themselves. The point and counterpoint simply show both sides of the argument. Our next step will be to work out how we are going to lead the audience to come to the conclusion we want them to have.
3. Show how well the Point does vs. the Counterpoint.
The idea here is to see each of the two human qualities (point and counterpoint) in action in your story to illustrate how well each one fares. To this end, come up with as many illustrations as you can of each.
For example, in A Christmas Carol, we see scrooge deny an extension on a loan, refuse to allow Cratchet a piece of coal, decline to make a donation to the poor. Each of these moments fully illustrates the impact of the thematic point of “Greed.” Similarly, in the same story, we see Feziwhig spending his money for a Christmas Party for his employees, Scrooge’s nephew inviting him to dinner, and Cratchet giving of his time to Tiny Tim. Generosity is seen in action as well.
Each instance of Greed propagates ill feelings. Each instance of Generosity propagates positive feelings. As the illustrations layer upon one another over the course of the story, the emotional argument is made that Greed is not a positive trait, whereas Generosity is.
4. Avoid comparing the Point and Counterpoint directly.
Perhaps the greatest mistake in making a thematic argument is to directly compare the relative value of the point and counterpoint. If this is done, it takes all decision away from the audience and puts it right in the hands of the author. The effect is to have the author repeatedly saying, “Generosity is better than Greed… Generosity is better than Greed,” like a sound loop.
A better way is to show Greed at work in its own scenes, and Generosity at work in completely different scenes. In this manner, the audience is left to drawn its own conclusions. And while showing Greed as always wholly bad and Generosity as always wholly good may create a rather melodramatic message, at least the audience won’t feel as if you’ve crammed it down its throat!
5. Shade the degree that Point and Counterpoint are Good or Bad.
Because you are going to include multiple instances or illustrations of the goodness or badness or your point and counter point, you don’t have to try to prove your message completely in each individual scene.
Rather, let the point be really bad sometimes, and just a little negative others. In this manner, Greed may start out a just appearing to be irritating, but by the end of the story may affect life and death issues. Or, Greed may be as having devastating effects, but ultimately only be a minor thorn in people’s sides. And, of course, you may choose to jump around, showing some examples of major problems with Greed and others that see it in not so dark a light. Similarly, not every illustration of your Counterpoint has to carry the same weight.
In the end, the audience will subconsciously average together all of the illustrations of the point, and also average together all the illustrations of the counterpoint, and arrive at a relative value of one to the other.
For example, if you create an arbitrary scale of +5 down to –5 to assign a value of being REALLY Good (+5) or REALLY Bad (-5), Greed might start out at –2 in one scene, be –4 in other, and –1 in a third. The statement here is that Greed is always bad, but not totally AWFUL, just bad.
Then, you do the same with the counterpoint. Generosity starts out as a +4, then shows up as a +1, and finally ends up as a +3. This makes the statement that Generosity is Good. Not the end-all of the Greatest Good, but pretty darn good!
At the end of such a story, instead of making the blanket statement that Greed is Bad and Generosity is Good, you are simply stating that Generosity is better than Greed. That is a lot easier for an audience to accept, since human qualities in real life are seldom all good or all bad.
But there is more you can do with this. What if Generosity is mostly good, but occasionally has negative effects? Suppose you show several scenes illustrating the impact of Generosity, but in one of them, someone is going to share his meal, but in the process, drops the plate, the food is ruined, and no one gets to eat. Well, in that particular case, Greed would have at least fed one of them! So, you might rate that scene on your arbitrary scale as a –2 for Generosity.
Similarly, Greed might actually be shown as slightly Good in a scene. But at the end of the day, all of the instances of Greed still add up to a negative. For example, scene one of Greed might be a –4, scene two a +2 and scene three a –5. Add them together and Greed comes out to be a –7 overall. And that is how the audience will see it as well.
This approach gives us the opportunity to do some really intriguing things in our thematic argument. What if both Greed and Generosity were shown to be bad, overall? By adding up the numbers of the arbitrary scale, you could argue that every time Greed is used, it causes problems, but ever time Generosity is used, it also causes problems. But in the end, Greed is a –12 and Generosity is only a –3, proving that Generosity, in this case, is the lesser of two evils.
Or what if they both added up Good in the end? Then your message might be that Generosity is the greater of two goods! But they could also end up equally bad, or equally good (Greed at –3 and Generosity at –3, for example). This would be a message that in this story’s particular situations, being Greedy or Generous doesn’t really matter, either way; you’ll make the situation worse.
In fact, both might end up with a rating of zero, making the statement that neither Greed nor Generosity has any real impact on the situation, in the end.
Now, you have the opportunity to create dilemmas for your Main Character that are far more realistic and far less moralistic. And by having both point and counterpoint spend some time in the Good column and some time in the Bad column over the course of your story, you are able to mirror the real life values of our human qualities and their impact on those around us.
What, Exactly, Is Theme?
It seems every author is aware of theme, but try to find one who can define it! Most will tell you theme has something to do with the mood or feel of a story. But how does that differ fromgenre? Others will say that theme is the message of the story. Some will put forth that theme is the premise of a story that illustrates the results of certain kinds of behavior.
Taking each of these a bit farther, a story’s mood or feel might be “anger”. A message might be “nuclear power plants are bad”. A premise could be “greed leads to self-destruction.” Clearly each of these might show up in the very same story, and each has a somewhat thematic feel to it. But just as certainly, none of them feels complete by itself. This is because each is just a different angle on what theme really is.
In fact, theme is perspective. Perspective is relationship. Theme describes the relationshipbetween what is being looked at and from where it is being seen. This is why theme has traditionally been so hard to describe. It is not an independent thing like plot or character, but is a relationship between plot and character.
As a familiar example, think of the old adage about three blind men trying to describe an elephant. Each is like a character in a story, and their investigation of the beast is like the plot. One, feeling the tail comments, “It is long and thin like a snake.” Another, feeling the ear replies, “No, it is wide and flat like a jungle leaf.” The final investigator feels the leg and retorts, “You are both wrong! It is round and stout like a tree.” How each of those men felt about the elephant, how they understood it, depended upon his point of view, and the fact that it was an elephant. It is also true, that had another animal been the object of study, the perspective would have changed as well.
Theme: An Emotional Argument
It is one thing to tell your audience, “Greed leads to self-destruction.” It is another thing to prove it! Using a premise as the basis for your theme provides you with clear idea of what you hope to say, but it provides precious little guidance in how to say it.
You should focus on the Emotional Argument as the way to prove your point without resorting to cut-and-dried, ham-handed, generalizations and platitudes. Here’s how it works:
“Greed,” in our example premise, does not really stand alone, but has a counter-point of “Generosity.” Although the focus of our story will be on Greed, by also showing the contrasting impact of Generosity, we create a thematic conflict pitting point against counter-point.
In our story, act by act, we need to explore both point and counterpoint several times to see the relative worth of each. BUT, we should never compare both DIRECTLY. Rather, the thematic point should be explored on several occasions to see how it fares. Interwoven in other scenes or moments, the counterpoint needs to be separately explored to see how it fares on its own. As the story progresses, the audience will begin to tally-up the independent value of each, averaging its benefits with its drawbacks. By the end of the story, when all examples of the worth of both point and counter-point have been presented, the audience will arrive at an emotional conclusion that one is better than the other.
For example, Greed may seem to have a greatly negative impact in its first appearance, but slightly positive results in its second. A third appearance might see it as being neutral. Overall, the average of all three appearances rates it as slightly negative.
In contrast, Generosity might appear ALSO greatly negative at first, then highly positive, then slightly positive. In the end, it averages out as slightly positive. The conclusion for the audience is that Greed is somewhat worse than Generosity.
Emotions don’t see things as black and white. By avoiding the simple blanket statement made by a premise and “arguing” the relative worth of point and counter-point over the course of your story, you will create an “emotional argument” which will sway your audience to your point of view, rather than trying to hit it over the head.
Both Sides of the Thematic Argument
Every powerful theme pits a “Message Issue” against a “Counterpoint”, such as “Greed vs. Generosity”, or “Holding On To Hope” vs. “Abandoning Hope”.
The Message Issue and Counterpoint define the thematic argument of your story. They play both sides of the moral dilemma. The most important key to a successful thematic argument is never, ever play the message issue and counterpoint together at the same time.
Why? Because the thematic argument is an emotional one, not one of reason. You are trying to sway your reader/audience to adopt your moral view as an author. This will not happen if you keep showing one side of the argument as “good” and the other side as “bad” in direct comparison. Such a thematic argument would seem one-sided, and treat the issues as being black-and-white, rather than gray-scale.
In real life, moral decisions are seldom cut-and-dried. Although we may hold views that are clearly defined, in practice it all comes down to the context of the specific situation. For example, it may be wrong to steal in general. But, it might be proper to steal from the enemy during a war, or from a large market when you baby is starving. In the end, all moral views become a little blurry around the edges when push comes to shove.
Statements of absolutes do not a thematic argument make. Rather, your most powerful message will deal with the lesser of two evils, the greater of two goods, or the degree of goodness or badness of each side of the argument. In fact, there are often situations where both sides of the moral argument are equally good, equally bad, or that both sides are either good nor bad in the particular situation being explored in the story.
The way to create this more powerful, more believable, and more persuasive thematic argument is as follows:
1. Determine in advance whether each side is good, bad, or neutral.
Do this by assigning an arbitrary “value” to both the Message Issue and the Counterpoint. For example, we might choose a scale with +5 being absolutely good, –5 being absolutely bad, and zero being neutral.
If our thematic argument is Greed vs. Generosity, then Greed (our Message Issue) might be a –3, and Generosity (our Counterpoint) might be a –2. This would mean that both Greed and Generosity are both bad (being in the negative) but that Generosity is a little less bad than Greed since Generosity is only a –2 and Greed is a –3.
2. Show the good and bad aspects of both the Message Issue and the Counterpoint.
Make sure the examples of each side of the thematic argument that you have already developed don’t portray either side as being all good or all bad. In fact, even if one side of the argument turns out to be bad in the end, it might be shown as good initially. But over the course of the story, that first impression is changed by seeing that side in other contexts.
3. Have the good and bad aspects “average out” to the thematic conclusion you want.
By putting each side of the thematic argument on a roller coaster of good and bad aspects, it blurs the issues, just as in real life. But the reader/audience will “average out” all of their exposures to each side of the argument and draw their own conclusions at the end of the story.
In this way, the argument will move out of the realm of intellectual consideration and become a viewpoint arrived by feel. And, since you have not only shown both sides, but the good and the bad of each side, your message will be easier to swallow. And finally, since you never directly compared the two sides, the reader/audience will not feel that your message has been shoved down its throat.
“Premise” Leads to Lack of Conflict
Many authors have been taught that a meaningful story must have a premise in the form of “Some human quality leads (or does not lead) to a particular inevitable conclusion.” Such a premise might be “Greed (human quality) leads to Self destruction (inevitable conclusion).”
One problem with the premise concept is that it contains no built-in conflict. Rather, it simply presents a starting point, an ending point, and a non-specific path that might be anything at all.
Adding conflict to your premise can provide a driving force to help move your theme through the “leads to” to the conclusion. To add conflict to a premise, consider the human quality stated in the beginning of the premise. In our example, this was “greed.” Next, determine the “opposite” of greed, which might be “generosity.” Now, restate the beginning of your premise as “Greed vs. Generosity.”
We have now created a thematic conflict between two opposing human qualities, rather than simply exploring the one. But, of course, if we left things in this condition the overall premise would not read very well: “Greed vs. Generosity leads to Self Destruction.”
Since we are now examining the relative value of two alternative thematic approaches to life, we must also provide a judgment as to the outcome of each approach. So, we might say that “When Greed vs. Generosity, Greed will result in Self Destruction while Generosity leads to Success.” Now we have a premise full of potential conflict and a comparative conclusion that brings the audience to think, rather than to simply accept the inevitable.
Of course, Generosity might also lead to Self Destruction in a particular story, illustrating that sometimes there is no way out. Or, Generosity might lead to Love, or Wealth, putting a different spin on the “proof.” It also might be shown that Greed leads to the favorable conclusion, while Generosity is Self Destructive. (For an example of this kind of approach, even though it deals with other thematic issues, view Woody Allen’s “Crimes and Misdemeanors.”)
There is much more that can be done with a premise to not only provide conflict, but create a complete thematic argument that works with an audience’s heart, rather than through its intellect.
Theme: What Are You Talking About?
Without theme, a story is just a series of events that proceeds logistically and ends up one way or another. Theme is what gives it all meaning. When encoded into a story, theme will not be a universal meaning for all things, but a smaller truth pertaining to the proper way of dealing with a particular situation. In a sense, the encoding of theme moves the emotional argument of the story from the general to the specific. It the argument is made strongly enough, it may influence attitudes in areas far beyond the specific, but to be made strongly, it must limit its scope to precise encoding.
If our thematic conflict is Morality vs. Self-interest, for example, it would be a mistake to try and argue that Morality is always better than Self-Interest. In fact, there would be few people whose life experience would not tell them that sometimes Self-Interest is the better of the two. Keep in mind here that Dramatica defines Morality as “Doing for others with no regard for self” and Self-Interest as “Doing for self with no regard for others.” This doesn’t mean a Self-Interested person is out hurt to others, but simply that what happens to others, good or bad, is not even a consideration.
As an example, Morality might be better if one has plenty of food to share during a harsh winter and does so. Morality might be worse if one subjugates one’s life rather than displease one’s peers. Self-Interest might be better if a crazed maniac is charging at you and you kill him with an ax. Self-Interest might be bad if you won’t share the last of the penicillin in case you might need it later. It really all depends on the context.
Unfolding Your Thematic Topic
The thematic topic is the subject matter of your story, such as “death,” or “man’s inhumanity to man.” No matter what topic you will be exploring, it will contain large issues, small issues, and everything in between.
In Act One, you need to introduce and establish your theme so that your readers or audience gets a sense of the kinds of issues you’ll be exploring. To do this, you have three different approaches available.
1. You could outline the scope of your subject matter with one or more large, definitive dramatic moments. Then, in acts two and three, you would gradually fill in smaller and smaller details, adding nuance and shading to the overall topic as the story progresses. This system is best when trying to apply topics that are often seen objectively or impersonally to everyday life.
2. Conversely, you could begin with the details in Act One, then move to larger concerns as the story progresses. This is a good way to elevate topics dealing with commonplace, mundane, or work-a-day issues to philosophical or global importance.
3. Finally, you could mix it up, presenting a blend of issues ranging from the large to the small in every act. This creates a feeling that the topic is an area to explore, rather than a statement to be understood.
Whichever approach you take, the pattern needs to be set up in Act One so your reader or audience can follow. So determine which approach you wish to take and then create specific examples that illustrate your topic, both in a large and small way.
Finally, pepper these examples into each act as the scope of your topic broadens, narrows, or contrasts the two extremes as it goes.
Postscript
I hope you have enjoyed these articles on theme. If so, please stop by my web site at Storymind.com for many more. And while you are there, try free demos of our software products for writers to help you develop your story’s world, who’s in it, what happens to them, and what it all means.
Excerpted from the Book “Dramatica Unplugged“ By Melanie Anne Phillips, Co-creator of Dramatica
In summary, then, in our own minds we have a sense of who we are. In stories, that “sense of self”, essentially the identity or ego of the story, is represented by the Main Character. As readers or audience we tend to identify with that part of the Story Mind, either in empathy or sympathy, because it is the essence of the story’s humanity.
And just as within ourselves we sometimes must consider changing our point of view or our sense of what is right or wrong about a particular issue, so too does the Story Mind grapple with the possibility of change.
Our own survival instinct insists that we don’t recklessly abandon and old tried and true approach in favor of a new untested one without first engaging in some exploration of what such a change might mean in our lives.
After all, if we simply adopted a new mind set on a whim, we will have already changed and our allegiances would be to some other value standard, which may turn out to be contrary to our own interests.
So, essentially we have it out with ourselves. We think about how our world looks to us at present, then imagine what it might look like if we altered some aspect of our outlook or personal code.
We think about how that other belief system – what does it hold, how does it work, what can we learn from it – while still maintaining the belief system we have. Only then, if we are convinced it is a better way to look at the world, we’ll jump over and adopt it.
At that moment we have changed at least some small aspect of what we call our “selves”. We have changed who we are in our own heads.
In stories, it is the Obstacle or Influence character who represents this new person we might become. Functionally, this character might be very like the Main Character (and in practice often is) except in regard to the central message issue of the story regarding which these two characters are diametrically opposed.
The subjective story – the throughline in which the Main Character and Obstacle character duke it out over opposing belief systems – represents our inner struggle wherein we play devil’s advocate with ourselves, pitting who we are against who we might become.
In the end, we elect (or are emotionally compelled) to change or not. But whether change will prove to be a positive choice will remain to be seen, as sometime we change for the good and sometimes we change for the worse.
And finally we arrive back at the Objective view. It is the one view we can never have of ourselves, yet though we can apply that view to others, we are then hobbled in another way for we can never really know what is going on inside their minds.
Stories seem almost miraculous to us because they present us with all four points of view in regard to a single central issue. In a sense, the author provides us with a God’s Eye View of the Story Mind, enabling us to see the Big Picture even while we passionately share the Main Character’s inner view.
The point being that the author is professing to have some special knowledge or experience that allows him or her to understand what is really going on, regardless of how it might feel to the man on the street.
The promise of a story is that it may tell us that when we are faced with a particular kind of problem and the situation feels a particular way, whether or not we should accept that or ignore it to act as we always have or to abandon our proven methods and embrace new ones from here on out.
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