Story is Conflict

By Karen Albright Lin


Some folks walk around looking for a battle, but most of us try to avoid conflict in our real lives. We dread the “conversation” we have to have with our son who just got a full-face tattoo of a praying mantis eating its mate. We back out of the class 5 rapids in favor of class ½. We resist the urge to use a few choice words when the IRS threatens an audit. We are cavemen doing whatever we can to avoid the cougar that will inevitably stalk us.

Self-preservation is an instinct. So it can be a challenge setting aside our reputation-preserving, risk-averse, considerate and conscientious selves to create the most essential element of fiction—CONFLICT.

Conflict is about high stakes. It’s not simply disagreement about whether a shirt is gray-blue or blue-gray. Ho hum. True conflict requires consequences. That’s not to say that all conflict has to be bigger than life—like your antagonist holding your hero over the edge of the Grand Canyon. Sometimes the conflicts are quiet yet just as devastating, perhaps thwarting plans by placing obstacles between characters and their goals. Revolutionary Road by the great writer, Richard Yates, is a relationship book, with neuroses as obstacles.

We can think of a book as a series of conflicts, some solved along the way, some building to a giant black moment and a heart-pounding climax. Great books have external main goals and external obstacles as well as internal main goals and obstacles. The external goals are typically obvious. In Back to the Future, Marty needs to go back and manipulate the past to be sure his parents get together, assuring his own existence. His “spiritual” needs concern learning to ignore coward taunts and, more importantly, finding a way to understand and respect his father.

Ideally the external and internal arcs intersect. One resolution leads to the other. Often each reaches a climax at about the same time. Very soon after Dorothy kills the Wicked Witch of the West, she realizes there’s no place like home. On a rare occasion the main conflict can be caused by something other than a human (V.I.K.I. in I, Robot), but usually the conflict is more easily relatable if there is a human face to the obstacle. In Jaws the antagonist isn’t as much the insentient shark as it is the mayor of Amity who refuses to shut down the beaches.

The theme of your story is derived from the character’s needs, what questions are posed, what’s at stake, what goal is thwarted, and what strength (or weakness) helps your hero prevail over the adversary. What are the greatest oppositions? The worst consequences if your seemingly impossible goal isn’t met? These are the keys to finding the greatest conflict in your story. And conflict is your story.

About the Writer:  Karen is an editor, ghostwriter, pitch coach, speaker and award-winning author of novels, cookbooks, and screenplays. She’s written over a dozen solo and collaborative scripts (with Janet Fogg, Christian Lyons and director Erich Toll); each has garnered international, national and regional recognition: Moondance Film Festival, BlueCat, All She Wrote, Lighthouse Writers, Boulder Asian Film Festival, SouthWest Writers Contest, and PPW Contest. Find out more at www.karenalbrightlin.com.

The Serialized Novel – Part 1

By Deb McLeod

My venture into the land of the serial and serialized novel started with the death of my favorite soap opera. Yes, I was one of the two million loyal fans of All My Children (and I mean LOYAL) who mourned the passing of their lunchtime dose of melodrama. I watched when I could, sometimes going years without seeing the show. But, of course, was able to catch up within a week whenever I came back. As a writer, I loved watching the twists and turns, and marveled at the content churned out every week day about the same characters for over forty years.

Around that same time I began to notice nighttime television was changing. They still scheduled those horrid reality shows and inane sitcoms, but there was an added element to the nighttime drama schedule that was intriguing.

Revenge was a new show and season one was pretty good. My husband and I discovered Breaking Bad, which is a fabulous piece of writing (acting too, but that’s not my focus). The Walking Dead, Orange is the New Black, The Americans, The Newsroom and Boss to name a few. Have you noticed that TV drama written more like a novel these days? Great story lines and in some cases, great writing. TV is coming into its own.

At the same time I was observing television in a new way, I was looking into epublishing. One of the observations I came across was about satisfying ebook fans with quick content. Big-name writers were starting to put out novellas and short stories and extras for their books to keep the interest high while they prepped the next title for release. Amanda Hocking put words out. And out. And out. Like a book every two weeks!

I remembered a conversation I had with Francine Matthews years ago. At that time she had two mystery series going and was able to write a first draft of one of her series in eight weeks. NaNoWriMo showed me what I could do in a month if I made a plan.

So I began to look at television writing as perhaps a model for cranking out content. I know how to do the ‘book in two years’ thing, but I wanted to see how I could do it faster. Of course television writing rooms have more than one writer, but I thought I might be able to find some interesting ways they broke a story and if I could learn anything from the process.

I read a few books, the best of them being:

• “Writing for the Soaps” by Jean Rouveral
• “Writing the TV Drama Series” by Pamela Douglas
• “Small Screen, Big Picture” by Chad Gervich 
• “Crafty TV Writing” by Alex Epstein.

Add into the mix of television research, one of my book club buddies introduced me to Blake Snyder – another life-changing experience – and I began to get my process down. Having been a die-hard pantser, I am now a die-hard plotter.

I am writing a series of novels called The Julia Set: An Angel Thriller. It’s about the angels in and around our world and their attempt to contain a secret that will have far-reaching and long-lasting consequences should it get out. I envision eight books, high tension, with philosophical and spiritual questions, as well as a driving plot. So far it’s coming along well. The first book is done and in edits. However it took me over a year to write.

But the second book was plotted in the two or three days before 2013 NaNo and written in the first thirteen days of the contest. Hoo-rah!

So what does all this have to do with serials and serialization? Well, I’m going to serialize the series.

A true serial is one where the book is being released as the author is writing it. A serialization is a novel that’s already complete but is released in increments.When I build an audience for my thriller, I may join the ranks of ebook authors who are writing true serials. But for now I’m just trying to master the craft of serialization which has to fulfill the serial requirements.

And there is a craft to it: the cliff hanger, the catch-up, the openings of every new section. Each episode should stand on its own but also draw the reader through to the cliff hanger that sets up the next episode or book. There’s the dreaded third episode I’ve been reading about where writers often flail and fans drop away. There’s pricing issues to consider. And publishers who are stepping into the serial market.

Join me in these next few blogs while I attempt to become a serial novelist and explore the serialized novel and the market. I'll be writing about the how-to's, the history, the craft elements and the publishing. Stay tuned...

(To read Part II, click here.)

About the Author: Deb McLeod, is a writer, creative writing coach and founder of The Writing Ranch. She has both an MFA and a BA in creative writing. She has been teaching and coaching for over ten years. Deb has published short fiction in anthologies and journals. She has written articles and creative nonfiction. Deb has been a professional blogger, tech writer, graphic artist and Internet marketing specialist.  

Taking Story for Granted

By DeAnna Knippling


This blog post is a struggle for me, because I think I’m going to put my foot in my mouth and say something asinine, but it’s something that’s been on my mind a lot lately: story.

As writers, we think we know what we’re getting into when we talk about stories. We write stories, we read stories, we follow news stories, we tell anecdotes at dinner, we make up stories about the people we see wandering around the buffet or the airport, in all their varied glory. We question what we hear: “That doesn’t sound right.” We judge movies based on their story: “What a lame ending.”

We jump to conclusions about people. We read intonations into emails that aren’t there. We gossip. We fight wars based on stories. We believe based on stories. Researchers struggle to remove story from their work, calling it “bias.” We watch Penn & Teller routines, and they can explain to us how they use audience expectations to fool them--and that’s story, too.

Songs are stories, only half of which (at most) are told via words, even if it’s something simple like, “We went to a club and danced so well that other couples were jealous.” If songs weren’t stories, then Fantasia never would have been made. Muzak's web page description reads:  "Founders of piped music and the science of how music affects customers."  Marketing?  Based on creating a story for customers about how your product will improve their lives.

Stories surround us. So, as writers--that is, as experts on stories--we should know what stories are, right?

You can describe a story. Stories have beginnings, middles, and endings--except when they're out of order. There’s a character arc--except when there isn’t. There are characters--except when the character isn’t a character at all. Things happen in a story--except when they don’t.

You can look up the definition in a dictionary: a history, an account of events, a fictional narrative, a rumor, a lie, a news article. But the definitions don’t cover the entirety of “story.” You could define “story” as worldview and as irrational bias; as trickery and as truth. And you wouldn’t be wrong.

I think story is so fundamental to how human minds work that we take story for granted unless it’s labeled as “entertainment.” And when you take something for granted, it’s hard to think consciously about it.

An example: Is Twilight a good story or not?

You probably already have an answer: “I loved it,” “I hated it,” and the guardedly cautious “I’ve heard of it but I haven’t read it.” All three of those answers have power, but they aren’t answers to whether the story’s good or not--just whether or not you liked it.

Another example: Is Dark Lord of Derkholm (1998) by Diana Wynne Jones a good story or not?

This one’s harder; most people haven’t even heard of the author, let alone the book. (She also wrote Howl’s Moving Castle and a lot of other good books.) And yet, with Dark Lord of Derkholm (along with The Tough Guide to Fantasyland [1996]), she slaughters the high fantasy genre and the pettiness that a lot of its writers catered to at the time. Her books have had a powerful undertow, one that you’ve felt, even if you didn’t know it. If you’ve heard of Neil Gaiman, then you’ve felt it.

Another example: Are books written by women good stories or not?

Maureen Johnson talked about this issue recently:

When I hear people talk about "trashy" books, 95% of the time, they are talking about books written by women. When I see or hear the terms "light," "fluffy," "breezy," or "beach read"... 95% of the time, they are talking about books written by women. 

She challenged people to come up with male-authored books that had female-author covers on them and vice versa, and readers responded (a.k.a. “Coverflip”).

...And those are just three examples. To my eye, Twilight shows that we have a hard time separating our prejudices from our ability to judge story; Dark Lord of Derkholm shows that it’s possible to change a story (high fantasy's default form of good vs. evil) across a genre without readers knowing where the change came from; “Coverflip” shows that we tell stories about stories to influence other people on how to feel about them.

And I’m sure there are other lessons--other stories--that you could take from these three examples, too. When we argue, we try to convince each other to agree with our take--our story--on a given issue by emphasizing the parts that support the story, and deemphasizing the rest.

I’m no different; neither are you.

Story’s so ingrained in us that we don’t see that we’re telling stories, even when we are. When we tell the truth, we don’t realize that we’re also telling a story (unless we’re listening to a six-year-old; then it’s obvious that “telling the truth” and “trying to conceal the fact that it wasn’t the cat who broke the lamp” can be one and the same). When we judge a story, we don’t realize that we’re at least partially judging the story based on another story (“Romance novels are stupid”), or a thousand other stories (“This romance novel just isn’t all that romantic, compared to my favorite authors”), rather than objectively. When we wake, we find our dreams powerful, even though they often make no sense whatsoever and feel like they come from a foreign place rather than ourselves.

Augh, I’m still struggling to get at what I mean with this post. My meaning keeps flipping out of my hands as I type. I think what I’m trying to say is that the issue of “story” is more complex than we can consciously get at, and that we, as writers, take for granted that we know what the word “story” means, and what story is. And yet if it were that simple, we’d all be Stephen King, or Stephanie Meyers, or at least not terrified by the thought of having to write a synopsis or log line.

What I do know is that there is more to this “story” business than following Joseph Campbell templates, or writing up character descriptions, or editing to perfection. Maybe story has more in common with “lucky writing pens” and cruising for inspirational cat pictures on Facebook than we know. Maybe we should be spending more time on the Internet, rather than less, and spending more time enjoying the stories we want to enjoy, and less time letting other people talk us out of following our story instincts.

Nah. Cat pictures are stupid, Facebook is a waste of time, lucky pens are a useless crutch, and, clearly, the New York Times Book Review always knows best.


About the Author: DeAnna Knippling started freelancing in May 2011 and wouldn’t be able to do it without her wonderful family and friends, especially her husband. In fact, she owes a lot to Pikes Peak Writers for helping her be a better writer, especially through the Write Brains, both in the lectures and in meeting lots of other writers.

Her reason for writing is to entertain by celebrating her family’s tradition of dry yet merry wit, and to help ease the suffering of lack of self-confidence, having suffered it many years herself. She also likes to poke around and ask difficult questions, because she hates it when people assume something must be so.

For more kicks in the writerly pants, see her blog at www.deannaknippling.com or her ebook How to Fail & Keep on Writing, available at Smashwords, B&N, Amazon, and OmniLit.

Edward Cullen Strangelove, or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Twilight

By Aaron Michael Ritchey

I read Twilight after it first came out, way back in 2005.  People were saying it was going to be the next big thing, but dang, I had no idea how that could be.

I liked the book.  I liked the setting.  I liked how she handled the vampires, evolved to be sparkly and beautiful to make hunting so much easier.  Yet, I didn’t understand why that book, that story, became such a flashpoint.  A nice little love story set in Forks, Washington as a world-wide phenomenon?  Triple-platinum bestseller?  Really?

Some people hated it, and I couldn’t understand that either.  Wasn’t much to love.  Wasn’t much to hate.  It was all so simple.  The characters were fine.  The story was fine.  The writing wasn’t awful.  It was functional. 

I didn’t become a Twihard until I watched all five movies this past November in one day, at the theater, surrounded by young girls, middle-aged women, and a few men comfortable enough in their masculinity that they could get a little teary at all the angst and romance.

Now I get it.  Stephenie Meyer is a genius.  Not because she was so innovative, no, it was because she made things so simple.  The writing, the story, the characters, it was all so simple.  And moving.

There is a disconnect at times between the writing community and the general audience.  Writers don’t read like normal readers because we aren’t normal readers.  We are writers.  We devour books, and then dissect the pieces.  How could that chapter be better?  How can I avoid the cliché there?  How can I use dialogue tags more creatively?  The general reader isn’t worrying about all that.  They want a story they can understand, that sweeps them off their feet, in a setting that seems real, and with characters they can identify with.  The general reader is very forgiving if the bones of the story speak to them.

Robert McKee of Story fame thinks story is all-powerful.  You can have iffy writing if the story is evocative, and I believe that.  Most people read fiction as an emotional experience, not a logical one.  And emotions are messy things.

The last Twilight movie, Breaking Dawn, Part II, ends with Edward and Bella in their meadow, gazing into each other’s eyes, in love, now, literally forever.  After thirteen hours of The Twilight Saga, I didn’t want to leave the theater.  I wanted to bask in their emotion, that perfect love we generally only experience in fiction.  Real love is messy and uncertain and takes work.  Bella and Edward’s perfect love is just plain perfect.  Sigh.

I want to write books that leave my readers feeling that sense of joy, wonder, and contentment.  The bad guys are all dead.  The troubles are behind our hero and his heroine, and the world makes sense.  That feeling, I believe, is more important than a perfectly balanced plot, or the depth of my characters, or my sentence variety.

Not that I’m saying I’m going to churn out first draft stuff and hope my story is good enough to hook readers.  No, I’m not going to do that.  But I do want to simplify my writing because I can make things so complicated so fast.  Ideally, my writing would be invisible—a simple doorway into the perfect fictive dream.  So, I’m going to focus on good, simple writing, a well-crafted story, and above all, emotional impact.  Perfect love.  Sigh.  Thank you, Stephenie Meyer, for giving us such a wonderful story.

About the Writer:  YA Paranormal author Aaron Michael Ritchey has penned a dozen manuscripts in his 20 years as a writer.  When he isn’t slapping around his muse, Aaron cycles to look fabulous, works in medical technologies, and keeps his family in silks and furs.  His first novel, The Never Prayer, hit the streets on March 29, 2012.