(Even More) Mastering Story Concept Development

I can appreciate stillness. I can appreciate quiet. In a world of distractions and disruptions, the unchanging and peaceful is refreshing. Stories may draw from the deep wells of meditation and calm, but they depend upon the dynamic for expression. Difficult choices. Conflict. Action.

Very often, stories are prompted by that which is intriguing, but inanimate. Imagining an oversized pearl may be interesting just because we are startled by the unusually large and the usually small. But it’s not enough. In "The Pearl," John Steinbeck chose to put such a pearl into the hands of a poor man beset by greedy people to create his classic tale.

An unchanging person may also inspire a story. Dickens heard about and extremely stingy and avaricious man (John Elwes) who never reformed, but it was his genius that created Scrooge, a man who learned to be generous.

Too many writers are mesmerized by what essentially are story prompts. I have nothing against having a focus for meditation or a subject for a still life painting, but stories are different. Exploring change (the bigger the better) is a good starting point for moving from prompt to story. Setting two well-matched characters against each other or having a character face an impossible dilemma or creating a society in turmoil with unpredictable power shifts can grow the seed of an idea into an epic.

Analyses, a slice of life fiction, and poems that create moods have value. But readers of stories bring expectations. They want to journey, not just a setting. They are looking for characters to change things or be changed. So, as fascinating as an idea might be, stories require action.

Master of Story Concept Development 6 - Formulate true dilemmas for characters and put characters in competition and power struggles. Don’t make the playing field level.

Practice:  If you don’t already have an idea, start with a prompt. You can find one online. (I’ll take the bell that my family used to call the children in from play.) Take the prompt and find two horrible choices to explore.

It’s dinner time. A parent holds the bell, but doesn’t ring it right away. His daughter is facing off with a girl who bullies her. Standing up to her. But is she out of control? Or in danger? A ring of the bell can end the situation, but may destroy the one chance to end the bullying with a life lesson learned. Or it may allow violence and real injury.

Find a point of competition for the prompt.

Two siblings, now grown, are cleaning out the house after mom has moved into assisted living. They both treasure the days of hearing that bell. One wants to have it to ring her own children home. The other has no children and sees the bell as her only touch point to that phase of life. Those reasons seem vital to them, and make them deserve the bell. Each believes she were promised the bell by their dad. Checking with mom could create distress, even a family rift. Flip a coin? Just grab the bell and make off with it? Destroy the bell so the sibling can’t have it? Create a challenge, and may the best daughter win?

Invent a larger power struggle.

When Mrs. Ackers rang the bell all the kids on the block went home for the evening. It became the symbol of respect and power in the community. A whole generation responded to her, the bell ringer, as the mom of moms. She was consulted for decades regarding everything: meals, dating, parties, and even the settling of disagreements. A generation grew up, and Mrs Ackers became the grandma of grandmas. The bell did not lose its power. The kids of the kids on the block responded to it. Now it has gone silent. Mrs. Ackers has passed and the bell has been left for the local minister, who didn’t grow up in the neighborhood, to dispose of. Every neighbor wants that bell. The hierarchy of the block and, in many ways, its future, depend on who gets the bell.

Any of these conflicts could (and should) be pushed further. Learning to play with prompts to discover action can open up fresh stories and move past the obvious. (It can also be a lot of fun.)

Often, a goal, especially a worthy goal (one that demands sacrifice), suggests obstacles, and its loss alone creates a tragic ending. For a love story, not getting the object of affection is so wrong, it’s essentially forbidden in the genre. But why is the goal vital? Often, in an ambitious love story, more than a fantasy man or woman is at stake. Something within the protagonist is revealed to be important. A need to throw off pride and be vulnerable to another person. A need to go risk expulsion by going against society norms (like wealth) or culture (like religion) to become the person he or she is destined to be. Or a need to admit a deception and face the truth (which is the basis of romantic comedies). Raising stakes so that more strength, more courage, is required adds to a story.

But sometimes the initial goal sets up for something bigger. With bigger stakes. Luke Skywalker just wants to get off Tatooine and become a pilot at first. He’s not really after the Death Star until further into the story. And that catapults the stakes into new territory. More interesting territory. And it puts everyone he loves in jeopardy.

Master of Story Concept Development 7 - Raise the stakes and make the consequences more dire.

Practice: The starting point is actually writing down what the protagonist has at risk. A great place to start is to look at Maslow’s hierarchy. Where do current stakes fit? In one class, I have students classify which levels reflect story risks. Then I have them explore which other needs (closer to survival) might be put in jeopardy. (In general, the lower the level, the more visceral the need, the more readers worry. Though any risk can be deepened. And risks associated with identity can trump life and death with the right presentation.)

Once stakes are delineated, exaggeration comes in handy. Make them worse to a ridiculous extent. Get operatic. Make the consequences uncomfortable, for your characters and to you. Then see if you can go even further. I like to score stakes on a scale of one to WTF? Some great stuff may be on the other side of the absurd.

Or not.

Comedy often depends on silly goals with minor stakes. We stand in a superior position and marvel at the lengths characters will go to because they are obsessed or have distorted views. (Couldn’t Wile E. Coyote find another meal? Or spend his Acme money at a nice restaurant? Would it have mattered if Pee-wee never got his bicycle back in Pee-wee’s Big Adventure?)

There is also merit in the small and the simple when they are handled with care. A dying woman I knew asked her husband to get her watermelon in the middle of winter. This was in the 1980s, and it was an almost impossible task. But it meant everything to her husband that he fulfill her last wish. Was it a proof of love? Was it her, reaching out, giving him a way to manage his heartbreak? Both, I think. The watermelon was a simple goal. It was not life-saving serum, so the actual consequences of failure, from a physical standpoint, were minimal. Emotion -- and that life moment -- were everything. (He got the watermelon. She thanked him for it. She didn’t eat it.)