Is the pope Catholic?

The latest book from writing guru Larry Brooks

Discouragement, not to mention torment, is normal in this delightful profession. We claim to be writers while our family secretly worries we’ve joined a cult, strangers at parties want to know when we’ll get a movie deal, the rejection letter pile gets ever higher while the publishing advances get smaller, newcomers zoom past those of who’ve been in the trenches for . . . well, skip that . . . and we’re now on the fifth re-write and the damn novel is still short of the goal post.

Do you need a warm hug?

Buy this book. It is chock full of masterly advice and perspective from one of our industry’s best–Larry Brooks, and contains a forward by James N. Frey which we should vow to reread once a month, and definitely before giving up writing for a real job.

Here is the book for Kindle.

It is also available as a pdf on Larry’s website.

Warm Hugs for Writers. Because sometimes fame and glory are not enough.

A couple minutes? Aren’t most agent appointments (at conferences) more like 10 minutes? Yes, but the most important part of that interview (by far) is the first few minutes.

The test of a writer

It’s in the first couple of minutes that you’ll demonstrate your grasp of story. If it takes you a little while to get to the point, the agent may well that assume your story suffers from this dithering as well. If you can’t uncover the heart of your story in a sentence or two, your story will look as though it doesn’t have one.

Do you know the key theme and subject matter of your story? Are you crystal clear about its dramatic punch? If you are, then lead with this material.

If you begin with plot, you’re wading into quicksand. It isn’t possible to describe the plot in the time you will have. Not only is it impossible to summarize a novel quickly, even the best crafted summary sounds wooden. Pity the poor agent. He’s already heard twenty of these pitches. He’s starting to glaze over. (“Now who is the person and what are they trying to say?” and “How many more of these do I have before lunch?”)

The first two minutes constitute your writer’s test, one you should plan to pass with flying colors. The good news is that you have plenty of time to study up. And best of all, you know what the test question will be:

What is your story about?

On the surface of it, the question is deceptively simple, but underneath, unconscionably difficult.

With this question, the agent is asking a number of things:

• What kind of experience do you deliver with this story?
• What is the core of it, the essence?
• What handle can I use to sell it?
• Who will want to read it?

Suppose you’re pitching The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. (Lucky you.)

You could start by saying how an investigative journalist is desperate to redeem himself after being convicted of libel. In exchange for a promise of proof of his innocence he takes on a cold case that involves the suspected murder of a family member of a rich man. Meanwhile he hooks up with a young woman who is a genius at surveillance and research and who is abused by various men . . .

This is a pretty accurate summary of the first fifty pages but you see the swamp I’m  headed into, here.

Or you could say, “My thriller deals with horrific violence against women, by madmen, guardians, and pillars of the community. It’s the  story of bringing evil secrets to light where they can’t survive, all the while delivering up a mystery of a disappearance, serial murders, Nazi hold-overs, and the unlikely attraction between a crusading reporter and a much tattooed and pierced young woman of uncommon brilliance.”

Which version would you buy? Can you see how the agent is at last paying attention?

The trick is to go back to your story and open it up in this way. Provide a theme so powerful you wake up at night wanting to write it, describe dramatic elements that zing with tension, and tell what it will feel like to read the story.

Walk in with confidance

Some of you have already had the agent-pitching experience. Remember how nerve-wracked you were? Remember how you worried that your pitch didn’t convey the true excitement and value of your story? That you felt a novel can’t be squeezed into three sentences?

The thing to remember is that the plot cannot be, but the essence can.

Finding the essence, the experience, of your story is difficult, I don’t deny it. I’ve labored over this myself, and know that it takes a bunch of passes before I get it right. But once you have the perfect pitch, it means you can walk into that meeting with confidance. You will look forward to it. Because you have something exciting to tell that agent.

The heart of your story.

You don’t need to pack all the elements in there, like exactly who the protagonist is and who stands against her and how it all ends. You’ll get there, eventually. You have ten minutes. But you only have ten minutes of agent attention if you grab him from the start.

If you do, the agent will sit back, thinking, Whoa. This one is good. Then he’ll ask, Whose story is it? or What starts off the action? or What other books is your story like?

That’s in the second two minutes of your pitch. So you’ll have set the hook and just be reeling him in.

It reminds me of the oft repeated lament of authors that only those who don’t need more sales actually sell books at signings.

The rich–in whatever field–really do play by different roles than the rest of us. It’s not fair, and it hardly seems American. The myth of the land of the opportunity dies hard. We’re not all starting from the same place of visibility, contacts, appeal and privilege.

No one hates this more than I do, so for those of you who are getting in touch with resentment, I share your pain.

But given the truth of my post title, there are a couple of lessons that we can take away, and they are doosies.

Lesson #1

When we envision the writing life, we should abandon the fantasies of window displays in bookstores, endcaps at Barnes and Noble, and book tours paid for by publishers. Also vacations in Santorini and movies made from our stories. Chances of this happening to the aspiring writer are about the same as a high school basketball player playing in the NBA. Say one in a quarter million. Or so.

No one hates this more than I do. But let’s move on.

If a summer on a Greek island with a panoramic view of the Aegean is not in our future, what is?

It is a life of workmanlike pleasures in storytelling. The thrill of a book with your name on it, and the feedback from people who swear they’ll “read everything you write.” The company of other striving writers who, like you, must give up Saturday matinees because they’re behind on their page count. The amazing high of writing a scene that zings, a character who is “there” because of your words. The community of authors, agents, editors, and bookstore owners–a community that is close-knit, smart and creative and that you can only access if books are in your blood. Opening an envelope from one’s publisher or agent, and shaking out a check. The high satisfaction of earning a chunk of change for making stuff up and getting the grammar right.

It is enough?

I dunno, but it will have to be. Because the rich aren’t like you and me. It’s just how it is. Isn’t it best to know this in advance? To set aside the fantasy for the real thing–and learn to cherish it?

Lesson #2

Aside from realistic expectations, how else can we learn from the dictum that wildly successful authors are not playing by the same rules as the rest of us? How should this affect our writing?

For one thing, let’s not use the latest novel of a best-selling author as a valid guide to the craft. We do want to learn from what we read, but some books are better examples than others.

I’ve said on this blog before that we should be reading first time novels, especially critically acclaimed first novels. Books like these were picked up by publishers not because of who wrote it (with the exception of celebrity authors) but for the story. Publishers will accept inferior work from big name authors because they know the book will sell well on the strength of the author’s name. This is not the case with you or me.

Therefore when you put down a best-seller in frustration and find yourself thinking, “I can write as well as that,” you may be setting a low bar.

A high bar is actually in place (for you and me.) And for the reading public, the bar is even higher. That is, a publisher may buy a book from you that is actually not that strong, but the public will ignore it. They’re picky how they spend their entertainment dollar.

No one regrets this more than I do. I share your outrage at some of the books that hit the best-seller lists.

But now that we understand that we are playing by different rules, we at least aren’t naive and flailing at windmills. We have moved past the game of “Ain’t it awful,” to the better game of “I will work harder.”

Read it again, Sam

One of the exercises writers must regularly perform is reading. Books are going to be our life, so it won’t do to just learn from movies. We’ve got to know the written stories of our genre.

Once you’ve identified books that are like yours–and not by a star author–and are reading them, find one that is a knock out. Then read it again.

Look at the techniques that writer used, the ones that she was at pains to hide so that you missed it the first time through. Learn from this writer. You don’t need to master all her abilities at once, but reading a fine book without learning anything is a lost opportunity.

One of the books I learned from recently was Hunger Games. I looked carefully at the way Suzanne Collins doled out information on the futuristic world she created. How she delayed telling and wove in the world-building as she went along. Great stuff. I noted how the reader (me) was willing to defer understanding, to wait patiently to learn some things that seemed important to understand immediately, but which the author decided to withhold to produce forward momentum.

Yes, she’s a best-seller. But she’s a new best-seller.

She got something right, and it wasn’t having Collins as a name. She was playing by 99% rules.

The rules you and I follow. Or should.

We’re going to buckle down and write more. If you haven’t started your dream project, you’re going to. If you’re stalled on the novel, you’re going to plow ahead. If you are mid-career and writing so very slowly, you are going to trust your fingers and type faster.

We’re going to pin our ears back and go straight down the middle to the goal posts.

Because if you’re not on the field, you’re not going to have the ball (pardon all the football talk, but ’tis the season) and if you’re not going to do it this year, then when?

The thing about writing

The thing is, you’re going to have to write a lot to have a career. It really won’t do to be a one-book wonder or a v-e-r-y s-l-o-w writer. The reasons for this are many, but generally have to do with visibility, dependability, building a base of readers, giving publishers something to sink their teeth into, promote and have faith in.

That being the case, it’s time to hustle, people.

I know that sounds a bit crass. But look at it this way: You need the practice. You wouldn’t expect a dancer or an actor to develop a reputation based on a thousand hours of work. No, they–and we–need about 10,000 hours of work to develop mastery. (According to Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers.) So it’s artistic practice as well as content we’re after.

And once you are publishing, prolific is a lot better than slow. If you are prolific you can satisfy your publisher, dependably give your readers the experience they crave (your books) and perhaps even publish under different names and in different genres to diversify your portfolio against publishing misfortunes.

Don’t think of it as speed-writing. Think of it as self-discipline. However much you’re writing now, increase that by fifteen percent. And next year, again. In three years you’re producing half again as much as last year. Um. If I got the math right.

You don’t need an iron will

You may not be one of those cast iron personalities who do 100 sit ups every morning. I know I’m not. But just because you can’t write as fast as some, doesn’t mean you should write as slow as most.

There will be time for other things, I promise.

One of the reasons is that when you consciously write a little more, a little faster, you get better at it. You might even end up writing more in a shorter period of time. So then, yes, you can watch another episode of Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares. You’ve earned it.

This isn’t about suffering and feeling inadequate. It’s really a bracing acknowledgment of what a professional writer’s life looks like and what the standard expectations are.

This ain’t a tea party

If your dream is a smoking jacket and staring at the swimming pool with your fist around a glass of whiskey, you’ve seen too many Hollywood dramas. It ain’t a party and it ain’t an angst-driven stroll. It’s an art and a bit of a game. And both have rules.

And so . . .

You’re in the locker room. Your beloved coach–here picture a person you really like but whom you’re a little afraid of–is pacing back and forth exhorting you to get out there and play your heart out.

You know you haven’t quite had the bit in your teeth; you’ve been slacking a little, to tell the truth. You were hoping nobody noticed.

But coach did. And now coach is giving you holy hell for it.

He loves you, he really does. But he knows what you’re capable of, and wants to see you do it. And he may not say this, but you can pretty much count on it–if you don’t try harder, you’re going to find yourself sitting on the bench and watching others play.

So get out there and carry those stories through to the end. Give it your energy, your intention, your time and your heart.

You hate me now, but you’ll thank me some fine day.

It’s 2012. This year, no excuses.

Best new TV program

OK, talkin’ trash here, but I got hooked on this one. Most of it’s pretty good acting, but what’s with the the wild-eyed colony military leader?

Best sf/f books I read

Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins. IQ84, Haruki Murakami. The Brahms Deception, Louise Marley, Tongues of Serpents, Naomi Novik.

Best conversations at a con

With Brent and Kristi Weeks at Worldcon; John Piccacio at World Fantasy.

Favorite con and why

World Fantasy, San Diego. For programming.

Most annoyingly brilliant fellow panelist at a con

Alistair Reynolds, Worldcon.

Most peculiar sight

34 big-horn sheep invading a golf course and being gently herded off by a ride-upon lawn mower.

Most weird and wonderful 

Mary Robinette Kowal opening a trunk in her basement and introducing me to her hand-crafted puppets.

Most moving sight

The reflecting pool at ground zero in NYC on September 14, 2011. Missed the crowds by 3 days.

Most annoying small, stupid thing

My fingernails constantly splitting. For a writer, this is particularly stupid and yet engrossing.

Best accomplishment

Finished my novel, A Thousand Perfect Things. Pub date? I dunno yet!

Best critter event

Sumo caught a mouse. Played with it and idiotically let it slip through his claws under the dishwasher. Next day, caught it again! Redeemed himself.

I’m sure I’m missing some seminal events of lasting spiritual importance. But, like, these are the ones that came to mind.

Happy Holidays everyone!

No, I’m not going to share my current lasagna recipe (some things are just too personal for blogging) but I am willing to share my articles of faith about writing. None of the following can be proven, but:

I believe that . . .

1. – the world is becoming a better place for writers.

2. – the writing life is the most rigorous program in the world for self-knowledge, inspiration and personal growth. And yes, I Have tried Buddhism.

3. – no matter how good a writer you are, you can always improve. And need to.

4. – the marketplace disciplines us, if we will only listen.

5. – to keep my writing fresh I need to move out of/beyond what I’ve done before.

6. – fine stories are much more important than fine writing.

7. – the most inexplicable part of writing is where stories come from. I  build novels up carefully, but where the glittering story kernel comes from in the first place remains an astonishing mystery. But if asked, I will always say: A PO Box in Spokane.

8  – despite my thwarted desire for a year on the NYT best seller list, I am mightily compensated in this work by my friendships with, and the company of, the people I’ve met in publishing.

9. – this story (whatever the current work in progress) is the best I’ve ever done. When I stop believing that, it won’t be fun any more.

10. – if I’m not giving back to aspiring writers and the writing community, my lasagna will turn watery and the top strip will be too crunchy.

Brian McDonald

Brian McDonald is an award-winning writer/director/producer who has worked in film, television and comic books and as a story consultant for both Pixar and Disney Feature Animation Studios. His award-winning short film White Face was sold to HBO and Cinemax and is used in corporations nation-wide as a diversity-training tool.  He scripted Abe Sapien: Drums of the Dead, the first Hellboy spin-off comic book, as well as Lost in Space and Predator – Strange Roux for Dark Horse Comics. He is also a teacher of story construction and the author of several books on the subject: Invisible Ink, The Golden Theme, Freeman and the forthcoming book Ink Spots.

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Notice that in the title for this piece, I said storyteller rather than writer. That is because it is my belief that we use the wrong verb to describe what we do. Because we use the same word – writing – to describe both the physical action and the mental process, we are often confused about what our jobs are.

Many of us take our job to mean wordsmithing – the carefully crafted order and poetry of the words themselves. When people speak of “good writing” this is often what they mean.

But what about those who crafted stories before the written word? We know that stories existed long before anyone learned to write them down. We know that those cultures that were late in adopting written language had a long tradition of storytelling. Would you call people with no concept of writing “writers”?

In relatively recent times, silent movies made use of visual communication – early filmmakers told stories with pictures. Even today some storytellers who work in the medium of comic books sometimes discard words from their panels. On the subject of silent films, many of them were made up on the spot – Charlie Chaplin worked this way. Was he a writer? I would call him a storyteller.

Okay, so what, you may ask. Writer, storyteller, what’s the difference? The difference is that calling yourself a writer does not tell you what to do; calling yourself a storyteller gives you a direction – a mission.

I meet people everyday who are writers but don’t know what to write. They write pages upon pages of beautiful sentences about colorful characters. Or they write descriptions of exotic places. And they may do these things masterfully. Yet somehow they can never finish that novel or screenplay or whatever. Or, if they do finish, the material just lies flat somehow – it fails to move readers (or agents or publishers). Why? No story.

As a child I was interested in storytelling, but was a poor speller. What I found out was that teachers cared very little about the content of my writing, but a great deal about my misspellings. I became very familiar with red pen markings on my papers. I could have written, “It was the best of tymes it was the wusrt of tymes…” And out the red pen would have come with no mention at all of the content.

What I did not know was that I was dyslexic. In those days I was seen, at best, as “not applying myself.” At worst, and most often, I was understood as just not being very bright. The students who could spell were the golden children. It did not matter that they had no knack for telling interesting stories.

James L. Brooks, winner of 9 Emmys, who created the classic Mary Tyler Moore Show, Taxi, and others, is a terrible speller. The late Stephen J. Cannell, creator of more than 40 shows including the hit The Rockford Files, author of several best-selling novels, had terrible dyslexia.

I could mention more writers with such cognitive issues, but my point is that these guys were much better storytellers than spellers or wordsmiths. Storytelling is a noble craft that has been with us since before we had an alphabet. We should embrace it.

Now the world seems populated by folks who can “write well” but were never taught the first thing about how to tell a story. In fact, plot and storytelling are often seen as a lesser form of writing. Those writers who sell millions of books are often called bad writers by the wordsmiths.  But what these best-selling people are often good at is getting folks to turn pages, or tune into their television shows, or buy movie tickets.

Often when I ask students or other writers to define for me what a story is they have no definition at all. They sometimes fumble for one, since they have never been asked to think about it. But if you don’t know what a story is how can you set down to write one?

A story is the telling of a series of connected events leading to a conclusion.

The Golden Theme: How to Make Writing Appeal to the Highest Common Denominator

So? But that simple sentence tells you what to do. It says that your story must have a reason to be told – a theme. That’s what the conclusion is. In its most simple form, it is the moral of an Aesop fable. Every piece of the story is leading to that conclusion. All elements are there to support the author’s point.

This may sound elementary, but most people who call themselves writers act as if they do not know this. They try to put their colorful characters into interesting situations in the hope that a story will emerge. If that doesn’t happen, the manuscripts sits in a drawer or hard drive, unfinished and abandoned.

Why is having a point or theme important? Because only when you have something to say do people bother to listen.

In my book The Golden Theme I explore the idea of why human beings tell stories. Why does every culture on earth tell stories? Because stories teach us to survive. This is why stories need conflict – because conflict is what we need to learn how to survive. No one needs to learn how to survive the good times.

Survival can take many forms. It can mean actual physical survival: This is why people went in droves to see 127 Hours — a film about a young man trapped alone for days under rock and how he eventually severed his arm to escape.

But stories can turn on cultural or spiritual or emotional survival: Stories can tell us how to find love. We need stories to live. I don’t mean this in an artsy way. I mean in a practical way. We could not live without stories.

You are a storyteller. This is a noble and important job – treat it as such. Know what stores are and know what you want to say. If you are a wordsmith, all the better. It will only help. But be a storyteller first.

–Brian McDonald

Maybe it’s a person whose goals clash with those of your protagonist. But sometimes it’s a situation. What we can call the force of antagonism.

It may be a societal restriction, a collapse of order, or a natural disaster. Many powerful stories rely on a force instead of a person. As you build your plot listen to the needs of your story. You shouldn’t force a villain into the mix.

Think of the great stories, and your personal favorites, that never offer an antagonist. Gone With the Wind is an example. No one specifically operates against Scarlett’s desire for mastery of her fate. You might say that Melanie is in the way of Scarlett’s romantic goal of Ashley Wilkes. But Melanie is merely a passive obstacle, forever married to the man of Scarlett’s dreams. The real dramatic question of Gone With the Wind is, Will Scarlett escape the ravages of war and find her place in the world? What stands in her way? It is the collapse of the South and the civil war. These are the forces of antagonism.

In The Rise of the Planet of the Apes, the opposition to Caesar (the protagonist) is actually humanity. A nice trick, that! Humanity’s subjugation of chimps stands in Caesar’s way.

Even a force must grow in power. But the force shouldn’t be static; it must change, or the plot can’t thicken. How do the forces of antagonism escalate in their impact? How does society push back against the protagonist when he tries to overcome prejudice, skepticism, or injustice? The more your hero grows in his willingness to confront, the more society will push back. If it is a story of the collapse of society, the downward spiral of the social order must grow precipitous. In Gone With the Wind, the civil war is at first a distant threat. By the midpoint we have the siege of Atlanta, and finally the decimation of the South through carpetbagging and economic collapse.

A force should be personalized. For a short segment of the film about Caesar the chimp, humanity’s evil role is personalized by the caretaker at the animal refuge. This focuses the general force of opposition and allows Caesar to interact with a specific enemy, at least for a time. In Gone With the Wind, Scarlett kills the union soldier intent on rape. It is a brief scene. But consider the power of it: He climbs the stairs of the ruined mansion at Tara (union soldiers have ravaged it), and Scarlett shoots him full in the face.

In Dan Simmons’s The Terror, the story of a disastrous nineteenth century sailing expedition in the arctic, the force of opposition is the cold and ice. Through starvation, exposure and animal predation, almost everyone on board the ship will die. Meanwhile we hope in vain for the northwest passage to thaw so that they can sail home. Simmons personalizes the extreme landscape in the shape of a monster, the essence of the wild landscape.

Or, digging deeper, we might say that the antagonist of this story is actually the hubris of the British navy and the false ambition to conquer the land. In these terms, we can better understand the final stand-off with the monster, in which the hero bows down to creature’s rightful rule.

Sometimes the force of antagonism is not overcome in any conventional way. This kind of story is not necessarily a tragedy. Sometimes the force of nature passes by, having wreaked its damage. We have endured, with lessons learned. And sometimes, it is a tragedy with an upbeat ending, if that is possible. An example is the apocolyptic tale where civilization is destroyed. But a few remain to start again.

The important thing to remember, as we use the writer’s toolkit (which contains the antagonist), is that such tools are strategies for creating drama. Modify them and let them suit your story.

No. Because so far the characteristics aren’t related to the story. Great characters aren’t built up from features, they are crafted with an eye to dramatic functions.

If you’re writing a story with even a smidgen of inner story (characterization) then you need to understand the role of weakness in character–otherwise known as  inner demons. These demons may be fear, ignorance, immaturity, crippling ambition, or any other negative impulse that places your major character at a disadvantage in doing what must be done. If  your hero is perfect on page one, he’s got nowhere to go (or grow) except to solve the plot problem.

But, since he’s imperfect, he has to solve the plot problem despite his weaknesses. He needs to conquer that impulse, overcome that ignorance or naivete, or sacrifice the selfish ambition. This is his character arc. He grows through the scenes of your story as he gathers information, allies, and perspective.

An inner story based upon demons makes for a story that is likely to hold our interest. You don’t have to have a story like this. But it brings strengths to your novel that you’ll likely need. Unless you’ve just thought of a plot like The Da Vinci Code. Some stories are just carried by plot, let’s face it.

But we’re gonna do character. We’re gonna have an inner story with a nice fat demon.

Why?

It places doubt on the outcome.

The story problem is a difficult one, right? It involves obstacles, or you wouldn’t have a story at all. But how much more unlikely does success appear when the character’s own tendencies may defeat her? The reader must feel that the end is in doubt. We may know that the author will deliver an upbeat ending, but we just can’t figure out how the hell they’re going to do it. Believe it or not, that’s the main reason readers keep reading.

It gives the forces of opposition something to exploit.

Your character may be a chimp who wants to be free (Rise of the Planet of the Apes) let’s say. But his dependence on trusted humans (inner demon) holds him back. The sadistic zoo keeper will play the bad parent all day long–and that’s how the screenwriters planned it. The cruelty drives Caesar the chimp to break out of captivity. Notice how this major character has in a way caused his own misery, or at least perpetuated it.

It provides a deeper basis for your story architecture.

You don’t want your story to be episodic, with one damn thing happening after the next. There must be escalation. A classic way to escalate plot is for the character to become more committed, more insightful and more effective. She invites a stronger push-back from the forces of opposition when she exhibits these new strengths.

So far so good. But with an an inner demon, we introduce a more interesting evolution of your character and plot. Now she must conquer herself as well as the situation. In hero’s journey terms, your character moves from an unknowing, uninitiated person to one transformed by experience, a person who has returned from the cave reborn. Larry Brooks (Story Engineering) is especially effective in explaining how character transformation matches up with a four-part story structure.

It helps to frame the dramatic question of your story

A great way to focus your story is to find a defining dramatic question. Such as: Can the first highly intelligent chimpanzee find a place of belonging in this world? Now, use your character’s inner demon to add another layer: How does my character’s inner demon cause his own problem or worsen the one he’s handed? (Caesar’s dependence on misguided humans makes him subservient and blind to the possibility of independence.)

A good dramatic question will assure your novel is worth writing. A great dramatic question will guarantee it is worth reading.

And back to story structure: When Caesar figures out that he’s better off not counting on human friends, he evolves from learner stage to confrontation stage, in screenwriting terms. And that’s not just an internal thing. Changed people change how they act. So when we overcome our demons, the veil lifts and we can overcome the opposition. Thus we deepen the connection between plot and character.

If all this seems a bit prescriptive to you, just remember that any basic storytelling strategy needs to be transformed by art into a seamless and memorable whole. It’s just that art alone won’t get you there. First, the basics.

But she learns that she is wrong.

What she wants will be revealed as utterly false or superseded by a deeper, more urgent goal. In stories like these your basic story structure must be carefully handled so that you deliver a satisfying read, not a broken one.

There are several ways to play bait-and-switch with what the character wants:

Transcendence

This is when the character is placed in a unique position to sacrifice a personal goal for something greater. This may be a classic case of a moral dilemma, as in: Will the character give up a strong ambition for something larger than himself? In these stories, the ordinary–or the self-obsessed–person rises to heroic action.

Coming of age

Switching out the character’s driving desire is a classic strategy of coming of age stories. Your young character (or sheltered young adult) longs for something that is unworthy of them. (But not too unworthy, or it may be difficult to establish empathy with them early on.) She is naive in some basic, forgivable way.

Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz yearns for the excitement of distant lands. But in time what she desires is simply to go home. To put this approach in simpler terms, the character learns “what matters.”

The false ambition

The trick here is to make the first goal implicitly worthy. The story set up should provide a context within which we root for the protagonist’s goal. Make it a universal desire. But let other characters belittle the ambition. We establish empathy partly in reaction to mean-spirited obstacles. But the reader isn’t thinking deeply about the goal at this point–exactly the same position as the protagonist.

The character then embarks upon a journey of self discovery. And another goal gradually supplants the first. The character becomes someone capable of a larger vision.

As the story unfolds, more discerning characters cast doubt on the goal. But they aren’t to be trusted, perhaps, because they have their own agenda. The hero listens, but can’t give up the goal that has defined her. At this point the reader may well be ahead of the character. We know this is a fool’s errand. She does not.

This kind of story is tricky to plot. You’ll have important choices as to when the character intentionally abandons the false ambition. Plot point two, in film making terms, is a good place for a grand reversal. At this point, you must have a worthy goal lying in wait, a call to higher moral purpose that has been growing on the character. But let the reader still doubt whether the character can make the transition. This happens at the climax. The hero gives up the false desire and irrevocably acts on the greater one.

Some stories cry out for a bait-and-switch story goal. When handled with finesse, they can add an extra layer of interest to a character-driven story.