Outlining. Robert McKee's STORY. New Words for Old. Buckets and Bears.

Working with a subscriber's question

                                                 photo by Lucas van Oort on Unsplash

As promised, a post on “outlining.” Let’s begin with an image of a bucket as a way to consider story “form”… and move from “outlining” to “form,” just like that. One can’t be done without awareness and knowledge of the other.

Water quenches and cleanses. But we cannot pass it on to another without something to put it in. The work we do—creating story and Story—has to include both the water and the bucket.

I think there’s a real hunger to have something to grab hold of in the creating process, beyond what comes to us in early stages of process.

After writing enough novels to have lost count—because I believe in “practice” novels, though I could not have thought of them in that way at the time—I know there are frequent moments of feeling lost. Even with detailed maps and all manner of tracking devices, life can storm and we can wash up on a beach. Then to find and put together some broken boards, wait for the tide, and venture out again. This is writing.

Yet there is nothing like the sense of having found footing and momentum in the lashing together of a story. The rock of the right sort of wave might catch such a vessel. The night travel and seeing stars that put us on course… in spite of how the shadowy dark feels at times.

In my last years teaching in the MFA program I worked within, they began to offer a course in outlining, and over the next while I noticed a not-so-subtle shift in thinking. Given that within most programs, a “generation” of students is about 2.5 years, it does not take long for such shifts to occur. Usually within four to five years, a program can move seismically. (Something to consider if you ever apply to a program; if you have reached out for feedback on its functioning and general well-being, the critique should be recent.)

The “problem” that I began to see—if you see it as “problem”—was that somehow the apprenticing writers began to think that there was an easier way to do the work that they were struggling with—that there was, indeed, some Key. And that Someone—maybe me as “teacher”—was withholding that key.

Then the work became about finding the key, instead of grappling with their story. Which becomes much like the energy spent trying to figure out how to cheat at an exam or the best way to rob a bank, instead of learning to study material in real depth, or just working for a pay cheque.

And this is understandable—writers really do have fantasies about robbing a bank. (This writer…!) Not so much for the bags of cash, as for the hours of Time to write in a wee cell, to which someone brings all meals… Yes, the stuff of Fantasy.

(Me looking at you… The gruel is fine. Can somebody get the quill and parchment??)

                                                                    photo by Uta Scholl on Unsplash

But questions of best practice or “form” are legitimate, as opposed to “easy ways out” or “formula.”

The subscriber with the question, you should know, has written at least two lengthy works, of 100k and 90k, both with and without an outline. So this question is coming from a place of working in the deepest mine.

Here is the question, in entirety:

The thing I wanted to write to you about, which is often not talked about in a particularly useful way, is outlining. Most resources I've seen, including books on the subject, focus on developing character, plot, and theme, which are all very important but don't actually assist in understanding the overall structure a book might have (or should have). 

The most useful book I've read on this specific issue is Save the Cat Writes a Novel, which is adapted from the popular screenwriting guide. It suffers from being formulaic in the model it pushes, and it focuses on stories that basically center around the hero’s journey/redemption arc, but it’s very useful for understanding the basic structure of many successful books. One of the things the author does is provide her own chart of what critical things should be in a book, and roughly where they go. She also overlays her model on various books, both genre fiction and literature, to demonstrate that even if the various benchmarks don’t land precisely at the times she recommends they nevertheless are components of many successful stories. 

The book is one that people who write capital “L” literature may have difficulty taking seriously, but its mechanical approach to outlining is actually very helpful in conveying some of the elements that make a novel’s structure engaging as opposed to meandering. It also can be a useful guide for developing plot by conveying what kinds of events should be occurring at various stages (e.g. if you’re in the final segment of the book you should consider how you’re going to build your climax and whether you are going to use some of the common techniques for doing so).  

This makes me wonder whether authors, and instructors, ever get into this idea of the “science” of outlining or apply common methods. Is the Shipping News basically a hero’s journey? Does Oryx and Crake follow a three act structure? When Umberto Eco decided Foucault’s Pendulum should have 8 segments with an equal number of chapters was he breaking the rules or rewriting them? Did he succeed because of how he structured the story or in spite of that?

~~~

It’s not surprising to me that the Save the Cat “Writes a Novel” title derives from screenwriting. So much of screen/dramatic forms lends itself to a deeper understanding of what we’re trying to do in this other work—fiction.

As for titles of published works, without knowing how a particular author works, it’s hard to say: true, you can pick up any published work and hold it to, say, the Hero’s Journey or some model, and make connections. Process is so individual. It’s fair to say that most writers—at some point—have had to do deep study of form, and then work with each project with its own set of demands. “What serves the story.”

I have often used Charlotte’s Web to illustrate structure when teaching writing for young people. The story structure is instructive to break down; yet, E.B. White claimed he never gave it a thought while writing the book. What part of the bucket-making was absorbed from years of writing and teaching and reading? What part is “natural”—rhythms absorbed—story-telling? What about when a writer with seeming ease creates one piece, then bumps up against a project that demands more? (My first novel—published-was written in six months. My third, also published, took more than a couple years. The more you know…

We need to work through this, and whether Save the Cat works for you, or Joseph Campbell, or close-reading of master-full works, I feel that the willingness to “go deep” on this—both to meet the needs of you developing as writer and the creating of your story and beyond—is the key.

Story and “classical form”

I return to an old favourite, one that stands up to multiple reads and studied work: Robert McKee’s Story. I purchased it as a hardcover shortly after it was published in ’97. I believe it’s never been released in softcover. It’s not an inexpensive book, but is worth every dollar. To write this post, I read it almost cover-to-cover a third time. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve dipped in for a re-read of some significant piece. I’ve studied writing for film (mostly for the purpose of novel-writing) and have read numerous books on the subject; Story is in its own class. Every library has it. Borrow, read, take notes.

McKee speaks of watching movies while holding the corresponding script in hand… and he pauses the movie, reads through the script, makes notes. This is hours of work, diligent study.

I suspect we’re all a bit weary of the “hero’s journey.” But there is some validity in working with these models, to come to some understanding of how they function. Even if we want to toss. (If you are not familiar, there are numerous sources, easily found within minutes of typing into your search bar. Try to avoid the most common examples—Star Wars, for example.)

You might take a movie (try to locate the script—many are available online) or novel that has spoken to you, and see where it both connects and does not connect with the “journey.” Pinpoint what made the story work for you personally. Maybe even do this piece of self-discovery before mapping out… then see how it connects.

Maybe the points that stood out for you are where the Hero-line went astray… or was closely on track with Joseph Campbell. These points would be informative observation. In the past, I’ve worked with it, not so much as a “map” but to see if any missing pieces, or points of not connecting resonate with my story, and point to something the story might find useful. I’ve done this after I’ve begun the writing process, when I know what my story is about, when I understand something of my “controlling idea.” (See below!) I use it as inspiration more than direction. This may be a way to approach; you do not need to include every piece. This isn’t Star Wars. You’re writing something else. It is a challenge when so much has been so broken down, to find the new.

It’s less about breaking down and using a model, and more about finding what is authentic for you and your story. Which is why Story stands out.

If you do want to absorb Robert McKee’s thoughts on writing “principles,” I suggest you buy a copy of Story, and keep it at your side as you work. For optimal purposes, work with Story during the process. There is always work to be done in tandem with writing—be it this type of process learning, or research, or “side” reading—that is, pieces that might not necessarily connect directly with the process, but do affect it in ways that, after the fact, reveal their nature and contribution. (We do find the books and pieces we need at the time we need to find them.)

Capital “L” Literature

The question of capital “L” literature, or what is “formulaic”—what does that mean? McKee’s words seek out depths of emotion and empathy, and heights of how far human story can take us. Does Save the Cat do that? I don’t know. I do know that McKee re-examines words and phrases that get tossed around in writing classes—yes even the outlining class. Yes, he includes charts and numbers, but he goes far beyond. We’ll look at some of his language here. And even a chart!

He states numbers, suggests that the ideal number of “events” (more commonly we use the word “scene”) for a screen-play is 40-60. For a stage-play, he suggests less than 40. And for a novel, 60 plus. Sometimes numbers such as these are useful. But they should not come before words. With this chart, he reminds the reader that it is “only a foundation, not a formula” with a note about “caution.”

Is it “form” or “formula” if, halfway through this tome, McKee says that the “first major event (that is, when ‘nothing can return to what it was’) occurs within the first 25 percent of the telling.” Or is is Story? Is it just a sign on the path saying ‘You are here’?

On using such charts

If you do hold your novel to such a chart, when? When the idea first enters your mind? After the first draft? After draft ten? As a “check” when you’re feeling lost? After you’ve reviewed the nature of the story itself?

Is the writer trying to fill the blanks before much else has occurred? Where is the story?

I sewed a teddy bear for each of my sons. What strange things to create, I learned. The process of turning right-side out and stuffing was always a bit anxious… to push in just the right amount, to get a feel for how much had to be pushed into the arms and legs. I couldn’t just fill and then push; each had to be worked through. More than once, I had to pull out stuffing and begin again. One time I realized I had to take apart a snout and re-sew; I’d gotten the curve of the seam so wrong, that the outcome was a mess. I had to turn it inside-out again, and re-do.

Then the moment of truth, when the bear actually took the shape it was supposed to—the nose filled out, the elbows curved, the belly rounded. All firm enough for a child to hold, and soft enough to hug.

The chart might be the teddy bear.

Trio of character, plot, theme

The ancient argument of what comes first, character or plot, really has as its only possible answer: both.

The character question is too often accompanied by that word “stakes”—a tiresome word indeed. At least, for me. And the “What does the character want?” That question becomes a whine after about five minutes.

Human nature is a subtle thing, nuanced and shifting. Think of those you’ve known for decades: are they still the person you met? “Stakes” has to go beyond “goal.”

The “stakes” or “goals” can be—and probably should be, because they are all of the following: conscious, sub-conscious, unconscious. We act and react, and at times seem to have no idea why. Character is necessary; character is slippery. Character in isolation of story is not enough to care about. Character does not exist without Story.

“Story is metaphor for life.” (page 25)

“…a story well told gives you the very thing you cannot get from life: meaningful emotional experience. In life, experiences become meaningful with reflection in time…” (page 111)

That is, with the work of reflecting on the idea and the shaping of it. This takes Time.

McKee takes the word “plot” and calls it “story,” and says that story must come first. He provides a convincing argument. (Much as I love character. But I get it.)

This shift, from thinking Story instead of Plot, can take you out of “formula” mode and into “form.” Classical form. Classical because it is universal and enduring.

“Theme” falls into generic mode, too. For McKee, “theme” becomes “controlling idea.”

“The Controlling Idea of a completed story must be expressible in a single sentence. After the Premise is first imagined and the work is evolving, explore everything and anything that comes to mind. Ultimately, however, the film must be molded around one idea… Far more is captured within the web of a story that can be stated in words—subtleties, subtexts, conceits, double meanings, richness of all kinds. A story becomes a kind of living philosophy that the audience members grasp as a whole, in a flash, without conscious thought—a perception married to their life experiences. But the irony is this:

The more beautifully you shape your work around one clear idea, the more meanings audiences will discover… as they take your idea and follow its implications into every aspect of their lives. Conversely, the more ideas you try to pack into a story, they more they implode upon themselves, until the film collapses into a rubble of tangential notions, saying nothing.” (page 115)

Read through that, with care, multiple times. I had to share it—there is so much in these words. So much that asks of us to tell a worthy story, and even as we labour to bring that story to others with all the “principles” and demands, there is still—always—the piece to absorb, to make unconscious, to evoke life itself while not revealing that grappling thing we do. We grapple with our work to the point where the labour is no longer revealed—any more than we see the studs and joists of a well-built home.

Also worth sharing:

…it’s important to realize that whatever inspires the writing need not stay in the writing. A Premise is not precious. As long as it contributes to the growth of story, keep it, but should the telling take a left turn, abandon the original inspiration to follow the evolving story. The problem is not to start writing, but to keep writing and renewing inspiration. We rarely know where we’re going; writing is discovery. ~~ page 113 (my emphasis)

The spirit of this—rarely knowing, being open—permeates McKee’s work.

And scene

Something as straight ahead as the word “scene,” and McKee changes it up to “event.” But “event” is self-explanatory. So often writers want to know what, exactly, is a “scene.” It is when “something happens”—some piece of change, growth.

“A story event creates meaningful change in the life situation of a character that is expressed and experienced in terms of a value.” (page 33—my emphasis)

Value

McKee’s thoughts on the deteriorating of “Story” in recent decades are rooted, he believes, in the “erosion of values.”

“Values, the positive/negative charges of life,” he says, “are at the soul of our art.” And we have, currently, a “great confusion of values.”

While this might all sound rather dire, and maybe even “conservative,” his use of “positive/negative” values actually shape the “events” within a story. “Values” push the story, and move into a thoughtful and human space.

Think about where you are on this.

“Writers who cannot grasp the truth of our transitory existence, who have been mislead by the counterfeit comforts of the modern world, who believe that life is easy once you know how to play the game, give conflict a false inflection.” (page 211)

This is the “value” of which he speaks.

Positive and negative

You might think of this as Dutch licorice—a touch of salty with the sweet, together with the rich flavour of licorice. This is what gives us the depth of work that resonates.

“Look closely at each scene you’ve written and ask: What value is at stake in my character’s life at this moment? Love? Truth? What? How is that value charged at the top of the scene? Positive? Negative? Some of both? Make a note. Next turn to the close of the scene… make a note… compare. If the answer… is the same note you made at the opening, you now have… to ask: Why is this scene in my script?” (page 35)

He speaks to the “gap” between positive and negative values:

“The writer must pry open the gap. To do so, he asks the question writers have been asking themselves since time began: ‘What is the opposite of that?’” (page 177)

These ideas of “gaps” are such useful ways to think of the process. Almost brings a physicality to the work.

Expectations

McKee asks us to consider another gap, this one between what we expect of a scene/event, and what actually happens.

“…the gap between expectation and result is far more than a matter of cause and effect. In the most profound sense, the break between the cause as it seemed and the effect as it turns out marks the point where the human spirit and the world meet. On one side is the world as we believe it to be, on the other is reality as it actually is. In this gap is the nexus of story, the caldron that cooks our tellings. Here, the writer finds the most powerful, life-bending moments.” (page 152—my emphasis)

Conflict

In McKee’s thoughts on setting he cites ‘level of conflict’ as one of four elements of “setting.” This is an interesting way to reflect on setting. I would add that a consideration of the level of “risk” might add to this.

“…to live meaningfully is to be at perpetual risk.” (page 149)

Risk-taking creates conflict. Where is “risk” in the character’s life? Where is the level of risk in the “event”? (What is life lived without risk?)

And then: Make it seem as if you have forgotten all you ever learned

Then, after you have ingested the phrases, ideas, the Journeys and maps, after you have come to know the form of Story:

What you want—ultimately—to do, is to forget it all. And write. I suspect this is how and why E.B. White said he didn’t think about structure when he wrote Charlotte’s Web.

In Susan Sontag’s On Photography, she says of photographers that they need “to resist their own knowingness and to remystify what they do.” (page 126)

This is true of writers, and perhaps all artists in varying degrees. It’s why we practice and rehearse and draft and play; when it’s time to work, artistic muscle knows what to do, and we can let wonder seep in and do what it needs to do.

At times, it’s good to remind ourselves of why we are here.

This page resonates. While you can carve out “useful tips” in this book, there is a push from McKee to go further, to honour “Story”—and self—as should be.

“Faced with irreconcilable choices, such as pace versus empathy, the wise writer redesigns the story to preserve what’s vital. You’re free to break of bend convention, but for one reason only: to put something more important in its place.” (page 232)

No short cuts

“Of the total creative effort represented in a finished work, 75 percent or more of a writer’s labor goes into designing story… Designing story tests the maturity and insight of the writer, his knowledge of society, nature, and the human heart.” (page 19)

I love this quote: it is permission—if we need it—to dive deeply. I think McKee manages to find the (difficult!) line of finding/creating Structure while letting the mystery, the unknown live undisturbed. Craft and Art, together. Even as we ache for an easier way, we know this is how it has to be. He knows the nature of the 75% as well as the 25%.

I’ll share a table I’m creating as I work through my own current novel, using some iteration of McKee’s ideas. The controlling thought for my story is: What happens when you take loved ones for granted?

Note the column off to the right, that looks at “conflict” and “risk” and attempts to place a numerical value on it—this, for me to hold up, to question. Nothing in stone, but all to be considered, worked with and through. Such notes might alert me to a potential “hole in the bucket,” and guide me to ways to mend.

My table has more than 60 rows, and I note the points at which “everything changes” and “nothing can return to what it was.” This will indicate the number of “acts.”

I have found that looking for the negative (opposite) value is, for me, a most useful point. It moves my mind and heart in new ways. It pushes me to seek out detail. In the near future I hope to write posts on both “symbolism” (because it’s easy to either let it pass unnoticed—when we’ve in fact worked hard subconsciously to this end—or be heavy-handed!) as well as Keats “negative capability”—something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. Both of these posts will circle around this one, too—really, all thoughts and workings around writing so connect.

Loosely

This has not been an easy piece to put together. I suspect we’ll return again to this topic.

Only once have I fully outlined a novel before writing, and that was the second time I did the 3 Day Novel contest. That experience let me know that that approach does not work for me; the joy drained out of the project.

Instead, my time for outlining comes some point after the first draft is complete or close to completion. I start out with an Idea, and it either sits in my head awhile, and I’ll jot notes, or I’ll start to write, stop, start.

Only once I’ve begun to write do I begin to find questions about the project. I might research. I might buy a notebook specifically for that project. I don’t hand-write as a rule, but for such thought-notes, I do.

The type of charting I might do, as above, only comes after I am deeply into the work.

I’ve taken to heart Arthur Miller’s idea that if he knew and understood the “theme” to a work any time before the point of being three-quarters of the way through first draft, he would toss it. That makes sense to me… in spite of my understanding of McKee’s idea of “controlling idea.” I also understand what McKee is saying about the single-focus.

Eventually I will close in on both idea and focus.

“…if a plot works out exactly as you first planned, you’re not working loosely enough to give room to your imagination and instincts. Your story should surprise you again and again. Beautiful story design is a combination of the subject found, the imagination at work, and the mind loosely but wisely executing the craft.” (page 118)

So while he suggests you know the controlling idea, don’t feel bound to it. Or if bound, let it be with elastic!

Passing of time

Another piece of this process that has become significant, is that of doing my utmost to get my first draft out, and complete, in a quicker time frame that I used to when my children were young, and I was busy teaching.

I now make an effort not to let a first draft straggle along. The reason? Not because the controlling idea changes or the story shifts out of control… but because I have realized just how much I can change, and how that affects my work, in everything from “values” to language and pacing.

So I work to pull it together, ready for thought and planning after the fact. I used to worry that this “added” to writing time, but now know it is part of the process.

And the process takes as long as it takes.

~~~

This is a long piece. And there is still so much to say.

I’ve used ideas: of bucket, stormy shipwreck, sewing, photography… Consider what is your working-metaphor for your process, and how you can use it to shape what you do.

Glad you’re here for the company.

Thoughts? Questions? Post away…