To understand the three-act structure, we need first to consider its origin. Aristotle wrote about this framework in his Poetics, using it to explain specifically how Greek tragedy was put together. Over the years, many other writers and thinkers (particularly in Western culture) have expanded on this structure, applying it more broadly to all types of storytelling.

At the same time, it’s important to acknowledge that there are many cultures where the three-act structure is not the predominant form, so we need to recognize that while this framework applies to a lot of fiction, it is far from globally universal. That said, this structure is compatible with a broad range of stories across many different genres, so it is useful to understand how it works.

In fact, I’m thinking of doing a series of newsletters where I analyze different films or books according to this structure, showing just how broadly it applies. I thought for today, it would make sense to start with a discussion of what the three-act structure actually is. Then we can come back and apply it to different works in later installments.

The Three-Act Structure

When I think of the three-act structure, I use a simple formula: 3 + 2 = 1. There are three acts, plus two pivot points (where one act transitions to the next), and together these components equal one classic story structure. Most stories have three additional components: the midpoint at the center of Act 2, the climax in Act 3, and the denouement at the very end of the story. Let’s walk through these components step by step.

We begin the story in Act 1. This section needs to accomplish a couple of things. First, it must establish the status quo, where we learn what “normal” looks like in the character’s world. Think of this as being like the “before” picture in an infomercial. Without it, the “after” picture has no context and we have no basis of comparison. The same thing is true with storytelling. If we don’t establish the status quo, we have no sense for the transformation that comes later in the narrative.

Act 1 is also where you make five promises to your reader. These are: (1) a character to root for, (2) the voice of the narrative, (3) the world where the story takes place, (4) a problem, usually hinting at the central conflict, and (5) an event that prompts the story to start at that specific place and time. Most stories establish these promises within the first chapter, but there are some cases where an author might delay one or more of them to create a specific effect.

For example, in the book The Wainscott Weasel by Tor Seidler, the main character doesn’t appear until chapter 2. In fact, during the whole first chapter, the reader comes to believe that a different character might be the protagonist. It’s not until we’re deep into chapter 2 that we realize who the main character really is.

I had the pleasure of having this author as my professor in the MFA program, so when I read this book, I asked him: “What was that about? Why did you delay the appearance of that main character?” He explained that the protagonist for the story was extremely shy, and it would not have been true to his personality to put him front and center in chapter 1. Instead, it made more sense to hold him back and wait to introduce him when the story was more underway. This is an example of a story that artfully breaks one of the five promises.

When we get to the end of Act 1, we reach the first pivot point in the narrative. This is a point where an external event occurs to shake things up for the main character, and then that character must make an important internal choice. Usually, that external event is easier to spot, but the internal choice is much more important. Think of it this way: a story is not a series of things that happen to your character. It’s a series of decisions your character makes in response to these external events. If the character is just buffeted to and fro, it does not make for a compelling story. Instead, the character should have agency and should drive the story forward. In the case of this plot point, it should operate as a “point of no return,” where—once the character makes their choice—there is no way back to the way things were.

After the first pivot point, we are now firmly planted in Act 2. This is often the longest of three acts and the hardest to get through, which is why many writers call it “the muddle in the middle.” One way to help keep Act 2 moving forward is to bring new supporting characters into play or build up subplots. Think of Act 2 in the film The Wizard of Oz, where Dorothy has landed in Oz and is exploring this magical new world. Here she meets her three new travel companions: the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion. She also has several run-ins with her new nemesis, the Wicked Witch of the West. Had the film been nothing but Dorothy and Toto exploring Oz by themselves, it would have been horribly boring. Adding these supporting characters keeps Act 2 moving forward and gives the story momentum.

Another way to make progress through Act 2 is to use the Rule of Three. This technique groups similar elements together in threes. The number three is important because it is the smallest number where you can create a pattern and then break it. You can use the Rule of Three in any number of ways, for example: three supporting characters, three obstacles the protagonist faces, three different locations in the story’s world, or three significant items they discover on their journey.

The Rule of Three usually has two different flavors to it, and I call these the (1) Three Little Pigs and (2) Goldilocks. In the Three Little Pigs version, you have two similar things followed by a third that breaks the pattern. The first two pigs build their houses out of flimsy materials (straw and sticks) and the wolf easily blows them to the ground. The third house, however, is made of bricks, so it withstands the wolf’s huffing and puffing. In the Goldilocks version, you have two elements that are polar opposites of each other and a third one that is “just right.” The first two elements are similar to each other in that they are extremes, while the third element is the happy medium. When you find that Act 2 is beginning to stall, ask yourself: is there a way to use the Rule of Three to keep the momentum going?

Another important component of Act 2 is the midpoint. Often called the “mirror moment,” the midpoint is a moment of self-reflection where the protagonist looks inward and decides whether they like who they’ve become (and if not, what they’re going to do about it). The midpoint is different from the pivot points that occur where one act transitions to the next. It does not emphasize the character’s choice, but their inward state. If the character does make a choice at this juncture, it’s usually one that has to do with how they see themselves and who they want to be going forward. If the protagonist does not like who they have become, they can choose to make a change and the second half of the story becomes like a reversal—a mirror image—of the first. Not all stories have this mirror image structure, but many do have this moment of self-reflection at the midpoint.

At the end of Act 2, we come to another pivot point. Here the character comes to their lowest point, the moment where it seems like all is lost and nothing can possibly make things right. This is again a moment of choice for the protagonist, though in this case it is more subtle. The character must choose whether to continue on their current path, give up, or go in a new direction. Readers know the character is not going to give up. (It would be the world’s worst ending if they did!) Still, giving up must feel like a reasonable choice that the character could make. Just like with the first pivot point, there is usually an external event that drives this moment in the story followed by the character’s internal choice. Something must happen to make it feel like all is lost for the protagonist and then they must choose to keep going despite how bad things seem. The moment where they make that choice is often called the “dark night of the soul.”

Once we pass this second pivot point, we are solidly in Act 3 of the story. Here is where the tension rises until the story’s central conflict comes to a head at last. This moment is the climax and it is a scene (or sequence of scenes) where the major dramatic question of the story finally gets answered one way or another. The major dramatic question (or MDQ) is the question that drives the story. For example, the MDQ for Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games would be “Will Katniss survive the games?” and the MDQ for The Wizard of Oz film would be “Will Dorothy get back to Kansas?” Usually the MDQ is closely tied to the main character’s primary desire, the thing they most want in the story. Katniss wants to survive the Games and Dorothy wants to go back home, so it makes sense that the MDQs would focus on whether or not they achieve those things.

There are four possible ways in which a story can resolve at the climax, and these depend on the answers to two questions: (1) does the character get what they want? and (2) do they still want that thing? The diagram below shows the four possible endings based on the answers to these questions.

A happy ending occurs when the character gets what they want and they still want that thing (as in The Hunger Games or The Wizard of Oz). A tragic ending is when the character doesn’t get what they want, but they still want that thing (like in any Shakespearean tragedy). Where things get interesting is when the character doesn’t still want the thing they first pursued. If the character doesn’t get what they want but they don’t want it anymore, we have a “change of heart” ending (for example, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen). If the character does get what they want, but they don’t want it anymore, it’s called a “be careful what you wish for…” ending, (example: Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton). Note that this last type of ending is relatively rare in novels. Often when a character gets what they want, it happens at the midpoint of the story (often called a Temporary Triumph), and then the character has that moment of introspection and realizes maybe what they wanted wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. We’re more likely to see this scenario as an ending in short stories and novellas than in novels.

Regardless of the type of ending, the climax is the moment where the central conflict of the story resolves, and after that happens, all we have left is the denouement. I’ve written about the denouement before. It’s that “sigh of relief” after the climax, that extra scene or two that wraps things up and gives the story a sense of closure. If the story were to end right at the point of the climax, it would be extremely unsatisfying for the reader. If the job of the climax is to answer the MDQ, then the job of the denouement is to answer the question: “So what?” At this juncture in the story, the reader wants to know what the point of this whole journey was. That’s the purpose of the denouement.

I once heard a writer explain that the best story endings are both surprising and inevitable. The reader shouldn’t be able to see the ending coming from a mile away, but when it gets there, it should feel like the story couldn’t have ended any other way. Sometimes the denouement also opens the door to more possibilities for where the story could go. This is especially true with books in a series, where one book’s ending might drop hints as to where the next book might go. Still, even in a series, the story needs to have a sense of closure, with each installment feeling like it has a true ending and not leaving the reader at a cliffhanger.

There you have it: an overview of the three-act structure. If you’re someone who loves plotting your story from beginning to end, this 3 + 2 = 1 formula can give you a basic framework, but you can fill in additional details to create your own unique story. If you’re a pantser, on the other hand (i.e. someone who writes by the seat of their pants), the 3 + 2 = 1 formula gives you a general direction without boxing you into a specific plot. You may not even use this structure while you’re drafting your book, and may only apply the concepts later in the revision stages. Regardless of your approach, I hope this format gives you some insights into story structure and that it helps you craft a compelling narrative.

Until next time, keep writing and keep being awesome!

The post Writer Fuel: The Three-Act Structure appeared first on DIY MFA.

Now, as we move forward with act one, we approach a crucial signpost scene that, though quick, makes a big difference escalating tension and exciting readers, even though it’s not the major conflict.

What am I talking about? James Scott Bell’s fourth signpost scene in, Super Structure: The Key to Unleashing the Power of Story: Trouble Brewing.

Is Trouble Brewing the Main Conflict in the Story?

Although Trouble Brewing does create an unsettled feeling in readers (and characters), it’s not the major conflict in the story. Not yet. Creating a sense of trouble while holding off on the main conflict is a smart tactic, because it hints at something bigger coming in the next chapter or two.

In Mary Poppins, the real conflict of the story (explored in act two) can’t occur until Mary Poppins herself appears on the Banks’s front doorstep. This doesn’t mean that everything before Mary Poppins is pointless or dull, and the scenes leading up to this major plot point most certainly are not. Why is this? Because there is a disturbance, a call to adventure, an argument against transformation, and (finally) trouble brewing.

“Trouble” that Bert draws our attention to in his song about the “winds in the east.” Right before the storm unleashes, Bert comments how something that’s “happened has happened before” — and with a smirk on his face!

The people surrounding Bert (and the reader) might not know what that “something” is, but you better believe that by suggesting something is coming, Bert’s audience (readers included) fall deeper into the story. We have to find out what Bert means!

Trouble Brewing in J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan

Let’s look at another example. This one from J. M. Barrie’s beloved masterpiece, Peter Pan. Now, for those of you who have read the original tale of Peter Pan, you’ll remember that Mrs. Darling actually spots Peter in the nursery before he sweeps her children off to Neverland.

Peter’s first appearance is not the Trouble Brewing scene, but it does signal the potential trouble that Mr. and Mrs. Darling worry about before leaving the house.

Look at this passage following Mrs. Darling’s encounter with Peter. Here, Mr. and Mrs. Darling plan to leave for the evening while Nana, the Darling’s “nanny” (who happens to be a dog), is tied up outside. Usually, Nana resides inside the nursery and tends to the children, but not tonight. And why not tonight?

Because Nana’s relocation outside provides Barrie the opportunity to brew trouble in his scene, and hint at the big event that is about to come. A hint that grabs our attention with Nana’s bark:

“That is not Nana’s unhappy bark,” she said, little guessing what was about to happen; “that is her bark when she smells danger.”

Danger!

“Are you sure, Wendy?”

“Oh yes.”

Mrs. Darling quivered and went to the window. It was securely fastened. She looked out, and the night was prepared with stars. They were crowding round the house. As if curious to see what was to take place there, but she did not notice this, nor that one or two of the smaller ones winked at her.

Based on this passage alone, it’s safe to say Barrie is a brilliant storyteller. With such subtle dialogue and commentary, he accomplishes a few things:

• Directs the readers (and characters) attention to something unusual
• Shows us why we can anticipate trouble through sound and action (Nana’s bark, the stars winking at Mrs. Darling)
• Makes us uneasy by locking us into Mrs. Darling’s emotions, since she was the character who saw Peter the previous night and now the one who “quivered and went to the window.”

Why This Works

Act one dedicates time to introducing the Lead and the Lead’s everyday world following the Disturbance (signpost one).  Like chess pieces set before a match, authors orchestrate act one as a space that sets players and important tools (that will play an important role in the plot later) in motion. These decisions establish the tone of the book, promising readers the type of tension they can expect for the rest of the story.

Trouble Brewing establishes the least of the worst that is about to come, which will either grab the reader or encourage them to close that book. But if there is a Lead readers care about, and trouble on her horizon, they’ll keep reading. They’ll hunger for more.

Try Some Exercises

Now that you understand what Trouble Brewing is, try this exercise to help you write your own Trouble Brewing scene.

1. Identify the main conflict in your story (the conflict your character will explore more in act two).
2. Make a list of ten things that could disturb your Lead in act one.
3. Review your first three signpost scenes. Does the disturbance lead to a call to adventure? Does your call to adventure lead to your argument against transformation? Does each signpost scene create as much (maybe more) tension than the one before?
4. Now, make a list of five possible events (try to make one for each of the five senses — i.e. smell, sight, etc.) that could be considered “trouble” for your Lead. Make sure these could build to your main conflict. Some of these might include:
   • Someone says something that upsets your Lead, or makes her nervous (in Gone With the Wind, the men talk about war)
   • Something strange is happening with the weather (Mary Poppins)
   • Something a Lead takes extra good care of is misplaced
   • Something smells different than usual
   • Someone has a bad feeling in the pit of their stomach
5. Pick one of these events and write a scene where your Lead notices this “trouble brewing” right before the real trouble (or main conflict) actually does
6. Share this post and your scene with your fellow writers!

What kind of trouble is brewing in your story? Can you think of scenes from other stories that suggest the main conflict by brewing trouble in an earlier scene? Share your comments below using #letstalkbooks!

Abigail K. Perry is a speculative fiction writer living in Massachusetts where she teaches creative writing and film production. She received her B.S. in TV, Radio, and Film from Syracuse University and her Master’s in Education from Endicott College. She worked as a creative production intern in for Overbrook Entertainment and as a marketing and sales intern for Charlesbridge Books, and currently works as an editorial intern for P.S. Literary.

Abigail is a member of the DIY MFA street team and a loyal follower of Writer’s Digest, where she has attended various conferences, retreats, workshops, and webinars. You can read more about her work on her website www.akperry.com or follow her on Twitter @A_K_Perry

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