Scenes are an essential component of storytelling because they are the fundamental building blocks of any story. Without scenes, all you have is a string of exposition (“this happened, then this happened, then this happened”). That does not create an immersive story experience for your reader. Scenes give readers the feeling that they are right there in the story, experiencing the events alongside the characters. If you imagine a story like a movie playing in your head, scenes are what create that feeling.

Why Scenes Matter

I like to think of scenes as the lowest common denominator of storytelling. A scene is the smallest possible unit that still contains all the essential elements of a story: character, plot, world, and theme. Any smaller unit than a scene—a paragraph or a sentence, for example—might contain a couple of those elements, but likely will not contain all four.

To me, scenes are the cellular component of the story organism. Just like an individual cell contains all the same DNA as the full organism, a scene contains all of the story’s “DNA” by representing all four storytelling elements. And just as different cells may manifest the DNA in different ways—a brain cell is different from a muscle cell after all—different scenes will highlight different aspects of the story, but they still contain all four of the basic components.

In other words, a scene taps into all of the five W’s: who, what, when, where, and why. The “who” is the character (or characters) present in that scene. The “what” is what happens, or the plot events of that scene. The “when/where” represents the world as it appears in that moment, and the “why” is the theme and how it is infused into the scene at hand.

I’ve had a lot of writers ask me: “How can I tell the difference between one scene and the next?” While this is not a hard-and-fast rule, I like to look at the 5 Ws, and when one or more W changes, that’s often a clue that the scene might be changing as well. For example, if a character enters or leaves the scene, if we change location, or if a new plot event comes into play, those are often possible indicators that we are shifting from one scene to the next. While this is not always the case, it’s usually a sign that we should take a closer look at the scene and see if it has indeed changed.

Scenes vs. Chapters

Another question that often comes up for writers is this distinction between scenes and chapters. For some writers, scenes and chapters are one and the same in that each chapter is a single scene. Still, it’s important to understand the distinction between the two, because they are, in fact, different.

If scenes are the smallest unit of storytelling, chapters are an artificial construct created by writers to deliver a particular experience to the reader. This means you can have many scenes within a single chapter or one scene spanning multiple chapters. Shorter chapters make the pacing feel faster while longer chapters can stretch out the pacing and increase suspense.

For example, in the novel Sweethearts by Sara Zarr, there are two timelines, one in the present and one in the past. The present-day timeline is paced with moderate-length scenes while the past timeline is one long scene stretched out over the entire length of the book. This creates a sense of suspense. The reader wants to keep turning pages to find out what happened in that intense scene in the past timeline.

Another example is the chapter break during the Reaping scene of The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. The first chapter of the book includes a few different scenes—Katniss and Gale hunting, Katniss and Prim at home getting ready, and the beginning of the Reaping scene. The chapter ends abruptly at the moment when Prim’s name is drawn from the tribute jar. The scene then continues into the second chapter, where Katniss volunteers to take her sister’s place. That chapter break (right at the height of tension) builds suspense with a cliffhanger at the end of chapter one. Readers want to keep turning pages to find out what Katniss will do.

As these examples show, while in some cases you might have scenes and chapters that are equivalent, chapters are an artistic choice and a tool that writers can use to create a desired effect in the story. Scenes, on the other hand, are a fundamental unit of storytelling, not an artificial construct. 

Scene vs. Exposition

If scenes are the “show” part of storytelling, then exposition is the “tell.” Many writing teachers hammer home the idea that you should “show, don’t tell” but I prefer to think of it as “show and tell.” The truth is that showing and telling are both essential parts of storytelling. Scenes and exposition both perform important functions and one is not necessarily better than the other.

Scenes, as mentioned before, have a certain immediacy to them. The reader feels like they are right there with the characters, experiencing the moment at hand alongside them. Scenes have an immersive feel to them and oftentimes we don’t even realize we are reading when a scene really pulls us in.

Exposition, on the other hand, is great for skipping time or zipping from one location to another. If scenes are like the basic cells in a story organism, I think of exposition as the connective tissue that helps to hold everything together. Exposition is what allows us to say “Five years later” or “The next morning in Timbuktu.” It allows us to skim over the less important (or less interesting) parts of the story, until we get to another section that merits a scene.

Consider this example. Suppose you have a character who walks to work every day by the same route. The reader doesn’t need to know about every crack in the sidewalk or every random stranger that crosses the character’s path. If it’s a regular, ordinary day, the story can just say “He walked to work that day” and then craft a scene when things get interesting.

But let’s suppose, on a particular day, something dramatic happens on the way to work, like they meet the love of their life. Now it makes sense to craft a full scene, so we can capture that dramatic moment. Exposition lets us skip over the mundane, everyday stuff, while scene lets us dive into an important moment for the character.

The Elements of Scene Structure

At DIY MFA, we consider scene structure as it relates to each of the four story elements: character, plot, world, and theme. I like to think of these story elements as mapping directly onto the four natural elements: fire, water, earth, and air. 

Plot, for example, represents water or the ebb and flow of the storytelling. The plot events are often a sequence of actions and reactions, where events happen and characters respond, prompting other events to happen, and so forth.

When you put the elements of a scene together, you end up with something akin to the image below. The bead-like shape is intentional because scenes are like beads on a string, each one building on the one before and helping the necklace take shape.

This four-pronged approach to scene craft is only the tip of the iceberg. In our signature DIY MFA programs (like Plan to Plot), we go much deeper into these story elements and how they intersect with each other. For example, key moments in the plot thread overlap with significant points in the character’s arc through the scene. This is not coincidental.

Do a Deep Dive!

If you’re curious about scene craft and structure, one of the best ways to understand the techniques is to do some close reading and analyze what you see on the page. Choose a scene from a favorite novel, memoir, or story and see if you can tease apart the four different elements.

What sections relate to the character’s arc through the scene? What components are the ebb and flow of plot events? How does the author ground the scene in place and time, and what symbols or thematic elements help bring the story’s theme to life? See if you can identify and analyze the different parts of a scene. After that, you’re well on your way to crafting great scenes yourself. 

Until next time, keep writing and keep being awesome!

P.S. For more info on Gabriela Pereira, the founder and instigator of DIY MFA, check out her profile page.

The post Writer Fuel: Scene Craft and How to Create Stronger Scenes appeared first on DIY MFA.

The Importance of Reading with Purpose

When I used to interview guest authors on DIY MFA Radio, I used to end each episode with the same question: “What’s your #1 tip for writers?” Hands down, the most common answer to that question was: “Read, read, read,” and it’s no wonder why. Reading is one of the most crucial parts of a literary life. If writers want to improve their craft, they need to read.

A writer who doesn’t read is like a chef who doesn’t eat. They have no idea if what they’re creating is any good because they can’t put their work into context. Reading with purpose allows us to see how our books fit in the greater literary landscape and understand how to make our writing better. It also allows us to see how other writers solve certain problems and we can borrow those solutions and apply them to our own work.

Note that this doesn’t mean we are copying someone else’s writing, not by a long shot. Instead, think of it as like being a mechanic, looking under the hood of a car to see how it works. When we read with purpose, we analyze another writer’s work to see how they do things, then we apply the concepts to our own writing to make it better. We’re not copying the author’s actual words or ideas, but we’re looking at the way they do things and then borrowing some of those strategies.

What Reading with Purpose Entails

Reading with purpose means reading with an eye toward your writing. It means having a core set of books on hand—what I call “the essentials”—so you have ready resources when you need them. It means being strategic when you select books, so your reading will help you with your current work-in-progress. Most importantly, it means reading with an analytical perspective, so you can understand more fully how a piece of literature works, and apply some of those concepts to your own writing. There are three important components of reading with purpose:

1. Having a select group of essential books on hand
2. Compiling a reading list that servers our goals
3. Reading with a writer’s eye

Essential Books to Have on Hand

There are three books that I recommend every writer have in their library. I know what you’re thinking—only three? Yes, you only need three, and these three will be different for each writer. If you’re like most writers, you probably have more than one book in each of these categories, but at the minimum I recommend having one of each. To remember the three books, just think of your ABCs.

• A = Anthology of Short Form Work
• B = Book of Prompts
• C = Craft Reference

Anthology of Short Form Work: It’s useful to have an anthology of short stories, preferably in your chosen genre. If you write memoir, then look for an anthology of essays, and if you write poetry, get your hands on an anthology of poems. Make sure that what you choose is a true anthology with stories by a variety of authors and not a collection by a single author. This is because you want a book that represents the broadest possible range of voices. My go-to short story anthology is The Art of the Short Story, edited by Dana Gioia and R.S. Gwynn. It’s not super-new but it has the classics.

Book of Prompts: A book of prompts is always good to have on hand. I’m especially a fan of prompt books that are organized according to topic (dialogue prompts in one chapter, description prompts in another, etc.). The two prompt books I recommend are: The 3 A.M. Epiphany (and its sequel, The Four A.M. Breakthrough) by Brian Kiteley and the Now Write! series edited by Sherry Ellis and Laurie Lamson. Both series group the prompts by category, only in the Kiteley books, the prompts are by only one author, while in the Now Write! series, the prompts are from various different authors.

Craft Reference: It’s helpful to have a craft reference handy in case you run into questions you don’t know how to answer. Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style is, of course, the classic for matters regarding style and grammar. For broader craft topics, I love books by Donald Maass, Lisa Cron, and Steven James. For “small craft” (i.e., sentence-level stuff) check out Barbara Baig’s Spellbinding Sentences. And, of course, the DIY MFA book also gives an overview of general craft topics.

Building a Reading List

One of the most important parts of reading with purpose is compiling a reading list that truly serves your writing. I remember in the MFA program, reading some books that were completely irrelevant to what I was writing. I kept wondering “what’s the point?” It felt a bit like an exercise in futility. That’s why, when I started DIY MFA, one of the first things I did was develop a rubric so that writers could come up with their own reading list, their own syllabus. This rubric consists of four types of books:

1. Comps: Comparable books (i.e., comps) are similar to your book and would sit on the bookstore shelf next to yours. If a librarian were to recommend a book similar to yours, they would choose one of these comps.
2. Contextual: These are books you read for research. They may not be similar to your book in all respects, but they may have certain aspects in common, like the same setting, or a similar use of point of view. These books lend context to yours.
3. Contemporary: You need to keep your finger on the pulse of your genre or category. This is why it’s important to read a few contemporary books, so you can be aware of trends and know what’s new in your niche.
4. Classics: Everyone should read a classic at least once in a while. Keep in mind, classics don’t necessarily need to be hundreds (or thousands) of years old. Depending on your genre or category, books considered classics might actually be fairly recent.

Reading Like a Writer

I often call reading like a writer “reading like a revolutionary.” This is because when we read with a writer’s eye, we aren’t just passively taking in the story. Instead, we are actively analysing it, not just to understand, but to apply the concepts to our own writing. The key to reading like a writer is examining how the author does what they do on the page, and then considering which of those techniques you can borrow.

How to Read with Purpose

Reading with purpose is like swimming in the ocean: the swimmer is the reader and the ocean is the story. Like the ocean, the story has different layers of depth and reader-swimmers can explore some or all of those layers, depending on their inclination.

Ocean Surface: The WHAT

Most readers/swimmers skim across the surface, because that’s where the air is. At this surface level, they focus on the WHAT of the story (i.e., the logistics). At this level, the reader is con What’s happening? Who are the characters? What is the setting?

These basic, logistical considerations are what we focus on, particularly when we’re first developing as readers. These are the types of questions my kids would have to answer for homework in elementary school. They don’t require deep analysis, just a basic understanding of the facts.

There is nothing wrong with hanging out at the surface. That’s how most people read much of the time. This is the layer where you simply get carried away by a good story, and that’s a perfectly respectable way to read. But, if you want to read like a writer, you have to go deeper.

Coral Reef: The WHY

The second layer of reading is that in-between space between the ocean surface and the ocean floor. Imagine this layer as being like a coral reef with hundreds of colorful fish, lush corals, and brightly patterned shells. This reef represents the WHY of the story (i.e., the interpretation).

This is the layer where we consider deeper, more analytical questions. What does this story mean? Why did the author write this story? How does this story fit into the greater literary context? This is how we were taught to read in high school or college literature classes. We learned to go deeper than pure logistics, but still not quite all the way to the ocean floor.

Keep in mind, reading at this layer can be hard to sustain and you can’t do it indefinitely, just as a swimmer can’t stay underwater for hours on end. Instead, when we analyze literature in this way, we usually do so for contained, specific passages, rather than for the entirety of a book-length work.

Ocean Floor: The HOW

Finally, we get to the third layer. For this one, imagine you’re bobbing along on the surface of the ocean and then you spot a sparkling gem on the ocean floor. Then, you take a deep, gulping breath and you dive all the way to the bottom to retrieve it.

This is what we do when we read for the HOW. We look deep at another author’s work and we spot the gems, and we analyze what that author is doing to understand how exactly they managed to pull it off. Then, we take that gem and we see how we might apply it to our own work.

As with the coral reef layer, this deep dive is difficult to sustain for long passages. We can analyze a writer’s work at this profound level only for short passages. If we try to read an entire book at the ocean floor level, it will be very challenging. This is why reading like a writer is a delicate, aquatic dance, where we continuously shift up and down, from the surface to the ocean floor.

Personalized Anthology Project

One activity I often recommend to writers is to compile a personalized anthology. Whenever you read something and you come across a passage that captures your attention, make a photocopy and put it in a binder. Annotate each excerpt using the WHAT/WHY/HOW framework and once you have ten or more of them in the binder, sort them according to topic (character development, story structure, world-building, description, dialogue, etc.)

The idea here is that over time, you will amass a collection of excerpts specifically from books that are relevant to your writing—because they’re books you selected, not someone else like a professor. The fact that the passages are sorted by topic will make it easier for you to find what you need. Stumped by setting? Look at some of the world-building excerpts in your binder. Not only will they help you figure out craft-related techniques, but they will be directly relevant to what you’re writing.

Until next time, keep writing and keep being awesome!

P.S. For more info on Gabriela Pereira, the founder and instigator of DIY MFA, check out her profile page.

The post Writer Fuel: What It Means to Read with Purpose appeared first on DIY MFA.

I love this quote because I think it captures the nature of subplots to a T. The main plot is like a noun or verb in a sentence, it’s the part that conveys meaning and tells us what’s really going on. The subplot, on the other hand, really is like an adjective or maybe an adverb. It may add interest, but the main story can still exist without it.

Lately, I’ve had subplots on the brain, and today I wanted to talk about why subplots matter in the first place. If subplots are “sub” to the main plot, why do we even need them? If they don’t contribute to the main story, what’s the point? Why do subplots matter? Here are five good reasons.

1) A subplot makes the story more interesting.

Theoretically, we could go through life using mostly only nouns and verbs. I’m imagining a story set in a dystopian society where adjectives and adverbs are outlawed. People could still communicate and get their ideas across, but it would be boring. Adjectives and adverbs are what give sentences their flavor and make the language more interesting.

The same thing is true when it comes to plots and subplots. The main plot might drive the story forward, but the subplots add interest and give that main plot flavor. Without the subplot, the main plot might get boring.

For example, take the Wicked Witch of the West subplot in the film The Wizard of Oz. The main plot in that movie is Dorothy trying to get back to Kansas, but the Wicked Witch’s quest for the ruby slippers adds complications and makes the story more interesting. If it weren’t for the Wicked Witch, Dorothy could just meander through Oz at her leisure, and that would be boring. It’s the Witch who creates urgency and makes Dorothy want to get home right away. The Witch also complicates Dorothy’s journey, creating obstacles that she and her friends must overcome.

2) A subplot helps you get through the “muddle in the middle.”

Maybe you can relate to this experience. You start writing a story, and at first everything is zipping right along. You like the characters, the plot is interesting, you come up with a great series of events to kick off the story. But then, somewhere about fifty pages in… you stall out.

Welcome to the “muddle in the middle.”

The second act in any story is going to be a long slog. This is because this act is at least twice as long as acts one and three, sometimes even longer. The best way to get through that long stretch of the sagging middle is to add wrinkles in the form of subplots.

Keep in mind, shorter form work (like short stories, novelettes, or novellas) may forego subplots because they don’t have the space to include them. In short pieces, the main plot is sufficient to carry the story forward, and that’s good because the story’s meant to be short. We don’t want it to sprawl ad infinitum.

In novels, on the other hand, we need subplots to keep the story’s momentum moving forward. These subplots give the story variation, letting us focus on other threads aside from the main plot. This is especially important in the second act of the story, where momentum tends to flag and the plot tends to sag.

3) A subplot can help show a different side of the main character.

We all want characters who are three-dimensional and don’t feel flat. Yet sometimes it can be hard to do that without making your character do something that’s “out of character.” This is where subplots can help. They give you opportunities to show different sides of your main character, so we can see they’re not just hitting the same note over and over.

For example, in The Hunger Games, the subplot of Peeta being in love with Katniss gives opportunities for Katniss to show her softer side. When she hides out in the cave with him and feeds him the broth, we see Katniss playing “nurse,” which is definitely not something we would expect from her. Similarly, the Rue friendship subplot in The Hunger Games gives Katniss the opportunity to play the “protective big sister” role, and we see just how devastated she becomes when Rue dies and Katniss is unable to save her. Both of these subplots give us a chance to see a side to Katniss that she would not ordinarily show, especially not when she’s in survival mode.

4) A subplot can add complications to the main story.

Sometimes, a subplot can be used to raise the stakes of the main story. For example, in The Hunger Games, the Peeta subplot raises the stakes for the whole story. It is a foregone conclusion that in order for Katniss to win the games, everyone else must die. So, when Peeta declares his love for her, that’s a BIG problem and it makes her furious. After all, if she’s to win, at some point in the games, she’ll have to kill Peeta. And it’s that much harder for her to kill him if she knows he’s in love with her.

The Peeta love story adds additional complications to the main plot as the story evolves. For instance, at the start of act three, the Gamemakers announce that there has been a change of rules and now two tributes may be crowned victors, provided they’re from the same district. With this plot twist in play, Katniss can now allow herself to develop feelings for Peeta because she won’t have to kill him. If it were not for that change in the rules, Katniss would never have gone looking for Peeta and subsequently would not have nursed him back to health or kissed him in the cave.

Then, of course, when the Gamemakers change the rules yet again and reveal that only one tribute can win, at that point Katniss has had enough. Her frustration with the Gamemakers, coupled with a hint of feelings for Peeta, prompt her to pull out the berries and give them to Peeta. The two—seemingly out of their undying love for each other—pretend they’re about to eat the berries until the Gamemakers stop them and crown them both victors.

5) If a story is moving too fast, a subplot can help it slow down.

We see this in action movies all the time. The hero is out shooting up bad guys, but eventually, there comes a quiet moment where the hero and the love interest get together. That snippet of a love story slows the pace a little bit and gives the audience a chance to catch their breath.

For example, consider Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark. For most of the film, Marion’s character is almost like a partner in crime with Indy, going with him to Cairo and trying to find the Lost Ark. They get trapped together in the Well of Souls, but eventually escape and manage to get the Ark and get it onto a steamer to transport it back to London. It seems like they have escaped the bad guys, and they have a romantic moment. This scene serves to slow the plot and give the audience a moment to relax after all the action-packed tension.

Up until this point in the story, we have had very little actual romance between Marion and Indy. We know they have a romantic history because it’s alluded to in earlier scenes, and we know there’s romantic tension between them as well. But we don’t really get a romantic moment between these two characters until well into act three. This makes sense because the filmmakers would not want to slow the plot down too much too early in the story. At this late point in the plot, the film has earned a respite and the romantic subplot can come to the forefront for one quick scene.

As you can see, a subplot is an important part of the storytelling process. We use a subplot in any number of ways: to add interest to the main plot, to raise the stakes, or to show a different side of the main character. While you don’t want your subplot to overshadow your main plot, it can be a useful technique to help keep that story momentum going.

Now it’s your turn…

Consider your work-in-progress and ask yourself a few things about subplots. Grab a journal or a notebook and pen and noodle on the following questions.

• Do you have a subplot in your current project?
• If so, why is it necessary to your story?
• Does it fulfill any of the above reasons?
• Or does it serve an additional purpose not listed here?
• If the latter, what purpose does it serve?

Until next time, keep writing and keep being awesome!

P.S. For more info on Gabriela Pereira, the founder and instigator of DIY MFA, check out her profile page.

The post Writer Fuel: Why Your Book Needs a Subplot appeared first on DIY MFA.

If you need a quick review of the three-act structure, check out this article for an in-depth discussion of this framework.

Spoiler Alert! As with all our three-act analyses, I like to give a spoiler warning. This book in particular has a significant surprise at the end. If you’ve never read it before, you might want to do so before diving into this analysis because it will ruin the ending for you.

Okay, let’s do our analysis of The Great Gatsby.

ACT 1: The book starts with Nick Carraway telling us the story. He takes great pains from the outset to establish himself as an objective and truthful narrator. Nick moves to the fictional town of West Egg on Long Island, and spends time with Tom and Daisy Buchanan (who live on East Egg), as well as their friend Jordan Baker. At one point, Tom takes Nick to meet his mistress, Myrtle Wilson (wife of George Wilson), who lives in the valley of ashes between West Egg and the city.

Throughout the first act, Gatsby barely appears. In fact, it feels as though the story is really about Nick. Gatsby is mentioned several times, but we don’t actually meet him until the first pivot point. 

Character: We meet everyone but the protagonist. Nick is the narrator and we also meet Tom, Daisy, Jordan, Myrtle, and George (as well as several other minor characters) but Gatsby barely appears.

The only contact we have with Gatsby in Act 1 is at the end of Chapter 1, when Nick sees him walk out onto his dock to look at the green light on Daisy’s dock across the water. Aside from that one instance, Gatsby is only mentioned but never shows up on the page in Act 1.

Voice: This book is a classic example of the peripheral first-person point of view (POV), in that the character narrating the story is not, in fact, the protagonist. In this case, the protagonist is Gatsby, but Nick is the one telling the story.

I think Fitzgerald structured it using this POV for a few reasons. The peripheral POV gives us a “way in” with Gatsby. He’s not a particularly relatable (or even likeable) character, but Nick Carraway is. By putting the story in Nick’s POV, we can relate better to Gatsby.

Fitzgerald withholds Gatsby in Act 1 as a way to build up the mystique around his character and to create anticipation. If we were in Gatsby’s POV from the beginning, it would be hard to create that kind of mystery.

World: This story is set on Long Island and in New York City during the roaring twenties, with all the glitz and glamour that this time period entails. We have a subtle distinction between the two primary locations on Long Island: West Egg (“new money”) and East Egg (“old money”).

Social class is a big factor in this story. Tom comes from old money and Daisy is married into it. Gatsby is new money, and despite his attempts at extravagance, he never quite manages to belong. Nick is somewhat of an outsider. He comes from more humble origins (though still with a fair amount of privilege), allowing him to have a more outside perspective on the other characters.

Problem: The immediate problem is that Nick wants to make his way on the East Coast, having moved there from the Midwest. He’s trying to belong, much in the same way that we see Gatsby trying to belong later on.

Event: The story kicks off when Nick moves into the small rented house next door to Gatsby on West Egg.

PIVOT POINT 1:  Nick is invited to one of Gatsby’s fancy parties. While there, he speaks to an unassuming man who turns out to be Gatsby. The external event is Nick going to the party, while the internal choice is Gatsby deciding to reveal his identity.

Identity is an important element in this story. It’s interesting to note that until Gatsby reveals his identity, nobody knows that it’s him. His guests at the party have all sorts of theories about who he is, but no one really knows the true Gatsby. In fact, you could say that by the end of the story, Nick might be the only person who comes close to figuring out who Gatsby really is, and even then, Gatsby still remains something of a mystery.

ACT 2:  In Act 2, we move into the world of the extravagant Gatsby parties. Nick starts to put the pieces of Gatsby’s past together and Gatsby and Nick become friends. Throughout Act 2, we learn details of Gatsby’s past and slowly we are able to get a full picture.

Gatsby and Daisy have a past and once knew each other. He courted her before she was married to Tom, but he had no money, so when he left to go to the war, Daisy ended up marrying Tom instead. After the war, Gatsby did whatever he could to rise up in society, even some questionable business activities. Now that he’s living across the water from Daisy, all that he wants is to get her back.

W.O.R.S.T.: One of the best ways to understand the evolution of a story’s conflict is by examining the character’s desires and understanding their motivations. To do that, we use the acronym W.O.R.S.T. and ask the following questions:

• W = What does the character want?
• O = What obstacles are in their way?
• R = What are they willing to risk to get it?
• S = What’s at stake if they don’t get it?
• T = How do they transform in the process? 

Want: Gatsby wants to be with Daisy. He wants to reclaim what he had in the past, when he and Daisy were together.

Obstacle: When Gatsby went off to seek his fortune, Daisy decided to marry Tom. Now she’s married and has a young child.

Risk: Gatsby is willing to risk just about anything to get Daisy back. He does whatever it takes to make his fortune because he knows that money is a factor in wooing Daisy. He tries everything he can to fit in with the wealthy class of New York, even though he always remains something of an outsider. He even keeps a secret about Daisy at the end of the story (a secret that winds up costing him his life).

Stakes: If Gatsby can’t have Daisy, then everything he’s ever done in his whole life would have been for nothing. His entire adult life was motivated by this one desire: to be with her.

Transformation: This is where things get interesting. As a protagonist, Gatsby doesn’t really change on the page. Most of Gatsby’s change happens off the page, in parts of the story that happen before we meet him in Pivot Point 1. He changes his name, his identity, and his social status. He does all this in the effort to win Daisy.

While he changes almost everything about himself, in some ways, Gatsby’s entire mission in life is the antithesis of change. What he really wants is for everything to go back to how it was when he was with Daisy in the past. So, even though he has had to change himself in order to do it, what he really wants is the opposite of change: he wants to relive the past.

All of these above elements—want, obstacle, risk, stakes, and transformation—come into play as we learn more about Gatsby’s past in Act 2.

MIDPOINT: Gatsby wants Nick to invite Daisy over so he can happen to stop by at the same time and run into her. Nick invites Daisy for tea on a stormy afternoon. Gatsby stops by and, while at first things are awkward, eventually he and Daisy reconnect.

In fact, they hit it off so well that Gatsby offers to give Nick and Daisy a tour of his mansion next door. This moment is a Temporary Triumph for Gatsby because it feels like he might be on the road to winning Daisy back.

While at the end of the mansion tour, Gatsby brings Nick and Daisy into his bedroom and shows them his closet with shirts “piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high.” He begins flinging his shirts out of the cabinet. Suddenly, Daisy begins to cry.

“They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. “It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such—such beautiful shirts before.” 

Of course, we know that she’s not really crying about the shirts. It’s what the shirts symbolize that makes her sad, because they are proof that Gatsby was able to make his way in the world and—had she only waited for him—maybe they could have been together.

This is the culmination of the Temporary Triumph because in this moment, it’s clear that Daisy still has feelings for Gatsby. Note that because we are in a peripheral first-person POV, we can’t really get a moment of self-reflection from Gatsby because we don’t have access to his thoughts..

ACT 2 CONT’D: Before we get to Pivot Point 2, we have one more significant sequence that helps to ramp up the story’s tension and propel us toward the climax. Tom, Daisy, Gatsby, Jordan, and Nick decide to go to the city. Tom wants to drive Gatsby’s ostentatious, yellow car, so he lets Gatsby and Daisy drive together in his blue coupe.

On the way into the city, Tom, Jordan, and Nick stop by Wilson’s garage in the valley of ashes and Tom learns that Wilson intends to move West with Myrtle. This information leaves him very upset.

The group meets up in the city and they head to the Plaza Hotel, where they take a suite and plan to drink mint juleps to cool off in the hot afternoon. Tom and Gatsby get into an argument over Daisy and eventually Gatsby says: “Your wife doesn’t love you… She’s never loved you. She loves me.”

Daisy admits that she would leave Tom. In response, Tom reveals some of Gatsby’s shady business dealings and Daisy loses her resolve. She and Gatsby get into his yellow car and head back out to Long Island. Tom, Jordan, and Nick follow in the coupe.

PIVOT POINT 2: When the coupe reaches the valley of ashes on the way back out to Long Island, Nick and his friends are met with a commotion. Myrtle Wilson has been the victim of a hit and run accident, and she has died. The car in question did not stop, but there are witnesses who say that it was yellow.

Back on Long Island, Nick confronts Gatsby about the accident and it turns out that Daisy was the one driving the car. Despite the severity of the consequences, Gatsby insists he will not reveal that Daisy was driving. In this pivot point, the external event is Myrtle getting killed, while the internal choice is Gatsby lying to protect Daisy.

ACT 3: Suddenly, we’re in the point of view of a man named Michaelis, who is a friend to George Wilson and is with George at the garage after Myrtle has died. The effect of this POV shift is that it seems as though we’re hearing this account third-hand (Michaelis telling Nick, who in turn tells us readers).

This POV shift is essential because as George begins putting together the truth about his wife’s affair, he wouldn’t be open with someone like Nick, who’s of a different social class and barely an acquaintance. We have to hear this part of the story through Michaelis, who is his friend and who he would trust enough to discuss this subject.

CRISIS: From here, the story picks up momentum. We learn that Wilson has figured out that his wife was having an affair, and he assumes the person driving the yellow car is his wife’s lover. He goes looking for the yellow car and winds up in West Egg. He learns that Gatsby has a yellow car so he goes to his house.

Meanwhile, Gatsby has decided to use the pool (which he has not used all summer). He lies on top of an inflatable mattress on the water.

CLIMAX: The butler hears shots fired. Gatsby and Wilson are both found dead.

Ending Type: This is an example of a tragic ending. The character (Gatsby) does not get what he wants (to win Daisy), but he still wants it, right up to the end.

DENOUEMENT: In the denouement, we see the aftermath of the shooting. Nick tries to contact Daisy and Tom, but they have gone away, leaving no forwarding address or any indication of when they might come back. Nick is left on his own to manage Gatsby’s funeral and he learns a few last pieces of information about his friend. The day of the funeral arrives. No one comes.

RULE OF 3:  There is one Rule of 3 that begins in Act 1 and ends in Act 3, and this is the eyes of Doctor T.J. Eckleburg. In the valley of ashes, right near Wilson’s garage, there is a billboard that shows a huge set of eyes. As Nick says:

“The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a non-existent nose.”

These eyes come up three times in the story. They first appear in Act 1, when Tom takes Nick to Wilson’s garage to meet his mistress and they all go into the city together.

The second appearance of the eyes is when Tom, Jordan, and Nick stop by the garage on their way into the city, and Tom learns that Wilson wants to take his wife and move West. Nick notices the eyes just as he realizes Myrtle has been watching their conversation the whole time.

The third and final appearance of the eyes is when Wilson talks to Michaelis and reveals that he knows about his wife’s affair. Michaelis looks up and sees the eyes looming and Wilson says, “God sees everything.” This third instance is different because it is the moment where Fitzgerald connects the dots and makes it clear that the eyes in the billboard symbolize the eyes of God.

In this book, the characters are constantly trying to be something they’re not or do something they’re not supposed to do. Gatsby changes his identity and tries to become a new man. Daisy loves Gatsby, but doesn’t have the guts to leave her husband. Tom has a hidden affair with Myrtle. Even Nick tries to fit in with Tom, Daisy and their set, despite not being nearly as wealthy. Everyone is trying to pretend, but ultimately, nothing escapes those all-seeing eyes.

CONCLUSION: The Great Gatsby is an excellent example of the peripheral first-person POV. The trickiest thing about this technique is being able to show certain events that happen when the POV character (i.e., Nick) is not there. What Fitzgerald does is he uses subtle shifts in POV, where other characters recount their version of events to Nick, giving us (the readers) access to that information.

For example, in Chapter IV, Jordan tells Nick about Daisy’s past because she and Daisy grew up together. Later, in Chapters VI and VIII, we have passages where Gatsby tells Nick things about his life. And, of course, there’s that Michaelis section at the end of Chapter VIII where we jump completely from Nick to Michaelis’ POV and it’s barely implied that Nick is recounting that event to us (the readers) because he learned that information after the fact.

These point of view jumps may seem drastic, but they ramp up slowly. Each incidence of a shift in POV is a little more daring than the last, so that by the time we get to the Michaelis passage, we’ve learned to trust the narrator and we take that dramatic POV jump in stride. In this way, The Great Gatsby is an excellent study in first-person peripheral POV and how to build up to bigger, more dramatic POV shifts throughout the story.

Until next time, keep writing and keep being awesome!

P.S. For more info on Gabriela Pereira, the founder and instigator of DIY MFA, check out her profile page.

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That is not the case in Ten Candles, written by Stephen Dewey for Cavalry Games. Ten Candles is a tragic horror game set in a sunless post-apocalyptic world where a nameless threat lurks in the darkness and it differs from all other horror games I have played in one major respect: Everyone dies. 

While this may seem very sad, I think this game is best used as a tool to explore what it means to hope. The details of the world, the apocalypse, and even the enemy change every time you play this game which I think leaves storytelling groups with a joyful glut of possibilities.

The Setup of Ten Candles

To play you need a stack of index cards, a black marker for each person at the table, 10 six-sided dice of one color, a handful of six-sided dice of another color (one per player), a voice recorder, a fireproof bowl, and 10 tealight candles. Set the candles up in a circle around the bowl, pass 5 index cards and a marker out to each player, place the 10 six-sided dice of one color within reach of all players.

Characters are made up of Traits, a Moment, and a Brink. Traits are a one-word descriptor written on their own index card and each character has two—a virtue and a vice. Moments are an event that will happen during the game that will give your character a chance to find hope in the darkness. Brinks are hidden traits that are only available to the character once they’ve exhausted everything else—they are the desperate, secret, and dangerous parts of your character. 

These cards are arranged in stacks with Brinks flipped over face down on the bottom of the stack, and no more than one character’s Moment active on top. Whichever card is on top is active, but all aspects of the character should be roleplayed at all times, regardless of whether they are active or burned. Once the stacks are built they may not be changed.

Gameplay

When characters are built and all candles are lit, each character takes turns recording their last voice message for the world. This serves to set up the game and center the players on their character’s goal. 

The candles serve as ambiance, gameplay tool, timer, and light source (preferably the only light source) during the game. Candles may not be relit under any circumstances. 

Characters will encounter conflicts and will roll the available communal dice pool to resolve them. If the roll has even one six the result is a success, if any die shows a one that die is lost for the remainder of the scene. If the roll has no sixes, it is a failure and a candle is darkened. When a candle is darkened the group moves to the next scene. Using these conflict rolls narrative control is passed back and forth between the Game Master (GM) and the players. Whoever gains narrative control with each conflict roll will narrate the outcome of the conflict.

To reroll all ones, a character may burn their trait—literally burn it. The player sets the index card alight on one of the candle flames and places the card to burn in the fireproof bowl. If a trait is burned in a conflict, it must be a part of the narration of the conflict resolution. Once burned, that Trait is no longer available to the player to reroll, but must still be roleplayed as an aspect of the character. The process of burning reveals the next card in the stack which now becomes active.

When a Moment becomes active, the story steers toward that event and when it becomes a conflict, a roll is made. If the result is a success, then the character has found hope and gains a hope die, one of the handful of six-sided dice that is a different color from the communal pool. This die is not lost on ones, and can succeed on a five or six. When a Moment is lived, regardless of success or failure, it must be burned to reveal the next card in the stack.

A Brink may not be played until it is active, once all other things have been burned away. Then it may be burned to reroll ones in the same way that a Trait would be. If the conflict roll succeeds then the game proceeds as normal, if it fails then the character loses any hope die they had. 

Why It’s Useful

Ten Candles is a game where all the characters are doomed. Everything about the game works to create tension. The low light helps you feel the dread your characters would feel in a world with no light, where they lurk in the darkness. 

The fact that you cannot relight a candle once it out makes people careful and purposeful with their movements, lest they darken a candle by accident and limit the most precious resource they have—light. 

With each darkened candle a die transfers from the communal dice pool to the GM’s dice pool. This means that as a game goes on the players have a lower and lower chance of success and the GM has a higher and higher chance of gaining narrative control. The slow burn of this increased helplessness aids in creating a story in which characters cling to the smallest embers of hope that they can find. 

Establishing Truths

With each darkened candle you go through a ritual as a group called Establishing Truths. The GM starts by saying “These things are true. The world is dark.” Then the group goes around the table starting with whoever has narrative control at the time and establishes one small truth about the world for each lit candle. The final truth for the last candle is always said by the players in unison: “And, we are alive.” 

This ritual increases in solemnity and dread as each new candle is darkened. When only one candle remains the totality of the ritual consists of the GM saying “These things are true. The world is dark” and the players responding “And we are alive.”

Apply Ten Candles to Your Writing

The tension and desperation that Ten Candles is set up for helps when writing about tragedy, martyrdom, dread and hope. When playing, you find hope and heroism in the smallest most unassuming moments. The players know their characters will all die, but, even so, the characters struggle and fight against their doom. 

You will find when playing that the smallest victories are celebrated with fanfare usually reserved for world-saving events. Your characters will cling to strange hopes, argue over tiny choices, and die in ways you would never have imagined on your own. 

This game illustrates human desperation in new ways that allows for you to get close and examine the shape of it. Running the game helps guide you in how to best create tension and dread which gives you practice you can use in negotiating stakes and pacing your writing. 

It’s an excellent use of three hours that can change your perspective drastically, and I highly recommend it.

Tell us in the comments: Have you ever played Ten Candles?

Kris Hill is working on several genre fiction novels because she has difficulty sticking to writing one project at a time. In her daily life she attempts to navigate the corporate world as a data analyst. When Kris is not working, she can be found sprawled on a couch reading or running tabletop adventures for her friends. She lives in Canada’s capital city with her husband, her best friend, and three cats.

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