Thread by @Spaztique

A Story (Structure) Reboot: A thread summarizing Narratology for #storytelling and #writing.

Part 1: Relearning The Basics of Creative Writing and Storytelling

This all started after I watched a bunch of slice-of-life anime, what many western writers would call “plotless,” and yet still tells a compelling story.

What we they learning about storytelling that was different from the rest of us?

With that, I searched for an answer why…

I had known from studying writing the Japanese rhetorical art of kishoutenketsu:
Ki = Setup
Shou = Elaboration
Ten = Complication
Ketsu = Result
Basically, (A + B) x C = D.
But western storytelling paradigms could hardly explain why it worked, making poor examples using it.

So, I decided to go hunting for Japanese writing guides.

What I found blew my mind.

They were using terminology and ideas I, an English Bachelor’s graduate, had no idea about: things like hermeneutic codes, Labov’s Diamond, Genette’s Discourse Theory, and so much more.

Throughout my time in college, I’ve read at least 30+ novels, hundreds of short stories, and written at least two 15-page essays for every class.
But as far as creative writing, I’ve only written a handful of things that weren’t essays.
I was taught to read, but not write.

And I’m not alone: the history of western literary criticism is all about “interpreting the text,” and us writers were only taught, “Just pick a paradigm like 3-Act Structure, the Hero’s Journey, Save the Cat, whatever, fill in the blanks, copy similar tropes, and GOOD LUCK!”

But this “monistic” view of story as a single entity of “plot + theme + characters + setting + text” isn’t how the rest of the world learns creative writing. We’re fictionally literate (maybe even too much), but narratively illiterate.
Let’s relearn story structure from scratch.

This is normally the part where I’m supposed to talk about how cavemen were the first storytellers and blah blah blah-
SCREW THE CAVEMEN! Let’s talk about how MODERN PEOPLE learn stories!
Numerous studies tracked how children tell conversational stories, and it follows a pattern:

1. Heaps: Children simply name what they saw and where. “There’s a bird! There’s a tree! I hate broccoli!”
2. Sequences: Then they recount things in order. “First I went to school. Then I read a book. Then we took a nap.”
And sadly, many writers never make it past this stage.

3. Primitive Narrative: Adding the magic words “and,” “but,” and “therefore,” to create simple scenes. “We went to get ice cream. I wanted chocolate, but they were out. So I got something else. Then we went to the zoo.”
It tells a simple story, but not a compelling one.

4. Chains: Adding “how” to create attempts and suspense, but little in the way of cohesion. “Once upon a time, there was a prince and princess, but then a dragon came and took the princess. So he went on an adventure, but then he found evil goblins. And then, but then, etc.”

5. True Narrative: Solidifying theme, structure, and emotion. “I was playing frisbee with my brother, but then it flew onto the roof. He laughed, but I was upset. He tried knocking it down with rocks, but I was scared he’d break something. Dad got it down, saying to be careful.”

Oral storytelling has a lot to teach us about writing because the person we’re telling the story to is right in front of us. It’s also a good way to measure social deficits when the storyteller doesn’t care for the listeners’ feelings.
But when writing alone, it’s easy to forget.

Therefore, we must never forget the “author-to-audience” pipeline. A simplified version:
1. Real Author (you, the writer)
2. Implied Author (how the audience interprets you)
3. The Text
4. Implied Audience (who you’re writing for)
5. Actual Audience (the real people reading it)

We tend to gloss over the term “rhetoric,” but it’s more important to writing than we think, and I have a way to simplify it by updating the classic terms of logos, pathos, ethos:
1. Anticipate the audience’s logic.
2. Anticipate their emotions.
3. Anticipate their morality.

This way, you can write from the perspective of…
1. Does this need to make more sense?
2. What do I want them to feel?
3. Would this break any social rules or sensibilities?

Yes, it’s important to write for yourself, but you must never forget that your work will reach others.

Another tool I learned doing improv is “The Circle of Expectations.”
Think of a bulleye. In the middle is what everyone expects (and boring), and outside the circle are non-sequiturs.
To play with the audience, you should fall right between the two, unpredictable but plausible.

Now that we’re aware of the interplay between the author and audience, we must actually learn to write.
Not grammar. Not structure. I mean the act of putting words on paper.
The four stages of writing are:
1. Generating
2. Organizing
3. Translating
4. Revising

Generating is the act of combing your knowledge of a written topic, your knowledge of the genre you’re writing it in, and all your combined personal references, from social experience to the fiction you’ve consumed.
If it fits the topic and genre, you can organize it.

Organization is the act of figuring where to put what, how much of it, and in what order, all to get the best impact on your audience.
Translating is more than just drafting: it’s drafting with a *GOAL*. Maybe it’s to create an imagined scene, or leave an emotional impact.

Luckily, the translating process has a limited number of possibilities of what you can write, and they’re called Rhetorical Modes.
For fiction:
1. In-Scene Description
2. Informational Exposition
3. Physical Action
4. Emotional Reaction
5. Internal Thought
6. External Dialogue

These Rhetorical Modes create the building blocks for paragraphs. Each unit is what we see, what we need to know, what happens, how people react, what they think, and what they say. (Though, some narratologists lump dialogue and action as one, as a negotiation.)

In the act of Revising, we put ourselves in our Ideal Audience’s shoes and test their reactions. We have to pretend to forget everything we know about what we’ve written and see it with fresh eyes. That’s why some writers recommend leaving a story alone for months before editing.

Then, if we need to change something, there is luckily a limited number of things we can do:
We can add: new content, split scenes apart, or lengthen them.
We can subtract: Cut, combine, or shorten.
Or we can modify: Alter it, move it, or re-order the individual beats.

I can already tell you that knowing this has greatly sped up my writing composition speed, and we’re only skimming the surface.
There’s still more to come, and it’s a game-changer.
On the next thread, I will cover the Dualistic Approach to Story Structure: the Fabula and Syuzhet.