Writing a Meet Cute for Any Story, Any Genre

What is a Meet Cute?

"Meet Cute" is a term from the romance genre, and it's basically what it sounds like. It's when the two love interests meet in a cute way. A common (and arguably cliche) example of this is when Character A accidentally drops all her papers, and Character B comes and helps her pick them up. And if the audience is lucky, they may even brush hands. 😉

That's a Meet Cute.

Here's another, Character A accidentally slams the door on Character B, who gets upset with him.

And another, Character A trips down a flight of stairs and rams into Character B.

And another, Character A enters a taxi to see Character B is already inside it.

It's common for there to be something awkward happening, but you know, in a cute (or even adorkable) way.

And/or it's also common for one character to be irked by the other.

(And just for the record, Character A and Character B can be either character in the relationship.)

I've written about Meet Cutes before, but it's an important enough beat (and term) to get its own post. (Plus it seems to fit with the fact Valentine's Day is coming.)

And as with most things that come from the romance genre, in reality, Meet Cutes are important to most stories, since most stories feature a relationship plotline. Whether your story features a romantic relationship, a friendship, an allyship, or even a rivalry, and whether it ultimately ends up positive or negative, every relationship plot has a Meet Cute . . . or at least, its equivalent.

(It sorta depends on how married you are to the "cute" part of the term. 😉)

Yes, originally, Meet Cutes were intended to be cute, and yes, they were intended to be about romantic relationships, but the truth is, they don't have to be. When we broaden our understanding of this beat, we can see how to write this moment for any relationship, in any story, in any genre.

Even if the characters technically already know each other when the story starts.

This is because, as Gwen Hayes wisely touches on in Romancing the Beat, this moment is the first time the audience sees these characters on the page together.

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When to Wax Strong on Interiority

Lately I've been doing some posts on the internal part of stories, the internal plotline and on balancing interiority. For a long time, I've wanted to write a post about when to lay on that interiority a little thicker in a story. This is an important topic because many of us were taught that writing the abstract is bad and that we shouldn't spend too much time in introspection.

Those are both true, somewhat.

Writing in the abstract can be "bad" because it's less immersive and therefore less impactful for the audience. It relates more to "telling" not "showing." It doesn't allow the audience to experience the story (generally speaking), and it gets way overused (and used poorly) by beginning writers.

In truth though, many of your character's inner pieces are going to be abstract.

I mean, they kind of have to be, because they exist inside the character.

And as I mentioned before, the internal plotline is the most abstract plotline, since it's about how a character arcs.

As for introspection, beginning writers do tend to write too much, and they tend to do it in "bathtub" scenes--scenes that happen largely in the character's head, but aren't usually moving the story forward. That can be a big problem.

There are so many nuances to this topic though, that I've frankly struggled on where to put today's info and how to organize it. My thoughts eventually evolved into this post and this angle, and I can only hope it was the best approach. (Though I acknowledge it won't click with everyone, and I'll be looking at this topic from a more advanced writing level.)

In any case, let's talk about when it might be a good idea to focus more on your character's interiority, on the page.

And to some extent, how much interiority you should include, will depend on what kind of story you are writing. . . .

Character-driven vs. Plot-driven

You may have heard there are character-driven stories and plot-driven stories. These are terms I don't use a whole lot, in part because I think they are a bit misleading, for reasons I'll likely cover in a future post. Regardless . . .

Character-driven stories focus more on the character. They focus more on the character's personal journey, how he is impacted by the events of the plot, and how he arcs through the narrative (because of his choices). These are stories that emphasize the internal plotline. A Man Called Otto and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty are character-driven stories.

Plot-driven stories focus more on the plot (obviously). They focus more on the external journey. Rather than emphasizing high personal stakes, they emphasize broad, far-reaching stakes. They are less about how the protagonist is impacted by the events, and more about how other people or the world at large is impacted by them. 007 and Ghostbusters are plot-driven stories.

There is more I could say about either of these categories, but we'll keep it simple for now.

And it's worth noting that many stories exist somewhere in the middle of these. This is all really more of a spectrum rather than an either-or situation.

Some genres fit more into one category than the other. Drama, women's fiction, and literary fiction are almost always character-driven. Thrillers, action films, and adventure stories are almost always plot-driven.

As you may have guessed by this point, character-driven stories are going to have more interiority than plot-driven stories.

So while a big chunk of introspection may be perfectly fine in women's fiction, another chunk of introspection the same length may be problematic in a thriller.

Furthermore, it also depends on what you've established as the baseline of interiority in your story. Is this a story where we are constantly getting a unique take on what is happening from a colorful viewpoint character? Or is this a story where we mainly get just enough interiority to provide context and validation for the audience? The sort of interiority we might expect from anyone in that same situation?

What you establish as a baseline will affect what you can get away with.

So this is a difficult topic to cover, because how much interiority you can lay on in a given place, is relative to the type of story you are writing.

This means it's not really a matter of word count. And it's arguably not even really a matter of percentage.

A lot of it depends on your story.

With that said though, there are some places where you can--relatively speaking--use more interiority. Let's go over those.

Internal Plotline & Internal Conflict

Okay, this may sound obvious, especially since I recently did a whole post about the internal plotline, but I'm going to cover some things from a slightly different angle.

In that previous post, I talked about how, at the basic level, a plotline should have these things: an objective, an antagonist, a conflict, and consequences (and a turning point).

An Objective

In the internal plotline, the objective is fulfilling an abstract want. Luke Skywalker wants to become, or be part of something great. Hamilton wants to build a legacy. Agent Mulder wants to find and reveal the truth. In order to write a great plot, these wants need to show up as concrete, measurable things--like Luke wanting to become a Jedi, rescue the princess, and destroy the Death Star. Or Hamilton wanting to win the war.

In any story, this abstract want is not being fulfilled (or if it is, it will soon be put in jeopardy). This is why the protagonist does whatever she does.

In most stories, it's okay to use interiority to convey the objective. 

This isn't the only way to convey the objective. Certainly a character can voice in dialogue what she wants or aims to do. Or we can show or imply this in action. In fact, as I mentioned, we need this want to show up in concrete ways to tell a good story.

But if you are conveying the character's want . . . you can get away with a little more interiority.

Because it's an element that informs the plot and largely motivates the story. So writing about it will feel more relevant, and less like a superfluous passage that is distracting from the story (which kills pacing). Instead, it's contributing to, and bolstering what's integral to the story.

We may say that writing about the want is the equivalent of writing the "I want" song in musicals. These songs are in almost every musical--"Part of Your World" in The Little Mermaid, "My Shot," in Hamilton, "The Wizard and I" in Wicked, to name a few. These are in almost every musical because establishing what the protagonist wants is integral to a good story.

As always, though, anything taken too far can cause problems (and chances are, you aren't writing a musical), so you'll have to gauge how much is too much according to your story. Audiences also don't like a bunch of repetition, so you'll have to dig deeper into that abstract want so you aren't just repeating the same thing over and over. You'll likely want to get into why the character has that want and how they believe fulfilling it will make their life better (and perhaps what it's like to live without that want fulfilled).

I also need to mention that not all characters are consciously aware they have this abstract want driving them. For them, it could be totally subconscious. In that case, the character is going to focus much more on the concrete goal in their thoughts, rather than this abstract want. And in either situation, the character believes achieving this concrete goal will largely satisfy them. Focusing their introspection on the concrete goal likewise strengthens the story, because it bolsters the first element of (the external) plot--the goal itself.

The audience gets a stronger sense of what achieving this goal means to the character, and so the audience gets more invested in the story--they'll want to stick around to see if the goal gets achieved, and the interiority won't feel so out of place. 

Antagonist & Conflict

The next two elements have a similar effect because they both relate to plot. Introspection isn't usually meant to be random--that's when we run into issues--it's meant to contribute to the story, to enhance the story, and to move the story forward. 

When the character is acting as an antagonist to himself, and therefore creating internal conflict, you can include more interiority. 

Because it's relevant to the plot.

I know I'm kind of talking in circles, but that's the main point here--if it's relevant to the plot, then it's relevant to the story, and you can layer more on.

I've talked before about how all structural units fit this basic shape.

It's a fractal, so smaller versions of it exist inside the overarching version.

It's the shape of acts.

And it's the shape of scenes.

When a character runs into an antagonist, it creates conflict. This escalates us into the rising action.

If the rising action--the conflict--of a scene is largely internal, then yes, of course you can use more interiority. Because the driving conflict is happening inside the character.

Now often it's also useful and more impactful if it shows up in concrete ways. For example, a character in conflict about whether or not to ask a coworker on a date, may pick up the phone to do that, then slam the phone down out of fear. Then pick up the phone, redial, only to ask the woman if she saw the email from their boss before hanging up again. Then maybe he calls again, says something stupid, and has lessened his chances with her.

The character is an antagonist to himself, but his internal conflict is also impacting the concrete world. That's often ideal.

In any case, you are justified in using more interiority, because the antagonist is the self and the conflict is with the self. That's where the tension is, that's where the escalation is, that's what is interesting.

As I mentioned before though, not all internal conflict is related to the internal plotline. And that's okay. Sometimes it's related more to the external plotline or even a relationship plotline. Sometimes the character is simply conflicted about which action to take next on their adventure. Should they team up with a questionable thief? Or go to their estranged father for help?

Even if it's not strictly related to the internal journey (or character arc), you can still get away with more interiority when there is internal conflict about any relevant situation. (And usually "relevant" means it's related to one of the other dominating plotlines.)

Consequences (& Turning Points)

The turning point is that climactic peak in basic structure. It's when the current conflict is resolved, for better or worse. It's when we tip from conflict into consequences.

In the overarching internal plotline, the consequence is the character arc.

Anytime you are working with the character arc, you can use more interiority.

But again, you can overdo it.

And again, to be most effective, it should (also) show up in concrete ways.

It's not enough for me to read that Scrooge has changed, I need to see his change in concrete ways--I need to see him spend his money on others and visit Tiny Tim.

But if you want to delve deep into how this change impacted his mind and body as he completed his arc, and how it continues to impact him moving forward, that's likely going to be acceptable (as long as you don't wear out your welcome).

When working with smaller structural units (like acts and scenes), what happens after the turning point is going to show up in a slightly different way (though often that way is still relevant to the character arc). I'll talk about that way in the next section.

Let's first go more into consequences in general.

With consequences, I like to split them into two categories: ramifications and stakes. 

Ramifications are the consequences that actually happen (like I just talked about). And stakes are the consequences that could happen. Stakes are what the character (or audience) thinks will happen when a certain condition is met. This means that stakes often fit into an "If . . . then" statement:

If Luke doesn't destroy the Death Star, the Rebel Alliance will be defeated. 

If Hamilton doesn't come clean about his affair, Burr may use the information against him as a political opponent.

Those are stakes.

A full rundown of stakes is beyond the scope of this article. But the point I want to make here is you can use (more) interiority, when it relates to the stakes.

In fact, often stakes are conveyed through introspection. The viewpoint character clues the audience into the stakes, by laying them out on the page through their thought processes. If I don't defeat the [antagonist], then my family will be killed, the protagonist may think. 

And having them think about the stakes will actually bring in more tension and hooks, which are just going to strengthen the story.

Of course, though, there are others ways to communicate the stakes, like through dialogue or by showing the consequences happen to someone else.

But you can definitely use more interiority when it's related to the stakes.

In the "Valleys"

If we view basic story structure as a fractal, we see that a story isn't made up of one continuous climb, but rather, smaller "peaks" and "valleys," in acts and in scenes.

I've mentioned how the rising action is where escalating conflict takes place and the peak is the turn where that conflict gets resolved (for better or for worse, and if only temporarily). This leads us into the consequences.

Well, the consequences are what the characters react to.

And another simplistic way of looking at this basic structural shape, is that the climb is where action takes place, and the fall is where reaction takes place.

After a turn (the peak), things should have changed (because there were consequences). In the falling action, the characters react to what just happened and the consequences they now have to deal with.

Some turns are bigger than other turns.

The turn of the whole story, the climax, is bigger than the previous turns of the acts.

And the turn of an act is going to be bigger than the turns of the scenes.

The bigger the turn, the bigger the consequences.

The bigger the consequences, the bigger the impact on the characters, which means the bigger the reaction.

The more important the reaction, the more important interiority can become.

If the protagonist just had her best friend killed at the turning point, then you're likely going to want to use more interiority to show how she reacts to such a blow. This is a place where you may want to lay more interiority on.

In the "valleys," the character reacts and eventually regroups (well, in most valleys--in some valleys the character has gotten what he wants and just enjoys that until a new antagonistic force appears.) The character will eventually come up with a new way forward and a new plan. You can use interiority to guide the audience through that thought process.

This will then lead us out of the valley and into the next climb.

One thing I want to mention here is that often one of the significant differences between character-driven and plot-driven stories, is the size of the valleys.

In a plot-driven story, the valleys are shorter . . . or I guess . . . shallower. We get a brief reaction (at least enough to validate the character isn't a robot), and shortly after, a new plan, and the plot moves forward.

In a character-driven story, the valleys are bigger . . . or I guess . . . deeper. We spend more time on the reaction and how the character eventually regroups.

Generally speaking anyway.

What happens in the valleys can also relate to character arc--how the character reacts to the turn can shape who that character is becoming. 

. . . Okay, so I know what some of you are thinking right now, Well, September, at this point haven't you just told us we can use more interiority at basically any part of the story? That's a fair observation, so let me speak to that.

When Not to Wax Strong on Interiority

One of the points I'm trying to make through all this, is that what the interiority is about, matters. And this is where many beginning writers go wrong, and we start getting all these rules that we shouldn't use interiority very much.

Just as we can't write random things to make a good plot, we can't usually write random stream-of-conscious stuff and justify that the interiority belongs in the story.

One of the major problems that comes up here, is that the writer wants to use interiority to give an info-dump about how the character got to where she currently is and what happened in her past, and the writer mistakenly thinks that putting in random detailed thoughts about whatever comes along in the story creates "character." But true character is shown through the plot elements. It's not a long passage about the protagonist's favorite music, or a random flashback about how grandma always made her lemon cookies in the summertime. It's how the character acts and reacts to the plot. That's what shows us who she truly is (and/or who she is becoming).

I'm not saying you can't ever mention your character's favorite song. You can, if you can slip it into the scene without detracting from important things (or from pacing). And you can if you make it important to the plot.

It's not a good idea though, to spend a whole paragraph on your character's favorite bands, if it's not feeding into or overlapping with these plot elements.

In some stories you may be able to get away with this, if it suits the strong narrative voice. Sure, someone like Lemony Snicket can go on a tangent about driver's licenses when it's rather irrelevant, because that's why readers read his work. That's the main appeal of his books. But that is a very, very small percentage of literature.

What the interiority is about matters.

Okay, so, I know this article has been kind of heavy, and likely difficult for some of my readers to follow--that's all right. I don't expect it all to click with everyone, nor to click with everyone instantly. 

But I've felt strongly this is an important topic to cover.

Because lots of interiority isn't always bad.

Improper use of interiority is bad.

It needs to be strengthening the story.

Not detracting from it.

Unfortunately, though, these aren't concepts you can easily whip out and share with new writers. You need to understand stories at a much deeper level before you can discern and apply these principles in the ways I've laid out (which is why I've been struggling with how to approach this topic).

So yes, limiting introspection is great advice for new writers, for most stories. Basic general statements about it, are helpful.

But as you understand the craft more, you understand it's all more nuanced.

In any case, I've done my best to explain these nuances today. Hopefully there is something in here that is useful to you.

Superstars Writing Seminars

Next month I'll be teaching two classes at Superstars Writing Seminars in Colorado Springs (Feb. 6 - 9th). This is a business-focused writing conference, but there are also some craft-focused classes (like mine).

I've been given a code that will get anyone who wants to join us, $100 off. Register here as a new member, student, or military, and use code SEPTEMBER2025

You can learn more about Superstars, and see the schedule at superstarswriting.com

Here is a brief summation:

Superstars Writing Seminars teaches writers the business of being successful in the publishing industry. Instructors are chosen from the top of the industry and include International Bestselling Authors, Top Editors, Indie Publishing Platform Managers, and many more. The primary goal at Superstars is to teach you how to have a successful writing career by sharing how those at the top of the industry manage their careers.

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What Happens When There are No Plot Points in a Story?

Plot points are a vital part of storytelling, but many writers aren't taught about them until they are elbow-deep into writing. Some are lucky enough that they naturally put proper plot points into their stories without consciously understanding what they are. But others . . . aren't so lucky.

Today I want to go over what actually happens when you don't put enough plot points in. But first, let's review what a plot point is.

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Writing Interiority: Too Much vs. Too Little

Recently I talked to some groups of writers about interiority, and the importance of balancing it out in stories. As I've been thinking about the topic some more, I wanted to do a follow-up post on the problems that arise when it is unbalanced.

(Not to mention it also seemed like a good follow-up to my recent post on the internal plotline.)

But first, let's go over what interiority is.

What is Interiority?

Interiority is everything that happens inside your character--typically the viewpoint character.

This includes the character's thoughts (introspection) and feelings that aren't externally observable, like a speeding heart or dry mouth.

Interiority is the internal experience of the character.

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Writing with 3 Equal-sized Acts: The Hunger Games

A while ago, a follower read my article "Variations on Story Structure: A List," and asked me to elaborate on how The Hunger Games (book) doesn't follow the typical beat percentages, and they wondered if I could maybe go over how to pull that off. I wasn't sure when/if I'd get to it, but . . . here we are!

Now, because I know we have a lot of new followers, I want to make sure we are all starting with the same foundation, first. (If you've been following me for a while though and don't want the review, feel free to skip to the section after this next one.)

Typical Story Structure

Most stories follow 3-act structure, with the middle of the story taking up about 50% of the book. Because the middle is so long, most people will split it into two. So, typical stories look like this:

We could argue that because there are four major turns (or "peaks") that this is really a 4-act structure, but to keep with the language most commonly used, we'll call it a 3-act structure, with Act II split into "Part I" and "Part II."

This typically breaks the story down into quarters (more or less). Each section takes up about 25% of the story.

Yes, some writers hate percentages, but percentages are the quickest, easiest way to communicate when something usually happens in a book, so, we'll use them.

Like pretty much anything in writing, though, the percentages are just guidelines. It's what usually works for most audiences. It's what the audience is used to seeing.

The four peaks are plot turns--they turn the direction of the story. A year or so ago, I realized that this also means they shift the protagonist's goal, or their plan to get the goal in some way (for an explanation of that go here.) When a plot turn happens, the goal or plan has changed (at least somewhat).

These plot turns are also called turning points or plot points, and depending on what approach you use, you may know them by other, more specific, names.

In 7 Point Story Structure, they are Plot Point 1, Midpoint, Plot Point 2, and Climax (or "Resolution" (or part of Resolution, anyway)).

In Save the Cat!, they are Break into Two, Midpoint, All is Lost, and Finale (or part of it).

In the Hero's Journey, they are Crossing the Threshold, unstated, The Ordeal, and Resurrection. 

(But if you aren't familiar with any of those names, that's okay too.)

Whether or not you are aware of it, most of the stories you consume follow this basic structure.

To take it a step further, there are usually medium turns in between each of these major peaks (which I didn't draw in that image). These are frequently what people refer to as Pinch Point 1 and Pinch Point 2 (and the inciting incident for Act I, depending on how you view it). Act III's doesn't have one common name, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist--it's usually the turn that takes us into the climax.

This means that most stories have a turn every ~12% of the story--a big turn every quarter, and a medium turn in between those.

You can learn more about all that in "The 12% Rule of Story Structure."

But of course, while this is by far the most common way to structure a great story, it isn't the only way to structure a story.

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Working with the Internal Plotline

Most successful stories will have at least three different types of plotlines. This gives the story more dimension and depth. And while there are different combinations you can choose, by far the most popular plotlines to weave together are the external, internal, and relationship journeys. 

External--this is the character's outer journey. The character has a concrete goal, encounters an external antagonist, and struggles with the conflict to get the goal.

Internal--this is the character's inner journey. The character has an abstract want, and in pursuing that, completes a character arc. The antagonist is the self.

Relationship--this is a relationship journey. The character either aims to draw close to or increase distance from another person (or maintain the relationship as is). The antagonistic force is what is upsetting that. How it is resolved completes a relationship arc.

Today, I wanted to delve more into how the internal plotline works.

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Promise, Progress, Payoff--in Stories, Acts & Scenes

When lecturing on plot, New York Times best-selling author Brandon Sanderson often breaks structure down into three parts: promise, progress, and payoff. These fit beginning, middle, and end, respectively. 

While I find this approach too simplistic for what I need to write a great story (hey, I'm not Brandon Sanderson!), it is an excellent foundation to build on. Without these things in place, your story will always be lacking. Without these things in place, you'll run into problems that will lead to bored (or even annoyed) readers.

Lately, I've been thinking about how these principles not only apply to the story as a whole, but how they are useful for smaller structural units as well--acts and scenes.

As always, I'm not going to say using them is vital to every scene or every act of every story.

But I will say, they can be super helpful if this approach resonates with you, your story, your act, or your scene.

Before I explain all that, though, let me give a brief overview of Sanderson's perspective . . . (though I admit to sprinkling in some of my own thoughts along the way). 

Promise, Progress, Payoff

Essentially all stories are made up of beginnings, middles, and ends. And as mentioned, Brandon Sanderson assigns these three different purposes (broadly speaking of course). The beginning makes promises to the audience. The middle shows progress toward those promises. And the end illustrates the payoff of the promises and progress. 

Beginning--Promise

When the reader opens up the book, they want to know what sort of story this is going to be (and if they want to stick around for it). As a writer, it's your job to make promises that convey that. 

Sanderson talks about several promises you need to make:

- Genre (The opening of the book should make it clear the story is science fiction, historical, romance, crime, or whatever it is. However, Sanderson does acknowledge the cover, title, and back cover will likely illustrate this as well.)

- Tone (the feel--will this be comedic? Dark? Whimsical? Cheerful? etc.)

- Plot (Will this be a mystery? Travelogue? A heist? A rivalry? etc.)

- Character (Who is the protagonist and what is he like?)

- There should also be a promise of change or conflict--it's a promise that something will be in motion.

I admit that Sanderson uses the term "promises" a little differently than I have on here in the past, but I think it's fair to call these promises (and Sanderson also admits to wanting the alliteration of three P's: promise, progress, payoff).

I want to mention, too, that you are essentially setting up the story here. You are conveying to the audience where and when the story takes place, who it's about, what's going to happen, and why it matters (the "why" would be the stakes). When you look at Sanderson's list of promises, you see they basically cover all that as well. (But I'm pointing it out for something I will bring up later.)

Middle--Progress

When the reader gets into the middle of the story, you need to keep them reading by showing progress on what you promised. If this story is a mystery, you need to show the characters finding clues. If the story is about traveling to a destination, you need to show the characters traveling. If this story is about a competitive rivalry, you need to show each character striving to outdo the other.

After introducing the protagonist in the beginning, you need to show how she is progressing toward her wants, as well as how that character is progressing through her character arc.

You may also want to show "progression" related to genre. If you introduced a magic system in the beginning, you may want to dig deeper into it in the middle. (And you don't want to introduce magic in the beginning, and then have no magic in the middle (usually).)

End--Payoff

This one is pretty straightforward. As the reader gets to the end, you are going to pay off everything you promised and progressed. The mystery gets solved. The destination gets reached. The rivalry ends with one or the other as the victor.

The character achieves her objective and/or completes her arc.

And you'll probably have the biggest, best illustrations of your genre at the end.

This is all simplistically speaking though. Of course not every story ends with the character reaching her destination or achieving her objective. There are absolutely ways to turn the ending with a surprise, or twist or subvert an expectation, but that's beyond the scope of today's article. 

Basically, the ending is about doing a good, satisfying job of completing what you started. 

As Brandon Sanderson says, ideally you want to give the audience the expected thing (what you first promised), but in a way that is better (read: bigger, more surprising, more powerful) than expected.

Application to Acts

Recently I've been thinking about how these same basic principles can be used to create satisfying acts.

If you've been following me for a long time, you may know that I see basic story structure as fractal. 

This basic shape has smaller versions of it that live inside it, like a Russian nesting doll.

Not only does the story as a whole take this shape.

But so does each act.

And most scenes.

It's just that, the smaller the structural unit, the less impactful and important the pieces are.

I think I also feel that way with the concepts of promise, progress, and payoff. Yes, they're very important to the story as a whole, but to a smaller degree, for many stories, they are also important to acts. 

If it suits your story, you can likewise view acts as following these principles of promise, progress, and payoff--they just show up a little watered down.

I'm not necessarily saying you have to promise genre, tone, and everything else, all over again. 

But what I mean is, it's this idea that there is a sense of setup and promise for the act. 

Then a sense of progress.

Then a sense of payoff.

If we look at the first act of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (which I've been using as an act example lately), you'll see how this works.

The story opens with the Dursleys and then Harry being left on the doorstep before we move forward in time to when he is ten--this has both promises for the story as a whole, and also for the act.

In the middle of Act I, strange things start happening. Harry can make odd things happen, and odd things seem to be happening around him, while the Dursleys continue to hate anything out of the ordinary (including Harry). 

We hit Act I's peak turn, which is when Hagrid reveals Harry is a wizard, and he's been accepted into Hogwarts.

Promise. Progress. Payoff.

Start Act II (Part I).

As Hagrid takes Harry to Diagon Alley, we get promises of what Harry's new life will be like as he gets a wand, and we also see Hagrid take a mysterious package from Gringotts.

Harry starts his new life and begins learning magic. On the train ride to Hogwarts, Ron mentions someone tried to rob Gringotts, and later Harry learns from the paper, that that was the same day he went there with Hagrid.

Harry goes to meet Malfoy for a midnight duel, and then finds the trapdoor with Fluffy. Harry realizes that whatever Hagrid took from Gringotts is now below the trapdoor, being protected. Soon after, someone tries to steal the item (which results in a troll getting loose). The thief is at Hogwarts.

Promise. Progress. Payoff.

No, it's not as big or as obvious as the story as a whole, but I certainly think it can be useful at times to look at acts in this way. 

Application to Scenes

Likewise, it may also be helpful to consider these principles in relation to scenes.

When you open the scene, and set it up, you make promises about what's going to happen in the scene.

Then you show the character taking action toward an objective (progress).

Then you hit the scene's peak, where it often becomes clear if the character did or didn't get their scene-level objective (simplistically speaking). Promise, progress, payoff.

So as a quick example, Harry plays his first quidditch match. . . . 

The start of the scene sets up the time and place and characters involved, and makes the promise that yes, this scene is going to be about a quidditch match. We know Harry's objective is to catch the snitch. We know the stakes.

As the game starts, we get a sense of progress as the characters play, and Harry searches for the snitch. (And there are some other surprises along the way, too.)

The game ends with Harry successfully catching (in his mouth) the snitch.

Promise. Progress. Payoff.

--They can be useful for any structural unit. 😊

***

Recently I attended FanX as a panelist, and it turned out great! Later this month I will be teaching a class on balancing dialogue, description, action, and interiority in scenes, at LDSPMA in Orem, Utah. I'll also have a vendor table while there. (So if it seems like I've been slightly MIA lately, just know I've been busy with these things ☺️)

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How to Write the Grand Gesture for Any Story, Any Genre

If you write romance or have hung around romance writers, you may have heard of the Grand Gesture, (arguably) the most important part of any romance story. We have all read or seen this moment in Act III, where one of the leads takes a huge action, puts everything on the line, and confesses (directly or indirectly) their love for the other person. Of course, in romance, this person then accepts and reciprocates (directly or indirectly) that confession. But the Grand Gesture isn't limited to the romance genre. It's actually not limited to a romantic relationship. Or even a positive relationship.

In reality, the Grand Gesture is an important beat for any story that has a predominant relationship plotline. Yes, it's important in The Proposal, but it's also important in The Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, Dune, Guardians of the Galaxy, and The Umbrella Academy.

And you know what?

Most successful stories feature a relationship plotline as one of its dominating plotlines.

Which means, most successful stories have a Grand Gesture.

You just haven't realized it yet.

So whether you are writing romance, fantasy, historical fiction, or a thriller, let's dive into this critical story beat and what it's really about, so you'll better write your own.

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What is Head Hopping? And Why is it Bad? (with Examples)

If you are writing in third person point of view, you should almost always avoid what's called "head hopping," and stick to one character's perspective at a time. But that is sometimes easier said than done, especially when you are new to writing. All of us have head hopped at one point or another, so let's go over what it is, why it's a problem, and how to (potentially) get away with it.

What is Head Hopping?

Head hopping happens when the writer jumps from one character's head to another's within a passage; it's a switch in viewpoint that is typically considered an error. 

This is different from a writer changing viewpoint characters at a scene or chapter break, which is considered acceptable. 

Head hopping, though, is best understood with an example.

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Answering Your Recent Writing Questions

Years ago, I used to answer people's writing questions on a regular basis, but . . . alas, my professional life got too busy to keep up with them, especially when they can be so specific to that person's needs. But recently I went through my Tumblr inbox and responded to a lot of my "asks," so I'm sharing them today in all their miscellaneous glory. Maybe they will be helpful to you.

(One caveat: I responded to these quickly off the cuff, so you will notice I'm not as deep and thorough as I am when I do regular blog posts. (Speaking of regular blog posts . . . I was also on Writers Helping Writers last week, talking about how story structure is a fractal, if you're interested 😉.))

Question: How do you show progress being made in the promises you make in your story?

Answer:

Often the best way to illustrate progress is to break big, overarching elements down into small things, and show how the small things are met/accomplished.

So, usually in a story, there will be one or more big overarching goals for the main character (of which there are three types: obtain, avoid, or maintain). Often these big goals can be broken down into smaller goals. For example . . . 

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Then vs. Now Scenes

Recently I did an article on types of scenes that have little to no conflict, and it seemed like the proper time to write up a little post on another pair of scenes: Then vs. Now scenes.

This topic has been sitting in my "draft queue" for quite a while, but I haven't covered them yet because . . . frankly, they don't need much of a word count to explain. Nonetheless, they are worth going over. So, let's go over Then vs. Now scenes in a short post today.

Then vs. Now scenes are pretty much what they sound like. They are usually a pair of scenes, one at the beginning of the story and one at the end, that illustrate how things have changed (or less commonly, haven't changed). So for example, there could be a scene at the beginning of the story that shows a depressed protagonist missing the bus to work. Then, there could be a similar scene at the end that shows the protagonist happy as she arrives at the bus stop early. This blatantly shows how the story has transformed her.

When people talk about Then vs. Now scenes, they typically reference how the protagonist has changed, but as I mentioned, you can technically use them to show how the protagonist has remained the same. I could have the end scene show the protagonist once again depressed and missing the bus. This communicates that, despite all that has happened through the middle of the story, the protagonist remains (or has gone back to) the same state.

Then vs. Now scenes are commonly used to showcase the protagonist's character arc. Perhaps the protagonist started the story believing that she had to take advantage of others to get ahead. Perhaps we showed her in the opening stealing money from the panhandling homeless. In one of the closing scenes, we show her giving money to them instead. This clearly illustrates she has a new worldview: It's better to help others.

As you've probably guessed, Then vs. Now scenes can be used to show an infinite number of things--how a character has aged, how a character has mastered a skill, how an occupation is the same, how a setting has changed, how a best friend continues to be a scoundrel.

When we think of these scenes, we usually think of being obvious, but you can implement them subtly as well. Maybe we don't show the protagonist giving money to the same homeless people. Instead, we show her pulling her car over to help someone change a tire. This still illustrates "It's better to help others," but it's less obvious.

It's also possible to have more than a pair of scenes. Perhaps you have three that build off each other--one at the beginning, one in the middle, and one at the end. In the first, the protagonist steals from the homeless, in the second she ignores them, and in the third she donates to them.

These scenes also don't have to strictly show up at the beginning and end. One could be at the beginning of Act I and at the close of Act I, or at two different places in the middle.

In any case, I think you get the idea of how these work.

There really isn't much more to say about them, but they are a great way to show what has (and what has not) changed through the story. And just to follow up with what I covered last time, these scenes may or may not have conflict--they may be structured as a typical scene, or an incident, or a happening, or whatever. It's not unusual for the first one to be a typical scene in the opening of the story, and the second to be an incident at the close of the story. 

In Coco, we see how Miguel's interest in The Day of the Dead has changed.

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Writing Scenes Without Conflict: Incidents, Happenings, Sequels, & More

Ideally, nearly every scene in a story will have conflict, because nearly every scene should have these primary plot elements: goal, antagonist, conflict, and consequences. And nearly every scene should have a turning point, which will be its climactic moment. With these things in their proper places, nearly every scene will follow basic structure:

In writing, all of these elements work in fractals. Yes, the overall narrative arc should have these things, but so should each act, and so should each scene.

. . . Generally speaking, anyway, because every rule is made to be broken.

As long as you know why and how you are breaking it.

With that in mind, sometimes you may have a scene that has no conflict.

Or no important goal, or antagonist, or consequences.

And on rare occasions, no turning point (though almost always there should at least be a turning point).

But these are exceptions, and the writer should implement them intentionally, not out of laziness or ignorance.

And when I say that most scenes should have conflict, I'm not saying they need shouting matches or flying fists. Conflict is simply what happens when a character runs into and deals with resistance (antagonistic forces). 

In any case, let's go through some types of scenes that don't require much, if any, conflict.

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Writing & Structuring Multiple Plotlines (with Visuals)

Writing multiple plotlines can sound difficult and daunting. How can you keep the storylines straight? And relevant to each other? How do you handle all the moving pieces and subplots? 

One of your biggest helps for writing such a story is understanding how to structure it, which is what this article is all about. And it may be a relief to hear that you've likely already written with multiple plotlines . . . now you are probably just adding more than you are used to . . . 

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Looking for a Writing Group?

Hi friends! 

I've been busy putting together my next writing tip article, but its topic is rather complex, and writing about it is more time-consuming than a lot of my other posts, so it's not quite ready yet (but it will be worth the wait 😉). If you can't wait that long though, I did put up my quarterly post on Writers Helping Writers that you can check out in the meantime: "Structuring an Ensemble Cast with Plotlines." 

I also have some other exciting news to share . . . 

A while ago, Ben from Apex Writers Group reached out to me and invited me to be a monthly guest on their Zoom calls. I will be teaching the first Monday night of each month, starting in July. Obviously I love teaching others about writing, so this is gonna be awesome for me (and hopefully the writers 🙃)!

My first class will be on negative character arcs, and the next will be on positive steadfast/flat arcs.

Of course, though, if you are reading this, you probably "hear" from me all the time, so it might be helpful to know Apex Writers Group has a lot more than me 😆

They host multiple Zoom calls a week where they invite professionals to teach writers how to write better. They have had guests like best-selling authors Brandon Sanderson (Mistborn and The Stormlight Archives), James Dashner (The Maze Runner), Kevin J. Anderson (who writes in the Dune universe (and worked as a producer on the recent films), and Orson Scott Card (Ender's Game). They've also brought on Angela Ackerman (The Emotion Thesaurus), Joanna Penn (prolific writer and podcaster), Dave Chesson (owner of Kindleprenuer), and more. (I think you get the idea.)

As the name suggests, it's also a writing group, so there is a community element where you can connect with other writers online for writing sprints and virtual get-togethers (and sometimes participate in competitions). 

Apex was founded by one of my writing mentors, David Farland, who taught Brandon Sanderson, Dan Wells, James Dashner, Brandon Mull, Stephenie Meyer, and others who went on to have very successful writing careers. Unfortunately, David passed away, but fortunately, Apex has recordings of his writing courses that you also get access to when you join.

Here is what Apex says about itself: Apex offers an incredible set of resources for writers, regardless of your stage of development. Whether you want to break into the publishing field, level up to bestseller, or begin selling more books than before. Apex members get access to the training, motivational tools, and supporting community that they need to achieve their personal goals.

It's $47 per month to join, and you can learn more or enroll by visiting their website.

In any case, I hope to see you next time for another tip 😉 (and you can always peruse my previous tips in my Writing Tip Index). Thank you for sharing this journey with me.

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