nightbird: Mucha illustration, young peasant holding scythe and grain (quiet sisters)
Holy crap, my story works.

I read this fantastic blog post about story structure while I was at work today. It has a breakdown of 20 steps that are the classic bones of any huge story. I scribbled notes in the margins of a printout while riding the train home, and then retreated to my room with a notebook rather than eating dinner.

I now have in hand five and change pages of comprehensive outline, plus several huge, important, incredible discoveries about the characters. Not only that, but the story really, really works. It's not just "Insert quest here!" anymore. (I mean, there is still a lot of that, but not on the big picture level. Which is thrilling!)

So, I cannot recommend reading that link enough. I also cannot recommend food enough. Very quick dinner, here I come. (My writing hand will appreciate it too!)
Mood:: 'impressed' impressed
Music:: "I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine," Thea Gilmore
nightbird: Mucha illustration, young peasant holding scythe and grain (little boxes)
Great post from Genreality about theme:
Theme is a tough subject. It is perhaps one of the most common reasons writers go awry in the midst of their writing. Theme is, at its most basic, the reason you are writing the story. It is part of our voice; your unique perspective and expression. It is what your book is about.

Read that again – It is what your book is about.

Theme is not character. It is not plot. It is not about the goal of the main character or about why the villain is in opposition to that goal. Theme is what your readers will get out of the story. Maybe it is a lesson. Maybe it is a new way of looking at things. Maybe it is just something to think about.
As always: simplicity, simplicity, simplicity.
Music:: "To Know Him Is To Love Him," Amy Winehouse
nightbird: Mucha illustration, young peasant holding scythe and grain (quiet sisters)
posted by [personal profile] nightbird at 02:46pm on 08/09/2009 under
Enormity doesn't mean really enormous. It means incredibly horrible.

If I was at all together at the moment, I would relate this post to Regarding the Pain of Others, Susan Sontag's final book, which examines the act of observing and processing representations of suffering. I am not, in fact, together right now, but it struck me as interesting how this applies to fiction: that if we can't do anything about the enormity, we're more willing to listen and watch.
Music:: "Running Up That Hill," Placebo (Kate Bush cover)

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