©Jessica Morrell

There is no mystery to turning pro. It’s a decision brought about by an act of will. We make up our minds to view ourselves as pros, and we do it, simple as that. ~ Stephen Pressfield

File this column under my annual pep talk. Something you might hear from a hard ass or an NBA coach. If you’re not aware, most of them aren’t mild or retiring types. I’m thinking of one of my favorite all-time coaches, Don Nelson when he was coaching the Milwaukee Bucks.  His passion for the game was like fire in his veins. He was a maverick in his coaching style (and yes, I know that term has been overused), so zealous about the game that  he once protested a penalty call by tearing off his jacket in frustration, ripping the sleeve from the garment.

When a professional athlete hits the court or playing field he or she is expected to leave everything on the court. No complaints about how the deck is stacked against him; no cursing at the rules of play; no griping at the refs if you’re smart. Pros put on the uniform and play their hearts out. After years learning the fundamentals, years of practice and more practice, of drills and more drills.  Listening to their coach when they need to change course. Refining a technique or switching up the defensive or offensive strategy.

In Stephen Pressfield’s marvelous little book on the creative process The War of Art he explains that the way to succeed in any art is by turning pro. He explains: “The professional respects his craft. He does not consider himself superior to it… The professional dedicates himself to mastering technique not because he believes technique is a substitute for inspiration but because he wants to be in possession of the full arsenal of skills when inspiration does come. The professional is sly. He knows that by toiling beside the front door of technique, he leaves room for genius to enter by the back.”

So while learning all they can about craft and the publishing or movie business, writers need to be consummate professionals. When you meet an editor or agent.  When you turn in a manuscript (honoring the deadline), and in all your correspondence and public appearances.

Pressfield’s expression turning pro has a specific connotation, and about a third of the book is dedicated to explaining the professional mindset and habits. Turning pro is a state of mind; it’s a mental shift from weekend-warrior amateur to hard-core, self-disciplined professional. If you really want to conquer resistance to doing creative work (or any other major thing that you want to achieve, whether it’s running a marathon or starting a business) get serious about it. Accept that you’ll wage a daily battle against the forces within you that would rather take the easy way out and keep you safely within your comfort zone.

What distinguishes the professional writer? A pro shows up for work every day; a pro is patient; a pro endures adversity. A pro doesn’t take success or failure personally; a pro accepts no excuses; a pro plays hurt. A pro learns to be objective about their own strengths and weaknesses. Here is how you do it:

1. Treat other pros with respect and gratitude. Especially the gatekeepers of the profession—agents, managers, editors, and authors. Say ‘thank you’ a lot. Recognize the busy schedules of these specialists. They don’t owe you their time or respect until you’ve earned it.

2. Dress the part. You’ll be in the presence of anyone who might further your career. Comport yourself with grace, ease, and humility. Notice: desperation wasn’t in that list. Be ready to chat about yourself and your work in an engaging manner, without sounding like you’ve been scripted or like you work in call center in Mumbai. Be yourself, ask questions, tell a story, and smile.

3. Show up with a ‘lunch pail’ attitude toward the work.  Day after day, year after year. Punch in and treat the task at hand with commitment and consistency. At the conference, attend every session you can on craft, but also sit in on the panels featuring agents and editors—taking copious notes at all times.

4. Follow up. At the conference, after you’ve networked and gleaned information, follow up on the contacts you’ve made by sending out manuscripts and thank yous. Then comb though your notes for gems and further inspiration. You might want to type up your notes if they’re handwritten, which anchors them in your memory. Don’t forget to touch base with the writers that you met at the conference, either.

5.  Keep the fire burning. After hobnobbing and learning, don’t let the creative fire you’ve been exposed to die. Keep your passion for writing alive by reading what inspires you and staying connected to other writers.

6. Stick with it no matter what. The pro lives and works in the no-excuse zone.

Not until your back hurts or your ideas start fizzling. Just write through the pain and through the dead zone of a faltering draft. Then write some more.

6. Pros keep learning over their lifetime, gaining skills and mastering techniques. A writing pro must read work far better than he or she can write the learning process.

7. Pros face rejection like a warrior, not a wimp. Professional athletes lose all the time, often while disappointing their fans and with multi-million dollar stakes and world championships on the line. After the loss, they swallow their frustration and pride, suit up and try harder.

8. Pros endure. They play injured, they play tired or scared. No matter what, no matter how long it takes to finish a draft or revise a draft, or sell a manuscript.

9. Pros are humble. We know we’re lucky to be called to this art, to dictate the voices and ideas that whisper in our heads.

10. Pros are always ready when called off the bench. Your opportunity just might be arriving soon so be ready for it.

11. Pros are authentic. Our stories are fiercely illuminating–true in the sense that they reflect our perceptions, imaginations, and hopes.

So get into the game. Play with stamina and grace. As Steven Pressfield said, “Better to be in the arena getting stomped by the bulls, than to be up in the stands or out in the parking lot.”

Line by Line: How to Rewrite, Rework & Reword
March 24, 9-5 Tabor Space, 5441 S.E. Belmont, Portland, OR Cost: $75
Every good writer is also an editor. The tough thing about self-editing is learning what to keep, what to lose, and what to leave well enough alone. For some this can be difficult because writers are extremely close to their work and read what they meant to write, not what’s actually on the page. This workshop will give you perspective on all that. We’ll cover the all-important level of line editing—or how to make each sentence and paragraph sing, how to choose words for potency and resonance, and how to transform clunky sentences and paragraphs into smooth beauties. We’ll be line editing examples throughout the workshop. The aim is to polish so the pages are not only easy to read, but a pleasure to read. Generous handouts and cheat sheets will be supplied. We’ll cover:
• Definitions of developmental editing, copy editing, line editing and proofreading.
• The five steps of line editing and ways to analyze your work with an impersonal eye.
• How to keep a close eye on word usage, looking out for misused words, overused words, crutch words, and words which do not belong.
• We’ll chop clutter and excess prepositions, amp up language, learn where to place emphasis and word grenades.
• How to spot flatness, lack of variety and lack of verve.
• How to retool the language throughout so that it’s more evocative.
• How to smooth out clumsy narrative and clunky dialogue.
• How to correct basic grammar and punctuation problems.

contact me at jessicapage (at)spiritone(dot)com

“And yet, words are the passkeys to our souls. Without them, we can’t really share the enormity of our lives.” ~ Diane Ackerman

The best advice on writing I’ve ever received is to take it seriously, because to do it well is all-consuming.
David Guterson

Bad Advice? Good Advice?
©Jessica P. Morrell
“You write to be read. That is the bottom line.” ~ Jane Yolen

While teaching and working with writers I’ve heard them parrot all sorts of advice by well-known authors, experts, and cranks. And I’ve concluded that there sure is a lot of lousy advice aimed at writers. You’ve got to wonder: do plumbers or dentists or professional baseball players hear a lot of bad advice also? I doubt it. I want to weigh in on some dubious advice I’ve heard over the years.

The advice that’s probably heard most often is write what you know. I couldn’t disagree more. Now, if you’re writing a memoir, sticking to the facts is essential, but for fiction writers the advice should be write what you don’t know. After all, if you’re writing science fiction, how can you travel to Mars fifty years in the future to create the details of your story? Likewise for stories set in 17th century Scotland, the Pentagon, or those which are littered with corpses. Most writers have never even seen a corpse, much less murdered someone. Or at least I hope not.

Instead, we write based on research and imagination and emotion. All writers need to write about what ticks them off, fascinates them, or keeps them awake at night. Write about emotions you’ve felt, motivations you understand, character traits that you can bring to life, and themes that you believe are important.

Now, for writers who craft articles it would seem on the surface that you should write what you know. If you live in a small town and stay home raising kids and keep your friends in stitches, that advice might work. Your town might be brimming with quotable misfits, your children’s antics might be hilarious, and your slant on life entertaining. But most free-lance journalists write based on research and interviews and follow their curiosity.

Advice I cannot disagree with more is to never use flashbacks. I believe this one came about because often editors see premature flashbacks in a manuscript. A novel can start lots of ways with a stranger coming to town, a letter arriving, a bad guy sliding a knife into his victim’s spleen. Fiction requires an inciting incident that yanks the protagonist and the story world off balance. An opening introduces threat or suggests conflict to come. Unless you’re writing a frame story that starts with the ending, and then backtracks in time so that readers understand why the ending came about, you don’t start with the past. You begin in the present at the brink of change. You immerse the reader in the story world so that he can unpack his suitcase and walk around and come to know a dangerous or troubling situation.

Now, once the reader has his suitcase unpacked, including his dental floss and travel alarm and has checked out the neighborhood and the hotel’s amenities, then you can start introducing aspects from the past. After all, without a few journeys into the past, or the delving into the protagonist’s memories, how will the reader understand why the characters do what they do and say what they say?

Recently I worked on a fiction manuscript for a client that was riddled with problems. One problem was that the protagonist, who we’ll call Daniel, had inherited a strange mix of messages from his mother. In the story, Daniel’s father died while trying to escape from a Viet Cong prison. His mother, embittered about his death, told Daniel that his father was irresponsible and he should never be like his father. Now, I thought the logic of a man trying to escape being called irresponsible made no sense—call him plucky, brave, or determined, but not irresponsible. So this subplot focused on how Daniel was burdened by his mother’s bitterness at her husband’s death. Problem was the reader never met the mother in a flashback, never heard her words, or witnessed a sharply-drawn memory. The manuscript needed excursions into the past for proofs. Backstory illuminates the front story of fiction and without it a story is often thin and confusing.

The other advice I hear from fiction writers is never write prologues because editors hate prologues. The truth is editors hate stories that begin twice. But a well-crafted prologue can cast a shadow of danger or intrigue or excitement over a story, especially if the past is complex. It can also explain some crucial information that would weigh down the story’s opening. In the aforementioned manuscript I suggested that the client create a prologue that introduces the father in the POW camp so that we can understand what Daniel has lost and how he shares traits with his father. [He already had written a prologue that started two weeks before the inciting incident and didn’t add to the story.] I suggested he use Colin Harrison’s Afterburn as an example—it’s also about a character captured during the Vietnam War, but he’s rescued. Harrison’s prologue also introduces one of the themes of the book—torture and asks if torture works as a method of terror and control.

Advice you can toss out like yesterday’s fish is only write about likeable characters. I’m currently finishing a book that is about how to write about edgy and unlikable characters. In fact, I’m postulating that fiction doesn’t need to be about heroes and feature Hollywood endings. It needs to resemble more of the grit and creep factor of life with antiheroes, unlikable protagonists, sociopaths, and emotional cripples in starring roles. But if your protagonist is a jerk or a less than sympathetic, you need a firm reason for his starring role, and consequences from his actions. Perhaps the story teaches him lessons or a comeuppance. Write stories that include deeply knowable and fascinating characters.

Writers are also advised that they shouldn’t quit their day job. Good advice since it’s hard to write when you’re worried about keeping the lights on. Recently I was talking with an author who hasn’t been published in years. He’s a good writer and has a terrific concept for a manuscript. However, he’s not working, is living on credit, and is anticipating being offered a more than 6-figure advance and lucrative movie deal. When I gently suggested that his aspirations might be a tad unrealistic, he was not dissuaded. I left the meeting feeling worried about him.

A free-lance journalist might be able to quit his day job if he’s columnist or already has a regular freelance gig or a book deal. If you’re writing fiction you need another income in the family, a sizable pension, or enough money to live on for at least three years. Success can happen overnight but for most of us it takes time. Lots of time along with luck and contacts. The truth is most first and second books are written while the author is working full time. It’s fairly typical that a writer cannot quit his day job until his fifth or sixth book is published and even then, royalties and advances might not be enough to live on. Learn to put writing first in your life and stick with it while your friends are at the mall, the beach, the block party.

Write all the time and if you’re most happy when writing, that’s a clue that you should keep at it. But at some point you need to turn your manuscript over to the gimlet eyes of the publishing world or a knowledgeable reader. I’ve met plenty of writers who have been working on manuscripts for five or ten years and what they’ve produced is drek. It’s so sad but some people will never be published or will only enjoy modest success. So don’t bank on writing a best seller unless you’re in the middle of a bidding war.

You can also ignore advice that claims that there is only one way to approach writing. There is no right or wrong way to write or plot or edit. Some people need to outline, some people need to wing it, and some people need to write while wearing a beanie with a propeller on top and listening to the Elvis in Vegas CD. However, there are a number of skills you need to acquire to be the best writer possible. You need to understand your characters or subject deeply. You need a flair for language and ear for dialogue. Immerse yourself in craft, build habits of strength, and let the story come out, staying close to it, always staying close to it.

But It Really Happened

Jessica P. Morrell©

“With any kind of fiction, there are basically two ways to incorporate your real-life experiences. Either you write a story based on something that happened to you, or you write a largely imagined story, with snippets from your life woven into the fabric of the story.” Robin Hemley

Being a writer can be a wonderful excuse for our less-than-noble tendencies to snoop, eavesdrop, and stand on the sidelines and report on the fray. But all this curiosity and awareness can lead to a particular catch-22 that exists for many fiction writers: do you write a story based on real events and people, and if so, how much can you borrow from reality? The short answers are sometimes and as little as possible except for creating a believable sense of place.

The urge to write from the raw materials of our lives can be overwhelming. After all, we all had a unique upbringing and most of us have witnessed or starred in events that have Technicolor™ vibrancy. We’ve met lovely people and oddballs and sociopaths and losers. We’ve traveled, taken risks, and fallen in love and also had our hearts mangled, our trust betrayed, and our hopes smashed. In fact, many writers are downright fascinating and have had experiences that would make Dickens weep.

But none of that adds up to fiction nor does it mean that your life story should be shaped into autobiographical fiction. While real life seeps into fiction—and should—writing fiction brings life into sharper focus than reality. The fictional world and its inhabitants are more closely examined, more entwined, more enchanting, and in more trouble than in real life. So what’s a writer to do when he or she is convinced that his or her life story can be the basis for a novel?  Lately I keep meeting writers struggling with this dilemma and based on what I’ve observed, want to make a few suggestions.

First, it is entirely possible to write from life and that doing so doesn’t mean you have a limited imagination. Second, just because an event happened does not mean that it can be honed into interesting fiction. And interestingly, often bizarre real life happenings can seem too far out on the page. In fact the “ but it really happened” defense is one of the weakest in all of fiction writing.

What seems to work best, instead of trying to merge reality and fiction, is to allow life events to spark a story instead of struggling to capture the whole tapestry of a life or a situation. Since there are several pitfalls that arise when writing from life, let’s examine them. The biggest problem with writing based on real events is that it can be constraining. As a writer you’ll be struggling to report with accuracy on events, people and places and this sort of reportage squeezes out creativity and all the possibilities that can happen when your imagination is given free rein. When you write from real life you are often stringing together a series of anecdotes and moments instead of weaving themes and causality into a large and pulsating whole. Writing from real life can also lack focus since you’re trying to capture generalities and memories.

When you write about yourself or real people you also miss the magic that happens when a character takes shape in your day dreams and starts whispering her secrets, urges and fears. Fiction in essence is a record of threatening changes being inflicted on a character or group of characters at a particularly interesting or dangerous time. When we shape our own lives into fiction it’s often difficult to hone in on the most interesting segment, to know when exactly we changed, when the turning points occurred, and when we were most threatened. In fiction the stakes for the character are high and unless you’re an astronaut, brain surgeon, or top-level spy, it’s difficult to make the stakes from reality as compelling.

There are other dangers too—fiction readers simply don’t trust stories that stem from life as much as they trust stories born of creativity. Writing from real life also tempts us to seek revenge on people who wronged us and in this vengeance we might not be able to see the persons clearly or understand their motivations. Writing biographical fiction also tempts us to not reveal how lonely, depressed, broke, cynical, gullible, or desperate we were. It’s tough to admit to our weaknesses and foibles, all the more reason to create characters who make mega blunders and missteps while you duck for cover like the wizard behind the curtain.

Here’s another consideration: a storyline must be unified and balanced but life isn’t. Life is random and chaotic with moments of calm interspersed. Fiction is structured on ever-increasing threats and momentum with all the parts creating a unified reality.  Writing from life also risks that the writer will spend too much time ruminating, too much time looking back instead of forward. Another problem is that often our daily lives contain large swaths of boring or humdrum happenings. We spend a lot of time at our desks, or smothered by the demands of others, or watching television, or running errands or struggling to make a decision. Fiction leaves out the boring parts of life and when you write from facts, that can be difficult.

So what do you do with the stuff from life? Obviously you don’t want to toss it out like dirty dishwater—you want to use it somehow. Real life events and people can imbue the fiction world with depth. If you live in New York and your story takes place there, you want all that honking vibrancy to show up on the page. The trick is to sort through it, searching for what to keep and what to discard. Just because an event happened doesn’t make it believable on the page or guarantee that it stirs emotions in the reader.  And while you’re sorting through the truth of a life, always handle life events and real people with extreme caution. You’re cautious because you don’t want to get sued for libel and because fiction writing is artifice and smoke and mirrors.

After all is said and done, if you still insist on writing from life experiences, here are a few tips for contorting the truth. If you’re writing a coming-of-age story based on your own experiences, make sure that enough time has based so that you can the past clearly and then twist the truth. If you want to write about real people it works best to create an agglomeration based on several people and to capture the flavor of their speech, gestures and mannerisms. If you have based a character solely and closely on a real person, inform your agent and publisher of this fact so that libel issues can be worked out before the book is in print. Or, if you use a real person, transform him or her into someone their mother would not recognize, remembering that you mostly want to capture his or her inner world. If your character is a celebrity you might want to research how other writers have handled this technique or consider writing about someone who is, uhm, no longer with us. Perhaps this one is obvious, but if you’re writing to avenge a wrong, rethink your strategy.

The bottom line is that when you write from life you’ll want to exaggerate, disguise or bend the truth. Create characters whose behaviors you can understand with the emotional truths your readers can relate to. And while behaviors and emotions in characters you write about can reflect some of your own past, vary their experiences from your own as much as possible.

Registration for Summer in Words  (June 15-17) will open in March, but you can already reserve your rooms (at a discounted rate) at the Hallmark Inn & Resort.

   Theme

Jessica P. Morrell €

 To write a plot  or story,   you have to be clear on what issues you want to present and then think of the events that will present those issues in action…I had to find that which was essential to the issue and then build an event around it. Ayn Rand

I don’t know about you, but during high school and college Lit courses I dreaded writing papers about the themes found in novels and short stories. Usually finishing the final labored sentence late Sunday night (it seems they were always due on Monday morning) I turned the paper in feeling like a fraud because it seemed written from both guesswork and arrogance. After all, Chaucer has been dead for centuries and did I really know what he was trying to convey in Canterbury Tales those many years ago?

Now that we’ve dredged up those assignments of yore, forget that tortured definition of theme, along with all its angst. In reality, theme is a fairly simple concept: it is what your story is about. This central idea serves as a unifying element and your characters’ actions and story world reflect it. Theme works as glue in the story, adds to the unity, and provides connecting threads that lend it significance and cohesion.

Theme is not the message, it is more like the soul of your story. But here’s the trick to theme that I want you to remember: It provides the boundaries for your story. You make decisions about your story based on your theme. It’s like when you are packing to move into a new house. As you sort through your belongings, you decide which objects to move, what to toss out, which items to sell at a yard sale.

Here’s a quick list of the benefits of working with theme:

• It lends the story emotional depth.
• Themes also add perspective to drama, especially tragedy, loss, death, grief, and sorrow.
• It gives cause-and-effect actions or results in stories meaning.
• It helps the writer explore his or her beliefs.
• Themes help the reader understanding the ramifications of the story events.
• Themes can focus and sharpen extended metaphors.
• Theme is one of the devices that breathes life into a story.

Here’s another trick for tracking down themes in your own work—it can be compared to the themes found in real life such as in holidays or cultural markers. The theme of Mardis Gras is merrymaking and outrageous celebration. The theme of Thanksgiving is gratitude, while the theme of Memorial Day is remembrance.

Likewise, in fiction and memoirs, theme can be stated in a single word or simple phrase. Novels always have a major theme and then often have one or two subsidiary themes. The themes in the film Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner are racism and intolerance. The premise, by the way, is “Love conquers all.” In To Kill A Mockingbird themes are about racial intolerance, injustice, and innocence lost. Alice Sebold’s memoir Lucky is about the trauma involved with rape and her novel Lovely Bones is about regret (although both have subsidiary themes).

Theme is unavoidable if you want to tell an interesting tale. Jerome Stern in Writing Shapely Fiction explains: “Though many writers like to think of themselves primarily as storytellers, yarn spinners, and fabulists, themes and ideas are inevitable. Every work raises questions, examines possibilities, and imagines the consequences of actions. You can’t avoid making meaning if you want to.”

Theme in memoir keeps the work from rambling, or being a mere collection of memories instead of a richly explored life. Without a theme a memoir can be thin, or on the other hand, tedious, and strictly autobiographical,especially if the person tries to list every major life event.

Judith Barrington, in Writing the Memoir explains the importance of theme: “Memoir, on the other hand, makes no pretense of replicating a whole life. Indeed, one of the important skills of memoir writing is the selection of the theme or themes that will bind the work together. Thus we discover, on setting out to read Patricia Hampl’s Virgin Time, that her chosen theme is the Catholicism she grew up with and her later struggle to find a place for it in her adult spiritual life. With a theme such as this laid down, the author resists the temptation to digress into stories that have no immediate bearing on the subject….”

Two schools of thought exist about how theme works in the writing process. The first is that themes evolve naturally, emerging somewhat magically from the characters’ actions and story line, or perhaps the writer’s dream world. Or, in writing nonfiction, the tug of memory and passion will somehow provide the connections, which in turn will produce their offspring—theme.

The second approach to writing with theme postulates that since theme is the glue in a story, you need it as the starting point from which the story unfolds. However, this approach has its own set of problems. Working with a predetermined theme might close off options for your plot and constrain the story. You’ll be so busy trying to squeeze a story around a theme that it might not have the logic, flow and causal relationships necessary.

If the theme of your story nags at you from the beginning, don’t worry, but also don’t allow it to act as a cruel dictator. If it doesn’t, trust that your story and its characters will whisper to you, just as when you write memoir the past whispers low and insistently. Trust too that as you work on your later drafts and spend time mulling over story events that the theme will appear.

When it comes to themes to base stories around, you have so many choices, but an easy place to start is with human weakness, fallibility, vulnerability and imperfections . You might want to also explore the rich territories of base instincts such as fear, greed, as well as powerful traits like loyalty and patriotism.

If you’re feeling stuck about finding the theme for your story, don’t try to wrestle it to the ground. Instead, return to your characters and think about the truths they’re revealing in their actions and choices. Notice how your story reflects on your own life, how all you’ve learned about love or death or greed is coming through.

While theme can be implied or plainly stated, it is never heavy-handed, shrill or trite. Thus don’t editorialize, and don’t stage your characters giving speeches about the theme.

Subplots are another means to amplify themes, but again, make sure the reader doesn’t feel ganged up on with every aspect of the story pointing to themes. An example of this is Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible. Kingsolver is a gifted and thoughtful writer, but the themes in this book seem applied with cement.

If you focus too heavily on themes, then some of the capriciousness and chance of writing is lost. After all, you don’t want everything in the story preordained or outlined. Since your right brain functions are often associative, finding connections and harvesting inspirations, you want to grant this brain function room to roam. If you focus too hard on milking the theme, the magic that happens when writing might fail. You want to walk amid your story world with your characters winking at you, suggesting additions to your scenes. Or while writing nonfiction, letting the past and meanings you have discovered create a profound reality.

On the other hand, if you write without themes, you might end up with a mere pile of episodes. A few last tips: While the final chapters will emphasize theme more than earlier ones, be careful about trying to tack on themes onto your endings or forcing characters to clamor atop a soapbox to deliver lectures. Be careful also of shifting themes during the story unless the reader can instinctively follow your change and make sense of it.

It’s official–Chelsea Cain is going to our Keynote Speaker at Summer in Words 2012 .

Dates are June 15-17

Cannon Beach, Oregon

Stay tuned for more updates.

• What is your story’s main problem or conflict?
• What’s going to be the most dramatic event/moment in your protagonist’s arc? Have you staged it in act 2 or 3?
• Are other characters in the story going to have a character arc?
• How many subplots are in the story? All necessary? How many will be tied up by the ending?
• Create a cast list then next to each person’s name write down his or her agenda in the story. What or who will get in the way of that agenda?
• What will your readers learn about the world and human nature from your story?
• What will your protagonist learn from the story events?
• How many characters will appear in each scene? (Tip: Beware of crowding scenes.)
• What is your protagonist most afraid of?
• What is your protagonist emotional need or baggage which will interfere with his/her efforts in the story and need to be addressed somehow?
• What will be the major reversal (of fortune) in the story? Will it occur at about the midpoint in the story?
• Will there be a dark night of the soul—the crisis that ends act 2 when the protagonist feels defeated and alone? When all appears lost?
• After this crisis, how will your protagonist rise to face the final challenge that creates the climax?
• What is the theme of the story? This is a relatively simple concept: justice, self reliance, greed, guilt, loyalty,
• What archetypes do you use in your story: destroyer, mentor, ally, underdog,