You have to have plot. You have to have style. Take Tarantino for example. When GQ interviewed him about how his film idea for The Hateful Eight creatively emerged, he was already building on a past project, Django Unchained. He told the magazine in a December 2015 article:
I liked the idea of creating a new pop-culture, folkloric hero character that I created with Django, that I think’s gonna last for a long time. And I think as the generations go on and everything, you know, my hope is it can be a rite of passage for black fathers and their sons. Like, when are they old enough to watch Django Unchained? And when they get old enough—14 or 15 or something like that—then maybe it’s something that they do with their fathers, and it’s a cool thing. And then Django becomes their cowboy hero. And so I like the idea of maybe like a series of paperbacks coming out, Further Adventures of Django, and so I was really kind of into that idea. And then I started writing it as a book, as prose. And that’s what ended up turning into The Hateful Eight.
Wow! Multiple layers of stories! Tarantino had some real motivation behind The Hateful Eight! It was a novel that was a sequel to a film where he wanted to create pop-culture heroes for kids to share with their dads! He was wired for story and found an awesome connection! A real meaningful one! Take that Cousin Larry!
In comparison, the story about Cousin Larry just isn’t riveting. It doesn’t even come from a good place. Those kinds of story wires are crossed. They leave everyone unfulfilled. They don’t come from the core of you. They’re just lip service without meaning. Re-read what Tarantino said to GQ. Why was he writing? He had something to say! And he wanted to really affect people for a long time.
Here’s another example of boringus americanus:
You think you’re a wiz because you thought up this great story about an American family. A dad who works at a bank. A wife who stays at home. And two children. So you start writing, imagining the tale unfold. The story opens with the father being late for work. The mother argues with her kids who need to head off to school. The mother feels stressed. So does the father. End of opening scene.
What’s wrong with that? Everyone arguing and late for work and school? “Wasn’t that tension-filled?” you ask.
Um, no. BORING. SNOOZEFEST. FLATLINE. LAMESAUCE. Wake us up in the afterlife. You just captured every single boring account of American life all wrapped into one.
Why isn’t that story riveting?
It’s far too common. Meaning, there’s nothing unique about it. We all know it and live it. On top of that, nothing happens.
Going to work or to school isn’t a story. It’s as bad as telling the story of the teenage boy watching videos on YouTube. People stare. So what? BORING.
When you’re wired for story, you have to find some kind of meaning, one that’s unique, one that connects with people and makes them want to know what happens next. We all know what happens in the boring story about American life. Kids go to school. Parents go to work. Snooze.
So once again, everyone walks away while you’re telling your snore-worthy account of the most boring family on the planet. Doesn’t even matter how dramatic you tell it. Now throw your brain onto hot coals. Watch the grey matter bubble and cook. Trust us. It will be more exciting than your Cousin Larry and stressed family tales.
Okay. Before you pop your lid, let’s see if we can salvage anything here.
How about a Godzilla shows up to the next cubicle while Cousin Larry’s checking his email? Godzilla, who is talking real fast, just landed this telemarketing job and doesn’t want to come off wrong when explaining to people how to login to their new fancy computer tablets. And since Cousin Larry’s just been fired over email, all hell is about to break loose because he’s about to tell Godzilla to shut up. Yup. Yup. Conflict. Tension. And, in that other story about the family, what if while the parents are arguing, the TV news shows a meteor hurtling toward earth? And what if—at the same time—the dad has found out his best friend is part of the scientific conspiracy to hide the idea that the meteor can be destroyed? Yep.
Suddenly the stakes are upped. The audience is interested in the motivation. They want to know why the family is acting normal when they might be about to die. Do they not see the meteor on the TV? Do they know about the impending obliteration of everything and don’t care? Why is the son wearing an “I Love Meteor Day” t-shirt? Now everyone wants to know what happens next! They want to know the motivations of the characters in the cubicle, too. Why does Godzilla need this job? Who is the co-worker? Why is she staring at her monitor? Does she really hate Godzilla as much as Cousin Larry? Maybe he took the job of her former lover. There’s some resentment going on, folks. This is story! You’re wired to tell it!
Now we need some character and scene development. Most of all, your audience needs to know what every character wants. Let’s look at some fictitious situations. Cousin Larry wants his job back. Godzilla wants to be loved by anyone. Only, you’re not going to give these pesky characters what they want. You’re going to torment your characters, and that, friends, will torment your audience. That’s what we call Cheap Movie Trick’s first holy commandment of storytelling: never give a character what he or she wants.
Just don’t do it. As bad as you want characters to win . . . Don’t let them. This kind of conflict and tension will keep your audience riveted. They will want to know the outcome. Godzilla wants that first telemarketing call to go smoothly. Don’t let it. Another co-worker wants to make friends with the scaly monster. Don’t let it go smoothly. You want the family to notice the television when the meteor is hurtling. This is yours for the taking. Build the tension. Make your audience squirm.
Are there exceptions to our holy commandment of storytelling? Maybe. But don’t you think you should follow our advice for a while to see how your story develops without all kinds of happy little rainbows? Forget rainbows! Harry Potter has a scar on his head day one and never gets what he wants. He can’t even make a potion right.
Let’s take this further. Riveting stories, the ones that make you turn pages or keep Netflix streaming, have the uncanny ability to really get into the main character’s head. This is easier in prose. You can write what a character is thinking, how Jennifer wants to toss her guts because she’s terrified of what the judge might say if she’s caught not just holding up a liquor store but sleeping with the judge’s son, who happens to be a cop. Now dive further, go past specific character thoughts into character feelings. You can describe all sorts of emotions. Make them desperate. Painful. Jarring. Stomach churning. Tortuous. Good job.
In film, feelings and thoughts have to be conveyed through solid acting (and voiceover and other devices, too). We want to feel when we write the story because we want our characters to feel. We want to go on an emotional rollercoaster because we all want an exhilarating emotional experience. You don’t always have to add a meteor or a Godzilla. But remember, exhilarating emotional experiences don’t come from stories that regurgitate the most humdrum parts of our lives. They come from when we up the stakes and the emotional pain.
Write a story you’d want to hear, or read, or see. That will make the entire process a little more meaningful for you as you put pen to paper before you even get to the script.
Oh, and one more thing. Remember what we said about location? Don’t forget to write a story that fits your locations. We’ll remind you again when we talk about scripts.
What’s a scene?
A scene is the primary element of your reader’s powerful emotional experience as you present them with your story. The cause and effect of scene structure has three basic parts:
1. Goals. What the heck do your characters want or need to do?
2. Obstacles. This is the tension and conflict that causes your story to keep going because your character fails to reach the