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Midpoint Magic - How To Swing Yo - H. R. D'Costa
Midpoint Magic - How To Swing Yo - H. R. D'Costa
H. R. D’Costa
scribemeetsworld.com
What a nightmare.
Having given screenwriters and novelists all sorts of grief, it’s been
saddled with unappealing adjectives like: sagging, swampy, boggy,
mushy, and muddled.
And no wonder.
It’s almost inevitable that you’ll flounder. Get lost. Lose sight of
where your story is going.
The protagonist tries to achieve his goal, fails, and then tries again.
Rinse and repeat, as necessary. (These are sometimes referred to
as try-fail cycles.)
From a writer’s point of view, he’s got a lot of pages to fill (the
lengthy second act) and basically one item to fill them with (try-fail
cycles).
Without a targeted plan of attack, the results will feel exactly the way
you’d predict: repetitious, boring, and monotonous.
This might seem obvious to you, right now, when it’s spelled out in
black-and-white. But when you’re writing your screenplay or novel,
it’s easy to forget.
So, so easy.
And if you forget it, then your try-fail cycles will feel the same, and
the endless repetition will weigh down your story.
You’ll wind up with that horror of horrors—a story that sags in the
middle.
By breaking down the lengthy second act into two separate chunks
—and providing you with a destination to write toward—the midpoint
makes your task more manageable. You’re far less likely to go off
track and get bogged down in the midst of writing your middle.
Even better, when you braid multiple fulcrums together, and then add
in the natural consequences that emerge from them as well as the
logical circumstances that led to them, your story will practically start
writing itself.
No joke.
It isn’t going to dole out vague advice like, “throw rocks (or a
curveball) at your protagonist” or “shake things up.”
You’ll learn the ins and outs of eight different fulcrums, which are
suitable for a variety of plots and genres. Plus, you’ll discover:
Here, you’ll take 2 preparatory steps that will help you instantly get to
the heart of your story. Then, you’ll be ready to match your premise
to the perfect fulcrum.
By the time you finish, you might have so much material, your story
middle won’t be able to contain it all.
You’ll have to whittle it down, and pick the best fulcrum to build your
story around, the one that will help you organize all of your ideas.
But if you master it, you’ll not only fill up those pesky pages that
follow the midpoint. In addition, you’ll be able to:
(1) Unless otherwise indicated, the tips in this book apply equally to
screenplays and novels.
Chances are greater that you’ve watched RED or Mean Girls, rather
than read the graphic novel or the non-fiction tome, respectively, on
which each film is based.
On paper, the titles of films adapted from novels (or a TV series)
appear the same as novel (or TV) titles. Customarily, all are
indicated via italics. But since I mainly rely on film examples, unless
otherwise noted, it’s safe to assume I’m referencing the film version
only.
The first is from a novel written by two New York Times bestselling
authors; the second is from a classic blockbuster that grossed over
$200 million (domestic).
(3) I analyze stories using three-act structure. You might not like
using three-act structure. That’s cool. This writing guide can still help
you.
Where appropriate, just replace Act One with “the beginning,” Act
Two with “the middle,” and Act Three with “the end” of your story.
That way, you’ll be able to make use of all the tips in this book
without any quibbling over structure.
Due to their convenience, these terms (Act 2A, Act 2B) will be used
frequently throughout this book.
Sometimes, I’ll refer to the end of Act 2B as the hero’s trough of hell
(or, more simply, the trough). This is my term for the setbacks he
experiences prior to the climax. You might call this plot point the “all
is lost” or black moment. They’re the same.
(4) To prevent the middle of your story from sagging, you need to do
more than deploy a suitable midpoint fulcrum. In addition, you must
(a) use the emotional intensity of the trough to reengage audiences,
and (b) escalate the obstacles your protagonist encounters.
(5) Subplots can have their own midpoint fulcrums too. But unless
otherwise indicated, this book focuses on the fulcrum that swings the
main plot, not a subplot, in a new direction.
Once you braid together multiple fulcrums and various forks (the
midpoint-boosting plot point we’ll discuss in chapters 5 and 6)…and
add in the consequences that result from them as well as the
conditions that led to them, the second act of your story might
magically start writing itself!
But to unleash the magical potential of the midpoint, you must first
pick an appropriate fulcrum. To do that, you need to know what the
fulcrums are, and what kind of stories they’re best suited for.
That’s what we’ll cover in this chapter. There are eight fulcrums in
total, eight different ways to swing your story in a new direction. For
easy reference, I’ve listed them below:
bond builder
BFF breaker
tide turner
passivity pivot
antagonist aha
revelation acceleration
manifest midpoint
game changer
Not sure what the passivity pivot or manifest midpoint is? Don’t
worry, we’re going to take a closer look at each fulcrum on this list
right now.
During Act 2A, when they’re not ignoring each other, they’re arguing
with each other. But at the midpoint, their relationship dynamic
changes. They share a moment of emotional intimacy, becoming
vulnerable and defenseless. In the process, they form an undeniable
connection, or bond, with each other—whose creation swings the
story in a new direction.
This could be the first time they entertain such thoughts. Alternately,
they could’ve harbored such thoughts before, but the midpoint marks
the first time they’re not so quick to brush them aside.
In sum, while you can craft a decent bond builder by having your
protagonists share confidences with each other, you can craft an
even stronger one by showing them sharing confidences that they’ve
withheld before.
During Act 2A, these threats will seemingly roll off the protagonists’
backs like water, and the partnership will hold firm. But at the
midpoint, the cracks start to show. By the end of Act 2B, these
cracks will snowball into fissures wide enough to finally split apart the
protagonists.
Now, I haven’t read the script, but it seems to me that the concept
lends itself perfectly to both the bond-builder and the BFF-breaker
fulcrums.
Let me elaborate. At first, the brothers-in-law would be at each
other’s throats, while the two sisters, contrastingly, would get along
fine. But at the midpoint, things would change. The brothers-in-law
would form a bond over something (pregnancy related perhaps?),
initiating a “bromance.”
He’d probably give up too, if it weren’t for the midpoint, when the
tides—finally—turn in his favor. Frequently, the protagonist doesn’t
get his first taste of major success through his effort alone. He
receives help from an ally, like a way cooler older brother (Rob in
Never Been Kissed), an ambitious reporter (Christian in The Devil
Wears Prada), or a disgruntled “worker bee” (Gretchen in Mean
Girls).
As you can imagine, this midpoint is especially well suited for stories
with a fish-out-of-water protagonist, who’s completely out of his
league. During Act 2A, he flounders. But at the midpoint, the tides
turn. Finally realizing how to apply his skill set from his everyday
world to his “new waters,” he adapts. Consequently, during Act 2B,
he accumulates a series of successes.
Both the comedy Click and the thriller Limitless follow this structural
model (which may be kind of surprising, considering their difference
in genre). Click’s Michael and Limitless’s Eddie are dissatisfied with
their lot in life (Eddie more so than Michael). But when a magical gift
unexpectedly enters their lives (a fast-forwarding remote for Michael;
a brain-boosting pill for Eddie), happiness is theirs for the taking.
At least, that’s how it appears during Act 2A, where Michael gets to
skip over the tedious aspects of life (being nagged by his spouse,
sitting through family dinner with his parents and his children’s
hyperactive friends, etc.). Likewise, Eddie experiences one playboy
fantasy (fast cars, loose women, ninja moves) after the other.
However, around the midpoint, the tides turn. The luster of the
magical gifts fades, and their downsides can no longer be ignored.
When utilizing the tide-turner midpoint, bear in mind that each half,
whether positive or negative, doesn’t have to be uniform. While Act
2A may be akin to a sea of failure, a few successes may be
scattered here and there (and vice versa). Likewise, although the
majority of Act 2B may be filled with success, failure might not be
entirely absent (and vice versa).
Look at the way Andy fulfills her professional obligations for Miranda
during Act 2A of The Devil Wears Prada:
Failure: Andy struggles to understand Miranda’s instructions,
which are incoherent because Miranda omits key details.
Failure: Andy doesn’t secure Miranda a flight back home (when
all flights from Miami have been grounded due to a hurricane).
Success: Andy (now better dressed) handles Miranda’s
incoherent instructions with ease.
Success: Andy organizes a preview of a designer’s collection.
Failure: Tasked with delivering an important item (the Book) to
Miranda’s home, Andy overhears an argument between Miranda
and her husband.
Success: With Christian’s help, Andy secures a copy of the as-
yet-unpublished Harry Potter manuscript for Miranda’s
daughters to read.
This last success marks the transition into Act 2B, where Andy
doesn’t experience any professional failure. Andy’s ascent is further
emphasized through contrast. During Act 2A, Miranda’s other
assistant, Emily, brims with officious competence. But after the tide-
turning midpoint, Emily is shown at a disadvantage for the first time,
and can no longer lord over Andy, whose star is on the rise.
Midpoint Fulcrum #4: The Passivity
Pivot
With this fulcrum, the protagonist starts out in a passive position.
During Act 2A, he’s on the defensive (or reactive). At the midpoint,
something changes. It’s like a switch has been flipped. Hence,
during Act 2B, he’s on the offensive (or proactive).
When implementing the passivity pivot, you can base it on either plot
or protagonist. If you’re working with a plot-based pivot, then your
protagonist isn’t a passive person per se. But the circumstances in
which he finds himself render him passive.
Think of goals like the ones below, which are all candidates for the
passivity-pivot fulcrum:
to escape
to survive
to guard or protect
to go on the run
In its rudimentary model, the hero starts out running away from the
antagonist who’s pursuing him. In this case, the hero is the hunted,
not the hunter. This is a defensive stance. It’s inherently passive. It
will get old—fast—unless the plot undergoes a fundamental shift at
the midpoint via the passivity pivot.
Instead of being on the defensive, the hero will change his strategy
and go on the offensive. In other words, instead of just reacting to his
pursuer, the hero will take the initiative to accomplish his own
agenda, which encompasses more than eluding capture. Typically, to
pursue this agenda, the hero must venture to locations where he’s
most likely to get caught.
Notice the effect of the hero’s change in strategy. Now that the hero’s
behavior is more active in tenor, he’s more interesting for audiences
to watch. Plus, since the hero will be exposed to more danger and
more risks, the story, correspondingly, will become more gripping.
Around the middle of each film, the story swings in a new direction
as both heroes try to prove their innocence. This requires them to go
on the offensive, boldly venturing into the open during Act 2B. In fact,
in order to acquire exonerating evidence, they must infiltrate police
headquarters—where the dangers to them are the greatest.
All right. That was the plot-based passivity pivot in a nutshell. Let’s
move on to the character-based one. With the latter variation, the
protagonist’s circumstances may be passive or not. That’s irrelevant
(with respect to the pivot).
Yet, despite this, the story doesn’t feel monotonous. That’s because
it pivots in a different (and arguably more sophisticated) way that
emphasizes character development. Louise starts out as the active,
take-charge member of the duo, while Thelma is the passive, flighty
one.
But at the midpoint, when their money is stolen from them, the
characters pivot, switching roles. The baton of proactivity is passed
from one leading lady to the other. Unable to cope with the direness
of their situation, Louise melts down.
It’s sound advice to follow; that is, unless the transformation of your
protagonist, from passive to active, underpins your entire story. In
these cases, the climax—where your protagonist will demonstrate a
high level of activeness and proactivity—functions as a redeemer. It
should justify all the time audiences spent following around your
passive protagonist.
Put another way, in addition to all the standard duties your story
climax has to fulfill (whether the protagonist is active from the
beginning or not), it must also make up for the fact that your
protagonist has been passive for the preceding three-quarters (or
thereabouts) of your story.
Your protagonist must truly demonstrate that he’s now proactive, not
reactive. While that’s true of virtually all climaxes, in this situation, to
reward audiences for patiently putting up with a passive protagonist,
the bar is raised. Your protagonist has an even higher threshold of
activeness to meet.
But look what happens when you utilize the passivity pivot, and your
passive protagonist transforms from passive to active earlier on, at
the midpoint. Then, your protagonist will be active throughout Act 2B,
knocking down the time he’s passive from 75% to 50%.
Less pressure on your story climax means less pressure for you.
Score! By the way, if you’re feeling nervous about crafting a climax
that’s captivating enough to thrill and delight audiences, check out
my writing guide, Story Climax.
Midpoint Fulcrum #5: The Antagonist
Aha
This fulcrum is exactly what it sounds like: at the midpoint, the
protagonist experiences an aha moment, gaining insight into his
antagonist’s identity, nature, or end game.
Regardless of the cause, the net effect is the same: the protagonist’s
still in the dark. Despite this, his false midpoint conclusion will swing
the story in a new direction, guiding the overall bent of the
protagonist’s actions—until he realizes the truth.
Frequently, this realization will occur at the end of Act 2B. The
painful events at the trough force the protagonist to reevaluate his
midpoint insight, and he finally realizes that his light was really
darkness. In some stories, this insight at the trough may also be
false! Consequently, the events of the climax will force the
protagonist to reevaluate his trough-induced realization, and only
then will the scales fall from his eyes.
Using this technique can be a great way to add depth and richness
to a standard mystery plot. It’s particularly effective in a series, as
audiences entertain doubts about the sleuth they’ve come to trust
and respect over the course of several installments.
If you’re interested in trying it out yourself, study the episodes “The
Mind Has Mountains” and “Beyond Good and Evil” from the
television show Inspector Lewis (a.k.a. Lewis). In both, Lewis argues
that a certain individual is the murderer. Hathaway, meanwhile,
counters that Lewis’s bias has clouded his judgment. As each
character presents his case, audience allegiance is likely to vacillate,
and this up-and-down roller-coaster ride adds to audiences’ overall
enjoyment of each mystery.
Below are three common ways this reset may unfold in a mystery:
During Act 2A, the sleuth focuses on one individual (prime suspect
#1). At the midpoint, prime suspect #1 is found dead. This forces the
sleuth to reevaluate the evidence (and his conclusions).
During Act 2B, he’ll focus his attention on identifying and tracking
down prime suspect #2, i.e. the person who had the means, motive,
and opportunity to commit the murder that launched the initial
investigation as well as the murder of prime suspect #1.
To catch the culprit, the sleuth spends Act 2A searching for clues
within the victim’s history. At the midpoint, the sleuth discovers that
this murder was accidental; in truth, the murderer intended to kill
someone else.
Thus, the sleuth will spend Act 2B delving into the history of the
intended victim. Sometimes, the sleuth will successfully protect the
intended victim from the murderer; sometimes the sleuth will fail.
Consequently, during Act 2B, the sleuth will search for clues in order
to puzzle out what, exactly, the victim witnessed.
Midpoint Fulcrum #6: The Revelation
Acceleration
Let’s start our discussion of fulcrum type #6 by describing the
revelation aspect first.
In You’ve Got Mail, Kathleen and Joe are buddies who anonymously
swap confidences with each other. Online, at least. Offline—it’s a
different story. Offline, they’re professional rivals with a contentious
relationship. While they’re blissfully unaware of the connection
between their online world and their offline one, audiences are not.
Kathleen will remain in the dark for much longer than Joe, who
discovers the truth at the film’s midpoint.
The reveal about Maya (a) sets the stage for the plot developments
of Act 2B, and (b) gives audiences greater understanding into the
villain’s plan. In these two respects, it’s just like Tony’s Miami insight.
But the Maya reveal is noticeably different in quality because it is
shocking. It is likely to elicit a gasp from audiences, who wouldn’t
see it coming. That’s why it should be classified as a revelation
acceleration.
That said, these distinctions are subjective. Don’t get too caught up
in them—and lose sight of their value.
Attaching a label to a fulcrum isn’t helpful for its own sake. It’s helpful
because it enables you to determine how to present the material
preceding the midpoint to best effect.
All right, we’ve got the revelation part of this midpoint sorted. What
about the acceleration part? What’s that about?
To explain, let’s examine the plot of Gone Girl. Nick’s wife, Amy, has
gone missing. Audiences are led to believe that she’s dead—while
Nick is the prime suspect.
Amy is still alive. Not only that, the whole thing is a setup. Amy hates
her husband so virulently, she framed him for her own murder so that
he’ll get the death penalty.
If you came up with a similar idea, where would you make this big
reveal?
I’m betting that you’d want to draw out the suspense and delay
presenting this plot twist for as long as possible. You might be
inclined to keep audiences in the dark until the end of the second
act, approximately 75% of the way through your story.
Do you know when Gone Girl reveals its shocking twist?
The novel (and its adaptation) don’t withhold the surprise for as long
as you might expect. Instead, they unleash the shocker at the
midpoint. That’s what I mean by acceleration: with this fulcrum,
you’re advancing your reveal, moving it up to the middle of your
story, clueing in audiences faster.
At first glance, giving away your big twist so early may seem like a
foolhardy idea. You’re banking on the lure of the mystery—the
prospect of discovering the twist—to keep readers turning the pages
of your story. Once you let the cat out of the bag, that mystery is
gone.
But, as you’ll see in the next section, if you’re willing to pay the price
and sacrifice the mystery (or the tension and anticipation), you may
gain much more than what you’ve lost…
But if you move up this reveal to the midpoint and hasten its
disclosure, you’ll likely discover a host of valuable (even magical)
benefits.
Take a look…
Once you let the cat out of the bag, there’ll be lots of stuff you can do
with your characters that you couldn’t do before.
It might not feel like it at first. But trust me, there’ll be a whole new
world at your fingertips.
If your reveal isn’t a shocker, but initially involves dramatic irony, then
audiences will know the secret from the get-go. Sometimes, another
character (usually the protagonist) will know it too. When you
accelerate the reveal, an additional character (the protagonist, a co-
protagonist, or otherwise) will join the loop.
Because this entity is the first to learn the secret at the midpoint, I’m
going to refer to this entity as the primary superior. (Note: While this
term is collective, and correspondingly uses singular pronouns and
verbs, remember it can encompass multiple individuals.)
Here’s where the fun stuff comes in. Now, with the primary superior
clued in, you can decide how to bring other characters up to speed.
To the last character to be brought into the loop (whoever he may be;
secondary, tertiary, etc.), we can append the label of terminal
superior. (I’m not trying to add more jargon to the mix, by the way.
This term actually simplifies our discussion.)
As a matter of fact, this reveal could constitute your Act Two ending.
To put it another way, the reveal you may’ve originally planned for
the trough would become part of your midpoint, and a new reveal
involving the terminal superior would take its place.
That’s the gist of it. With that general overview in place, let’s talk
specifics. Earlier, we used the third Iron Man film to illustrate the
difference between the antagonist-aha fulcrum and the revelation
acceleration. To illustrate the new story possibilities that become
available by accelerating your reveals, we’ll return to the franchise
once more—but this time, we’ll be reviewing the first film of the
trilogy.
Notice that audiences alone are the primary superior. They learn the
truth separately from Tony and Pepper, who still remain unaware of
Obadiah’s involvement. This decision, in turn, opens up new scene
possibilities involving secondary and tertiary superiors. Indeed, it’s a
fantastic example of marrying the shocker variety of the revelation
acceleration to dramatic irony.
Before we dive into the nitty-gritty details, I’d like to bring two points
to your attention: (1) although Friends is a sitcom, the principles
behind this example can be extrapolated to novels and feature-
length screenplays; and (2) the reveals are scattered across the
season, but the most memorable use of them occurs in episode 14,
which, in a season containing 24 episodes in total, can be construed
as midpoint territory.
Okay, with that sorted, let’s examine the particulars. At the end of
season four, Monica and Chandler’s friendship blossomed into
romance. But they’ve decided to keep it a secret from the others in
their group (Joey, Rachel, Phoebe, and Ross). Audiences, however,
are in the loop, placing them in a superior position to most of the cast
for the first half of season five.
At the end of episode five, Joey is clued into the truth. He is the
primary superior. At Monica and Chandler’s request, Joey doesn’t
reveal the secret to the others. Actually, in episode nine, Joey goes
above and beyond. When evidence of the romance becomes
apparent, Joey makes a fool of himself to prevent everyone else
from discovering the truth. Among other things, he shaves his legs
and claims underwear that isn’t his own. By the end of the episode,
he turns the tables on Monica, so that she is subjected to the same
ridicule he was.
This is an example of the torture I was talking about earlier on. While
painful for him (and eventually for Monica), Joey’s position is highly
entertaining for audiences. Notice, though, that this entertainment is
impossible to create until Monica and Chandler’s secret is revealed
(at least to Joey).
The last reveal is made at the end (as a tag to the episode), when
Ross learns the truth. This choice is perfect. Since Monica is his
sister and Chandler is his best friend, Ross would be the most
affected by their relationship. If Ross discovered the secret earlier,
any subsequent reveals would probably feel anticlimactic. But
because he is saved for last, the sequence of reveals is milked for all
it’s worth.
At the end of Act Two, two thirds of this reveal is retracted. While
Sirius is, indeed, Harry’s godfather, Sirius didn’t betray Harry’s
parents. Someone else did. Actually, it was Peter Pettigrew. That’s
why Sirius attacked him. Unfortunately, Sirius didn’t finish the job.
Peter isn’t dead. He’s still alive—and he, not Sirius, is after Harry.
At the same time, the retraction also incurs a drawback: whereas the
false insight oftentimes feels quite true to life, the retraction is in real
danger of feeling artificial, contrived purely for audience amusement.
Between the reveal about Sirius from The Prisoner of Azkaban and
the reveal about Peter from White Collar, the former seems more
natural. The latter, on the other hand, feels like a bit of a trick.
Even so, this trick can enable you to explore opportunities that you
couldn’t have without temporarily deceiving audiences and one (or
more) of your characters. In the case of White Collar, it adds an
extra layer of tension to an undercover mission that transpires after
Neal believes he’s learned the truth about Peter (and before this
truth is retracted).
To be fair, this is a benefit of all the fulcrum types. It’s not limited to
the revelation acceleration. But its value is particularly evident here.
While it’s possible to achieve the same effect with a subplot (as a
matter of fact, we’ll cover this topic in chapter 4), in my opinion, that’s
not the most effective way to solve an escalation problem. Because
of all the new story possibilities that become available to you once
you accelerate the reveal, acceleration is one of the fixes I’d test out
first.
Pulling off a big reveal like the one in Gone Girl requires extensive
misdirection. The evidence piling up against Nick has to
simultaneously support two possibilities that are diametrically
opposed to each other.
If you delay the reveal until the end of Act Two, you’ll have to
maintain this high-wire juggling act for 75% of your story. This
percentage increases further—perhaps reaching as high as 95%—if
you delay the reveal until the climax.
I’d wager it’s almost impossible to sustain the illusion for such an
extended stretch without mucking everything up. But if you
accelerate the reveal as author Gillian Flynn did, then you’ll
circumvent several problems, increasing the odds that you’ll
successfully execute your high-concept idea.
Plus, by revealing that Amy is indeed alive, Flynn could avail herself
of new story possibilities. Notably, the tables can be turned on Amy
(who, recall, hatched this diabolical scheme), as she becomes
victimized herself.
Case in point: the scene in Iron Man in Tony’s office when Pepper
downloads files incriminating Obadiah…and then Obadiah walks in.
Because audiences and Pepper are, by this point, aware of
Obadiah’s involvement in the assassination attempt against Tony,
when she interacts with Obadiah, the tension in the scene is
elevated above ordinary levels.
If audiences and Pepper were still in the dark, the tension in the
scene would be nonexistent. If audiences knew the truth but Pepper
hadn’t become the secondary superior, audiences would,
nonetheless, be worried about her safety. Yet, their tension would be
less than when both parties are in the loop. Why? Now, audiences
are vicariously experiencing her fear, which heightens their own
anxiety on her behalf.
You can see something similar in You’ve Got Mail, when Kathleen
says to Joe:
“If I really knew you, I know what I would find: instead of a brain, a
cash register; instead of a heart, a bottom line…You’ve deluded
yourself into thinking that you’re some sort of benefactor bringing
books to the masses, but no one will ever remember you, Joe Fox…
you are nothing but a suit.”
Ouch.
That’s not all. Audiences have been in a superior position from the
story’s beginning. Witnessing this exchange (and empathizing with
Joe), they’d be hurting on his behalf. This would hold true, even if he
were still in the dark. But since he isn’t—since Kathleen’s words
have affected him at a deeply personal level—audiences are doubly
stung, feeling his pain in addition to their own.
To explain this benefit, we’re going to return to Gone Girl (for the last
time, promise!). If audiences are convinced that Nick killed Amy,
they’ll despise him for it. If they’re only partially convinced, they
might not despise him as much, but they’ll still be emotionally distant
toward him.
Scales fallen from their eyes, audiences will sing a different tune.
Nick’s not as bad as they were led to believe; no, he’s being
horrifically victimized. Consequently, audience dislike and distance
will transmute into sympathy.
If the reveal is made 75% of the way through the story, audiences
have little (if any) time for their emotions to reverse course. Even
though they’re currently sympathetic toward Nick, this sympathy will,
in large part, be diluted by their previous animosity. Accordingly, their
interest in the outcome of the climax, which will determine Nick’s fate
once and for all, is likely to be halfhearted and lukewarm.
If the reveal is made 50% of the way through the story, a different
picture emerges. Now, audiences’ emotions have adequate time to
undergo transformation. Due to the extent of their sympathy (which
has gradually built up over Act 2B), by the time the climax begins,
they’ll be worried sick about Nick’s future. They won’t be able to turn
the pages fast enough in order to discover whether Nick successfully
extricates himself from Amy’s trap.
This benefit applies to the other side of the same coin; that is, when
you want audiences to transmute their emotion toward the real
villain, whom you initially presented as an ally. To quote Story
Climax:
“When you delay [this] reveal until the end of Act Two, audiences
have only a brief window, between the reveal and the climax, to
really cultivate their dislike of [him]. That’s not a lot of time to prime
their emotional pumps against him.”
***
If the climactic reveals of The Usual Suspects and The Sixth Sense
had been advanced to the midpoint, these films probably would’ve
been ruined. Indeed, saving the best for last and delaying your
reveal until the trough or the climax can be advantageous, enabling
you to escalate your story very nicely.
In order for the hook to make sense, setup of some sort has to be in
place. In most stories, this groundwork is laid down during Act One,
and the hook springs into motion around the end of the first act.
With the manifest midpoint, Act One will still be used to set up the
pieces. But during Act 2A, audiences experience the “shadow”
version of your concept. It’s only after the midpoint, during Act 2B,
when the shadow transforms into “substance,” and your hook
manifests itself in full.
Audiences went to see this film at the theater in order to watch the
protagonists grapple with the mummy, not to see the protagonists
uncover the treasure.
If you came up with a concept like this, you’d probably awaken the
mummy at the end of Act One. That would be my first inclination,
too. But that’s not what happens in the film.
With both the manifest midpoint and the shocker variety of the
revelation acceleration, you’re withholding something from
audiences, choosing to unleash it at the midpoint of your screenplay
or novel.
A big difference.
In the latter case, you (via marketing materials like a logline, movie
trailer, or book description) told audiences to expect something
you’re not going to deliver until halfway through your story.
As you may imagine, audiences are going to become impatient and
antsy as they wait for the hook—the very thing you told them to look
for—to appear. The longer the hook takes to materialize, the more
likely audiences will give up on your story altogether.
But again, with the revelation acceleration, the hook does kick in
around the first-act break. It’s not delayed until the midpoint.
Plus, hints that a mummy awakening is just around the corner are
woven throughout the first half of the story:
After O’Connell’s first skirmish with the Magi, the mummy’s face
is seen in the sand, growling menacingly.
O’Connell and Evelyn almost open a sarcophagus that could
potentially contain the mummy—but then they get distracted.
When they do open the sarcophagus, a gooey skeleton pops
out…but it’s not the mummy.
After Evelyn reads a spell from the Book of the Dead, a swarm
of locusts emerges—presaging the awakening of the mummy.
One of the rival treasure hunters is terrified of something, but
audiences don’t see what it is…
Because the film delays the mummy’s awakening until the midpoint,
moviegoers could’ve potentially felt that the film took too long to
make good on its promise of a man-vs.-mummy showdown. A
negative reaction like this would’ve killed the film’s chances of
success.
That didn’t happen—when released, the movie made over $400
million worldwide, launching a franchise for Universal—but it was a
very real possibility. So why did the filmmakers take on the risk? Why
delay the appearance of the mummy?
By taking this tack, the filmmakers were able to escalate the story
very easily. Indeed, this is why it’s so advantageous to check if your
concept can yield a shadow version of sufficient interest.
Even if you don’t, in all likelihood, your story will nevertheless feel flat
because the dangers and obstacles won’t get worse over time. As a
result, despite not repeating the same story beat, the scenes from
your story middle will all have the same quality. Typically, Act 2B
receives the brunt of the damage, which is one reason why it has a
notorious reputation for sagging.
That said, the manifest midpoint isn’t suited for all stories. If you use
it when it’s not justified, your story will be accused of being a slow
starter, taking forever to get off the ground. Not exactly the response
that will enhance your author or screenwriter profile.
From this list, it’s clear to see that MOCHA stories encompass a
rather narrow swath on the spectrum of viable plots. Even so,
studying the examples below should help you (a) get a better feel for
the manifest midpoint, and (b) spark your imagination re: developing
the shadow version of your own story. These benefits should be
useful, whether your concept is MOCHA-flavored or not.
These stories are exactly what they sound like: several protagonists
go on a big adventure, often to save the world. Over the course of
Act One and Act 2A, new members join the original protagonist
team.
Examples include Star Wars: A New Hope; Lord of the Rings: The
Fellowship of the Ring; and, to a lesser degree, Marvel’s The
Avengers. In each, the protagonist team starts with one or two
members. The team’s ranks swell over time, with the last members
(Han Solo and Chewbacca; Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir; and Thor,
respectively) joining about halfway through each film.
During Act 2A, they get glimpses of the superhero the protagonist
will transform into. They see his special powers and tech assets
undergo various stages of growth. (In particular, they see different
incarnations of his superhero garb.) In short, audiences experience
the “rough draft” version of the superhero.
During Act 2A, Peter Parker’s superhero alter ego is in its nascent
stages. He makes himself a rather amateurish mask and costume.
He gets used to his newfound powers and uses them against the
school bully.
After the midpoint, during Act 2B, Peter evolves into a full superhero.
His Spidey garb looks much more professional. It matches the movie
poster and trailer; it’s the hook come to life. In addition, his role as an
underappreciated crime fighter is solidified.
I want to point out that this move was risky. It could’ve felt
anticlimactic to watch Peter Parker live like an ordinary human being
during Act 2B after watching his superhero exploits as part of Act 2A.
In the film, this strategy worked, mostly because (a) Peter Parker’s
internal struggle is compellingly portrayed, and (b) the climax, where
Peter resumes being a superhero, is lengthy (making up for the
Spider-Man action missing from Act 2B).
Till then, to keep audiences interested, the film teases them with
hints that the transformation is just around the corner and supplies
them with a steady stream of action stunts involving “regular” Spider-
Man.
Audiences are looking forward to the heist (or caper). That’s the
hook that draws them in. Even so, in these stories, the heist itself
usually doesn’t occur at the beginning of the second act. It’s delayed
—until the midpoint of the story, perhaps later.
Till the heist begins, watching the protagonist prepare for the heist
provides the thrills. Typically, during Act One and/or Act 2A, the
mastermind of the heist will assemble his team. Once assembled,
the team will conduct recon missions and acquire the tools
necessary to pull off the heist.
During Act 2B, the heist will (much like a courtroom trial) begin in
earnest. Act Three might involve an extension of Act 2B activities,
prolonging the heist. It might emphasize the getaway angle of the
heist over the infiltration angle. If the protagonists (and the writer)
have pulled the wool over the eyes of audiences, and misled them
about what transpired during the heist, the ending will also reveal
what really happened.
Inception isn’t your typical heist film (Cobb and his crew are trying to
plant something, not steal it; the target isn’t a safe, but someone’s
mind), but the sci-fi thriller follows this structural model to a T.
Act 2A is all about preparation: Cobb assembles his team, trains its
novice member, formulates his inception strategy, and acquires a
special drug. Approximately halfway through the film, the preparation
comes to an end. The protagonists infiltrate Fischer’s mind, thus
beginning the heist.
For instance, in The Hunger Games, Katniss ventures into the arena
(an artificial environment laced with booby traps) at the film’s
midpoint; before that, she trained with her competitors. Likewise, in
Gladiator, Maximus ventures into the arena (the Colosseum) around
the middle of the film. Prior to that, he practiced his gladiatorial skills
in the “backwaters” of Rome.
Imagine that you were charged with the task of developing this
concept. You (as many writers would) might be inclined to put
Maximus in the Colosseum at the beginning of Act Two. Notice how
this would create escalation problems for you down the road. In this
alternate version, you’d have to develop Colosseum combat across
three sectors of your story (Act 2A, Act 2B, and the Act Three
climax) instead of just two (Act 2B and the climax).
To drive this idea home, let’s speculate about what that development
process might look like. The beginning of Act 2A would feature
Maximus’s first round of Colosseum combat, providing audiences
with their first taste of it. As in the film, this round would take its
inspiration from the Battle of Carthage.
Exciting stuff to be sure—but you can’t repeat it. For Maximus’s next
skirmish, you need to top yourself somehow. You need to escalate
the action. Similar to the film, you may script a round of combat that
pays homage to “the legendary Tigris of Gaul,” which comes with its
own set of real-life tigers, who pop into the arena at unexpected
moments.
This is where you’d run into a major escalation problem. You need to
come up with gladiatorial combat that’s an even bigger spectacle
than the tigers—a tough act to follow.
Enter the manifest midpoint. With it, you’ll kickstart your story’s full
hook partway through Act Two. Consequently, you won’t need to
invent another round of Colosseum combat, and—like magic—this
escalation problem disappears!
***
Make sure that your Act 2A is, in fact, a shadow version of your
concept…and not a continuation of Act One. This is a problem that
plagues screenplays and novels all too often. Actually, it’s so
common, we’ll be revisiting this topic later on, in chapter 4.
This move is even riskier than using the standard manifest midpoint.
Because, this way, you’ll only have to develop the full manifestation
of your concept over one sector of your story (Act Three). It’s bound
to be filled with juicy stuff that hasn’t appeared (albeit in less
spectacular fashion) in your story before.
This, in turn, means that the climax of your story should truly be
climactic, with the most exciting events happening at its end. Your
story will escalate in a major, major way, much more so than with the
standard manifest model.
Act 2A. That’s the unsolved half of this problem. How can you fill up
Act 2A, which no longer depicts the shadow version of your concept?
Here are two successful strategies: (1) fill Act 2A with a shadow of
the shadow version of your concept, or (2) fill it by focusing on the
development of a subplot.
Think of the heist film, Fast Five. The crew of protagonist thieves is
after a cache of cash, $100 million to be exact. At the beginning of
Act Two, this cash is distributed across multiple cash houses. During
Act 2A, the protagonists take action to force the villain to consolidate
the cash in one location.
Because Act One runs long, Act 2A is truncated. I suspect that’s one
reason why the shadow of a shadow version was, in this case, so
successful—it didn’t wear out its welcome. Plus, the location itself,
the one the protagonists are preparing to infiltrate during Act 2B, isn’t
another run-of-the-mill cash house. It’s a police station.
At first glance, this choice may seem inevitable. How else would the
movie end? But if you take a closer look, you’ll see that Rocky’s
structure is rather atypical.
This is unusual. In arena stories like Rocky, the offer to fight Creed
would be made during Act One, and initiate the protagonist’s path
toward the arena. Going along with this, ordinarily, the protagonist—
unlike Rocky—would know he’s about to participate in a major
competition much sooner.
Second, whatever the competition type, it normally is depicted at
length during the middle of the story. Audiences witness Maximus’s
(Gladiator) and Katniss’s (The Hunger Games) exploits in the arena
long before the climax.
When you stop to think about it, that’s a pretty nifty feat—akin to
pulling a rabbit out of a magician’s hat. It also raises two questions:
why and how?
Let’s start with the why, as it’s easier to answer. Due to Rocky’s
structure, the match between Rocky and Creed feels epic in scope.
There aren’t any prior incarnations of it; it doesn’t have to escalate
beyond a previous boxing match from Act Two.
Imagine this wasn’t the case, and there was a boxing match during
Act Two. Then, when audiences watch the climactic match during
Act Three, they could think to themselves, I’m not impressed, not
after what I’ve already seen. But with the film version, the odds of
this happening are almost nil.
Now, let’s move on to the how. How does the film satisfy audiences
during Act Two without showing any actual boxing matches—when
Rocky is a boxing movie, and boxing is the lure that attracts
audiences to the story?
All the same, these scenes traditionally occur during Act 2A of a film
that uses the standard manifest model. They aren’t delayed until Act
2B. But as aforementioned, Rocky is atypical. It doesn’t employ the
standard manifest model. Instead, it uses a variant of the manifest
midpoint, filling Act 2A with Rocky’s pursuit of Adrian, i.e. a romantic
subplot.
Structurally, this choice shouldn’t work. Think about it. If you were
writing a romance novel where the hero is a boxer, and his boxing
matches consume Act 2A, whereas his romance with the heroine is
delayed until Act 2B, your readers would complain that they signed
up for a romance and got a sports story.
Disgruntled, they would probably put down your novel long before
Act 2B even begins. On the other hand, if you portray the romantic
pursuit during Act 2A, and use a boxing match as a subplot to flesh
out Act 2B, this could work very well. (As a matter of fact, we’ll revisit
this tactic in chapter 4.)
To satisfy that desire prior to the midpoint, the film pairs Rocky’s
romantic pursuit with something else—something that’s vital to
successfully execute the manifest midpoint, whether standard or not.
Can you guess what it is?
Like with Fast Five’s shadow of a shadow, notice too that Rocky’s
romantic subplot doesn’t outstay its welcome. However, in Fast Five,
the shadow of a shadow version (consolidating the cash), directly
connects to the protagonists’ goal of stealing the cash.
The same can’t be said for Rocky. While Adrian’s support is certainly
crucial, it’s not directly tied to Rocky’s goal of winning his match
against Creed. Keep this in mind if you’re contemplating using this
variant of the manifest midpoint.
At its core, this fulcrum describes stories where Act 2A and Act 2B
are qualitatively different, but the other fulcrum types don’t accurately
categorize the switch. Oftentimes (but not always), the game
changer is marked by a change in the protagonist’s overall goal.
Again, the label is important to the extent that it helps you plot the
middle of your story—giving you a clear idea of what you need to
accomplish when writing and revising your scenes. If it’s more useful
for you to view a midpoint as an antagonist-aha fulcrum, for instance,
rather than as a game changer, then have at it!
With that reminder taken care of, let’s look at some game-changer
candidates. To start, I nominate Law Abiding Citizen. At the outset,
audiences are sympathetic toward Clyde, who has lost his family in a
brutal and horrifying way. Because the justice system has failed him,
he turns vigilante. Meanwhile, Nick, a local prosecutor who was
originally involved in Clyde’s case, tries to stop Clyde from exacting
justice on his own terms.
But then, around the middle of the film (some would argue even
sooner), Clyde goes too far. Initially cast as the hero, he now
becomes the villain of the piece; Nick, meanwhile, adopts the mantle
of the hero. This role reversal, that’s the game changer.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t entirely successful. Because the crimes
perpetrated against Clyde were so horrific, some audience members
never lost sympathy for him. Continuing to root for him throughout,
they never viewed him as a villain. Correspondingly, they were
outraged by his death at the film’s end.
Take Casino Royale, whose Act Two halves are worlds apart—
literally and metaphorically. Act 2A is set in the Bahamas (with a brief
detour into Miami). During it, Bond plays the role of a detective, and
the action and thrills emerge from preventing a bomb explosion. In
contrast, Act 2B is set in Montenegro. During it, Bond plays the role
of a master gambler, and the action and thrills emerge from the
simmering tension of a high-stake poker tournament (and, okay, a
few life-and-death experiences).
Put another way, if your protagonist gathers all the pieces of the
puzzle by the midpoint (and interprets them correctly), in all
likelihood, to keep the plot going, you’ll have to come up with a game
changer of some sort by default.
***
You’ll get the full scoop on how to pick the perfect fulcrum in the next
chapter…
Now that you have an overview of the eight fulcrums, it’s time for the
fun part: picking the one that’s perfect for your story.
This doesn’t mean that you absolutely must use the fulcrum
suggested by your story premise. This fulcrum doesn’t have to gain
automatic admittance into the final draft of your screenplay or novel.
But by figuring it out in advance, you’ll learn more about your story.
With your new knowledge, you can implement a different fulcrum if
you’d like.
Either way, you will have effortlessly mapped out a huge chunk of
your story middle. This will be an enormous confidence booster
when you write because you’ll know that you’re not going to hit a wall
of blank pages halfway through—not when you have a destination to
write toward. Plus, assuming you sidestep common pitfalls (see
chapter 4), your readers won’t get bored—not when you have a
monotony-busting fulcrum in place.
To access all of this magic, though, you must figure out what your
default options are and go from there. You can accomplish this very
easily by following a simple, foolproof system. I’m going to walk you
through it, step by step, using Divergent as an illustrative example.
To be clear, I’m working with the novel’s basic premise, one
character name (Tris), and a few ideas that I think a writer would
have uncovered in order to arrive at the premise. Some of the
fulcrums listed in this chapter may appear, in one form or another, in
the novel (or its film adaptation); they may not. It doesn’t matter. This
is just an intellectual exercise so you can see how the process might
look like when you apply it on your own.
Also, I should mention that this chapter assumes that you’re about to
write your screenplay or novel and want to have a sturdy fulcrum in
place before you begin. This chapter might not be as useful to you if
you’ve already written your story middle—unless it’s a mess. In that
case, to fix it, you’ll have to go back to the drawing board, and this
chapter should make your task more manageable.
While a logline is a helpful marketing tool, that’s not its purpose here.
Don’t worry if it’s awkward or clunky, or if it’s grammatically incorrect.
No one’s going to see it but you.
Working from the logline alone will definitely be sufficient to help you
match your premise to a midpoint fulcrum. But, in creating your
logline, you may’ve discovered more about your story. You can use
this knowledge too, if you want.
Just limit yourself to a thumbnail sketch. Too many details will cloud
your vision, preventing you from drawing connections between your
premise and potential fulcrums.
The children take an aptitude test (like the SAT) to help them
determine which faction is right for them.
Tris demonstrates aptitude for multiple factions; this is known as
divergence.
Divergent individuals are harder to control. They threaten the
status quo. Because of this, they are clandestinely killed by the
government.
A mentor figure will guide Tris through her faction training. He
might be divergent too.
There, we’re done with the first preparatory step. With it completed,
we can move on to the second. Now, we must make a list of all the
characters that are stated in or implied by the logline (and, in this
case, our thumbnail sketch). This is what my list looks like:
Tris
Tris’s family in her original faction
members of Tris’s new faction (this includes longtime members
and newbies like herself)
someone who administers the aptitude test
someone who runs Tris’s new faction (this person would also
establish how faction recruits would be trained)
someone to guide Tris through the training process, i.e. a
mentor
someone from the government who hunts down divergent
individuals, i.e. the villain (this might be the same person who
runs Tris’s new faction)
members of the factionless
http://scribemeetsworld.com/outline/
With that side note duly addressed, let’s dive into our first round of
midpoint matching. To begin, turn the page!
Mining Your Premise for Midpoint
Fulcrums That Are Indicated by Your
Logline (Automatically or by
Extension)
To determine possible fulcrum candidates, first examine the contours
of your plot. What do I mean by that?
Well, with rare exception, your plot (as summarized by your logline)
should, like jigsaw puzzle pieces or a skeleton key and its lock,
automatically fit with at least one fulcrum. The connection between
them should be obvious.
At first, Tris could experience one setback after another, and her
prospects of surviving training would appear dim. After the midpoint,
the tides turn, and she’d start to succeed.
What could cause the tides to turn in Tris’s favor? It could be that the
instructions she’s received from her mentor are finally clicking into
place. Her success could also be due to a bond that she’s developed
with her mentor—or another character.
But I’ll save that discussion for the bond builder. For now, I want to
explore the other fulcrum that’s automatically suggested by the
contours of the plot: the passivity pivot. Tris’s goal is to survive
training. It’s inherently passive in tenor.
To change things up, the plot could pivot at the midpoint. Tris could
go on the offensive somehow. As one possibility, the building-
infiltration sequence traditionally associated with the on-the-run
passivity pivot could be adapted to suit this particular plot.
The location part is easy. Tris could infiltrate a place that’s guarded
by the government official hell-bent on killing divergent individuals.
As an alternative possibility, maybe she has to infiltrate the makeshift
headquarters of the factionless.
The tricky part is motivation. Why does Tris have to infiltrate this
location? Maybe…
All of these seem like viable possibilities. Plus, they all share a
common thread. Did you catch it? They all arise out of a desire to
gain greater insight into the government official’s plans. In other
words, to provide sufficient motivation for the passivity pivot, the
antagonist-aha fulcrum will have to be brought in as well.
All right, we now have two fulcrums (the bond builder and the
antagonist aha) waiting in the wings. Let’s tackle the bond builder
first. It isn’t immediately suggested by the contours of the plot (the
way it would be if coerced coexistence drove the plot), but it is
suggested by extension.
As already mentioned, the bond builder could enable the tides to turn
in Tris’s favor. After building a romantic or platonic bond with her
mentor, her self-confidence could skyrocket. This, in turn, could help
her overcome the mental blocks that were preventing her from
succeeding during Act 2A. As another option, after forming a bond
with Tris, her mentor could share with her his knowledge as an
insider, which would give her a competitive edge.
Of course, Tris doesn’t have to bond with her mentor. She could form
a bond with someone else. To generate more possibilities, all we
have to do is review the list of characters stated in or implied by our
logline (and thumbnail sketch).
For instance, during Act 2A, Tris could be in a bitter rivalry with
another initiate like herself. But at the midpoint, maybe Tris helps this
rival instead of sacrificing him, and now he could become her friend.
After their friendship blossoms, they could work with one another
instead of against each other, which again, could lead to the tide-
turner fulcrum.
Additionally, Tris could gain full insight into the villain’s plan at the
midpoint. This, too, would swing the story in a new direction, albeit
by defining Tris’s offensive maneuver in a different way. Instead of
infiltrating the villain’s headquarters to glean more knowledge, she’d
be infiltrating the headquarters in order to take down the villain.
At the moment, I’m not sure how this subplot works within the larger
framework of the story. All the same, I’m glad I stumbled upon it.
See, when we started this exercise I didn’t have any plot twists up
my sleeve. Sometimes, you do—and that’s the whole reason you’re
excited to develop a particular premise. But in this case, I didn’t.
Until now.
That said, I’m not sure I want to use this twist. If I do, I don’t think I’d
actually deploy it at the midpoint (more on this topic later). Even so, it
feels good to have in my back pocket.
We must widen our gaze and see if we can make any of the
remaining fulcrums—the BFF breaker, the manifest midpoint, and
the game changer—work with our premise.
But then, just to see if I could make the BFF breaker work, I thought
about it a little more, and an idea came to me. What if someone from
Tris’s original faction also chose the same new faction?
During Act 2A, they could help each other cope, and their friendship
would hold despite the stress of training. But then Tris’s friend could
become resentful of the attention their mentor pays to Tris. The
cracks in their friendship could show at the midpoint, culminating in a
complete rift at the trough. Due to this rift, the friend could reveal
Tris’s divergent status in order to guarantee herself a spot in their
new faction.
Having investigated the BFF breaker (and getting pretty decent
results!), let’s move on to the manifest midpoint. While it could be
argued that Divergent is an arena story, I don’t think that argument
holds much water.
Either way, it’s not something to stress over because even non-
MOCHA-flavored stories can utilize the manifest midpoint. You just
have to come up with a suitable shadow version—and that’s where
we reach a bit of a stumbling block. As it stands, the plot revolves
around Tris’s training. She can’t train for training during Act 2A. That
doesn’t make much sense. The manifest midpoint looks like it’s out
of the running, at least for now.
This leaves us with the game changer. Is there any way to change
up the plot or change the game via another mechanism?
Although we were able to come up with a solid game changer for this
illustrative exercise, most of the time, this won’t be the case. It’s the
kind of thing that you discover as you build an outline or write a
rough draft.
As a matter of fact, in the actual novel (and its film adaptation), there
is a game-changing midpoint. During Act 2A, Tris’s training
emphasizes physical strength. But during Act 2B, her training
emphasizes mental strength. While both fall under the rubric of
survival, they’re clearly different, creating the impression that the
rules of the game have changed.
tide turner
passivity pivot (building infiltration or villain takedown)
bond builder (with mentor, rival, factionless)
antagonist aha
revelation acceleration (shocker—love-interest mentor is in
cahoots with villain)
revelation acceleration (dramatic irony—additional characters
learn of Tris’s divergence)
BFF breaker
game changer
It’s a sweet little dilemma to have, kind of like asking yourself, What
should I buy first with my royalty checks? While I can’t help you out
with the royalty issue, I can give you some pointers on how to handle
your midpoint-fulcrum dilemma.
So. When faced with so many possibilities, what should you do?
Which one should you pick?
Did you notice that “one” was in italics? I did that on purpose to
stress a key point: even when multiple midpoints could work together
in your screenplay or novel, mentally designate one of them as your
fulcrum.
If you try to juggle more than one fulcrum at a time, it’s easy to get
overwhelmed. By zooming in on just one, you avoid this problem.
Plus, by focusing on one fulcrum, you’ll find that others will be taken
care of by default. And if they’re not, you can always go back and
incorporate them into the framework you’ve built around the midpoint
you initially designated as your fulcrum.
If you only have two or three fulcrums to choose from, this step might
be unnecessary. But if you have several—like we do here—then it’s
helpful to eliminate some right off the bat.
Use any criteria you’d like to “disqualify” certain fulcrums. Below are
a few suggestions to get you started:
It stretches credibility for her to take such a big step now. On the
other hand, after being trained during Acts 2A and 2B, it’s more
believable for Tris to engage in such an endeavor. In short, it’s prime
climax, not midpoint, material.
And she must confide her secret to him before he can betray her,
revealing he’s in league with the villain. In other words, in this
particular situation, because accelerating the reveal creates a
credibility issue, it’s wiser to position it toward the end of Act 2B, as
part of the trough.
While this plot has potential, I’m not very keen on it. I can’t explain
why; it’s just my gut reaction. For me, that’s enough of a reason to
disqualify this fulcrum.
The fulcrum creates point-of-view (POV) problems. This criterion
should be applied only if you’re writing a novel. In many cases, to
take full advantage of any revelation-acceleration fulcrums involving
dramatic irony, you have to use third-person POV. You can’t use first
person.
From our earlier analysis, you know that the antagonist-aha fulcrum
works in conjunction with both the tide turner and the passivity pivot.
Thus, by focusing on either of the latter two fulcrums, the antagonist
aha will be taken care of by default. In essence, our list of three
fulcrums has been reduced to two.
Pretend for a second that the bond builder was still in the running. As
mentioned before, the bond builder could trigger the antagonist aha,
which in turn, could trigger either the tide turner or the passivity pivot.
It’s easy to link the three fulcrums (bond builder + antagonist aha +
tide turner OR bond builder + antagonist aha + passivity pivot)
together.
That’s the fulcrum you should choose to build your story middle
around. In this instance, for me, the choice is obvious. I’d go with the
passivity pivot over the tide turner. I like the idea of Tris going on the
offensive a lot. Plus, by incorporating a pivot, I know I’m avoiding a
common midpoint pitfall. (After you read chapter 4, you’ll know
exactly what pitfall I’m talking about.)
When you do this activity on your own, the answer might not be so
clear-cut. In that situation, I recommend that you outline your story
using each fulcrum on your list. Then you can stack up your outlines
side by side, compare them, and figure out which one works best.
This should help you fill in several gaps. Now you can verify if you
have, by default, integrated compatible fulcrums into your story. If
you haven’t, then you can incorporate them now, filling in more gaps.
In our Divergent example, you’d want to make sure that you worked
in the antagonist-aha fulcrum as well as the bond builder. If more
than one variation was on the table, you’d have to commit to a
particular option.
For instance, you have to decide with whom Tris is going to build a
bond. Maybe a mentor only. Maybe a member of the factionless.
Maybe a rival from her new faction. Maybe all three!
Also, at this point, the framework of your story should be pretty clear
to you. You should be able to determine whether a subplot like the
mentor love triangle fits into this framework…or whether it will dangle
from your plot like gangly saddlebags.
To accomplish the swap, you may have to entirely rethink the way
you’re going to develop your premise and your story middle. If you’re
writing a novel, and, as part of the swap, you include a revelation
acceleration of the dramatic-irony variety, you might have to rethink
your POV too—switching from first person to third.
***
Rather than being vague, your story middle is taking shape. With
clarity comes enthusiasm. You may be eager to outline or draft the
middle of your story (which is perhaps, a new—and welcome—
feeling).
Before you take the plunge, there are a few practical considerations
you need to ponder in order to extract the most “anti-sag” capability
from your midpoint. These considerations encompass a range of
topics—from genre to stakes, scope, and sequence.
That’s what this chapter is all about. Save for a couple, these
pointers haven’t been explicitly mentioned before. Either they haven’t
been discussed at all in the previous two chapters, or they’ve only
been implied.
But we can’t dance around or gloss over them any longer; it’s time to
spell them out—starting with practical consideration #1, span…
Practical Consideration #1: Span
Despite its name, the midpoint doesn’t have to be a specific point.
With the antagonist-aha fulcrum, for instance, the hero will often
learn information about his opponent in bits and pieces that are
doled out across the midpoint sequence.
This isn’t the time for a solitary action stunt or comedy gag. This is
the time to deliver the genre goods in a big, memorable way.
For instance, in Liar Liar, Fletcher has to play ball with his son, Max,
or else Max (and Fletcher’s ex-wife) will move to the opposite coast.
In Back to the Future, Marty needs to find a way to get his parents to
fall in love, or else he’ll cease to exist.
In Battleship, for example, Hopper and his crew clearly don’t have all
summer to save the world from an alien attack. Even so, at first, their
deadline is vague. But a little past the midpoint, their deadline comes
into sharp focus. They don’t have a week, they don’t have 1 or 2
days. They just have 5 hours.
Once you start to look for deadlines at the midpoint, you’ll find them
everywhere. Their presence at this key structural junction isn’t
accidental. It isn’t arbitrary. They’re added by design.
Why?
Another way to make Act 2B feel different from Act 2A, and thus
alleviate the impression of monotony, is to widen the scope of your
story at the midpoint.
You can also widen the scope by making the antagonist forces
working against your protagonist “bigger” in some way.
During the first half of your story, hint at the impending arrival of
your post-midpoint antagonists.
Do more than hint; bring these antagonists into your story during
Act 2A…but keep them on the sidelines until Act 2B.
Don’t mention these antagonists at all prior to the midpoint, but
put them to good use throughout the latter half of your story. (If
they’re well integrated during Act 2B and the climax, then their
absence from Act 2A and Act One will be less conspicuous.)
If, for whatever reason, the fulcrums are too restrictive for your
project, you can think in more general terms and combine together
some of the elements we recently discussed.
Not only that, a fulcrum gives you a destination to write toward. This,
in turn, breaks down your task (complete Act Two) into manageable
chunks. On the other hand, asking yourself, How can I introduce a
deadline? or How can I make my protagonist’s life worse? doesn’t
yield an equally helpful anchoring point.
Plus, with a midpoint fulcrum, each half of your story middle is more
likely to have structural unity—with one overarching principle
governing Act 2A and another governing Act 2B—therefore
increasing your story’s cohesion. Again, asking yourself, How can I
make my protagonist’s life worse? or How can I engineer a genre-
fulfilling sequence halfway through Act Two? isn’t likely to yield the
same result.
Thus, your midpoint may begin before, and end after, the halfway
mark, spanning both Acts 2A and 2B. Alternatively, it may begin right
at the halfway mark, and hence, wrap up long after it.
As long as the middle of your story entertains, the exact timing of the
midpoint doesn’t really matter. However, bear in mind that excessive
deviation from the halfway mark increases the odds that the overall
structure of your story will feel off balance.
For example, if the midpoint occurs well before the halfway mark,
then Act 2B may feel overly repetitious, hitting the same beat, while
in contrast, Act 2A may feel underdeveloped. (As a matter of fact,
this is a common pitfall, and we’ll talk about it in more depth in
chapter 4.)
So, if your story’s just not working and no matter what you do, the
middle of it feels as limp as wilted arugula, try playing musical chairs
with your structural turning points.
***
With a fulcrum in place, the middle of your story is coming into focus.
It’d be nice if you were totally out of the woods.
But that’s not exactly the case. Unfortunately, your story middle can
still sag and drag, or disappoint in other ways. How so?
Off we go, starting with pitfall #1, the lack of a passivity pivot…
Pitfall #1: No Passivity Pivot
As you may recall from chapter 1, some plots lend themselves to the
passivity pivot. To quickly recap, these include:
to escape
to survive
to guard or protect
to go on the run
Oftentimes, writers will embrace a plot that is, on the whole, passive
in tenor—but, alas, not the pivot. As a result, their protagonist will be
on the defensive for the entirety of Act Two. In most cases, this
approach isn’t as effective as the alternative, i.e. implementing the
passivity pivot.
To illustrate, let’s examine Snow White & the Huntsman. Snow White
is on the run from Ravenna’s brother for all of Act Two. Besides
eluding capture, Snow has an additional goal: to reach Duke
Hammond’s.
But this goal doesn’t put Snow on the offensive. It doesn’t require her
to venture to a place where she’s most likely to get caught.
Consequently, the film’s second act drags a bit.
If you disagree, imagine what the film would be like if Snow did go on
the offensive sometime around the midpoint. What if she pivoted the
way Kimble (The Fugitive) and Anderton (Minority Report) do and
infiltrated the fantasy equivalent of police headquarters?
She doesn’t have to go into full-on warrior mode yet, just become
less reactive in her endeavors. As food for thought, let me float a
couple of possibilities. The first involves the white hart, whose
inclusion in the film is rather random. Let’s start there, and reinvent
the hart’s background. He’s still a magical beast, but in our version,
it’s rumored that no person can be killed if he’s astride the hart.
This way, Snow would secure a steed that will make her temporarily
invincible when it comes time to canter down the beach at the
beginning of the climax. Not only that, we have livened up the middle
of our story in a way that’s likely to entertain audiences and keep
them satisfied.
Not very keen on the hart mission? Fair enough. Here’s another
option: replace the hart with the dwarves. Let me elaborate. In the
film, Snow White is the only one who can undo the spell protecting
Ravenna, who is warned by her mother, “By fairest blood it is done…
by fairest blood, this spell can be undone.” In our version, this
knowledge won’t be imparted to Ravenna by her mother, but by a
prophecy…a prophecy, with a secret addendum, or codicil, attached
to it.
Most people in Snow’s kingdom don’t know about the codicil, but
happily for Snow, one of the women in the river-hut village (where
the flaming-arrow genre sequence takes place) does know of it. By
the end of this sequence, this woman imparts this knowledge to
Snow—setting up our passivity pivot.
See, the codicil would state that the dwarves will also be
instrumental in defeating Ravenna. Unsurprisingly, Ravenna has
locked them up in a prison, which is far away from her kingdom’s
dungeons (it’s too dangerous to keep them on-site). And voila! We
have an alternative location for Snow to infiltrate during Act 2B.
You might be wondering why I’m harping on Snow White. After all, it
was successful enough to launch a sequel. True enough. But other
factors (namely striking visuals, along with the novelty of seeing
Snow presented as a warrior) helped offset the absence of a pivot in
the film.
Just to make sure we’re on the same page, we’re not talking about
setup that’s paired with a payoff (e.g. the hero, who’s on the run from
a loan shark, hides a gun in his sister’s capacious handbag during
Act One; at the climax, she uses the gun to shoot the loan shark and
save her brother’s life).
We’re talking about setting up a story, i.e. establishing what the plot
is all about. The latter type, you’ll notice, is broader in scope. With
the manifest midpoint, this kind of setup is limited to Act One. With
the workaround, this setup extends past Act One into Act 2A.
Put another way, while these writers think they have a midpoint
fulcrum, they have something else altogether: a slow starter.
To quickly recap, if you do conflate the two, then your story really
won’t have an Act 2A. Instead, it will have an overly long beginning.
Having spiraled out of control, it will consume 50% of your story…
making audiences feel like your screenplay or novel took forever to
get off the ground.
Actually, this is something we’ve kind of glossed over, but now’s the
time to say it outright. Your protagonist’s goal will spring into action at
the first-act break, just like the way the hook traditionally does.
However, although you can delay your hook until the midpoint,
delaying your protagonist’s goal pursuit is rarely (if ever) successful.
So that you get a feel for what I mean by progress, let’s go through
some hypothetical variations of Fast Five. Recall from chapter 1 that
the film employs a variant of the manifest midpoint.
Also, in this case, replacing the void left behind in Act 2A is a piece
of cake because it enables us to implement the standard manifest
model. During Act 2A, the protagonists would prepare for the heist.
At the midpoint, the heist would begin. Again, by preparing for the
heist, the protagonists are clearly taking steps toward their goal. The
story isn’t stalling; it’s taking off.
Let’s try another variation. This time we’re really going to stretch the
variant manifest model to the limit. Instead of consolidating the cash
during Act 2A, the protagonists are going to consolidate it during Act
2B. This sequence is going to be elaborate, leaving us less time to
show classic shadow prep scenes, which is fine. The real issue is
with Act 2A. If the protagonists aren’t going to consolidate the cash
until the midpoint, what could they do until then?
Thus, during Act 2A, the protagonists could conduct some old-
fashioned sleuthing to figure out the locations of the three remaining
cash houses. Only then do they begin the process of consolidation.
As for this sleuthing, is it setup or shadow?
If consolidating the cash is the preparatory step before classic
shadow prep, then old-fashioned sleuthing would be the preparatory
step before the preparatory step—which feels like we’re stalling
doesn’t it?
Well, look at this scenario: the film opens with a brief action
sequence where two of the protagonists help break out a third from a
prison bus. Exciting stuff. Caught up in their own enthusiasm, writers
can run this sequence long. Way too long.
After the escape, these three protagonists, now fugitives, sneak into
Brazil. The film asks audiences to accept that, never depicting these
actions on-screen, leaving them undramatized. Theoretically, these
actions (which admittedly have genre potential) could be dramatized,
elongating the first act even further.
Lingering on these four elements (the escape from the prison bus,
the flight into Brazil, the tragic plight of the outcast, the decryption of
the chip) happens all too frequently in first drafts. As a result, details
about the heist target—the $100 million distributed across multiple
cash houses—get delayed, and delayed, and delayed…until the
midpoint, say page 55 (in a screenplay) or page 175 (in a novel).
This is when audiences learn about the cash. This is when the
protagonists start to go after it.
While the characters are moving around, the plot isn’t moving
forward. This version of the story doesn’t have a real Act 2A…but a
bloated Act One. This circumstance doesn’t bode well for its future.
Audiences are liable to get impatient as they wait for the writer to put
all the pieces (what the goal is, who the villain is, etc.) in place. If a
writer is lucky, even though the story takes forever to get off the
ground, audiences might continue with it and eventually discover all
the fun heist stuff.
The first question is: When does my hook go into play? (To answer
this question, notice that you must have a solid understanding of
your hook.)
To figure this out, you must circle back toward the end of the first act
(again, approximately 25% of the way through your story), examine
the story events that follow, and ask yourself question #2: Are my
characters taking action that brings them closer to achieving their
goal…or am I still establishing what their goal is?
If your characters aren’t going after their goal by this point, then you
probably have a slow starter on your hands. You need to prune down
the beginning of your story.
If your characters are going after their goal, but your hook hasn’t
shown up yet (see your answer to question #1), then you probably
have the makings of a successful manifest midpoint. (Bear in mind,
your draft might require some refinement to be interesting enough to
get audiences to stick around for Act 2B, when your hook will
manifest in full.)
Pitfall #3: A Truncated or Split Act 2A
From chapter 3, you know that the midpoint doesn’t have to occur
precisely halfway through your screenplay or novel. It’s okay to stray
from the 50% mark.
Even so, there are limits to how far you can deviate. In particular,
check whether you’ve advanced your midpoint so much that it occurs
approximately 35% of the way through your story. Notice that this
structure produces a truncated Act 2A and an extensive Act 2B.
But before you solicit feedback (and you think you may be dealing
with a truncated or split Act 2A, a.k.a. the 35% problem), at least do
some comparison testing on your own.
If your Act 2A contains a hard split, then you’d advance the split
forward. Thus, Act 2A would begin with sequence #4. To
accommodate these changes, you’d have to create new sequences
or reposition or eliminate old ones, as appropriate.
One easy fix would be to explore more ways to make John Tucker
undateable. Extending Act 2A, this approach would push the girls’
change in strategy closer to the halfway mark and even out the
middle.
As a matter of fact, it also puts her in the hot seat. How so? I’ve
glossed over another element of the story: while Kate pursues John
Tucker in order for his ex-girlfriends to get their revenge, she shares
major chemistry with his brother. This is not only ironic (always a
plus), it also generates internal conflict. If Kate abandons her pursuit
of John Tucker so she can be with his brother, she’ll lose her
newfound friendship with John Tucker’s ex-girlfriends. (Remember
Kate was a social outcast before these girls took her under their
wings.)
While the film plays with this idea, it doesn’t do so to great degree.
However, if the broken-heart plan were advanced forward, toward
the first-act break (and the undateable plan is removed from Act
Two), then the film would have the room to explore this idea in more
depth—developing Kate’s burgeoning friendship with the ex-
girlfriends as well as with John Tucker’s brother…and more
important, pitting each relationship against the other.
But in other genres (e.g. romance and comedy), after the midpoint,
without the clashes between the protagonists, Act 2B can be
noticeably devoid of conflict…turning your story into a snooze fest—
the very thing you’re trying to avoid by using a midpoint fulcrum in
the first place!
You can circumvent this pitfall by keeping Act 2B short (but not so
short that the whole second act feels underdeveloped). Even better,
bring in a subplot—perhaps waiting in the wings for this very reason
—to the forefront of your story. Let it temporarily take over, replacing
the conflict formerly provided by your clashing protagonists.
Keep in mind, the less the subplot connects to the main story, the
more obvious its function—a distraction device—becomes. In
response, audiences could complain that you’re padding your story
with unnecessary filler.
Make sure there is some kind of connection, and furthermore (if it’s
not readily apparent), that you don’t dither for too long before
revealing it to audiences. You’ll note that in both Boy and Blades, the
romantic subplots are involved in the dissolution of the protagonists’
friendship at the end of Act 2B.
If you do, then Act 2B will be underdeveloped and too short. At the
same time, if you focus exclusively on the impending rift, then Act 2B
will become one-note and repetitious. To avoid either outcome, you
need to devise some kind of audience distraction that will partially fill
up the gap between the midpoint and the trough.
To sum it up, whether you require a conflict substitute or an audience
distraction, you can utilize the same technique: plant subplot seeds
(romantic or otherwise) during Act One and Act 2A (mostly the latter)
—and make them sprout during Act 2B.
Pitfall #5: An Ill-Advised Game
Changer
As a quick refresher from chapter 1: while the game changer can be
effective as a fulcrum, it comes with a big warning label.
Because you’re so close to your material, you might not realize when
a game-changer midpoint is ill-advised. This is especially true when
(a) your game changer changes your protagonist’s goal, and thus
the plot of your story; and (b) the second goal is a logical outgrowth
of the first.
To show you what I mean, let’s examine Robin Hood (the version
starring Russell Crowe and directed by Ridley Scott). The film
doesn’t switch up plots on audiences one time. It does so twice! This
structure is unusual—and fortunately for us, very instructive.
There are several variations of the Robin Hood legend. In this one,
the character who eventually becomes a forest-dwelling outlaw is
named Robin Longstride. Toward the film’s beginning, he encounters
Robert Loxley, a nobleman—specifically a knight—from Nottingham.
When Loxley is fatally wounded, he asks Robin to go to Nottingham
to deliver Loxley’s sword to Walter, Loxley’s father. To facilitate his
passage back home, Robin assumes Loxley’s identity and garbs
himself in Loxley’s chainmail.
Toward the end of Act 2B, Walter decides that Robin has fulfilled his
end of the bargain. Accordingly, Walter reveals Robin’s history: he is
the son of a visionary, who dreamed that all men would live under a
charter guaranteeing their liberty…and who was killed for daring to
defy the Crown.
As you can see, all three goals (and all three plots) are connected to
one another. Goal #2 grows from the ashes of accomplishing Goal
#1, while Goal #3 grows from the ashes of accomplishing Goal #2.
Nevertheless, despite the logical connection between each plot, the
entire story feels extremely disjointed. As a result, audiences don’t
experience one plot, explored in depth. Instead, they get two
underdeveloped plots and lots of climactic action.
This is the kind of structure that crops up in first drafts, when writers
are still discovering what their stories are all about. (If you’re
wondering how this structure ended up in a produced film, let’s just
say Robin Hood’s path to production was bumpy, and this,
unfortunately, was reflected in the final product. Incidentally,
screenwriter Bill Martell wrote an interesting commentary on Robin
Hood’s production history. If you’re interested, see note no. 2 at the
end of this chapter for the link.)
Once Robin is in Nottingham, the farce can begin. Robin can stay
on, pretending to be Marion’s husband, which puts a fresh spin on
this well-known romance. Therein lies the rub with the plot we’ve
chosen. It’s better suited for a romance. Despite having romantic
elements, Robin Hood is not a romance. It’s a historical epic. In
short, our plot doesn’t really jive with our genre.
Not only that, it can be paired with an action set piece—without any
undue contrivance on our part. As one option, Robin could go on a
thieving raid to secure the seed grain Marion needs to plant her
crops. Impressed by the risks he took, she softens toward him. And
voila, the bond blossoms.
Alternatively, weary of resisting their mutual attraction, Robin and
Marion could succumb to it at the midpoint. Afterward, however,
Marion could have regrets and question Robin’s loyalty to her. After
all, he’s not her real husband. He has no ties to the land. He could
just leave her in the lurch. In response, Robin demonstrates his
commitment to her by going on a thieving raid to secure her the seed
grain.
In essence, their bond can be the cause of the action set piece (the
thieving raid) or the effect of it. Either way, we’ll have a satisfactory
midpoint sequence that will swing our story in a new direction as
Robin and Marion work together to keep the ruse going and
convince everyone that Robin is, indeed, Marion’s husband.
To briefly recap: the film changes plots twice. We got rid of the
game-changer midpoint and only change plots once. This solution
may surprise you. If changing plots at the midpoint can do so much
damage, why is it acceptable to change plots at the end of Act Two?
The stakes that fueled the protagonist during Act Two may’ve gone
out of play by this point. In this case—unless you provide your
protagonist with suitable motivation—he’ll only be participating in the
climactic finale because that’s where you wanted to take the plot.
Such maneuvering will only undercut your story climax, and in the
process, alienate audiences.
By the way, if you’d like to learn more about how to use story stakes
to craft a real page-turner, check out my writing guide, Story Stakes!
***
By this point, you know all about the eight midpoint fulcrums. You
know how to pick the best one for your story. Plus, you know about
practicalities to ponder and pitfalls to circumvent (or mitigate) as you
design your midpoint.
No worries. It’s the topic of the next two chapters, so keep reading!
One was the idea that the midpoint was a “point of no return” for the
protagonist. In other words, in some way, he escalates his
commitment to his goal. Later, I realized that this increase in
commitment often has the net effect of raising the stakes.
As King writes, this is where your hero is “mad as hell and not going
to take this anymore”; this is where your hero says, “I’m going to do
this, don’t even think of getting in my way.”
Sometimes, the fork won’t occur immediately after the midpoint, but
long after it. Sometimes, it will precede the midpoint. In other cases,
the midpoint and the fork coincide—and trying to dissociate them is
an exercise in futility.
I’ve found it helpful to break them down into the following five
categories:
assertion of loyalty
commitment to the cause
torn between two loyalties
commitment to the truth
Custer’s last stand
But when you’re trying to figure out how to handle the fork in the
road in your own story, you’ll probably find it easier to generate ideas
by focusing on the particular slant embodied by each category rather
than on the general idea of commitment itself.
Oftentimes, when the character who accepts the way out is a co-
protagonist or a supporting player, his decision to return won’t just be
about redemption. Arriving in the nick of time, he can provide critical
assistance at the climax—when it seems like your protagonist is just
about to lose. In a nutshell, the departure of this character is a setup,
while his return is a payoff that makes your protagonist’s climactic
victory feel less contrived.
To see this fork type in action, let’s examine the 2010 remake of
Clash of the Titans. Right around minute 60 of the film, Perseus is
offered sanctuary in Olympus by his father, Zeus. However, Perseus
declines this offer, and instead, commits to winning his earthly battle
against Hades and the Kraken.
Observe how Perseus’s decision makes him look more heroic. Even
if he fails at his goal (even if actor Sam Worthington’s Australian
accent is slightly distracting in the scene), we must respect Perseus
for not fleeing—especially since prophetic witches have recently
informed Perseus that he will not survive his journey.
Notice how this sacrifice interacts with the stakes: should Perseus
fail to stop Hades and the Kraken, then the city of Argos will not only
be destroyed. In addition, Perseus will have made his sacrifice in
vain. Knowledge of this prospect should make audiences even more
invested in the story’s outcome.
This is Andy’s fork in the road. She can reject his offer of help and
finally escape Miranda’s cutthroat world—or she can accept it, and
remain firmly entrenched within this world. Unhappily for Andy’s
friends, family—and soul—she opts for the latter. She commits to the
cause.
From chapter 1, you know that this commitment causes the tides to
turn in Andy’s favor, marking her professional ascent. See, what did I
tell ya? The fork in the road makes a great midpoint booster!
At first, the hero may not suffer any qualms about lying to the
heroine. Or, if he does, he’s able to suppress them easily. However,
after the midpoint (likely of the bond-builder variety), the hero feels
like he can’t continue to treat the heroine as a mark. He commits to
telling her the truth, to laying everything out in the open.
To be clear, he might not actually end up telling her the truth. He may
have second thoughts. He may remain steadfast, but other
circumstances preclude him from acting upon his desire. It doesn’t
matter. Here, whether it’s abandoned or fulfilled, his intention to
come clean is what’s important.
A pretty standard beat. The flipside of it, on the other hand? Less so.
But then, a little more than halfway through the film, Archer escalates
his commitment, taking it to a whole new level. In order to take down
the criminal mastermind, Archer pairs up with the mastermind’s crew
of lowlifes. Not only that, to quell any suspicions about his identity,
Archer mocks the death of his own son.
This fork gets its name from the romantic, idealized notions
associated with General Custer’s Last Stand, i.e. I’m going to go
down with guns blazing, even if it’s the last thing I do.
Indeed, when the protagonist describes his plan, it seems like he (as
well as his team) has a shot at success. Even so, this plan will likely
culminate in an epic defeat (i.e. the trough). Think about it. If your
protagonist were successful, in most cases, your story would be
over, ending too early!
He plans to give the villain authentic nuclear codes. Yep, that’s right:
Ethan’s going to give the villain exactly what the villain needs to
destroy the world. The way Ethan sees it, that’s his only option. “We
lose Hendricks [the villain] today, he shows up somewhere else
tomorrow…he finds another way,” only by that time, Ethan and his
crew won’t be around to stop him.
For a more comedic take on the last stand, let’s examine Forces of
Nature. Ben’s goal is to reach Savannah, Georgia in time for his
wedding day. Trouble is, he has no cash and no means of
transportation. Plus, he’s stuck with a kooky stranger, a force of
nature unto herself. She, needless to say, is driving him crazy.
***
At this stage, you may be thinking to yourself, The fork sounds like
an interesting little plot point…but why bother with it? What do I gain
by it?
These are good questions. Happily enough, their answers can be
found in the next chapter…
A BAZILLION REASONS WHY
YOUR PROTAGONIST SHOULD
FACE A FORK IN THE ROAD (IN
ADDITION TO THE MIDPOINT)
- chapter six -
Thus, if your story doesn’t include one, you might not want to invest
the time to build one in, from scratch. And if you have included a fork
without consciously realizing it (this happens a lot), you may be
disinclined to accentuate and improve it.
I’m hoping this chapter will convince you otherwise. I’ll admit its title
is a gross exaggeration. There aren’t a bazillion reasons why your
protagonist (or other characters) should face a fork in the road.
But this plot point still comes with plenty of advantages, which can
essentially be divided into two camps: (1) why investing time to
explore possibilities is a worthwhile endeavor, and (2) why it’s
beneficial to treat the fork in the road and the midpoint as separate
entities.
To see how the fork in the road can enhance and enrich your story,
keep reading!
The Value of the Fork in the Road
Mayflies, caddisflies, and stoneflies. Besides being aquatic insects,
they all share a major commonality. Do you know what it is?
The fork in the road is kind of like that; this is one way it contributes
value to your story. Similar to stonefly larvae, its presence indicates
that the ecosystem of your story middle is healthy. And by healthy, I
mean it has enough stuff going on to keep audiences interested in it.
However, incorporating a fork (or more than one) into your draft will,
in all likelihood, greatly improve it, perhaps elevating your story
above its competition. In case you remain unconvinced, review the
list below. It summarizes the different ways the fork can add value to
your story:
It can reinforce audiences’ perception that your hero is, indeed,
a hero (e.g. he reaffirms commitment to his goal after learning
that its pursuit entails complications he didn’t sign up for).
It can illustrate your protagonist’s character arc (e.g. he chooses
to proceed honestly, even though he’s been offered a dishonest
shortcut to victory).
It can slow down the pace (perhaps after a lengthy genre-
fulfilling midpoint sequence), while still maintaining audience
interest.
If your second act feels threadbare, the fork will help you to flesh
it out, through setup, sequence building, and riffs. (Note: We
haven’t discussed these yet, but we will by the end of this
chapter.)
Depending on how you develop it, the fork can function as a
likeability booster, keeping audiences emotionally invested in
your story.
Finally, the fork in the road is a plot point that pops up in produced
films—despite being absent from the original screenplay draft or
source material.
Remember that scene in Speed where the bus hurtles over a gap in
the freeway? It wasn’t in Graham Yost’s early script drafts.
(1) It makes it easier to develop the plot and the theme (as
opposed to neglecting one for the sake of the other).
Thus, you might invest all your energy in developing the fork, but
overlook deficiencies in your plot. Or, you might invest all your
energy in swinging the plot in a new direction, but overlook
deficiencies in theme.
But if you view the midpoint and the fork in the road as separate
entities, then each should get their proper due…which means that
the plot and theme of your story will, too.
(2) It makes it easier to lay down the necessary groundwork.
For your midpoint and fork to make sense, logically, some of their
elements need to be set up beforehand.
By treating the plot twist and the character arcs as separate entities,
it’s easier to figure out that (a) both false evidence implicating the
hoodlums and Exley’s overweening ambition need to be set up, and
(b) which scenes are required to accomplish this effectively.
One easy way to lengthen the middle of your story is to expand upon
the midpoint and the fork, taking your initial ideas and elaborating
upon them as much as possible.
When you do this—and you think of them as being one and the
same—you’re liable to get only one extended scene or sequence for
your efforts.
You could create a riff by pairing a fork type with its flipside. Your
protagonist commits to a cause, while another character abandons it.
(We’ve seen an example of this already, in Clash of the Titans.)
Your protagonist could face a fork in the road, and then, shortly
thereafter, must confront a different permutation of the same
dilemma. To illustrate, let’s return to The Adjustment Bureau. As a
quick refresher, David has chosen to be with Elise over becoming
the next American president.
But then the diabolical bureau presents David with another choice,
whose inclusion not only extends the middle of the story, but also
makes it more interesting: he and Elise can be together…or she can
become a world-renowned ballerina. Observe that this choice is
similar to the one David faced moments prior, only this time his
professional aspirations have been replaced with hers.
Finally, you could go wild with riffs and run through a gamut of fork
types, perhaps throwing in a few flipsides for good measure. Look at
the first film in the Mighty Ducks franchise. Gordon is stuck coaching
a peewee hockey team (which eventually becomes known as the
Ducks). More than anything, he wants out.
During Act 2A, he comes to terms with his situation, growing into his
role as the team’s leader. However, during Act 2B, his commitment
and loyalty to the team are severely tested, as is the children’s own
commitment.
Take a look:
***
As you can see from this chapter, the fork in the road can take your
story up a notch (or two!), perhaps elevating it above its competition.
This is why its exploration is such a worthy investment of your time.
To extract maximum value from the fork, it’s initially beneficial to view
it as a separate entity from the midpoint. Eventually, however, you’ll
have to weave both of them together—all while juggling the practical
considerations discussed in chapter 3.
To learn how pros have successfully handled this challenge,
continue on to chapter 7!
That’s a lot to juggle. Along with feeling excited, you may also be
feeling apprehensive. How to coordinate all of these moving parts
into one epically awesome midpoint?
In the first, we’ll look at how two New York Times bestselling authors
wove together the midpoint of their novel. In the second, we’ll
change media, and see how a classic blockbuster approached this
structural turning point.
However, Nick and Kate’s job is not complete, not until the real
rooster is handed over to Stanley Fu, a Chinese businessman who
will ultimately deliver the rooster to the Chinese government.
Unfortunately, Fu landed in the United States 2 days early, and a
Smithsonian employee (unaware of the authentic rooster’s theft from
the museum) has already given Fu the fake rooster on display.
To ensure that Fu delivers the real rooster to China, Nick and Kate
stow away on Fu’s plane. They plan to crack open Fu’s safe while en
route to China, and, as dictated by their original assignment, replace
the fake rooster with the real one.
We’ll return to Nick and Kate’s stowaway hijinks later. For now,
though, let’s return to their reality TV ruse. This enables them to
steal the rooster from Carter without him being immediately aware
that a theft has taken place. Furthermore, because of Nick and
Kate’s assumed identities, the ruse enables them to steal the rooster
without Carter knowing who they truly are.
Audiences (as well as Nick and Kate) are in on the scam from the
get-go, putting them in a superior position to Carter, who discovers
the truth in a progressive sequence of reveals. As you’ll see, each
reveal enables Carter to torture Nick and Kate in new ways, and
enables the authors to keep on entertaining audiences.
In the first reveal (of three), Carter realizes that the rooster has been
stolen and that it’s aboard Fu’s plane. This occurs fairly early on,
about a third of the way through the novel. But its effect isn’t truly felt
until 20 pages later, when the female assassin whom Carter planted
on Fu’s plane plots her strategy:
“She had more than fourteen hours to see if there were any thieves
on board. She’d wait until the big meeting began, and once most of
the passengers were behind those closed doors, she’d see if anyone
tried to pay a visit to the safe in the cargo hold. And if someone did,
he would find her there waiting for him with the stiletto that she called
her ‘conversation starter.’ She’d found that people were a lot more
forthcoming with her when she was slowly pulling their skin off.”
As for the fight itself, it nicely fulfills genre expectations. The moves
are well choreographed, and described in a way that makes them
easy for readers to visualize.
How? Alerting the Chinese police to Nick’s entry into China, Carter
claims that Nick intends to steal the rooster aboard Fu’s plane. Enter
Police Inspector Zhaoji Li. To a degree, Zhaoji’s arrival widens the
scope of the story the way Special Agent Sadusky’s arrival does in
National Treasure. Nick and Kate don’t just have Carter (and his
operatives) on their backs. They must contend with a new antagonist
—Chinese law enforcement.
This is how Nick and Kate became stowaways. They hid themselves
in the trunk of the car, which was rolled right into the cargo hold—
where lo and behold, the safe containing the fake rooster is also
located.
Realizing Zhaoji is about to inspect the cargo hold, Kate hides in the
trunk of the Charger. Nick, meanwhile, hides underneath the
backseat…and, at the proper moment, creeps into the driver’s
seat…
“He sat up, turned the ignition key, depressed the clutch, jammed the
car into reverse, and flattened the gas pedal.
“Fu ran after the car, waving his hands, yelling for the driver to stop.
Zhaoji scrambled off the boat, issuing orders to secure the hold. And
Kate held her breath and braced herself.
This is a good one to study (if you do, make sure to read the
sequence in full, not just the excerpt above). That said, despite its
memorability, this midpoint chase sequence doesn’t eclipse the
climax—another strong set piece where snipers, grenades, missiles,
rocket launchers, and an oil rig coalesce into one explosive (and
zany) action fest.
At the end of the high-speed chase, Nick and Kate split up, leaving
her to fend for herself. She must convince Zhaoji that she has gone
rogue, and went after Nick without the authority of her supervisors—
or else she’ll go to prison.
To accomplish this, Kate, as she says, “played the victim card.” She
was tracking Nick, didn’t realize he was working with an accomplice,
and was caught unawares. They locked her up in the trunk of the
Charger (which is how Zhaoji found her).
Strong and competent, Kate is not the victim type. This fabrication
goes against the grain of her character, and while not as dramatic as
the ones in Face/Off and Collateral, it can be considered as a flipside
of the commitment-to-the-truth fork in the road.
It does the trick. Zhaoji lets Kate go. She is free to leave the country.
Before she does, she meets up with Nick. While snuggled up in bed,
they sip champagne, tease each other, and fill each other in on their
misadventures. There’s even an assertion-of-loyalty style of fork,
where they use matrimonial language to describe their commitment
to their unconventional professional pairing:
Despite its strength in other areas, the midpoint is weak here. In fact,
this is a weakness of the novel as a whole. It sticks to superficial
spheres. A review from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel observes
that the authors “have made charm their most important weapon.”
I agree. The novel is heavy on charm, which is why it’s fun to read.
Unfortunately, it’s light on heart.
The hook is watching Nick and Kate pull off a heist (specifically,
stealing the rooster from Carter Grove), and the novel delivers on
that hook with little delay. It doesn’t wait until the midpoint. By the
time readers reach the middle of the novel, that particular heist is
over and done with.
All right, we’re done with that little tangent. Let’s move on to the next
midpoint component: the last reveal of the revelation-acceleration
progressive sequence. After receiving intel on what transpired in
China, Carter learns that Special Agent Kate O’Hare was there, too.
By the end of the scene, the pieces fall into place. He knows she
was one half of the TV production duo that robbed him. This
discovery enables him to torture Kate with a major power play.
Three recruits commit to help Nick pull off this second heist. (Two of
them participated in the original rooster heist; one of them is
introduced now, for the first time.) Kate is part of this Custer coterie,
too. As a matter of fact, her commitment is borne out of a torn-loyalty
fork.
While all of these forks enrich the novel’s middle, the torn-loyalty one
is the most valuable to the plot (and hence the best one to study). So
let’s take a closer look at it. Carter issues Kate an ultimatum: either
she delivers Nick Fox over to him, or he’ll hurt her family. “It wouldn’t
be the first time someone’s brakes have failed on that steep hill your
sister and her children live on. It could happen to one of them too.”
Thus, two stakes are pitted against each other: Nick’s safety vs. the
safety of Kate’s family. It’s an intriguing dilemma for Kate to face.
Even though it involves no action whatsoever, it’s interesting to read
about. That’s one of the major benefits of the fork in the road
(especially of the torn-loyalty variety): it enables you to slow down
the pace of your story without losing audience interest. (Incidentally,
as a novelist, your task is even easier because you can dramatize
your characters’ internal debate using interior monologue.)
Notice, though, that this fork is only possible because Carter has
become clued into the truth through the reveals associated with the
revelation acceleration. If he were still in the dark about Kate’s true
identity, then he wouldn’t be able to threaten Kate’s family.
Without these scenes (as minor and brief as they are), Carter’s
threat would lose its bite. This is exactly the kind of setup you might
have to go out of your way to include in order to orchestrate a
successful fork. On that note, this fork would be even more effective
if Nick and Kate’s relationship felt like it was more than skin deep—
and their bond-building scene, more genuine.
Readers don’t have to wait very long to learn what Kate’s decision
will be. About 8 pages later, she commits to Nick’s harebrained
Montreal heist, which is part of a larger plan to take down Carter
Grove. This is why Kate commits to the scheme, even though it’s
risky, outrageous, and completely unsanctioned. It’s her best shot to
save Nick and her family.
It’s also why audiences understand her decision and are willing to go
along for the ride. Without the stakes, Kate’s decision wouldn’t make
sense at all. It would be contrived, and her character sacrificed
purely to keep the plot going.
Observe, too, that these stakes are not of the same quality as the
ones that fueled the first half of the story. Then, Kate and Nick
participated in the rooster heist in order to avoid an embarrassing
international incident. Now, they’re about to participate in the
Montreal heist in order to save Kate’s family and Nick from Carter.
These stakes are more personal. They’re higher. They have been
raised. Not only that, they come with a deadline. Kate has 2 weeks
to hand over Nick to Carter—or else.
Recall that Nick and Kate successfully replaced the fake rooster in
Fu’s safe with the real one. (Let’s call this Goal A.) Goal A
accomplished, the story should stop there—unless the protagonists
are supplied with a new goal. As you already know, they are: it’s to
pull off the Montreal heist and take down Carter for good. (This is
Goal B.)
Therefore, raising the stakes achieves another objective. The higher
stakes enable the story to transition between goals, which keeps the
plot going (again, without feeling contrived)…and means that it’s
time to revisit the game-changer fulcrum (which was briefly
mentioned in passing earlier on).
To see what I mean, let’s entertain the idea of molding the game-
changer fulcrum into something else. Kate and Nick would have only
one goal, which remember, consists of two parts: (1) to acquire the
real rooster, and (2) to replace the fake one with it. Instead of having
this goal go out of play at the midpoint, the plot would transition
between its two constituent parts instead.
To spell it out, in the actual novel, Act One and Act 2A are about
acquiring and delivering the real rooster, while Act 2B and Act Three
are about pulling off the Montreal heist and taking down Carter. In
our hypothetical version, Act One and Act 2A would be about
acquiring the real rooster, while Act 2B and Act Three would be
about safely delivering it to the Chinese government.
At the beginning of the novel, it’s mentioned that Nick has had
some dealings with a drug cartel. Realizing Nick is swindling
them, their members could track him down to Florida (where
Carter’s mansion is located) and jeopardize the reality TV show
ruse.
Fu could catch Nick and Kate in the act of switching the
roosters. They explain everything to him, and he believes their
story. But instead of letting them off the hook, he blackmails
them. He’ll make sure that the Chinese government receives the
real rooster—but only if Nick and Kate steal a heavily-guarded
item, which, for whatever reason, Fu’s billions can’t buy.
Fu might catch Nick and Kate in the act, or not. Regardless,
when his plane lands, it’s robbed by a gang of Chinese
criminals, who take off with the real rooster. Now Nick and Kate
must recover the rooster from them.
With the second or third options, we could integrate Zhaoji more into
the story. Right now, after he lets Kate go, he never appears again,
which makes the plot feel rather episodic. We could fix that by
turning him into something I like to call the third-wheel nemesis, i.e.
someone who pursues the hero (in this case Nick), making it ten
times more difficult for the hero to deal with the villain.
On the surface, these may seem like great ideas. But they’re not
without their drawbacks. If our hypothetical version involves the
Chinese gang, the real rooster is going to be passed between
multiple thieves like a ping-pong ball. It’s possible audiences could
become wearied by the repetition.
Also, with this new plot structure, Carter’s role in the villain hierarchy
becomes unclear. This impacts the story in several ways. With
antagonist forces spread across multiple characters, the story may
lose its one “big baddie,” which tends to ruin the climax.
Additionally, since Carter’s role is up in the air, I’m not sure if and
how the stakes could be raised at the midpoint as well as how
exactly Zhaoji becomes initially embroiled in the plot (which means
that the awesome set piece with the Charger on the Chinese
freeway may no longer be an option).
Perhaps, there are ways to stay with Goal A all the way through the
novel, and, at the same time, fix all of these issues. Perhaps not.
I’m not privy to the authors’ plotting process, but in theory, they could
have implemented the game-changer fulcrum the way they did
precisely to circumvent these very problems. In sum, it’s not easy to
render a verdict on this game changer. While its effectiveness is up
for debate, it’s fair to say that it’s not as ill-advised as the game
changer in Robin Hood.
Okay. That’s it. We’ve covered all the fulcrums and forks in The
Chase. Now it’s time to wrap up and recap. As you can see, the
midpoint in The Chase is most definitely not a point. It consumes a
massive swath of pages (approximately 100 by my count), straddling
both Act 2A and Act 2B. If you’re into the sequence approach, you
could say it spans sequences #4 and #5.
For your convenience, the list below quickly recaps all the midpoint
components we discussed in this case study (they follow the
chronology in the novel exactly):
With our analysis of The Chase complete, it’s time to change formats
and see what an epically awesome midpoint looks like in a produced
film. More specifically, we’re going to study the classic blockbuster
Jaws.
It starts to swing in a new direction when Hooper, the guy from the
oceanographic institute, concludes that Amity Island is dealing with a
great white shark. His conclusion functions like an antagonist-aha
fulcrum. It might not feel like one on the surface, but it does give
Police Chief Brody insight into the identity of his antagonist, and
hence, the true depth of danger he must contend with.
This fulcrum widens the scope of the story in a couple of ways. The
first way is analogous to something we discussed in chapter 3 that
pertains to scope: while protagonist detectives believe they’re
dealing with an isolated incident, at the midpoint, they discover
they’re dealing with a serial killer.
This is how the story widens in scope yet again, this time
geographically. For Brody to kill the shark, the plot must abandon the
shores of Amity for the open waters of the Atlantic. We’ll return to
this change in setting later, but for now, let’s move on to the next
midpoint component.
Brody and Hooper share all of their conclusions with the mayor.
Unfortunately, the mayor is preoccupied with earning maximum
“summer dollars.” These are the stakes that concern him. Thus,
despite the threat of the great white, he remains firm in his decision
not to close the beaches during the Fourth of July weekend—and his
obstinacy paves the way for a terrific set piece. Some classify Jaws
as a horror film, while others regard it as a thriller. No matter how
you slice and dice it, though, this sequence delivers.
But then a woman cries out a warning. This time, it’s no hoax. This
time, the danger is real. A great white is headed toward the shallow
pond. (Incidentally, notice that the effect of the real shark
approaching is more intense because audiences are lulled into a
false sense of security after the hoax.)
When the shark is in the pond, its rows of pointy teeth are shown for
the first time. When you think about it, this is a pretty neat hat trick
(similar to putting no boxing matches in the middle of Rocky). The
shark has haunted Amity (and audiences) for half of the film. Yet, no
one has seen it. It hasn’t been depicted on-screen…until now. In
other words, the manifest midpoint is partially springing into action.
Because the shark doesn’t appear until halfway through the film, the
film escalates very nicely—much better than most. Actually, although
the delay in manifestation occurred by accident, Jaws is probably
one of the best advertisements for implementing the manifest
midpoint. Happily, you can reap the same benefits by incorporating it
into the middle of your story on purpose.
This incident raises the stakes in a major way. Now, stopping the
shark isn’t just about protecting the general public. It’s more personal
than that for Brody. Also, stopping the shark isn’t about bringing in
tourist dollars. It’s brought home the reality: this is a matter of life and
death. The stakes are so high, they trigger both a character-based
and a plot-based passivity pivot.
Let’s begin with the character-based pivot. After the events at the
pond, it’s like a switch has been flipped inside of Brody. Before,
because he was new to the job—new to Amity—Brody deferred to
the mayor. Against his better judgment, Brody backed down when
the mayor told him to.
But now that his son’s life was threatened, Brody won’t let himself be
manipulated by the mayor any longer. He won’t let the mayor call the
shots. Going into full aggressive mode, Brody demands that the
mayor pay Quint $10,000 to kill the shark. “You’re going to sign this
and we’re going to pay that guy what he wants.”
And the mayor ponies up, which represents a torn-loyalty fork for
him. So far, two stakes have been pitted against each other: the
need to keep the beaches open and preserve this source of summer
dollars (Stake A) vs. the need to close the beaches and protect the
citizens of Amity from the shark (Stake B). Before the incident at the
pond, the mayor always chose in favor of Stake A. But now that the
shark attacks have affected him personally (“my kids were on that
beach too”), the mayor finally commits to Stake B.
Also notice that Quint’s demand for greater payment, coupled with
the mayor’s hesitance to pay it until the disastrous events at the
pond—and followed by Quint’s eventual death—speak to the evil of
greed. This is a good example of using the fork plot point to illustrate
a theme.
As for Brody, by this point, it’s been well established that he’s afraid
of the water. Now he must venture deep into the ocean in order to kill
the shark. One need only reimagine the film with him as a seafaring
adventurer or a water-sport enthusiast to see how this irony enriches
the story. Here, when he’s committing to the task ahead of him by
boarding Quint’s boat, it’s used to reinforce his status as a hero.
Despite his fear of the shark, despite his fear of the water, Brody’s
going to proceed anyway.
More important, venturing into open waters fulfills the hook of seeing
the three protagonists wage war against the shark. The manifest
midpoint now manifests in full. It also begs the question: How did the
film satisfy audiences until then?
Take a look:
Together with top-notch genre delivery (where the shark attacks are
depicted although the shark itself is kept invisible), these visible
surrogate-shark encounters produced enough shadow to satisfy
audiences, who could enjoy the slow build toward the substance,
when they’d experience the actual shark hunt promised to them.
Perhaps, reflecting on this surrogate strategy will help you develop a
suitable Act 2A shadow for your own story.
In the course of hunting the shark, the three men become aware of
the magnitude of the beast they’re dealing with. It’s 25-feet long and
weighs 3 tons. As Brody says to Quint, “You’re gonna need a bigger
boat.” It’s a classic line that not only has become part of the cultural
lexicon but also embodies the last-stand fork in the road. The men
should turn back and get a bigger boat. But they don’t. Despite the
overwhelming odds against them, they desperately forge ahead. (As
a side note, on the DVD edition of the film, Quint’s climactic
encounter with the shark is given the title “Quint’s Last Stand.”)
There you have it. The midpoint of Jaws. Similar to The Chase, it
straddles both Acts 2A and 2B, beginning at minute 50 and (if you
include forks in the road), ending around minute 82.
But its length isn’t as important as its content. In particular, pay close
attention to the way raising the stakes triggered all manner of effects
as well as how the manifest midpoint affected the film’s ability to
escalate.
For your convenience, the list below quickly recaps all the midpoint
components we discussed in this case study (they follow the
chronology of the film exactly):
***
Another activity that makes for great practice: write down all the
fulcrums and fork types onto slips of paper, put them in a hat, and
pick one at random. Whichever one you pick, find a way to
incorporate it into the novel or film you’re studying or into the draft
you’re working on. (If it’s already there, then either pick again, or try
to include an additional variation of it.)
At first, this exercise might not bear the most promising fruit. Sure,
you got that extra fulcrum or fork in there. But to do it, you had to
contort a story in all manner of ways or take it down a laborious
tangent. Hence, your addition isn’t viable.
Over time, however, your success rate will improve. Your midpoint-
building muscles will become as impressive as those belonging to
the dudes in 300.
It’s harder.
Many writers wouldn’t agree with the above statement, but hear me
out.
And storytellers can fill up the pages of a story with anything their
imagination can conceive of (which, frankly, often doesn’t pass
muster).
Nowhere is this more evident than at the middle of your story, which
has to be interesting enough to make good on the premise that
initially hooked audiences. (Otherwise, feeling that you’ve pulled a
bait and switch on them, they’ll put down your story in the midst of
reading it.)
At the same time, the middle can’t be so amazing that it eclipses the
grand finale that follows. (Then your story will be saddled with the
anticlimactic label, and no one will want to read the other stuff you’ve
written.)
They don’t have to end their surgeries with the most advanced
technique known to MDs.
That’s why I claim that writing a story is harder than brain surgery
(and, for that matter, rocket science).
It’s my sincere hope that the tips in this writing guide will help you
unleash the magical power of the midpoint…so that your stories will
have maximum escalation and minimal “sag.”
Now you know how to braid together fulcrums and forks into an
epically awesome midpoint. But that’s only part of the equation.
To prevent your story middle from sagging, you must also end Act
Two with a bang. Learn how with my writing guide, Trough of Hell.
In it, I’ll show you how to combine pain, emotion, and paradox into a
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