This weekâs rebroadcast brings together a few posts about structure, and reasons to consider that thereâs not only one way to plan out a story.
Iâm a 28-year old writer with a very old problem. I do my best work when Iâm not consciously structuring a screenplay. Iâve found trying to shuffle scenes around on note cards about as useful as trying to construct a meaningful sentence out of syllables. So Iâm reluctant to embrace a fully plotted mode of writing.
âZackery
Structure isnât really about tacking notecards on a wall. Itâs about organizing ideas â sequences, scenes, and beats within those scenes â so that they can have the most possible impact. You donât just create structure before you write. It happens inevitably with every character who walks in the door, or takes an action that spins the story in a different direction.
I doubt there are any working screenwriters who would say theyâve adopted a "fully plotted mode of writing." Whatever plan youâve made for the movie, be it notecards, an outline or just an idea in your head, itâs always subject to change based on discoveries you make while youâre writing.
Youâre beating yourself up over not plotting out your whole script beat-for-beat. Guess what? You donât have to. For now, just write the best scenes you can, keeping in mind that they may need to be changed or cut to service the movie as a whole.
The best thing about fighting with yourself is that when you give up, you win.
When you write, are you consciously aware of structuring your screenplay, or it is something that is more instinctive?
â Brian
Galway, Ireland
When I was first starting out, I was paranoid about structure â but thatâs because I didnât know what it really was.
I had of course read Syd Fieldâs book, and I worried that if I wasnât hitting my act breaks at exactly the right page number, I was a dismal failure. Then at USC I was introduced to a âclotheslineâ template, which was baffling. People smarter than me would talk about eight sequences, or eleven sequences, and I would nod as if I understood.
And now I do: Itâs all bunk.
At the risk of introducing another screenwriting metaphor, Iâll say that structure is like your skeleton. Itâs the framework on which you hang the meat of your story. If someoneâs bones are in the wrong place, odds are heâll have a hard time moving, and it wonât be comfortable. Itâs the same with a screenplay. If the pieces arenât put together right, the story wonât work as well as it could.
But hereâs the thing: not every skeleton is the same.
Think about it in real-world terms. Human skeletons are pretty consistent, but you also have gazelles and giraffes, cockroaches and hummingbirds, each with a different structure, but all equally valid designs. The standard dogma about screenplay structure focuses on hitting certain moments at certain page numbers. But in my experience, these measurements hold true for Chinatown and nothing Iâve actually written.
My advice? Stop thinking about structure as something you impose upon your story. Itâs an inherent part of it, like the setup to a joke. As youâre figuring out the story you want to tell, ask yourself a few questions:
Whatâs the next thing this character would realistically do?
Whatâs the most interesting thing this character could do?
Where do I want the story to go next?
Where do I want the story to end up eventually?
Does this scene stand up on its own merit, or is it just setting stuff up for later?
What are the later repercussions of this scene? How could I maximize them?
If you answer these questions at every turn, I guarantee youâll have a terrifically structured screenplay. It might not hit predefined act breaks, but it will be consistently engaging, something that canât be said for many âproperly structuredâ scripts.
Roger Kamienâs description of the sonata form, a building block of the classical symphony, will seem familiar to screenwriters:
The amazing durability and vitality of sonata form result from its capacity for drama. The form moves from a stable situation toward conflict (in the exposition), to heightened tension (in the development), and then back to stability and resolution of conflict. The following illustration shows an outline:
This line of rising action is also the basis of modern screenplay structure.
No matter how you dress it up with templates and turning points, most movies work this way: you meet your players and themes, set them against each other, let things get rough, then find a new normal.
Sonata form is exceptionally flexible and subject to endless variation. It is not a rigid mold into which musical ideas are poured. Rather, it may be viewed as a set of principles that serve to shape and unify contrasts of theme and key.
With its long arcs and built-in act breaks, Iâd argue that TV writing is even more symphonically-structured than features. Showrunners are our composers; Hollywood is our Vienna.
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