DPchallenge Archives | Staci Troilo

How to Build a Better Story

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Shakespeare wrote that in As You like It. If that’s truly the case, then stories themselves are houses. Let me explain.

Consider the framework for a simple A-frame house. It’s got four walls and a pitched roof. The structure of the story, any story, is like the framework of that A-frame house. It doesn’t change, no matter what. It is the support, regardless of the dressing. We’ll go into more detail about structure in a later post, but for now, we’ll just hit the highlights. This framework, in all fiction, will have five parts.

The left side wall is the Exposition, or Introduction. This is the part of the story where characters are introduced and relevant background information is revealed. The inciting incident occurs in this section.

The left pitch of the roof is the Rising Action. This is the part of the story where conflict is revealed the story progresses. A series of challenges and setbacks occur in this section to add interest.

The pitch of the roof is the Climax. This is the turning point of the novel, where suspense has built and the reader is caught up in the action, or surprised by the turn of events. This is the part with the most on the line for the protagonist—the most is on the line here.

The right pitch of the roof is the Falling Action. These events are usually the after effects of the decisions made during the climax, and therefore occur immediately after the climax.

The right side wall is the Denouement or Resolution. This is the ultimate conclusion and resolves any unaddressed conflicts that progressed throughout the story. There should be a release of any tensions at this point, and all mysteries should be solved.

Most fiction today is written in a three act structure. You can think of it as the three floors of the home (ground floor, second floor, and attic).

The Ground Floor is the beginning, or the setup. It tells who the characters are and what happens to them, right up to the inciting incident, or the thing that happens that sets the story in motion.

The Second Floor is the middle of the story. It’s where most of the book takes place. It’s where all the challenges and obstacles occur that keep the protagonist away from the goal.

The Third Floor is the end of the story. It’s when the protagonist finally reaches the goal and everything gets wrapped up.

These floors correlate to the side walls and roof, don’t they? You bet. Shouldn’t the framework of a house work together? You bet.

Now, it really doesn’t matter how you dress this thing up. It can be a western with weathered wood siding. A southern Civil War historical with columns and a wrap-around porch. A legal thriller Bostonian brick brownstone with a stately pediment above the door. None of that matters. What matters is that you build three sturdy floors, with solid walls, and a perfectly pitched roof. The dressing is all up to you. Variety is the spice of life, or, in this case, my bookshelf.

Posted for WordPress DPchallenge Easy as Pie

photo credit: Patrick Dinnen licensed under Creative Commons.

It is the Best of Times

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” I know Dickens wasn’t writing about building an author’s platform when he began A Tale of Two Cities, but it feels like it. At no other time in history did we have such technological wonders at our fingertips, but at no other time were there such difficulties being an author. We can no longer merely write; we must blog, tweet, speak in public and generate buzz about our writing, doing the work of marketers and PR consultants in addition to the writing that we love.

We must write, we must platform. We must start with action, we must start by getting to know our characters. We must be character driven, we must be plot driven. We must avoid purple prose, we must use vibrant descriptors. We must use dialogue to advance the plot, we must use description to advance the story. In short, writing now is like writing used to be, but with so much advice from leading authorities that contemporary pieces have evolved into fast-paced tomes minus the literary prose of yesterday.

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.” Endings are difficult. It is hard to end stories, hard to end novels, hard to end blog posts. The masters knew how to do it, far better than the cliché of riding off into the sunset or the prince kissing the princess back to life. In my genre, my endings are defined for me. The couple has to get together, happiness in their future. Getting to that ending creatively is a challenge. Once completed, I can put the work to bed and get some much needed rest myself.

Written for WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge “Stylish Imitation” http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2012/09/10/weekly-writing-challenge-stylish-imitation/

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

I awaken to a shrill alarm. Smoke is filling the room. My eyes sting, my lungs sear. Frantic, I reach for my husband, but he is already rolling out of bed and pulling me with him. We crouch low, trying to get under the burning strata billowing above us. I hear him say the one thought that’s racing through my mind: “The kids!”

They’re already in the hallway when we burst out of our room. We hear the fire crackling below us and our beloved dogs howling. I try to cover my kids’ faces as we sprint to the door. My husband races to release the dogs. I send a prayer up to God that the three of them will join us in the driveway. When we all unite—me, my children, my husband and my dogs—I am relieved for only a moment. Then I turn and survey all I am losing. I can’t even hear the sirens yet; we stand to lose everything. The fire isn’t that bad yet. Do I have time to go back in for anything? One thing? What one thing would I grab?

***

I’m blessed to never have had a fire at my house. I know people who have. People who have lost everything. They all say they are grateful to have gotten out safely, so they don’t care about the possessions. I get that. If my house was burning down, I would first and foremost make certain my husband, children and dogs were safe. As long as they are healthy and happy, I’m happy. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t miss some material things if I lost them. I’d think about all my wedding things: my gown, my champagne glasses, my photos and video. But that stuff is all spread out and not really worth anything to anyone but me. My next thought would be for my family photos and videos, and although my kids would love to have them, there would be no way to grab all of those in time. More likely than not I’d be wearing my engagement ring and family ring (and I’ve never taken my wedding band off), so I don’t have to worry about grabbing any jewelry that matters to me. So what one item would I take with me on my way out the door? What would I foolishly consider running back in for?

My family Bible.

I’m not going for the obvious answer here, although I wouldn’t want to live without God’s Word. For several years I read the Bible every day. There are religious books and artwork throughout my home, and my religion is a strong presence in my life. No, it’s not just any Bible that I would grab (I have several in my home). It’s one particular one. The family Bible is the object I treasure most.

See, when I was growing up, my grandfather was my hero. He immigrated from Italy when he was a young boy and had to drop out of school at fourteen when his father died to support his mother and siblings. Despite his lack of education, he was the smartest man I knew and in spite of all his hardships, he made more out of his life than most people do. Everyone loved him. I lost him when I was far too young, and I didn’t have much to remember him by.

Years later, my grandmother gave me a family Bible. Not only is it more exquisitely illustrated than any Bible I can find on the market today, it has sections in it that you can’t find in other Bibles, like indices and maps. It’s beautiful. It’s leather bound with gold-edged pages. The words inside are a treasure to the world. The craftsmanship is a treasure to anyone who appreciates fine art. Then Gramma told me it was my grandfather’s Bible. It was the kind he sold when he first started working to support his family, and it was the first one he owned. He owned it when he was the head of his father’s family, then he brought it to his own home when he was the head of his family. She had kept it all those years, and she was gifting it to me.

If I had to name one treasured item that I own, I’m naming that Bible. The words in it soothe me when I need comforting, the artwork is breathtaking, and it’s one of the only things I have to remind me of my grandfather and his sacrifices for his family. No, I wouldn’t risk sacrificing my life running into a burning building to retrieve this book, but I hope I never have to part with it. Losing it would be losing the one of the last tangible memories of my grandfather that I have left.

written for WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge

The Best Sound I Ever Heard

Soothing sounds are all around us. Nature is full of them. One obvious example is the beach. They make recordings of ocean waves to soothe people. Of course the beach will be on the list. Crickets chirping, birds singing, bees buzzing… There’s a symphony outside if you’re listening for it.

I personally love symphonies, both natural and orchestrated. I love most music. But it’s hardly fair to compare rap, country and rock, because those are a matter of personal taste. Better to look at several renditions of the same song. Take “The Star Spangled Banner,” and orchestral, rock and a cappella versions of it.

When I hear my high school band play the national anthem, I remember the elation I felt upon being chosen color guard captain and the stabbing, searing pain when I blew out my knee. I remember hours of grueling practices on hot asphalt and ten minutes under the bright lights before winning the Best Auxiliary and Best Band trophies in competition. I remember running onto the field for the fight song and watching my husband, then my boyfriend and the captain of the football team, crunching opponents in smashmouth football. There is pride in self, pride in school, pride in country.

When I hear the Jimi Hendrix version, I think of mud-soaked fields and flower children. I see peace signs, smiley faces, flowers and rainbows. I see hemp leaves and bell bottoms, tinted glasses and afros. This song is anti-establishment. These people may love their country, but they aren’t willing to die for it.

When I hear the Roseanne Barr version, I am nothing but revolted. I feel no national pride, no country honor from her, although it strengthens my own feelings toward my country. I feel anger and embarrassment for the incident.

How can three renditions of the same song evoke such different responses in self and in country? I could write a dissertation on it.

Clearly music isn’t the way to go with what sound is the best I ever heard. So what is? What sound tugs at my heart and squeezes my soul so I laugh and cry at the same time?

It’s so obvious. And too fleeting.

My babies.

The sound of their cries as they first entered the world.

The sound of their first coos as they tried expressing themselves.

The sound of their first laugh, which surprised them as much as us.

The sound of their first words, which they said repeatedly, delighting themselves as much as us.

My children are teenagers now, and their voices have changed. They speak when they want. Sometimes they speak when I wish they wouldn’t. Sometimes they don’t answer when I call. I can never get back those precious first sounds. We’ll always have nature unless we royally screw things up. We’ll always have music, and we each have our own tastes there, with different styles evoking different responses and different songs bringing forth different memories. But we only have a limited window in which to experience those first precious sounds with our babies. Video recordings just can’t capture the magic of live sounds. Maybe part of the joy and wonder of baby sounds is the experience of having babies itself.

Weekly Writing Challenge: The Sound of Blogging