Storytelling: The B-M-E Method

by Jay Speyerer

We tell stories for many reasons, from illustrating a point during a business presentation to just having fun at the family reunion retelling the one about Grandma getting locked in the outhouse. Many of our true stories can be told using fictional structure. Structure means the order in which you tell the events of your story.

Most writers start at the beginning of the story and write through the middle toward the end simply because that’s the way events unfold. That’s the B-M-E method: beginning, middle, and end. This method is born of a long and noble tradition, having been first codified by the Greek philosopher Aristotle more than 2,300 years ago. It was a Tuesday, it was raining, and he had nothing else to do, so he established this enduring and deceptively simple concept. To paraphrase his description: before the beginning there is nothing, and after the end there is nothing. That sounds a bit metaphysical, but he simply meant that before the story begins, nothing happens that we need to know about, nor after the end of the story. It doesn’t matter whether you’re describing a life-altering event or an illuminating anecdote. All the events in the story are self-contained. Read the following anecdote, then we’ll dissect it.

The Story
I was a missing person when I was three ... according to Mom.

We were a slightly extended household in the small town of New Brighton, Pennsylvania, in the summer of 1952. My father’s sister, my Aunt Bea, lived with us then, so that made four of us. (Yes, I have an Aunt Bea. Call me Opie.) My father worked in a factory not far from our two-bedroom house. Aunt Bea was a young, single woman working in an office. Since her name was Beatrice, her family nickname was Beedee. But at 3 years of age, I had trouble pronouncing that, so to me she was "Aunt BB." She drove a big black 1936 Chevy, but she took the bus to work, leaving her car in our ramshackle garage. My mother was a housewife, back when it was still permissible to use that term. I held down a full time job as a toddler.

One morning, Dad and Aunt Bea were at work, and Mom was home with me. She was cleaning upstairs when she realized she couldn’t hear me. In fact, she hadn’t heard me for a while. She looked in both bedrooms and the bathroom; I wasn’t there. She looked downstairs in the dining room, living room and kitchen. No me. The basement door was locked, and the latch was too high for me to reach, so she knew I couldn’t be down there.

Unease building, Mom looked in the back yard. Not there. The front yard. Still nothing. She knocked on the door of our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Heinzig. I wasn’t there, nor had Mrs. Heinzig seen me. Panic at a peak now, she called our other next-door neighbor, a young man named Jim. As Jim stepped over the low fence that separated our two properties, my mother ran to him, crying. "I can’t find Jay!"

"Don’t worry," Jim said. "We’ll find him."

They glanced at the garage and its weathered wood and flaking paint, but the side door was closed, a small wooden peg still securing the lock’s hasp. As with the basement door, I couldn’t have gotten in there either.

They scoured the rest of the neighborhood, knocking on door after door, but no one had seen me. By this time, Mom had passed panic. She and Jim returned to the back yard, simply because there was nowhere else to look. Then my mother noticed the big garage door.

Aunt Bea’s Chevy was long, and the garage was old, so old that it was too short for the car. When the car was parked in the garage, the big double doors would close only part way, not quite touching the back bumper. This resulted in a small gap. Mom and Jim pulled the doors open and entered the gloom of the garage.

They moved to the side window of the car and there I was, calmly sitting in the back seat. I looked up at the two relieved faces and happily informed them, "Me go in BB’s car."

The Breakdown
There’s a writer’s rule of thumb about structure that says "get your hero up a tree, throw stones at him, then get him down."

Problem is introduced, problem gets worse, problem is resolved.

Can’t find child, can’t find child anywhere, find child.

Beginning, middle, and end.

Read any conventionally plotted novel or watch any TV show or see any mass market American movie, and 999 times out of a thousand, you’ll find this structure if you look for it.

The first line of the story was to get your attention. Onward.

In the rest of the setup, I wanted to provide enough details to allow you to paint a picture in your mind and still not overburden you with minutiae. What details did I provide? No matter what year you read this, you know how old I am now since I was three in 1952. You know our immediate family structure and living arrangements. The detail of my aunt’s 16-year-old car says as much about economic circumstances as about how they built cars in those days. Really, what more do we need?

(One important fact not in evidence is that my mother was a very conscientious parent. She misplaced me only that one time.)

As you tell your story, answer the questions that every reporter asks: who, what, when, where, and why. Just be careful about where in the story you answer them.

Beginning: who, when, where, some of the what.

Middle: who, more of the what.

End: who, the rest of the what, and all of the why.

We don’t learn the why until the end. If you provide too many answers at the beginning, you don’t need to tell the story.

In the beginning of the story, your job is to do three things:
1) Introduce the characters. Who is the story about and who takes part in it? My mother, our neighbor, Jim, and, offstage for most of the action, yours truly.
2) Establish the setting. Where are we and when are we? My house in a small Pennsylvania town in 1952.
3) Establish the problem or issue that is being dealt with. A child is missing.
The middle is where the problem might get worse or more complicated; this is known as "rising action." Complications and reversals arise, exacerbating the problem. Not only can my mother not find me in the house, she can’t find me outside in the yards, at the neighbors’ houses, or anywhere in the neighborhood. Fiction writers talking shop will speak of conflict, and, being human, we find conflict interesting (other people’s conflict anyway; we don’t like it when it happens to us). In our equation, conflict = problem, and no problem = no interest. The conflict doesn’t need to be a war, it can just be someone seeking something or someone, and being unable to immediately achieve that goal.

Not all events have rising action, but if you structure it properly, your story will seem to have a middle. Do not make up details! Just tell us what happened by starting slowly. Introduce a minor aspect of the main problem first, then move to the knottier parts of the problem, then finally, the solution.

In the end, we have the resolution wherein the problem is resolved. Mom and Jim find me in Aunt Bea’s car. In some true stories, the problem might not be completely solved, but some kind of closure is achieved. Many times in life – too many, sadly – problems drag on and on and seem never to come to a resolution.

Remember: Whether it's fact or fiction, if the series of events doesn’t have a conclusion, it’s not a story.

Stay On the Spine

by Diana Osberg

Stay on the spine. As a writer, how many times have you heard this? You may have a general idea of what it means, but do you really understand it in a practical sense? How do you spot when you’ve veered off course? How do you fix it?

Think of a story as being like the spine of a human body. Every bone that you place in the story spine (plotline) must fit together in the right order and push the story toward its completion. Any bone that does not fit and support the story must be eliminated. You have to be that brutal.

You may also think of a story as being like a connect-the-dots game where you are placing dots in a specific manner in order to create a picture. Each dot must contribute to creating the picture. If it does not, delete the dot.

Alternatively, the story may be viewed as a game of dominoes in which each domino must be placed carefully and specifically so that they will fall from beginning to end—cause and effect. Each domino must be placed in the right position in order to fell all dominoes from beginning to end. If they are placed incorrectly, the motion stops and you don’t complete the mission.

You may ask, “How do I know if I have the right bones (dots, dominoes)?” Let’s take a step back in order to answer this question.

First of all, your protagonist MUST have a clear goal. Ask yourself, “What does my protagonist want?”

Next, you must determine what steps your protagonist needs to take in order to achieve his goal. Ask yourself, “Where is my protagonist now and where do I want him to end up?”

Keep the following in mind. Make every scene count. Each scene must further your protagonist’s goal. For each scene in your script, ask yourself, “Why is this scene in here?” “How does it move the plot forward?” Do not write a scene just to develop character or theme or to step up on your soapbox to prove a point about some subject. Each scene MUST move the plot forward. If it doesn’t, get rid of it. Again, you have to be that brutal.

Now, this does not mean that your protagonist must be present in every scene. Other characters will impact on how the protagonist’s story moves forward, especially the antagonist—your villain. In act two, your villain is responsible for putting up every obstacle he can possibly perpetrate in order to keep your hero from achieving his goal. Each time this happens, the protagonist must rethink his tactics and find a way around the obstacle. That is a bone in your spine.

Often the protagonist’s goal will change in the course of his journey. This is okay and often desired. It’s is a natural development as your character learns and grows. Let your spine adapt to those changes.

The most important guide to staying on the spine is to keep your protagonist’s goal in mind. Keep asking yourself the above questions and the story path will become clear to you.

Why the Three Act Structure?

by Diana Osberg

Why is it necessary to write a screenplay in the traditional three act paradigm? Why can’t I just break free from this and do my own thing? I’ve heard these questions many times from screenwriters. The answer is, you may write your script in whatever form you choose, but you need to ask yourself if this new structure achieves the desired result.

I feel very strongly that beginning screenwriters should learn the three act structure thoroughly before they start breaking the rules. Further, writers need to determine how they want their work to affect their audience before they start exploring alternative forms. The form should follow the function.

The traditional screenplay structure is a time-tested format that has been adopted by the mainstream movie industry because it works. It appears that we humans respond to the three act structure in a primitive way. This “arrangement” connects with us at a deep, subconscious level that gets us into the theatre over and over again. It is powerful and compelling.

Our reactions to storytelling are usually subconscious and emotional. Humans respond to stories in a primal, fundamental way.

When our primitive ancestors told stories around the fire, they had to lay the facts out first (first act) so that their family and friends would know what they were talking about. They would give just enough information to pique curiosity so their audience would want to know more. Then they would relay what happened (second act) and then they would tell the result (third act).

The three act paradigm of the feature screenplay stems from these early traditions of storytelling. It takes advantage of the natural way in which humans react to stories.

First, we set up the circumstances. We introduce the main characters (who). We describe the place and time (where and when). We describe the conditions in which our protagonist lives (what) and reveal a problem that the character must resolve (why). All of this information traditionally comprises the first act in a feature screenplay (the setup).

By the end of this setup, if we've done our job as writers, the audience should feel anxious to get into the “real” story, the heart of the matter. If we don’t give them enough setup information, they will be confused and will never be drawn into the story. If we take too long in giving them this information or do not do it clearly, we get the same result. We lose our audience.

Once the audience understands the setup, the facts they need to get their bearings within the context of this story, a specific event forces the main character into trying to solve his problem (plot point).

This launches us into the second act. In a subconscious way, our audience knows that something has changed. They have a natural sense that they are about to go on a journey and, if we’re doing our jobs as writers, they are excited about going along on this journey with us.

Act two is all about putting up obstacles in front of the protagonist. Each obstacle must be more difficult than the previous one (raising the stakes), so that the audience can begin to relate to the main character and empathize with him. The audience, in essence, becomes that character. They identify with him in a very personal, emotional way. They become engaged in the story and care what happens to this person.

By the time we get to the end of act two, the audience is rooting for this character to win, to achieve his goal. Once again, something happens to force the protagonist to change his tactics, because if he doesn’t, all will be lost and he will not achieve his goal. This event (plot point) spins us into act three.

At this point, there is usually a “ticking clock” device that forces the character to achieve his goal within a certain time or all will be lost. The audience becomes anxious, fearful. This is a very natural reaction stemming from deep within our psyche, probably tapping into our fight or flight mechanism. There is a primal fear that this person will not get what he wants, which translates to us not getting what we want. We want to be satisfied at the end.

There is a fascinating film entitled MOMENTO, in which the protagonist has experienced profound memory loss. Throughout the story, he tries to piece together what has happened to him. As he learns certain facts about his situation, he has to document them in a way that, when he forgets again, he can look at a picture he has taken or something he has written on his arm to remind him that he encountered certain people or situations before. The structure, at first look, appears to be circular, but it is not. Rather, the arcs of action are more like spirals that evolve. Each time we come back to the same scene, we come in at a different point, we learn something new and we see the situation from a different point of view. I believe that even this film is in the three act paradigm, but I have not deconstructed this script to know for certain. This is an exercise that I plan on doing at some point. I think it would be quite enlightening. I will let you know what I discover.

To reiterate, as a writer, if you are experimenting with variations in form, it is important for you to know how you want to affect your audience. What do you want to achieve? How do you want your audience to feel? You need to draw them in emotionally (see my earlier blog on this subject) in order to engage them. Otherwise, all will be lost.

Engaging Your Audience

by Diana Osberg

While doing creative development for an A-list actor, I read hundreds of scripts, most of which were from writers represented by the top talent agencies in Los Angeles. To my surprise, few of the stories were unique, and even fewer engaged me. At the time, I wondered why these screenplays from some of the supposed best writers in the business did not hold my interest. What, specifically, was wrong with these scripts?

At first, I thought that the stories did not connect because they were derivative. I had seen these stories before in some form or another; I had met these characters before, and I was bored. Many of them were stories centered in Los Angeles. Many of them were street stories with drug dealers and undercover detectives, rogue cops with vendettas and women who had something to prove. These stories all felt stale to me, and by the time I finished the scripts I felt as though I had wasted my time.

I thought, “So what?” Why did the writer bother to write this script? Why should my audience want to see this story? Why should they pay $10 to sit in a movie theater and watch this film? Why should they spend the time, not just the money? Why should my boss and the studio want to spend millions of dollars to make this film?

I questioned my reactions to these scripts repeatedly. Why was I bored? Finally, it dawned on me that my boredom was not from the fact that I had read stories like this before. It was not that the stories were derivative. It was something more fundamental than that.

Writer Willa Cather wrote in O Pioneers!, “There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before.”

So since there are no new stories, then how do we go about telling a story that is not derivative, or rather, how do we tell a story that feels fresh and is engaging? What do we need to do to hold our audience’s attention and make them feel satisfied at the end?

I realized that I was bored with these stories because they were not engaging me emotionally. They were not connecting to the deepest level of human experience, emotion.

As a writer, you are obligated to move your audience emotionally in some way. It is important to build universal themes into your stories—common human experiences that bond us as a species. Emotion is one of the universal elements that define us as human beings. We need to be engaged emotionally in order to care about the protagonist, the hero. We must be able to root for this character in order to stay with him through his journey and feel satisfied at the end of that journey. By the end of our hero’s journey, we must feel changed in some way.

Here are some questions that I always keep in mind when I am reading scripts to consider for production or while writing a script analysis. I hope that they will be helpful to you as you are developing the premise for your next screenplay.

- Who is your audience? What kind of person will enjoy your story?

- What do you want your audience to feel?

- Do you want them to laugh? Is your script a comedy?

- Do you want them to be afraid? Is your script a horror story or a thriller?

- Do you want them to cry? Is your script a drama?

- Do you want them to think or to love?

- Do you want your audience to feel a combination of some of the above?

- How should the audience be changed? Do you want them to learn something or have the best laugh they’ve had in years?

- Is your protagonist likeable?

- Is this character someone your audience can root for? Can they relate to him in some universal way?

- Is your protagonist’s goal worthy?

Remember that your audience is not just the person who goes to the theater. He is also the script reader, the film producer, the actor, the studio executive. Engage them (they’re human, too) and you increase your chances of making a sale.

No Such Word

NSW = No Such Word
by Jay Speyerer

Words are used every day that are found in no standard dictionary. These are the NSWs, or no such words. While the use of these “words” might be fun and creative, there will often be a problem with how they’re perceived by your readers. As noted, some of these examples can be used as substandard dialogue, but never in serious narrative. Other NSWs no doubt exist, but the following list comprises the ones that are most noticeable to these editorial eyes and picky sensibilities.


Acrosst. No, the word is across. Some of us are afraid to end a word with a hiss. We have to chop it off. I hear the word spoken often enough that I include it, but fortunately have never seen it in print unless it’s used in fiction as deliberately substandard dialogue.
Alot. There exists allot, meaning to apportion or dole out; and a lot, an imprecise way to say a whole bunch. But there exists no such word as alot.
Alright. It’s in the dictionary, but it’s considered substandard, so it makes my list. Stick with the two-word phrase, all right?
Ascared. I’m afraid not. The word is scared.
Boughten. Nope, it’s buy, bought, bought. You might be comparing it phonetically to get, got, gotten.
Congradulations. Is this how you say “best wishes” to a graduate? The word is congratulations. Incorrect pronunciation leads to incorrect spelling.
Conversate. You can converse or you can have a conversation. Think of another similar word: Perspiration doesn’t mean you perspirate.
Definately. More a spelling problem than a speaking one, but the correct spelling is definitely not that.
Flustrated. This nonword should perhaps be an actual one, signifying the state of being flustered and frustrated simultaneously. But it isn’t yet.
Heighth. Lose the final h. The word is height. The error is understandable – if not forgivable – because we have such measurement words as width, breadth, and depth, not to mention eighth.
Hisself. Sounds logical, but remember this is English. The word is himself.
Irregardless. This is a nonword that would disappear if its abusers would take a second to consider its supposed meaning. Ir- is a negating prefix, -less a negating suffix. You don’t need both. You might be thinking either of irrespective or regardless.
Mischevious. It’s not mis-CHEE-vee-us, it’s MISS-che-vus, as in mischievous.
Per say. This is an example of phonetic guessing, based perhaps on not having seen the term in writing. Per se is correct and means “by nature” or “in and of itself.”
Pronounciation. I passed a classroom one day and heard a teacher tell her class of future job seekers that, during an interview, correct pronounciation is very important. Wonder how she got her job. Pronunciation is the correct word.
Snuck. The past parochial constrictive of “snack”, as in “I didn’t want to snack before dinner, but since I had already snuck before lunch, I figured what the hell.” Seriously, even though you hear snuck often, the verb forms are sneak, sneaked, sneaked.
Theirselves. Use themselves. Refer to hisself.
Unthaw. Think about it: when you unfreeze a pound of hamburger, you thaw it. So if it unthaws, does it re-freeze? Not only is it ungrammatical, it’s unsafe food handling.
Whala or Viola. It’s voila in French. Pronounced “vwah-LA,” it means, hey, looky there.

I present this list not to vent (though there is satisfaction in that), but to help. Inadvertent use of these NSWs lowers your worth and perceived knowledge in the opinion of your listeners and readers. Whether you’re in the business or personal world, I want you to sound smart.

Welcome

To kick things off, we will address some of the key issues and do's and don'ts of writing screenplays. Below is a list of topics that we hope will spark some questions about problems you may be having with writing your scripts. If you should have questions and concerns about book writing, please email us about this, too.

Make Every Scene Count

Every scene must serve more than one purpose.

Every scene must move the plot forward.

Every scene must further the protagonist’s goal.

Just as every story has a beginning, middle and an end, so must each scene.

Show, don’t tell

Write the script like a Haiku (make every word count)

The protagonist must act, not be acted upon.

The protagonist must have a clear goal.

The protagonist must be sympathetic.

The story should be unique, not derivative.

Everything that is set up must be paid off. Everything that is paid off must be set up.

Handling exposition - "as you know" information

Three act structure

Know your audience

Stay on the spine

Raise the stakes

Professional format

Come in late; leave early