Story Fix

by Larry Brooks

  This single conceptual notion exists across the entirety of the Harry Potter series. The series brings in other congruent elements, such as the macro premise (Harry finds and brings justice to Voldemort, who killed his parents), but each book or film has its own plot (premise), rogues’ gallery of villains, and stakes.

  Make sure you wrap your head around this point—it’s the same concept throughout every book or film across the entire series. Many rejected series proposals and manuscripts get shot down because the overarching concept is weak (it doesn’t meet the criteria), creating a challenge for each installment to stand alone within that same thin contextual proposition.

  Every superhero story you can think of is based on a fresh, highly compelling concept. The heroic essence—not the humanity of the character—is the concept. Batman is a concept. Superman is a concept. RocketMan, Wonder Woman, Stephanie Plum, Sherlock Holmes, Jack Ryan, Harry Bosch, John Corey, Jack Reacher, and Holden Caulfield … all are heroes and heroines, and all are conceptual in nature. We read those stories for the hero, as much or more than we do for their premises. That’s concept trumping premise, which is the secret weapon of creating a great series. The concept is everything.

  But concept, especially in stand-alone novels, isn’t the sole province of heroes and villains (character). Many things can be rendered conceptual and can thus create a context for plot. Examples include a magical ring that has the power to enslave the world, the opposing factions in a fantasy based on the War of the Roses, the existence of a covert “Impossible Missions” force, vampires falling in love with human teenagers, a dead girl narrating from heaven, a talking teddy bear who is still alive and talking when his owner is grown, a ghost avenging his own death, a story set in the raging heart of America’s bleakest racial tensions, and a marriage so dark a woman is willing to die to frame her husband for her murder.

  These are all conceptual and come from best-selling novels and/or hit films. Standing alone, without premises, they aren’t stories. However, each is already set up to be compelling because of its concept, which contributes rich dramatic fodder to the story that arises from it.

  The prime-time television series Castle is a stellar example of concept versus premise and resides within the particularly challenging detective mystery genre. The show applies a different dramatic premise each week but always maintains its conceptual core: Rick Castle is a novelist and friend of New York City’s mayor. The mayor authorizes him to shadow real detectives on cases to do research for his work, and he ends up contributing his crime-solving acumen to each week’s caper. Castle is a character, but it is his conceptual nature and the conceptual proposition of the show that become the concept of this program, which never varies from week to week. The premise, however, does differ from week to week, because each episode has its own plot.

  Nearly every film Tom Cruise makes is highly conceptual. It seems to be the primary criteria for the projects he takes on. A man who dies over and over again, only to return to face the same problems (Edge of Tomorrow). A guy living on a desolate planet, serving as its repairman (Oblivion). A jet jockey with an attitude (Top Gun). A hustler with an autistic brother (Rain Man). A pool-playing prodigy (The Color of Money). A guy who gets shot up in Vietnam (Born on the Fourth of July). A German officer who betrays Hitler (Valkyrie). The list goes on in this conceptual fashion. Notice how the arenas—aircraft carriers, war, the handicapped, post-war life, outer space—offer a conceptual appeal, as much or more than the characters themselves. This is the power of concept at work.

  Every novel Jodi Picoult writes is based on a conceptual centerpiece. Elephant researchers. Medical life extension. The social culture of wolves. Columbine. Her stories are, in effect, cultural and even historical studies in the form of a novel, and all are conceptual by definition because the culture or the history attracts us before we meet the protagonist or sense the plot. Which is rendered, by the way, not like a documentary but according to the criteria of a dramatically driven premise.

  These aren’t slice-of-life stories. Those have a place on the shelf, but not within commercial genres. If you’ve tried to write your genre story—romance, mystery, science fiction, fantasy, western, historical, paranormal, war story, and so on—without installing a conceptual engine to propel it forward, that could explain your rejection in a nutshell.

  Think of any blockbuster novel or film. The odds are almost certain that you’ll find a conceptual idea or framework at its heart.

  You can certainly, and quickly, find examples that seem to refute the notion that concept is the stuff of success: historical, episodic renderings of slavery and war, sagas about families settling the Wild West, and biographical stories of courage and genius. But notice that these are almost always either true stories or overtly literary undertakings. And even then, if you look hard enough you’ll notice something conceptual at work. If nothing else, the appeal of the historical significance is conceptual in its own right, as in the films Twelve Years a Slave and Selma, or in any biopic of a famous historical figure.

  Let There Be Superman

  Of all the iconic characters in fiction, one stands out as the quintessential hero of both print and screen, the ultimate poster boy of concept. He wears blue tights and a cape, and he used to change out of his suit and into his costume in a telephone booth, in a time before cellphones. His name is Superman. And he has a lot to teach us about concept.

  As I mentioned before, the character Superman is the concept. As one of the most conceptual characters of all, he is someone who embodies something conceptual that defines the context of the stories he appears in.

  In a story about the spirit of a jilted lover haunting his old girlfriend, the ghost is the concept. Sure, the ghost is a character as well, but first he is a concept. When you throw in the notion that the ghost helps his girlfriend solve his murder—or, even better, that the ghost sets out to prove that his girlfriend perpetrated his murder—you’ve added a premise. This particular premise is, in fact, from the 1990 classic film Ghost, starring Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore.

  Other examples in both classic and modern literature abound. In The Great Gatsby, Gatsby is the concept. He’s a guy who sought to become rich to win the love of a girl. That’s a concept.

  We are looking for an essence—a quality or a power or a gift or a shortcoming—that is conceptual, that imbues the story with compelling energy, even before the character inhabiting that essence walks (or in Superman’s case, flies) onto the page.

  Faster than a speeding rejection slip …

  As of this writing, ten major Superman films have been released, in addition to hundreds of graphic novels. All of them have different premises, because all of them have different plots. Which leads to the accurate conclusion that premise is plot.

  And yet, every single one of them leverages the same concept: An alien infant is sent into space to escape a dying planet, crashes on Earth, is discovered by humans who raise him, and demonstrates superhuman powers as he grows into manhood.

  Remember the television program Smallville? The writers evolved that concept into a different story: Let’s look at the teen and young adult years of that alien boy. That, too, is simply a concept, and a great one.1

  Superman as a character meets all the criteria of a killer concept. Many different stories could arise from this concept, because it is fresh and different, it is rich with dramatic and thematic potential, it creates a wonderful story landscape and arena for the stories that arise from it, it has massive potential for conflict and confrontation with an antagonist (the villain), and, most important, it is simply and almost overwhelmingly compelling.

  A concept does not ask a dramatic question, such as “Will Katniss survive the Hunger Games?” Unless the hero is the concept, which happens in stories with Superman and Batman and Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch, a character isn’t even included in the concept statement. And if the character is the concept—at least within the statement of concept—the focus is neve
r on what happens to that character. What happens is the province of premise, which we put under the microscope in the next two chapters.

  What Is Conceptual About Your Story?

  What is the notion, proposition, situation, story world, setting, or fresh take that creates a framework or arena or landscape for your story, one that could hatch any number of stories, and one that doesn’t require us to meet your hero or know your plot to make us say, “Yes! Write a story based on that, please”?

  The world, and the publishers and readers who live in it, isn’t going to get all that excited about another detective, another great romance, another ghost, another gun fight, or another medieval bloodfest unless it is somehow rendered fresh, new, and provocatively fascinating at its conceptual core. Outlander, for example, had time travel, which fused romance and science fiction within a medieval story landscape. If your concept is a commodity, make sure there’s a unique twist involved that elevates it and keeps it out of the hands of the discount shelf crowd.

  You are holding the secret weapon of storytelling in your hands. Think bigger. Go further. Make your concept more conceptual. Maybe your story’s salvation is as simple as that.

  Maybe that’s why you’re here, wondering where your best opportunity for fixing your story resides.

  Maybe, though, you now know what went wrong, having shone a light on your weak concept or the absence of something conceptual within your story. Maybe, now that you know, it’s staring you right in the face.

  Is your concept truly in line with the grade you gave it? Can you do better?

  Feel free to grade your concept again by creating new versions of it until something conceptual resonates. Pitch your favorite to others, and see what they say. (Even if they don’t understand the difference between concept and premise, you’ll be listening and evaluating with an informed ear.)

  What is your concept? What is conceptual about your story?

  Developing a better answer to these questions might be the impetus you need to get it back in front of an agent or a publisher.

  The Flip Side: Concept as Deal Killer

  Then again, maybe your concept is just fine. Maybe the problem—the weakness—is in your premise, or your execution of it. Those issues are next. But they are irrelevant if the concept that fuels them isn’t meeting the available criteria. It’s like sending a soldier into battle without everything he needs to protect himself … he’ll get taken out early. Concept is like that. A great concept is your best defense against rejection.

  Concept touches everything within a story. It colors, imbues, ignites, and affects each and every story beat. This means you can’t just toss in a conceptual idea up front and then pay it no mind as you begin to tell the story. With a stronger concept comes a stronger premise in response, and you are the author of that level as well. It won’t happen on autopilot, but it will be there for you to work with when your concept has been elevated. But you have to follow through.

  Take your concept to a higher level, and your story is already a step ahead of the many others in the agent’s in-box. You now have a live wire to power the story that follows.

  And you might have just salvaged your story.

  1For the curious, the ten films featuring Superman can be found at www.supermanhomepage.com/movies.php.

  Chapter 5

  Empower Your Premise

  At some point in the process of selling your novel or screenplay, you will be called upon to pitch it. Agents, acquisition editors, and film executives receive pitches almost daily and thus are prone to a natural cynicism and impatience because so many pitches are less than stellar—and many are downright awful. These gatekeepers absolutely want to hear a great story pitch, and when they do, their enthusiasm will be obvious. You’ll get a green light to submit more material down the line, on that story or another one.

  The biggest mistake of pitching is when the writer launches into a sequential synopsis, without an overview that includes a concept, a premise (including a character/hero intro), and perhaps a theme. A pitch can take many forms, but the most basic is a one-sentence summary that touches on several key story elements: the conceptual basis of the story, the hero, what the hero needs and wants based on a problem or opportunity, what opposes the hero’s quest, and the stakes.

  There’s a word for all of that. It’s premise. A synopsis, or even an outline, is nothing other than an expansion of a premise.

  Premise is the most important element in the entire realm of story development. It is the story in preview format. Everything you seek when you are building the story is pulled from it. Screw it up, and the story suffers. Screw it up badly enough—by leaving out key elements—and the story bombs.

  You need to get the premise right. And it begins with understanding what a solid premise is, what it covers, and why those elements need to be there.

  When an agent or editor passes on your story pitch, it’s because the premise is, in her eyes, lacking in some way. Even if your concept grabs her, your premise might tank the story if it’s not strong. The rejection could be due to factors other than a weakness in the story—it might be too close to something she’s currently working on or something already in the market; it might be too derivative or too dark, etc.—but most of the time it’s because the key elements of the story and the critical realms of story physics are simply not present, or at least not working.

  Let me clarify one thing before we fully define premise. I mentioned that a good pitch begins with concept. It certainly does. But concept remains distinct and separate from the story’s premise. Be clear on that. In the last chapter we looked at concept from all possible angles, sometimes juxtaposing it against premise. In this chapter, beginning with the forthcoming definition of premise, concept is not included. And yet, a good premise is imbued with compelling energy because of the concept from which it sprang. Keep that straight as you engage with this chapter, because mastering both concept and premise becomes a sum far in excess of either part.

  Premise Defined

  If concept is the foundational proposition—the stage—of a story, then premise is the drama you set upon that stage. Premise is, in essence, the plot itself, driven by the character’s or hero’s decisions and action, summarized in one or two sentences. It describes a hero’s quest or mission that stems from a newly presented or evolved problem or opportunity and is motivated by stakes and consequences. Finally, there is a villain (or other antagonist, which doesn’t have to be human or even a living thing; it could be weather or disease, for example) blocking the hero’s path, creating confrontation and conflict that requires the hero to take action to achieve resolution.

  The Goal of Premise

  Like concept, the highest purpose of your premise is to compel, to create the linear framework for a dramatic story that gives your character something interesting and emotionally resonant to do. If you land on a bland, familiar, slice-of-life premise, you can still pitch it by covering these bases. But like a soup made of just water, salt, and a few beans, it won’t draw crowds.

  Concept, on the other hand, creates an opportunity for a more compelling story to emerge. In that context, concept is a tool, a catalyst that is applied to your premise, something that underpins it.

  Pop Quiz

  Based on the definition and discussion above, what is the premise of your story? Write it down using only a few sentences. If you need a true synopsis to cover the given criteria, consider that you haven’t clarified the core story yet. If it takes more than a few sentences to convey, the story may be too complex for its own good. And that may be the source of the rejection that brought you here.

  Now consider this: How does your current premise align with the following criteria?

  Your premise introduces a hero, with a glimpse at how and why we will find this character or this arena interesting (that is, conceptual). If she isn’t all that interesting, then your premise is already suspect.

  Your premise delivers a snapshot of the hero’s j
ourney within your story. Your hero has a problem or an opportunity that calls for a response in the face of opposition to the goal. Something is at stake. If the premise is simply to observe a character’s life (which is a common story killer), or to episodically show us who he is throughout a journey with no stakes-dependent goal or specific mission, then it is suspect.

  The nature of the hero’s journey is dramatic. Conflict is in play, forcing the hero into confrontation. Obstacles create and define that confrontation and conflict. The quest or journey challenges the hero and draws out her courage and cleverness, which become instrumental in reaching the goal of the story, and thus the resolution. The pursuit of the goal takes the hero into uncharted territory—both internally and relative to what opposes her—by forcing her to confront inner demons in order to square off with the threatening exterior opposition. If the only antagonist in the story is an inner demon, your story may lack dramatic tension and stakes. Inner demons are a complication to the confrontations with villains rather than the antagonists in their own right. Conflict is the lifeblood of fiction, and it needs to be readily visible in your premise statement.

  The premise gives the hero something to do in the story. And because there are stakes attached that resonate and elicit reader empathy, we are moved to root for the hero along the path of the story quest. If we have little or nothing to root for—if situational observation is the only narrative grist—then the premise is weak. Your hero needs an external foe to banish.