[In response to: Vivian Gornick’s “The Situation and The Story]
If we want to understand story, it’s probably a good idea to start by observing a writer trying to do the same. Here they are in their natural state:
A writer has an idea for a short story. It came from earlier in the afternoon, when they saw a man looking forlorn in suit and tie and weaseling a hot dog into his mouth. It was very sad and somewhat funny. The writer thought this man had potential.
They begin:
Phil was sitting on a park bench, and it was a ho-hum day, and Phil had left work early to sit on this bench because the day was too ho-hum.
Strange. This writer never use phrases likes ho-hum. Where did ho-hum come from? Phil must be the kind of person who uses such words. Phil possibly uses: oh gosh; pronto; doohickey; tie me up; harder; confirm receipt. The writer banks these thoughts for future use. And then they continue searching for why, exactly, they are writing about Phil.
Everyone knew the feeling that drew Phil to the bench (or so Phil hoped). A call had run over its allotted hour and put Phil behind on work he didn’t care to do, and then a malaise hit him. It all happened in a hurry. Ho-hum was a kind word, a coping mechanism.
Phil had chosen this particular bench because it situated him across from a jazz quartet. There were two trumpets, an upright bass that was really swinging, and a sparse drum kit, and there was nothing ho-hum about these players. Especially not when the double time section kicked in. The trumpets battled for attention. The bass and drums kept pace. It all happened in a hurry. The music vibrated out of focus and that somehow put things into focus for Phil.
The writer notices another strange phenomenon. Things kept happening in a hurry for Phil. The writer supposes it’s because the writing had come in a hurry.
And what have they got to show for it? A man in a funk and in need of motion. That’s something, right? Perhaps it’s the story. The writer determines it best to continue before getting bogged down in silly questions.
Stirred by the music, Phil’s feet began moving, wobbling him towards the band. He had never considered himself the dancing-in-the-park type. That was for retired couples. But there he was, suddenly amongst their number. Phil’s feet walked unintelligibly to the beat. His hips turned incorrectly, and his elbows splayed out like Egyptian coffin art.
Phil realized that his head was bouncing, too, and what’s more, it bounced in sync with the bassist’s head. He and the bassist were tracing each other’s movements, down to the wiggling knees. Neither party was very coordinated. This transpired in embarrassing daylight.
Huh. The writer didn’t anticipate this turn. Only a minute ago, they were describing a professional type, mid-thirties, who was about to set on an internal adventure away from the working world. What in God’s name happened? Phil walked the writer headfirst into a romance, and that didn’t seem fair to anyone involved.
The writer has to ameliorate the situation – or, at the least, open negotiations with Phil.
Phil finally regained control and found the sense to check his phone. Work had called.
He stiffened and patted his outfit down and threw a tip at the bassists’ feet, and Phil’s eyes dragged over the bassist as they headed in a leaving direction. To be safe, Phil produced a pen and paper and wrote down his number. He tossed that at the bassist’s feet as well.
Then, Phil was off.
Oh gosh, the writer slaps the page, they’ve gone and done it now. Phil and this bassist really have to find a way to cross paths again, don’t they? The writer has practically promised it to Phil. They’ve certainly promised it to us, the reader.
The writer did not gum themselves up with plans. They let Phil, that stumbling subconscious entity, take control of his own life and dictate terms. If the writer had tried dictating, Phil would be off moping in the direction of a flower bed, lamenting his ho-hum work life, and that wouldn’t be very entertaining. Phil had better ideas. Surely the reader agrees.
The writer takes stock of what they now have on their hands. It’s not much, but it’s got a semblance of direction. The spit-up phase concluded, they’re at liberty to put together a rough skeleton of a plot. The skeleton isn’t more than a few sentences, brief notes on what may come. The writer is sufficiently open to Phil leading them down perpetually better avenues.
Indeed, one of those skeleton sentences is: a man in a funk and in need of motion. This is just about the only thing the writer still has under their purview. We might be inclined to think that’s the whole story, too. That is it. The whole shebang. The heart of what’s going to happen. It is not. Those are the stakes.
Stakes are what allow us to care about a story. Our writer above intuits this, though as a practiced writer does, they ignore probing while putting a draft onto the page. This process of following intuition is at the heart of how we should define story but more on that later.
To be clear, stakes do more mechanically than simply make us care, though that is their primary objective. For one, they set stories into motion. Take the stakes of Star Wars: against improbable odds, the last of a dying breed must overthrow an evil empire. Those stakes inform every action that every character takes. They are a guiding light for each movie, each scene, each costume, each set piece, each song. They are very nearly the story because they are so integral.
Good stakes also outline the ways in which a story might transcend its entertainment value and become universal. Why aren’t two lovers allowed to be together? In unwinding this question, and in making the obstacles to love both great and relevant, the writer (say, William Shakespeare) might stumble upon profundity. We, as readers, as viewers, as audience members, take this possibility seriously. Stakes are a promise the writer makes.
It’s odd, though, isn’t it – seeing the stakes spelled out, I find myself asking “why should I care about that evil empire in a galaxy far, far away? What do these stakes have to do with me?” Well, technically, nothing. The stakes of a story have nothing to do with any of us. But the higher the stakes, the greater the risk posed to our protagonists (friends?), the greater our escape from mundanity, the greater the possibility for profundity.
So, what kinds of stakes are out there? We have the rich man who has want for nothing but a woman, or the lovers who society does not want to see together, or the unlikely lovers who never thought each other for themselves. Technically, you could call these The Great Gatsby, Romeo & Juliet, and Pride & Prejudice, though such stakes apply to innumerable works. We also have beachgoers in danger from a killer shark (Jaws), or alien invaders threatening humanity (Dune, The Avengers), or a serial killer who needs to be brought to justice (see: crime genre). There are crazier options yet. How about the warrior who must overcome peril on his journey home… to free his wife from potential lovers (The Odyssey).
So, sex or death. Most stakes are premised on sex or death or a combination thereof. Money also crops up (the heist genre comes to mind), though threat of physical or existential injury is often what makes the money-making dramatic. Especially in film, sex and death are ubiquitous. A most well-known guide to screenwriting, Save the Cat, all but recommends it.
But we readers of fiction and non-fiction are, generally, a softer folk, and we go in for a broader range of stakes. We like those that are both simpler and more complex. We are less needy for alien invasions and are happy to concern ourselves with questions like, “is Phil OK?” Those are stakes enough for us, and they have the possibility of the richness of life.
In his book A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, George Saunders writes accurately about the way we interact with stakes in text. He calls their manifestations “things I couldn’t help but noticing,” asserting that these things (TICHBN for short) are what compel us to read on. TICHBN are signposts of the stakes, little reminders from the author that say, “I’ll get back to this, don’t you worry, just keep reading.” If the TICHBN are interesting enough, we’ll oblige.
As a writer, selecting your TICHBN can be a tricky process, one that’s critical to understanding story. You begin, as the writer above did, by plodding down a narrative while remaining conscious of your signposts. Perhaps the bassist Phil met is the second layering of stakes, above the primary sketch. So, we have: a man in a funk and in need of motion and, would you have it, he just bumped into a potential romantic interest, let’s hope things don’t get screwed up. We’re caring more and more. Each next step is more precarious, let’s pray Phil heads in the right direction.
I recently wrote a story about a married couple living in a wealthy neighborhood, a neighborhood that had suffered a streak of thefts. The husband, a grammar pedant, learned of the crimes only because of errors in the reportage, and the wife, aghast with her husband’s findings, urged him to action. Through a series of letters to the editor and petty workplace squabbles, the couple fell backwards into solving the crimes. No word on whether the victims were returned their stolen goods, or the suspect set free.
What are the stakes? Ostensibly, grammar. We see everything through the lens of this couple’s pedantism. But that isn’t right. An acute reader will wonder: does journalistic malpractice lead to a miscarriage of justice? They’ll ask: what happens to the accused, the one person with their life on the line?
Those are nearly the stakes. All that stuff was layered on top of the primary task.
The stakes are: can this couple, these two curmudgeons, grumps, oafs, bellyachers, cynics, crabs, and cranks ever get out of the way?
Which brings us nicely to character. You might have noticed that every example of stakes has to do with someone or some group. More specifically, most stakes deal with a single dimension of a person or people.
We are, counter to popular belief, drawn to flat characters. James Wood describes the beauty of flat characters well in his book How Fiction Works. He explains that flat characters give us one fair expression of themselves, a trait or quality or way of being that we can place in our own reality. With this piece of information, we’re able to build a whole sense of a character. Woods calls this “getting into a scene.” Importantly, the oft-derided flat character is not some walking, talking trope of itself. The flat character ought to be opaque. We see them only on the plane of expression, as we do with everyone in life, but there is the hint of depth (ergo, opacity).
For fear of getting too theoretical, let’s put this into application.
Our writer’s Phil is just a regular Phil. Everyone has had a ho-hum day. No one looks particularly authentic in a suit, and God help them if they do. Phil is relatively flat: he is relatable-guy-who’s-tired-of-work. But in the moment Phil’s eyes drag over the bassist, his romantic history becomes relevant to our narrative. Relatable-guy becomes that much more relatable, and we wonder what mystery lies behind his curtain. He is opaque, still Phil, but we’re wonderfully aware that Phil contains multitudes.
Doesn’t this feel true to life? I interact with flat characters every day, some intimately, some are myself. We all relate externally as flat presentations of ourselves. I have a friend Bill who, really, I see as My-Friend-Bill. My-Friend-Bill is funny, a fantastic storyteller. I always have the best time with him. He can be got into a scene with this: “Bill sits on the couch at a party, and a crowd is around him. One is inclined to roll their eyes, but then they join the crowd and Bill makes them feel heard, though he is the one talking.” Don’t you know that person too? Can’t you imagine their edges?
Well-rounded-Bill has a fiancé, split parents, and three gay half-brothers. He is going to graduate school, just moved from Connecticut to New York City, and soils himself thrice annually, four times on election years. His best friend feinted twice while watching The Miracle of Life. Yes, these facts are something and they ought to be dredged for their depth, but they all culminate in the flat experience of Bill, in My-Friend-Bill. If anything, these facts fail to communicate what it’s like to actually know Bill. Give me Well-Rounded-Bill in a first chapter, and I’d be lost. It’d be like reading too many details of a room – the image no longer hangs together. Give me the one detail that implies the rest and let me, the reader, expand into your universe.
Beyond their emotional realness, flat characters are expedient vehicles for the writer. Think about them, once again, in relation to the stakes. Phil as relatable-guy allows us to explore the consequences of who and where and what he is. Phil is at the butt end of being a working stiff, and what happens to an average joe in that position? What interesting arc can the writer bend around him (without, of course, obstructing the alchemy of writing)? Theme and message, though never necessary, therefore find a solid foundation in flat characters.
Reworking the stakes to accommodate character does much, too. ‘A man in a funk and in need of motion’ is far less useful than ‘relatable-guy-who’s-tired-of-work needs a change.’ Phil might go home after seeing the bassist, and he won’t have his regular dinner again, not tonight he won’t. Maybe he gets expensive sushi for the first time in his life. And maybe after sushi, Phil prowls the east side for a jazz club and gets hammered alone and he decides to call in sick to work tomorrow and then, late at night, he bumps into the bassist. This course of action comes easily to our Phil but not for underachieving-mid-thirties-something who needs direction. With this chain of events, Phil’s specific flatness matters.
Once you’ve understood the finer points of stakes and character – and digested these points subconsciously so that you can write freely and uninhibited by them – you’ve got to get on with the business of making things happen. Otherwise known as plot. It’s a nasty word to many, though I hold it in the highest regard.
On the surface, I understand why plot is detested. It can be a slog for writers and their characters to conjure an engaging path forward. Characters will often go about their day looking at furniture or commenting on how the sun shines just so, or they will regret their absent father in a journal, and this will occupy some pages. But to this character I say: forget that day, I want to read about the day when something happens. Show me the day when your father’s past impacted your present, then I’d be curious to see your journal.
A writer could argue that plot, and the audience demand for plot, is exhausting. Limiting, even. The writer has all these magical ideas they want written out, and making things happen doesn’t leave much room for their ideas. In fact, it leaves no room!
I’d like to dismiss this outright – it’s laughably egotistical – but here I am, writing about my ideas on writing. So, let’s hold onto this notion of expressing ideas. I’ll try to demonstrate that it is plot’s most excellent feature.
We are at a critical juncture with Phil. As you can see, he went on his merry way, divulging his own plot in accordance with his character and stakes. He was in a bad mental space, so he tried to ameliorate the situation. He and the writer were kind enough to weave the bassist back in, too – they did not forget to do some critical thinking about what would happen next. And now we should learn that there is a greater problem as a result of Phil’s actions: he’s drunk but the bassist is dead sober, having just finished a gig.
Would you have it, Phil has opened us to better and more interesting avenues, just as he promised! Phil followed a good path from relatable-guy-who’s-tired-of-work to conflict, and now the writer has plenty of room to explore. Maybe Phil divulges too much to this bassist. Phil has capped out on promotions and spent the last year reckoning with his middling intellect. Romantically, Phil’s never been able to hold down a partner. That’s not true, actually, he had an ex. Phil orders himself and the bassist a shot, courage to talk about the ex, and, oh gosh, Phil realizes midway through his rant, that the bassist never drank the tequila. He’s a teetotaler. The bassist has got this uncomfortable look on his face which Phil can hardly make out through the melting lens of booze. The bassist gets up and leaves and Phil starts pleading sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to bother. Phil never got the bassist’s name.
Here, plot opens us to the difficulty of living, and to living so darn long. It asks: does Phil’s history prevent him from a happy present? Or is it work, driving him to drinking and social ineptitude? Better yet, at our current juncture, plot asks: how can Phil recover? It universalizes: can anyone tolerate the intolerability of our pasts?
The writer is in the driver’s seat once more, free to explore their ideas. It is up to them which of these questions to answer, and which to leave satisfyingly unfulfilled.
The traditional conception of story – the emotional arc, “the thing one has come to say” – emerges naturally from an accurate representation of character in confluence with stakes. It is a byproduct of a well-conceived and well-felt plot. To think too hard about traditional story is to navel gaze, to utterly miss the point, to disregard your reader in favor of yourself.
All this to say: story is, in many regards, plot. Without plot, we just have somebody changing their mind. Imagine this:
A friend comes up and says, “howdy, I just switched my voter ID from democrat to republican.”
Stunned, you ask, “what happened? Are you well?”
“Nothing happened, not really,” they say, folding their arms proudly. “I finally came around to the idea after a long walk.”
That’s hardly worth writing about, save for showing how much of a non-story it is.
Fine, yes, story is not purely plot. But they are inextricably linked, both the result of character and stakes and other things lurking in the subconscious (why did Phil get sushi rather than steak, who could say?).
Each of these forces take the shape of promises a writer makes to their reader. The writer outlines Phil as a relatable-guy who needs a change, and by mere virtue of turning the page, the reader assumes this problem will be addressed. Along the way, the writer promises a bassist, a repulsion of work, possible romance. These all factor into what happens next.
So, to understand story, you must agree that the reader relationship is paramount. Plenty of solid writing fails to become a good read because it never considers the reader as part of the equation. You can put one solid sentence down next to another, but without an eye towards their promises, the whole is less than the sum of its parts.
Perhaps what I’m talking about isn’t story, but good story. Better yet, I’m talking about worthwhile story, the kind that deserves half an hour of our days. Isn’t that what any writer is trying to do? Earn the attention of a reader (themselves as reader included)? Impress them enough to read again tomorrow?
Worthwhile stories make the stakes integral, leveraging them for decisions like clothing and diction. They use stakes as a centrifuge. Bad stories wander off in some other direction. They have Phil moping at a flowerbed while pondering questions like “Capitalism?!”
Worthwhile stories understand that characters are like us: flat. We present to the world as a landscape on which others and ourselves paint impressions. My-Friend-Bill is so many histories that merge into one stunted him. When I’m with him, I am not thinking of the three gay half-brothers. It cheapens and misrepresents Bill to round him into a collection of facts.
Worthwhile stories understand that these elements can converge onto time and place. That there are more interesting days. That there are ways to heighten the stakes (a la our bassist) for our main characters, and for their broken selves to flounder gloriously in a moment of gravity.
Stories, so constructed, are the ways of ordering the world unto ourselves. All else, stories which fail to maintain the stakes, or which quibble over character, are mere philosophy masquerading as narrative. They still aim in the same direction, and sometimes do hit the same mark, but fail to pull us in, make us feel greater than, build tension, escape, hold and maintain, affect and essentialize. They might still be true, and the truth might still move, but they do so with less efficacy and less frequency, and they are not stories. Not good ones, at least. Story, story worth our time, is the process of utterly disregarding yourself in favor of your reader.