_Last month, we began our new series on narrative structures by looking at simple_ three-act and five-act structures_. This time, we're stepping up the complexity with a couple of variations adapted for particular types of stories._ * * * For some stories, one rise and fall is not enough. Characters need to be propelled from one event or crisis to the next, and their momentum must be maintained. Or, you may simply want a slightly more complex structure, with more movement in it than just building up to a climax and coming down from it, without having to define every narrative beat. The three-act structure is, as we've discussed, fairly ubiquitous. It's not very surprising, then, that the bones of this structure have been elaborated on to create more detailed variants. One example is the Fichtean Curve, which uses the same overall shape of the three-act structure but modifies the rising action slope with smaller crises leading up to the big climax. Another is the Seven-point Story Structure, which can be overlaid onto a three-act structure but shifts the focus from action and tension to progress and character development. Both of these variants are good at helping you manage elements like pace and tension, making them useful stepping stones for writers wanting to develop more sophisticated plot arcs. ## The Fichtean Curve This narrative structure was coined by John Gardner in _The Art of Fiction_. It is, as mentioned, quite closely based on the classic three-act structure, but with some key differences. Firstly, the inciting incident happens immediately; there isn't time to spend on exposition in this structure. By pushing the inciting incident earlier, the tension can start building right away, and this structure is all about tension. The other major difference between the Fichtean Curve and a classic three-act structure is the path of the rising action―after the climax both structures use the same rapid fall into denouement to resolve tension, but it's the building of it that we're focused on with this structure. Rather than moving directly towards the climax, the plot builds up to smaller moments of crisis which must be resolved along the way. These crises become increasingly tense and raise the stakes higher and higher, leading the characters up to the climax, the biggest and most important crisis of all. This structure layers the tension of the underlying rise to the climax with that of each individual crisis point as it comes up. While the underlying tension keeps rising, though, the tension from each crisis is built and then resolved, leading to more fluidity in the reading experience. Because of its focus on tension, the Fichtean Curve is ideal for gripping, suspenseful plots. ## The Seven-point Story Structure A relatively new narrative structure, the Seven-point Story Structure was developed by Dan Wells around 2010. It follows similar plot points to the ones used in a three-act structure―there's an inciting incident, a midpoint shift, a major setback, and a final resolution―but focuses less on the action and more on the characters. For this structure, the ups and downs are specifically related to the characters' emotional journey, rather than tension. The first of the seven points is the hook, which establishes the exposition (in a way that pulls readers in, the name suggests). This is followed by plot point 1, which we might recognise as being an inciting incident; it's the event that kicks off the plot. Progress is made, and we're feeling good! Unfortunately, the plot falls into pinch point 1, and the situation becomes difficult. From there, the characters rise to the fourth point (the midpoint), when they start to take a more active role in the story. This does not, however, stop them from tumbling into a second pinch point, even more negative than the last one. All seems lost, until the characters have a breakthrough with plot point 2, and they know now how to succeed. The conflict of the story can now be resolved, ending the story on a satisfying note. Because this structure is more character-focused, it aligns well with stories which have a primarily internal arc or an emphasis on character development over action. It also encourages a balance of positive moments with negative moments; rather than building continuously up, it shifts between progress and setbacks, or between high points and low points. A Seven-point Story Structure is a good way to think about the role of change in your narrative, not just tension.

Sometimes, the constraints of linear storytelling can be a real difficulty. We might consider a story to be, at its core, a series of connected events that happen one after the other, but we don't necessarily tell it that way. Sometimes we need to go back in time partway through a story to provide context or reveal hidden details at a point where that information becomes relevant; other times, we may wish to build tension—or resolve it—by providing a glimpse of the future. The flashback is a technique as old as storytelling itself; it appears in ancient Hindu texts and _The Arabian Nights_. You're probably familiar with it already: it's a scene from the past which is brought into the present time of the narrative. There are many reasons why you may want to include a flashback in your story, and a lot of them are about controlling the flow of information. One good use case is when you want to reveal an important element of a character's backstory that took place before the start of the narrative, which helps your readers or audience to better understand the character. You might also use it to reveal a plot point that was previously concealed, such as the murderer's confession in a mystery or the method of a heist. In these situations, a flashback can help convey necessary information through "showing" instead of a block of exposition or explanation that might get clunky pretty quickly. Flashbacks can also be a core part of a story's structure. They are often used as a framing device, where a present time is established to be after the bulk of the story takes place and the main narrative is then told as something that has already happened (a sort of "how did we get here" approach). This framing is used in a number of classic novels like _Frankenstein_ , and is quite popular in film as well, such as in the cases of _Citizen Kane_ or _Double Indemnity_. The benefits of flashback as a framing device are varied and specific to each story that uses it: it might be a way of anchoring a fantastic tale to the real world, or it could make it easier to navigate a story that takes place over decades, or it may provide a sense of inevitability and the opportunity for interesting retrospective narration. Another structural use of flashback is to view the same events through different perspectives. The most famous example of this is the Akira Kurosawa film _Rashomon_ , in which multiple witnesses retell, in turn, their experiences of a crime for the benefit of a court trial. Even though the same general events occur in everyone's versions, the way that these events play out and, critically, their motivations are completely contradictory. Another well-known text that uses flashbacks structurally is the Thornton Wilder novel _The Bridge of San Luis Rey_ , which is centred on the fatal collapse of the titular bridge and tells the stories of the victims of the disaster and what brought them to the spot. In both of these examples, flashback is essential to understanding the core event and how it affects different characters. Somewhat less common than the flashback is the flashforward, which is when a scene from the future is inserted into the narrative. This technique must be distinguished from an epilogue, which is placed _after_ the narrative and not _within_ it, and from foreshadowing, which hints at things to come but does not explicitly show them. Flashforwards are rare in novels, and are mostly associated with more experimental or postmodern texts. The best place to find them is in television, where a scene or image from the end of a season or story arc is inserted at the beginning as a bit of a teaser of what's coming. (You may have seen this a lot in shows like _Breaking Bad_ or _How to Get Away With Murder_.) Using flashforwards in this way is an effective method of building tension and a sense of inevitability, much like a flashback framing device. When used for single isolated scenes, it's clear when a flashback or flashforward is in play. Things can get a bit foggy, though, with more significant time-jumping. For one thing, you can't really say for sure whether the narrative is flashing back or forward unless you have clearly established a present time. Two or three concurrent timelines split evenly are difficult enough, but if you start mixing things up more than that, can a "present" even really exist? If the story is only loosely connected to chronology, as in the case of the film _Pulp Fiction_ , it's much more useful to think of the whole thing being a non-linear narrative, rather than a linear narrative with occasional flashes into the past or future. Being able to manipulate time and information is a very useful skill in storytelling. It can help you reveal information effectively at key moments, contextualise your story, explore different perspectives, and adjust tension. Consider some good examples of flashbacks and flashforwards that you've seen. How do they contibute to the narrative, and how might you use them to improve your own work? Good luck, and happy writing!

Motifs are everywhere. Wherever you have patterns and recurrence, a motif may be lurking just under the surface. They populate every type of art, whether visual or aural, written or textile. They're that moment of recognition (oh, I know this!), and a connection to a larger concept. A motif can be used to develop a theme or a character, set a mood, play into a genre, or provide foreshadowing. You have undoubtedly experienced motifs, and as a standard part of the writing toolbox you've likely used them as well. But how do they work, and why are they so effective? A motif is a simple thing in theory: a repeated feature that ties in with a larger element of the work, often a character, setting, or theme. It is closely tied in with symbolism, and can use any of the elements we've already explored in a previous post about symbolism more generally. What makes motif distinct is the repetition of the feature, which strengthens the symbolic connection and makes it more noticeable. A single appearance of a motif feature may or may not be picked up on, but if it keeps coming back it _must_ be important, and so readers and audiences start to pay more attention to it. We find a lot of motifs in films, particularly as leitmotifs in the soundtrack (consider the iconic Imperial March from _Star Wars_) and as repeated visuals (such as the red coat in _Schindler's List_). In books, a motif can be as obvious as Hester Prynne's titular scarlet letter—an A for adulteress, if you haven't read the novel—or the use of mirrors in _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ to highlight Dorian's self-centredness. They may also be more subtle, such as the despairing mood of _The Grapes of Wrath_ or the seasonal structure of _The Secret Garden_. As the motif recurs throughout the piece, it might change with our understanding of the theme etc. that it represents. For example, in _Macbeth_ , bloodshed is initially linked to the idea of ambition and climbing the social hierarchy; Macbeth is raised to be Thane of Cawdor as a result of his success on the battlefield, and he becomes king by murdering his predecessor. Once he's reached this pinnacle, however, ambition becomes less about _getting_ power and more about _keeping_ it, and the scope of the killing changes. Rather than focusing on "necessary" deaths, Macbeth becomes paranoid about potential threats to his power and eliminates them without pause—even children. He and his wife had treated the old king's blood as a tool to raise themselves up, but as the deaths pile up in the latter part of the play the sight of blood becomes increasingly horrifying to them, to the point of filling their dreams and ghostly hallucinations. Motifs can connect to more than one idea or element (the blood of _Macbeth_ could just as easily represent guilt), or they can work in tandem with each other to point to the same one (handwashing is also used in the play to signify guilt). They're a very flexible technique, and that makes them very useful indeed! Once you start looking for motifs, you'll see them all over the place, including your own work. What are the motifs that you've seen in a book or film that really resonated with you? Are there any you've created that you're really proud of? Tell me about it in the comments below; I'd love to hear about your favourites! Leave a comment Personally, I'm a pretty big fan of the way Shakespeare used motif in his plays to communicate with his audience. I've talked about _Macbeth_ above, but the same richness of representation is repeated throughout all of his works, from the pervasion of death in _Hamlet_ to the constant subverting of gender norms in _As You Like It_. Seriously, they're everywhere. Have fun with them!

(Free post) What's the best way to capture a single moment, a single feeling, a single experience? Why, a vignette of course!

It's been a while since we discussed any good groanworthy puns in a Grammar Talk post; did you hear the one about why you can't run in a campground? As you can probably guess from this week's title, it's because you're going past tents (tense), so you can only "ran". Yeah, that got a noise out of you, I'm sure. Probably a dismayed one. It's alright, though, because I'll give you a good break before the next pun, I promise. Anyway, we're talking about tenses today, so buckle up! ## Simple tenses The basic tenses that we are all familiar with already are the **past** , **present** , and **future** tenses. In their simplest forms, these tenses tell us in the most straightforward manner that an event either: * has occurred in the past, * is currently occurring in the present, or * will occur in the future. The sentence structure associated with these tense forms reflects this simplicity—here are some examples of simple past, simple present, and simple future tenses: > I **picked** a bushel of apples. > > I **pick** a bushel of apples. > > I **will pick** a bushel of apples. You can see that the verb phrases are quite pared down in these examples; in the past and present tenses, we represent the action in a single word, with only the auxiliary verb of "will" added to the future tense. A simple tense doesn't give a whole lot of additional information about the timing of an event, just whether it already happened, is happening now, or is expected to happen later. As a side note, simple present tense is also used to describe an inherent state of being, such as "the world **is** round" or "giraffes **are** very spotty". (Note that the verb in these statements must be an "is" or an "are".) ## Continuous tenses If you want to indicate that an event took, takes, or will take place over a period of time, you use a continuous tense. Compare the following examples to the ones in the previous section: > I **was picking** a bushel of apples. > > I **am picking** a bushel of apples. > > I **will be picking** a bushel of apples. These sentences make the apple-picking process seem a bit more time-consuming, don't they? Note that the verbs all use the "-ing" form, with the time of the event being communicated using the appropriate versions of the "to be" auxiliary verb. So far, so straightforward. It's time to get your thinking caps in order now, though... ## Perfect tenses Perfect tenses are where we start to get more complicated; they connect the primary event to another event happening at a different time. To illustrate this, let's add a secondary event to our examples: > I **had picked** a bushel of apples when a storm blew in. > > I **have picked** a bushel of apples while a storm blows in. > > I **will have picked** a bushel of apples before the storm blows in. Our primary action is appended with a variant of the auxiliary verb "to have", and the main verb itself ("picked") uses a past tense, regardless of the tense of the overall phrase, as this is determined by the auxiliary verb. The secondary action, meanwhile, uses a more basic simple tense. In the first sentence, both the picking of apples and the arrival of the storm happened in the past, but it's clear from the syntax and that the storm didn't begin until after a bushel of apples had been gathered. The future-tense example is almost the same, except that both of the events are yet to happen. Present perfect tense is a little different, though, because we use present tense for a lot of stuff. With its current wording, our second example is a little closer to the way simple present tense states a fact—although the words themselves describe two events that occurred concurrently in the past, we aren't focusing so much on the specific events as we are on the fact that they existed. Alternatively, we could give the example as _I have picked a bushel of apples before_ , which has the same tense, but instead of providing a secondary event explicitly the action of apple-picking is tied to the present. ## Perfect continuous tenses As you may be able to intuit, perfect continuous tense combines the key elements of perfect and continuous tenses to describe an event which takes place over a period of time and also in relation to another event. We can combine these tenses to change our examples like so: > I **had been picking** a bushel of apples when a storm blew in. > > I **have been picking** a bushel of apples while a storm blows in. > > I **will have been picking** a bushel of apples when the storm blows in. In terms of meaning, these examples are fairly similar to what they were for the perfect tenses, but with more focus on the apple-picking as a process that takes time. Syntactically speaking, we're combining the "to be" auxiliary verb (which is "been" in all three of our examples) and the "-ing" form of our verb—both of which we got from the continuous tense—with the "to have" auxiliary verb of the perfect tense. * * * So there we have a very basic crash course on tenses. Do you feel like you've learned something? Because I have _definitely_ learned a few things in putting this post together for you. Best of luck navigating tenses from here, and happy writing!

_Strap in, folks; we're getting started with a new series of Grammar Talk posts discussing different types of narrative structure! There are a lot of ways to think about the way a story is structured, and a lot of tools you can use to organise a plot. Over the coming months, we'll look at a selection of these structures and tools, as well as some elaborating techniques. I encourage you to think about stories you know that adhere to the structures we discuss over the course of the series, but also whether you might use them in your own writing._ _This week, we're starting with a couple of foundational concepts: the three-act and five-act structures. Stick around and see where we go from here!_ * * * The most simple shape that a narrative structure can take is a rise and fall in tension: the action starts to escalate from the inciting incident until it hits the climax, and then winds down into a resolution. It is used for three-act and five-act structures, which you are probably familiar with at least by name as the default for teaching narrative structure, and many writers learn that this is _the_ way to __ construct a story. The particular angles of rising and falling action, the placement of the climax, and the divisions and key points along the way change from one structure to another, but the overall shape is the same: action goes up, hits a climax, and comes back down. There's a good reason why rise-and-fall structures are taught so widely compared to other types. The simplicity of this single arc or angle is easy to understand, and most stories fit well enough into it. When you're starting out as a creative writer, this is exactly what you want! More complicated types of narrative structure require deeper understanding of narrative beats and how they work, but a rise-and-fall structure only relies on a few well-known concepts, such as the inciting incident and climax. ## Three-act structure The most basic and foundational narrative structure there is, the three-act structure is the epitome of describing stories as having a beginning, middle, and end. Or, as one of my high school English teachers put it, you stick your hero in a tree, throw things at them, and get them down from the tree. Humans like the number three, so this feels like a natural way to divide a story. As you will come to see, the three-act structure is also the basis of a number of other structures that we'll discuss in this series. When using the three-act structure, the first act is where you set the scene, introduce the characters, and put the plot in motion. The story's inciting incident happens here, along with the characters' response that kick-starts the story. In the second act, the characters must navigate obstacles and complications as the climax approaches. You will likely have a midpoint here which changes the story's direction, and perhaps a moment where everything looks like it might all fall apart. The final act rushes into the climax, where the characters must overcome their greatest challenge and achieve their goal, after which it settles down into the denouement. The angle of this rise and fall looks rather lopsided, with the climax situated more than two-thirds of the way through the story, further if you have a quick denouement. Act two is the bulk of the story, where all of the meaty bits are; the first and last acts are usually much shorter. There aren't a lot of details to keep track of, which makes a three-act structure ideal for writers who prefer to go into a draft with minimal planning. It's also a structure that works especially well for shorter narratives, where you don't have much room for structural complexity. ## Five-act structure Five-act structures aren't as widely common these days as three-act structures, but they can frequently be seen in dramas, especially older ones. If you've ever read a play by Shakespeare or one of his contemporaries, for example, you will have seen that they are divided into five literal acts. The five-act structure is closely tied to the concept of Freytag's Pyramid, which was developed by Gustav Freytag in the 19th century to deconstruct classical tragedies. In a five-act structure, the first act is fairly similar to that of a three-act structure; it introduces the characters and their context, and sets off the plot with an inciting incident. Similarly, act two follows the same upwards trend we saw in the three-act structure, building complications and tension. After this, though, the five-act structure becomes quite different. Act three is the climax, but, rather than being the point of final achievement, this climax is an irreversible decision by the protagonist―it roughly equates to a midpoint in a three-act structure. The fourth act then begins the descent, where the tension from act two begins to unravel and the characters must deal with the consequences of the climactic decision. The fifth act, then, is the resolution, where all the threads come together into the inevitable conclusion of the story. The peak in this structure is a little more symmetrical, with the climax sitting closer to the middle of the story. In practice, the descent tends to happen faster than the build-up, but the difference between the pre- and post-climax sides is much less extreme than in the three-act structure. This more balanced split suits modern plays and musicals as well as classic drama, as it puts the climax just before the intermission. It also works well for a heavily character-driven story, thanks to the greater focus on consequences stemming from the character's decisions.

_This is a segment taken from_ Red Pens 101 _, a writing guide that I'll be releasing very soon. This writing guide is a brief and entertaining introduction to the basics of written communication, and I am super excited to share it with you! If you like what you see here, make sure you're subscribed as a Red Pens and Playwriting member to hear all the news and get first dibs and a discount on_ Red Pens 101 _._ ## Sign up for Red Pens and Playwriting Writing for writers about writing Subscribe now! Email sent! Check your inbox to complete your signup. No spam. Unsubscribe anytime. * * * As far as grammar goes, determiners are about as small as you can get; they're the words like "an" or "this" which get tacked on in front of nouns. These important little words are so very easy to overlook, but also tell us a lot of key information about the nouns that they are linked to. Determiners can tell us how many of the noun we're dealing with, or whether it's specific or general. They can also communicate particularities like association and ownership. Using the wrong determiner can vastly change the meaning of your sentence, so it's important to get them right! There are four main categories of determiners with their own distinct jobs: those defining a noun's level of specificity, those which frame that specificity in relation to the speaker/writer, those showing possession or association, and those which communicate the quantity of the noun. Let's explore them all in turn. ## Articles There are exactly three words categorised as articles: "a", "an", and "the". We use them to indicate whether the noun they're connected to is something specific (definite) or non-specific (indefinite). If we're referring to a particular noun that has been previously established or is uniquely named (like a ship), we would use the **definite article** "the". For less particular nouns that we're referring to in general or introducing for the first time, we would prefer one of the **indefinite articles** , "a" or "an". For example, if I say I'm looking for _the_ blue yarn, you can bet that I know exactly which yarn I want, whereas if I'm seeking _a_ blue yarn you know that I'm keeping my options open. It's important to make sure that you're using the correct type of article, because whether something is definite or indefinite has a massive effect on the meaning of the phrase. For example, using a definite article instead of an indefinite one in the sentence "I patted _the_ cute dog on my walk this afternoon" implies that there is a particular cute dog that the person you're speaking to already knows about, and that this is the specific dog you encountered; if you've never mentioned this dog before your audience will feel like they're missing something important. On the other hand, if you use an indefinite article instead of a definite one, the implication is that your specific noun is just one of many, which might be confusing if you were to say you visited "_a_ Taj Mahal" on your holiday. When using indefinite articles, you decide between "a" and "an" based on whether the next word begins with a vowel sound or a consonant sound. Importantly, this does not necessarily correspond with the letters themselves! Therefore, we say "_an_ umbrella" but "_a_ university", because we aren't looking at the "u" beginning the words, but rather the "uh" and "yoo" sounds that the letter represents. This also extends to abbreviations, so it's "_an_ MO" but "_a_ modus operandi". English spelling is messy, folks! The letter "h" is especially tricky, because different accents pronounce it to different levels, particularly when it's at the start of a word. So a Cockney might say "_an_ ‘appy occasion", where a Minnesotan would call it _a_ happy one. ## Demonstratives Demonstrative determiners have a similar purpose to articles in that they communicate specificity, but they come from a slightly different angle. They indicate that a) the noun is not unique, but b) it is specific, and c) I'm pointing it out right now. Unlike articles, a demonstrative determiner _must_ refer to a noun that has been introduced recently (or that can be easily assumed, e.g. "_this_ writing guide has been fun to write"). There are four demonstrative determiners, which could also be used as pronouns if you drop the noun they're linked to: "this" and "these" refer to things that you want to indicate a closeness to, and "that" and "those" imply more distance. The concept of distance in this situation is pretty nebulous, and highly dependent on context; as far as the grammar is concerned, "this bird" and "that bird" could well be the same bird. The biggest thing to pay attention to with demonstrative determiners is that they can become vague very quickly, especially in the middle of a discussion where multiple nouns are involved and the determiner could conceivably refer to any of them. For example: > My book will cover subjects ranging from parts of speech to proper use of punctuation. I just need to put a bit more work into **that** chapter before I'm done. What is "that chapter" about? Multiple subjects have been mentioned, and it's not clear whether "that" refers back to "parts of speech" or "proper use of punctuation", or to something else entirely. > Charlie has a lot of red marbles. He keeps them in a bag with other marbles in all sorts of colours, as well as neat rocks and shells from the beach. **These** treasures are his favourites, though. Here, the ambiguity is about what is or isn't included in "these". Are we just talking about the marbles, or all of the items in the bag? Or perhaps we mean everything _except_ the marbles? Another contributor to vagueness is when the demonstrative determiner refers back to a noun that is too far away. If you introduce an idea in an essay and then spend a whole paragraph breaking down its effects, your reader might have forgotten what exactly you mean if you open the next paragraph with "This concept is instrumental to understanding...". In situations like these, it's much more useful to name the concept again, or to add more specificity about the concept to make it clearer what you're referencing. ## Possessives A possessive determiner is, as the name suggests, how we indicate the ownership of a noun. They are generally variants of the personal pronouns or nouns of the owner that have been adjusted to take on a possessive form: > Wait, you dropped **your** book! (The book is owned by "you") > > Peter misses **his** favourite hat. (The hat is owned by Peter) > > "Never Gonna Give You Up" is **Rick Astley's** biggest hit. (The hit is owned by Rick Astley) The key element that makes them determiners is that these nouns and pronouns are being attached to other nouns, not functioning as their own separate nouns. When I say "your book", I'm not talking about you at all, just the book. We also use possessive determiners to demonstrate a sense of association, not just strict ownership. Grammatically this works in exactly the same way, but the meaning is a bit different. If I talk about _my_ grandma, for example, I'm not saying that I own her, but rather that I have a relationship to her. Similarly, I can bemoan my bus missing _its_ stop because the stop is used by the bus, not because the bus possesses it. ## Quantifiers The final category of determiners that we will look at is the quantifier, which tell us how many or how much of the noun we're dealing with. Explicit numbers are not usually included in this category, but indicative words like "many", "no", and "some" are. Often, quantifiers can take the form of multiple words, as in "not much" or "lots of". They might also enable determiners to stack, such as "[a] [majority of] [my/those/the] oranges". The important thing to keep in mind with quantifiers is whether you're indicating "how many of the noun" there are or "how much of the noun" there is; some quantifiers only apply to _countable_ nouns, others only apply to _non-countable_ nouns, and some apply to both types. A classic example of this is "less" versus "fewer": you can have less (but not fewer) water, and fewer (but not less) rubber duckies. Here are some further examples: > Todd has tried **a few** barbers with **no** luck. > > Penny notices **a bit of** mould in **several** boxes of leftovers. > > I have **plenty of** time and **plenty of** chocolate bars to get me through this essay. Words that refer to individuals within a group, such as "each" or "every", can be considered quantifiers as well, but are sometimes differentiated as their own category (distributive determiners). For our purposes, I think they fit nicely into the category of quantifiers.