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Chapter Two

Stories That Don’t Suck

Story 101

It’s time to discuss storytelling. Not scripts. Not yet. That’s the next chapter. Don’t you dare jump ahead. We need to talk about story.

That’s right—the basics. Call it Story 101, a brief lesson so you don’t get confused. Consider this a warm-up, a way to get to know your inner writer self. When you do sit down to write a script, you want to have some idea of direction, where to look inside yourself for that wonderful story you’re going to tell (even if it is about a Halloween clown hell bent on prank calling radio stations while torturing some poor victim. Oh yeah, we did that one). Okay, enough of that. Let’s get down to science!

Writer Lisa Cron says something remarkable about our DNA. She says our brains are wired for story, that our blabbing to each other about our lives is an inherent human condition. She writes in Wired for Story: “Our brain developed a way to consciously navigate information so that, provided we have the time, we can decide on our own what to do next. Story.” She says storytelling is something our brains do naturally and implicitly. She quotes neuroscientist Antonio Damacio who tells us, “It should be no surprise that it [storytelling] pervades the entire fabric of human societies and cultures.”

Yeah? So what? What’s he talking about? It means that when the boss isn’t in the office we all sit around someone’s cubicle sharing tales. It’s our default mode.

It means you’re a storyteller.

We’re all storytellers.

It’s what we do.

Story brain science is in our DNA.

“We think in story,” writes Cron. “It’s hardwired into our brain. It’s how we make strategic sense of the otherwise overwhelming world around us.”

And that’s good. Especially if you think, “Oh man, I have to go to school to learn how to tell a story.”

Nahhhh.

Think about it. Your BF calls. She’s all about the drama in her life. She tells you a few stories. Guys do this, too. Hell, everyone gets a little dramatic now and then. We share politics, history, who got murdered, and how, or why that local politician is taking bribes, who hates you, and who likely wants you dead (because they unfriended you on social media. Not us, we swear!). And don’t forget all that reminiscing about the time you ran away from a herd of wild poisonous pigs and survived.

We tell stories. It’s what we do.

In a way, we’ve already defined what story means—something that’s told or revealed. We can also say a story is an account of something that’s happened, or is happening before our eyes. Newscasters like to tell stories in real time if they can find a juicy car chase or dramatic shooting filmed from helicopters high above the scene. Radio announcers do the same thing. Ever hear the way they dramatically call a game in real time?

Stories can be about the past, present, or future. Every TV show, film, novel, memoir, short story, poem, history book, diary, text message is a form of story. Those forms can be experimental, like a novel written with hidden notes, or a film like Boyhood shot over twelve years. Did you see that one? Boyhood was a part of writer-director Richard Linklater’s DNA. He conceived of the 2014 film way back in the nineties. It was eating at him. “It happened in stages,” he told Time in 2014. “I felt like I wanted to tell a story about childhood. I had been a parent for a while . . .” So, it just came out of him as he was doing what people do, raising kids, being a dad. Awesome!

There was a real risk for him to tell the story he was somehow wired to tell. That’s because the film was such a huge experiment. No one had written a story like that before. Piecemeal over more than a decade and shot little by little as the actors aged. Was the story told that way because of his storyteller DNA? Starting to see how knowing you’re wired for story can help you as a filmmaker? Those urges in you grab you. They want you to be creative, and they want you to tell stories that come from a natural place in your core. This is incredible to know! Even if your story is about an alien octopus that time travels!

But what makes a story worth telling? You share an account of Cousin Larry who works in a county office of boring cubicle dwellers. As it unravels, you desperately want your audience to be riveted to the story. You tell it as if you were there. You explain all the harrowing details. You’re that dramatic. The last thing you want is to be boring, but everyone walks away, because, well, in hindsight, you only told a story about a boring office worker checking his email while the boss isn’t around. Good luck keeping anyone awake with that riveting tale of corporate nothingness. Couldn’t Larry have at least gotten fired by email?

You have to have plot. You have to have style. Take Tarantino for example. When GQ interviewed him about how his film idea for The Hateful Eight creatively emerged, he was already building on a past project, Django Unchained. He told the magazine in a December 2015 article:

I liked the idea of creating a new pop-culture, folkloric hero character that I created with Django, that I think’s gonna last for a long time. And I think as the generations go on and everything, you know, my hope is it can be a rite of passage for black fathers and their sons. Like, when are they old enough to watch Django Unchained? And when they get old enough—14 or 15 or something like that—then maybe it’s something that they do with their fathers, and it’s a cool thing. And then Django becomes their cowboy hero. And so I like the idea of maybe like a series of paperbacks coming out, Further Adventures of Django, and so I was really kind of into that idea. And then I started writing it as a book, as prose. And that’s what ended up turning into The Hateful Eight.

Wow! Multiple layers of stories! Tarantino had some real motivation behind The Hateful Eight! It was a novel that was a sequel to a film where he wanted to create pop-culture heroes for kids to share with their dads! He was wired for story and found an awesome connection! A real meaningful one! Take that Cousin Larry!

In comparison, the story about Cousin Larry just isn’t riveting. It doesn’t even come from a good place. Those kinds of story wires are crossed. They leave everyone unfulfilled. They don’t come from the core of you. They’re just lip service without meaning. Re-read what Tarantino said to GQ. Why was he writing? He had something to say! And he wanted to really affect people for a long time.

Here’s another example of boringus americanus:

You think you’re a wiz because you thought up this great story about an American family. A dad who works at a bank. A wife who stays at home. And two children. So you start writing, imagining the tale unfold. The story opens with the father being late for work. The mother argues with her kids who need to head off to school. The mother feels stressed. So does the father. End of opening scene.

What’s wrong with that? Everyone arguing and late for work and school? “Wasn’t that tension-filled?” you ask.

Um, no. BORING. SNOOZEFEST. FLATLINE. LAMESAUCE. Wake us up in the afterlife. You just captured every single boring account of American life all wrapped into one.

Why isn’t that story riveting?

It’s far too common. Meaning, there’s nothing unique about it. We all know it and live it. On top of that, nothing happens.

Going to work or to school isn’t a story. It’s as bad as telling the story of the teenage boy watching videos on YouTube. People stare. So what? BORING.

When you’re wired for story, you have to find some kind of meaning, one that’s unique, one that connects with people and makes them want to know what happens next. We all know what happens in the boring story about American life. Kids go to school. Parents go to work. Snooze.

So once again, everyone walks away while you’re telling your snore-worthy account of the most boring family on the planet. Doesn’t even matter how dramatic you tell it. Now throw your brain onto hot coals. Watch the grey matter bubble and cook. Trust us. It will be more exciting than your Cousin Larry and stressed family tales.

Okay. Before you pop your lid, let’s see if we can salvage anything here.

How about a Godzilla shows up to the next cubicle while Cousin Larry’s checking his email? Godzilla, who is talking real fast, just landed this telemarketing job and doesn’t want to come off wrong when explaining to people how to login to their new fancy computer tablets. And since Cousin Larry’s just been fired over email, all hell is about to break loose because he’s about to tell Godzilla to shut up. Yup. Yup. Conflict. Tension. And, in that other story about the family, what if while the parents are arguing, the TV news shows a meteor hurtling toward earth? And what if—at the same time—the dad has found out his best friend is part of the scientific conspiracy to hide the idea that the meteor can be destroyed? Yep.

Suddenly the stakes are upped. The audience is interested in the motivation. They want to know why the family is acting normal when they might be about to die. Do they not see the meteor on the TV? Do they know about the impending obliteration of everything and don’t care? Why is the son wearing an “I Love Meteor Day” t-shirt? Now everyone wants to know what happens next! They want to know the motivations of the characters in the cubicle, too. Why does Godzilla need this job? Who is the co-worker? Why is she staring at her monitor? Does she really hate Godzilla as much as Cousin Larry? Maybe he took the job of her former lover. There’s some resentment going on, folks. This is story! You’re wired to tell it!

Now we need some character and scene development. Most of all, your audience needs to know what every character wants. Let’s look at some fictitious situations. Cousin Larry wants his job back. Godzilla wants to be loved by anyone. Only, you’re not going to give these pesky characters what they want. You’re going to torment your characters, and that, friends, will torment your audience. That’s what we call Cheap Movie Trick’s first holy commandment of storytelling: never give a character what he or she wants.

Just don’t do it. As bad as you want characters to win . . . Don’t let them. This kind of conflict and tension will keep your audience riveted. They will want to know the outcome. Godzilla wants that first telemarketing call to go smoothly. Don’t let it. Another co-worker wants to make friends with the scaly monster. Don’t let it go smoothly. You want the family to notice the television when the meteor is hurtling. This is yours for the taking. Build the tension. Make your audience squirm.

Are there exceptions to our holy commandment of storytelling? Maybe. But don’t you think you should follow our advice for a while to see how your story develops without all kinds of happy little rainbows? Forget rainbows! Harry Potter has a scar on his head day one and never gets what he wants. He can’t even make a potion right.

Let’s take this further. Riveting stories, the ones that make you turn pages or keep Netflix streaming, have the uncanny ability to really get into the main character’s head. This is easier in prose. You can write what a character is thinking, how Jennifer wants to toss her guts because she’s terrified of what the judge might say if she’s caught not just holding up a liquor store but sleeping with the judge’s son, who happens to be a cop. Now dive further, go past specific character thoughts into character feelings. You can describe all sorts of emotions. Make them desperate. Painful. Jarring. Stomach churning. Tortuous. Good job.

In film, feelings and thoughts have to be conveyed through solid acting (and voiceover and other devices, too). We want to feel when we write the story because we want our characters to feel. We want to go on an emotional rollercoaster because we all want an exhilarating emotional experience. You don’t always have to add a meteor or a Godzilla. But remember, exhilarating emotional experiences don’t come from stories that regurgitate the most humdrum parts of our lives. They come from when we up the stakes and the emotional pain.

Write a story you’d want to hear, or read, or see. That will make the entire process a little more meaningful for you as you put pen to paper before you even get to the script.

Oh, and one more thing. Remember what we said about location? Don’t forget to write a story that fits your locations. We’ll remind you again when we talk about scripts.

What’s a scene?

A scene is the primary element of your reader’s powerful emotional experience as you present them with your story. The cause and effect of scene structure has three basic parts:

1. Goals. What the heck do your characters want or need to do?

2. Obstacles. This is the tension and conflict that causes your story to keep going because your character fails to reach the goal(s).

3. No Victory. If every chapter ends in victory your reader will fall asleep. Keep the stakes high. Keep the tension off the chart. Make your scenes full. Give them a beginning, middle, and end. If they don’t have goals, obstacles, no victory, or a beginning, middle. and end, then your scene is not fully developed.

Scene dialogue that works

Remember, in dialogue, characters need to banter. They need to argue over wanting something and shouldn’t be granted any sort of victory. We keep the tension high that way. Meet John and Jennifer. Jennifer wants an apple. John wants Jennifer. Neither reaches their goals in this mini scene. Observe how they ask questions yet receive no answer. If an apple can cause tension in a scene, imagine what else you can do as a writer and filmmaker.

Example: Apple scene

John has a red delicious apple. He takes a bite.

Jennifer wants it. She sits on the edge of his desk. “I love apples. Doesn’t matter what kind. Granny Smith, Fuji, reds . . .”

John’s not buying it. His stomach hurts thinking about where she might have been. “Where were you last night when I went to the store?”

“I just love them.” She watches him chew. “Everything about the crispness, the taste.”

“You were supposed to go with me,” he says. “Where were you?”

“Just cut off a little piece for me,” she whines. “Doesn’t have to be big.”

John takes another bite. “You were with Peter, weren’t you? I don’t like that guy. Never did. You know he did something to Jesse Garner. Everyone knows it. Everyone except the cops.”

“Why does it matter where I was?”

John swallows, holds out the apple. “You want this? Tell me where you were, why you stood me up. Then we’ll talk about apples.”

Action moments we’re proud of

Most storytellers will say the story isn’t in the action—that action is an easy way out. “I can’t think up a good ending, so how ‘bout I blow everything up!” Okay, that’s an extreme example, but the fact is, we love action. We integrate as much as we can. Let’s face it—action will probably help you get attention with your short film. What constitutes action? Someone running. Good. Someone fighting. Even better. Find some stunt actors who need to build a demo reel and suddenly you have more options! Let’s face it: great stunts, car chases, shootouts, and zombie attacks are pretty cool. Did we mention we love action? Here are a few action moments in Hectic Films movies:

1. Explosions: They’re dangerous. Use CGI only. Either way, sometimes they look cheesy, kinda like in the movie we worked on called The Lackey. Even we think we showed too many booms. Sometimes an explosion can be as simple as pointing away from the scene and shaking the camera, then adding some noise sound effects.

2. Cutting up zombies! We sliced a few undead in Naked Zombie Girl with a trusty fake chainsaw. During a screening at Screamfest, folks watching the crazy action stood up and started clapping. Action speaks louder than words, right? (More movie magic on zombie splatters later).

3. Gunfights. We emptied our rifles in the mini-Western Mable. We think shootouts are great for just about any kind of film. Audiences perk up when bullets fly.

What makes a well-developed character?

Ah, our second holy commandment of storytelling: Characters feel everything. Well-developed characters don’t require fancy clothes and a lightning bolt scar when you’re coming up with one to base your story around. Give your character desperation and emotion. Develop that. Let the rest of the story tell itself.

Horror story moments in our films

You know the feelings of terror you want your actors to convey in a good horror scene? That’s why scream queens have to be really good. They reveal that moment of sheer terror that we all want to safely feel when watching a horror flick. Here are a few scenes in our work where we strove to capture that feeling of fright.

1. Familiar Spirit uses what we like to call the demon cam. During a ritual in the film, a spirit floats down the street into the house and possesses its victim. Frightening!

2. The Deadlines builds up a murderous character in the film by telling tales of him throughout. When he finally comes on screen, you’re already frightened. Gahhhh!

3. In the middle of a zombie takeover, we stripped Naked Zombie Girl’s main character of everything, even her clothes. We did finally give her a chainsaw. Don’t worry Mom, she wasn’t really naked. Prosthetics literally covered every family jewel.

Writing in various mediums will help you as a Screenwriter

Nicholas Belardes writes in just about every genre imaginable. He swears that learning how to be a poet (not a rhymer—there’s a difference) can truly help you with language. But you have to study poetry, learn the craft. He writes essays, too. He tells lots of personal stories in his book Ranting Out Loud: Life, Pop Culture & How We Sometimes Don’t Get Along. His short stories are highly accessible and online at various journals. Think about it: short film/short stories. Might be helpful for you to read some. Better yet, try your hand. Dig in. It will help your creativity. You can find links to these four stories on nicholasbelardes.com:

•St. Augustine the Starfighter: a monkey tale about child cruelty.

•The Middle of the Passage: two sisters on an island have a car that only drives backwards.

•Gaspar: A tough Hispanic kid learns a life lesson about tolerance and intolerance.

•A Different Kind of Boiling Point: An aged labor leader holds a secret about her youth.