Negative Space in Prose

One of the most powerful tools that graphic designers and visual artists use is the deployment of negative space. Sometimes called “white space”, it’s the use of empty space in the layout of, say, a magazine page or a painting–an area with no graphic elements at all. Negative space is incredibly good at building emphasis. It sets off the the positive elements of the image space, making them look more important, giving them a look of concentration and focus.

You can, of course, use this version of negative space in a book or story–in fact, you probably do so without thinking about it. When you indent a new paragraph or put a line break between sections you’re using white space as a kind of visual grammar. These elements are the equivalent of fades and cuts in film, breaking time and plot into meaningful shapes.

You can go farther with it and use it in a foregrounded, insistent kind of way by setting text off in different-sized boxes, or artificially limiting the number of words on a page. This can come off as pretentious or even wasteful–a lot of readers will look at a half blank page and think they’re being cheated–but it can be used to wonderful effect. House of Leaves, for instance, uses it to create a sense of claustrophobia and disorientation. It’s very rare to see this done, though, and even rarer to see it done right.

But there are subtler ways of using negative space in prose, and they are amazingly useful to the writer, even writers who have no control over the layout and design of their published pages. Negative space doesn’t have to be white space, in these instances. There are ways to create psychological negative space. To use a different metaphor, I like to think of this technique as adjusting a volume knob on my prose. By making things quiet, you can force my reader to pay closer attention. By making them loud you can switch the reader’s default reading mode on, lulling them into a sense of comfortable complacency. Readying them for the next big, devastating moment of action or emotional pathos.

So how do we accomplish this? First we need to recognize what the positive space in prose is. We want to find the element of a story that is most foregrounded, most direct in its approach to the reader. Often–though not always–that will be dialogue. Two characters in conversation is a pretty standard foreground for readers who have been raised on movies.

You can create negative space, then, by switching off the dialogue. Think of it as “silent space”, perhaps. In the middle of a dialogue-heavy piece, a long(ish) section of pure description or action with no words spoken is sure to grab the reader’s attention, though they may not even realize it’s happening. The mere sense that something is different is enough to pique the reader’s curiosity. When the dialogue begins again in the next section, the reader’s attention will be activated and the words will gain added import.  One must be careful, of course, not to use this technique too much in a given piece–or you run the risk of having your silent moments become positive space, and your dialogue slipping into the background.

Which–of course–is a perfectly valid tactic. Dialogue may not be your positive space. Naturalistic and realistic writing often employs limited dialogue–think of The Road (or any Cormac McCarthy book), or Neuromancer, where whole pages often go by with only a single line of dialogue. In this case the spoken word is absolutely being used as negative space, to set off the stream of consciousness in the silent space, which becomes the default mode of the piece.

There are plenty of other ways to use negative space in prose, and all of them share this technique of modulation. Sudden shifts in tone will create a discontinuation–make a sudden, precipitous shift from the mildly humorous to the shockingly, graphically violent and believe me, your readers will pay attention. The sudden insertion of, say, a transcript of a video or intruding on the narrative by quoting an entire letter or poem or song–setting off sections with epigrams, even just using humorous chapter titles in a serious novel. It’s all about breaking up the visual field, and it reminds us that yes, writing is a visual medium too, regardless of how it’s usually defined.

For an extreme example of how this works, we can look at Dracula. The classic epistolary novel is an interesting experiment in the interplay of positive and negative space that goes beyond normal modulation. Dracula is a document made of documents, a patchwork quilt of letters, transcripts of phonograph recordings, newspaper accounts, and private journals. Instead of using positive and negative space in interpolating sections, it presents a narrative that is constantly mutating, constantly trying out new tricks. It flies far beyond simple ideas of positive and negative, creating a kind of jumbled space, a chaotic terrain that keeps the reader from ever feeling like they’re standing on stable ground. Dracula can be kind of a mess, honestly, when read today–one wonders how late Victorian readers felt about it, readers who were accustomed to perusing different kinds of non-standardized paper documents all the time. Now it feels like a dozen different narratives tangled up in the same box. Yet we cannot deny its powerful effect, all the same. The book has survived this long for many reasons, not the least of them its wonderful, untenable kaleidoscopic use of tortured space.

Playing with space is one of the crucial elements of creating art in any medium. Take a look at how you can use different values of space in your writing and a whole new dimension of writing can open up for you.

Short Story or Novel? The First Tricky Decision

Ideas come in many shapes and sizes. Some need the room afforded by a full novel to be explored. Others work better in shorter forms. It’s common enough wisdom that short stories can be harder to write than novels, but it’s worth exploring why.

A novel is a world that your readers will live in for many hours. They expect that world to be fully decorated and furnished when they move in. Novels require extensive world-building and character development and all the good things. There’s room to move around inside a novel, plenty of time for things to grow organically.

Short stories, on the other hand, are high speed train rides from point A to point B. A story needs to race along, with no time for extraneous features like exposition or character growth.

It’s almost like they’re two different art forms.

When you’re writing a short, every sentence counts and you can’t afford to waste them. As a result, writing a short is an exercise in austerity. Does your story really need to be set in a secondary world or a different time period? It’s so much quicker to put it in a contemporary, primary world setting–unless the point of the story is the difference between this world and another. How many characters does your story need? Can you cut it down to two–or even one? How many scenes do you really need? How many lines of dialogue? Everything in the story needs to do work towards making your point, selling one single emotion or defining a single character. Everything else must go.

You may end up spending as much time making these tough decisions as you do on primary composition.

Writing a novel requires its own processes and decisions, though. Is your story rich enough to carry you through a lengthy and satisfying character arc? Do you have enough ideas to flesh out a plot skeleton to 70-100,000 words? How much world detail can you pack in to each scene, how can you make the setting a dynamic character in itself? Conversely, if your novel is working, if it sings, you’ll find that you actually need all that space–every little moment you create needs the extra oxygen, the extra elbow-room, to blossom and become something wonderful.

I often find when I start a new novel that on page one I can’t imagine how I’m going to get to 300 pages. I always feel, on the last page, that I wish I had 300 more.

Deciding whether your idea should be the basis for a short story or a novel is the first tough decision you’ll make with each project. It’s possible to make the wrong decision–you may find that your idea is drowning in all that extra space, and that if it was cut down into a story it could be so much more powerful. You may realize that your short story feels naked and skeletonized and like it never got a chance to really grow. So make sure you make the right choice the first time! Or learn the wisdom to know the difference between these two very different forms.

Now, as for novellas…

Yeesh. Traditionally novellas got little love because they were hard to sell. Even today, editors typically want full novels or they want a short piece for an anthology. The advent of eBooks, however–which can be any length the author chooses–has opened up new opportunities for what was once considered a bastard form.

There’s really not even an “official” word count for the poor novella. I’ve heard 50,000 words as a good length, but I’ve seen novellas that were 90,000 words long, and some that were 35 (don’t even ask me about “novelettes” or “long stories”).

The novella might be defined as a novel with less emphasis on worldbuilding and character development–with some of the laser focus of a short story. Alternatively it could give the full novel treatment to a more limited range of characters, or to a compressed span of time (a novella might, say, all take place in a single day, or over the duration of a long ocean voyage).

But the true beauty of the novella is that there are no rules. You can make it as long or as short as you need it to be. You can fill it with an extensive cast of characters, each of whom only get a scant few scenes to shine. You could create a whole, rich world and pair it with a simplified, athletically skinny plot. You do you.

Just… do yourself a favor. Know which form you’re using before you start writing. You can save yourself from a lot of painful editing later, and your story will be the better for it.

Good Advice: Character Motivations

When was the last time you had to make a big decision in your life? Was it easy? Was there one specific reason why you made the decision you did, or were you conflicted, with several factors pulling you in different directions? Typically real human beings are under the constant sway of multiple urges, desires, obligations, and whims that can change on a minute-by-minute basis.

(Quick life tip that I heard somewhere, which works really well: if you need to choose between two options, but you aren’t sure, flip a coin. Don’t actually follow the coin’s advice, but see how the coin’s choice made you feel. This can help you find the choice you wanted to make all along.)

Characters in stories are just as conflicted–or they should be. Your hero may want to defuse the bomb, but he also needs to call his mom and make sure she’s taking her medication. She may really want to go back to school and earn a better degree, but has to think about how she’s going to feed her kids at the same time. Good characters have multiple connections to the world around them, which means that, like real humans, they are caught in a web of duties and desires that they have trouble navigating, much less breaking free from. That’s good; it makes your characters feel grounded and relatable.

It’s also bad because like most real humans, they’re going to be caught in a morass of indecision and doubt. But stories need to move fast–no matter what pace you’ve set for your story, you only have so many words, so many pages. It’s going to be necessary to prune away all those decision-swaying motivations so your character can focus on the job at hand. Not that they can’t still feel all those other wants and hopes–they’re all still there, but you, the writer, are going to focus on what’s important to your story, not necessarily what’s important to your character. All those other fears and aspirations can wait for another story, or they can happen off page.

But which of their many motivations do you cut, and which do you highlight?

If you’re struggling with this, make a list of everything your character wants, needs, desires or feels responsible for. You can drawn this like a spiderweb graph of arrows pointing in various directions if you’re feeling ambitious. Otherwise just make a list. Don’t number the motivations and don’t worry what order they’re in. For the moment we’re assuming they’re all equal.

Now–pick two of those motivations. Pick the two that interest you the most, or the two that are going to make for the best story. Pick two: not one, not three. Two.

One of those motivations should be resolving the plot of your story. Defeating the villain, or finding the money to save the youth activity center, or learning to love again. You already know you need this motivation, or the story just isn’t going to happen.

Pick a second motivation. Hopefully it’s something that’s in direct conflict with your first choice. Maybe fighting the villain is going to be a problem because your character also needs to work a full shift at the Burger Palace, flipping patties. If they’re late for their shift they’re going to lose their job.

You can probably see already how this creates a dynamic character who has conflicting needs. It’s also a great way to brainstorm scenes–how do they get Carla to take over their shift, when she’s already got plans with her girlfriend? How do they convince the villain to come into the Burger Palace, so the climactic fight can happen as part of the hero’s job duties? The story almost writes itself.

Without that second motivation, your story is driven entirely by the plot, not by the character. So you need two. You could add a third motivation, but then your character feels like they’re incapable of making a decision or like they don’t take the primary threat seriously enough. Pick two. Put your character on the horns of a dilemma, and then force them to find a way to reconcile those two desires.

Some things to consider while you’re choosing:

  • Write out the motivations as declarative, first person statements. I want to open a doggy day care. Pretend your character is describing their desires and needs directly to you, the writer. They’ll feel more urgent and meaningful that way.
  • Try to pick positive, affirmative motivations: desires that point your character in a direction that keeps them moving. Negative, dissuading motivations, like: I’m worried my dad will be disappointed, I’m not sure if I’m strong enough, I was never loved as a child make your character feel passive and uninspired. Affirmative motivations are better: I want to impress my dad, I want to prove I’m strong enough, I will make sure my child feels loved.
  • The two motivations should be as different from each other as possible: I want to get the pirate’s gold so I can save the orphanage and I want the gold because I could buy a new Corvette are too close together to feel like they’re in true conflict. I want to get the pirate’s gold so I can save the orphanage and I promised my therapist I would stop going on wacky adventures are more likely to create interesting dilemmas for your characters.
  • Motivations are different from hazards and pitfalls. I don’t want to go to jail isn’t a good motivation (in character development terms), even if it’s a problem your character will face while avenging their dead great-aunt. Find a way to express the problem as an actual desire: I’m in love with the super-hot sheriff is a positive, affirmative motivation–it spurs character action and choices, and it also creates conflict since the sheriff’s attention will potentially stymie the revenge plot.
  • Be as specific as possible with your motivations. I want more money is okay, but it’s pretty common and doesn’t really pull the character in a meaningful direction. I want to rob a bank is a lot better–it sets things into motion.
  • Never forget that motivations can change! As the story develops, your character’s desire to impress the local Rhododendron Grower’s Club may fade, as they realize their real life’s work is stopping the drug dealers who kidnapped their corgi. But don’t drop a motivation too early in your story. Your character will feel much more focused, but you lose a lot in terms of plot development. Abandoning a motivation should only happen near the end of your Second Act–typically this is the point of no return in a story. Similarly, motivations shouldn’t be met or overcome too soon. If your character is broke on page one, and they discover a lost Picasso on page seventeen, all the work you did to establish their money woes just disappears and is no longer interesting. Unless it turns out having all that new money creates all new problems for them to face… basically motivations should stick with a character throughout a story. If they do reassess their feelings, it should come as late in the plot as possible.

Backstory and Front-Loading

Your characters didn’t appear out of the ether, newly created on page one of your book. At least, they shouldn’t feel like they did. They had lives before the story starts, families, jobs, religious affiliations, pets. If you’re going to make them feel real to the reader, you need to know their backstories. You need to at least think about where they came from.

But how much of their backstory should your reader see?

Backstory can be useful when creating characters to sketch out their entire lineage and life story. It can help you get a handle on who they are, so that when you’re writing their dialogue and plotting their actions, you’ll know what they will–and won’t–do. This is useful.

But when it comes time to actually write the story, consider not including that backstory in your text. Think about leaving it all in your notebook. Ask yourself very seriously how much of that backstory matters to the current story. Do we really care whether the Space Pirate Captain’s grandmother was fond of a certain brand of tea?

Everything you write in your story should be meaningful to that story. It should serve a purpose. Whether you’re writing a 5,000 word short or a 200,000 word epic, you just don’t have room for extraneous information.

Gary Gygax, the co-creator of Dungeons and Dragons, used to talk about character stories. His players would come to him with fully fleshed-out characters who had deep, rich experiences before they arrived at the table. “Character story,” he said, “is what happens between level one and level five.”

(If you don’t understand what that means, you may be reading the wrong writing blog, by the way.)

In other words, the best way to get character details across is to show them. To dramatize them during the story.

There are a couple of reasons for this. One is that backstory–whether it’s told as flashback or narration or a letter found in an old dictionary–slows narrative down to a crawl. It distracts your reader from the rip-roaring plot of the adventure they came to read. It brings up the question of why, if this old news is so important, did you choose to start your book later on in time? Why not write the prequel first?

The other reason to avoid extensive backstory is front-loading. Front-loading is the problem that occurs when a writer needs to put a lot of detailed information into Act I, information the reader will need to comprehend and digest before they can understand the rest of the story. Front-loading is bad. It feels like homework. It doesn’t just slow down your plot–it turns it into a slog. A death march.

If your plot hinges entirely on what a character’s father said to them when they were a child, if your worldbuilding requires you to include three chapters on how the kingdom came to be ruled by somebody’s housecat… that’s front-loading, and it can ruin a great book.

Front-loading isn’t just a character problem, as we saw in that last example, but when it comes attached to characterization–when it’s all about backstory–it’s doubly deadly. There are readers who enjoy a good history lesson at the start of a book. But when you front-load the backstory of your main (or even worse, your secondary) character(s), you sabotage your story right from the start.

The first act of your story is about establishing things as they are now. Not how they got their way. The first act is where you tell us who the important characters are–if you have a lengthy scene with your character’s math teacher, then your story becomes, de facto, about that math teacher. The first act is about establishing stakes, but front-loading backstory makes it feel like your story is just the epilogue to some other tale.

Take a very close look at the backstory of the character you’re writing right now. How did that backstory effect them? How did it change them? Rather than describing those past events in detail, could you instead get away with, say, just showing us who they are today? Could the collection of tics and mannerisms that make up a character speak for themselves? Can we get that your character is an alcoholic not by describing their drinking days, but by showing how terrified they are of going to a wedding party where everybody will be drinking?

If your backstory is slowing you down, cut it. You may have to find ways to get information across–creative ways, innovative ways. But solving problems like that is ninety per cent of what it means to be a writer.

When You’re Stuck: Things to Try

There are days when you just can’t write. You can have the world’s best idea, be sitting in the world’s best writing chair… and nothing comes. When it feels like every sentence you put down just takes you farther from what you wanted to say.

And you know what? Sometimes there is no solution, except to stop, walk away, and find something more constructive to do with your time. Absolutely.

But before you get to that point, there are things you can try to bring the magic back. I can’t guarantee they’ll work, but it’s better than losing an entire writing day, right?

Change Your Viewpoint: I wrote a story recently where I just couldn’t find the right voice. I had great characters in mind, but I couldn’t make them jump through the necessary hoops. They were too smart to do the dumb thing, or too weak to effect the needed change. I tried writing that story four different ways, and in the end, the answer was to write the story from the perspective of the villain. Suddenly the evil machinations all felt natural. The dialogue, which had been forced, was suddenly crackling with malice. It turned a mournful, quiet story into a fun romp–exactly what that story needed.

Write Backwards: There are some writers, I’m told, who write the middle of a story first, or the next-to-last scene, or whatever. I’ve never been one of them, myself. I need to write chronologically, both for the sake of continuity and flow. But every so often I’ll find that the answer really is to write the climax of the story first–and then write the penultimate scene, and then the antepenultimate scene, until I get to the beginning. It’s like when you’re stuck solving a maze–often just flipping the maze over and starting from the end is the best solution.

The Extended Outline: The worst way to write, typically, is to just list a series of events, as in; this happened, and then that happened, and then another thing… except when that’s exactly what you need to do. If you know the structure and plot of your story, try writing each chapter as a single sentence (as convoluted and nonsensical as it needs to be), as if you were writing a dry and clinical synopsis of the story. Then go back and fix those terrible sentences! You may find they turn into scenes because you can’t bear to leave them as knotted up and mechanical as they look on the page.

Change Act I: If the ending of a story isn’t working, if it seems hackneyed or lifeless, often times you just haven’t earned it. Your characters haven’t gone through enough trials, or the solution to their problem is just too easy or too obvious. Go back and look at how you started the story. Did you not give your protagonist enough obstacles to overcome? Did you forget to mention that your heroine is a wizard? Find some simple detail early in the story and change it. How does that affect your ending? It could unlock whole new possibilities. Of course, the opposite can be true as well–that is:

Simplify! A story that is too complicated is one of the main causes of stuck writer syndrome. The problem may be that you’re trying to do too much. Do you really need that subplot where the characters open a bakery, only to realize they actually needed to find the Jade Parrot statue before it was too late? Are you trying to create rich, multi-dimensional characters in a pulpy potboiler? Cutting out extraneous material and diversions will free you up to really explore the things that excite you about the story.

And of course the best advice you can get when you’re stuck is this: Don’t give up! Keep plugging away. Write ten bad sentences in a row and maybe the eleventh will be the one that sings. You can always go back and edit later. Remembering that is often the golden key that unlocks your creativity. Don’t be afraid to fail!

The Dreaded Infodump

Exposition is a crucial part of any story. It’s how you create your world and how you share it with your reader. Yet it’s also a great way to bring your narrative flow to a crashing halt and bore anyone who was kind enough to pick up your book. Writers often decry the “infodump”, the long, uninterrupted section of pure exposition which sits in the middle of your tale like an undigested lump of carbs. Yet it sometimes seems like a necessary evil. If you’re writing about a secondary world, especially, you need to convey a lot of setting and character information in a hurry, information your reader cannot be expected to know on their own.

There are a couple solutions to this problem, none of which are entirely satisfactory. One is to simply not do it–to shift the burden to your reader. William Gibson is famous for never explaining any of the crazy concepts he dumps on his readers. I remember reading Neuromancer for the first time and having to constantly check dictionaries and encylopedias to figure out what he was talking about–and nine times out of ten, even that wasn’t enough. Gibson expects you to pick things up from context clues. There’s a good reason why he does this, and it’s not just to frustrate his readers. He writes his stories from the perspective of his characters–characters who already know what an Ono-Sendai Deck is for, and what carbon fiber is and why you would build an airplane out of it. He shoves you into their headspace and this builds an incredible sense of immediacy and presence. He makes you live in his world. He’s a master of this, and lesser authors trying the same trick usually fail. Their work becomes impenetrable and mystifying, and not in a good way.

A more common technique is to use “infodrips” instead. Rather than just blurting out setting data in long multi-paragraph dialogue sections, you can deliver your exposition just a little at a time. A sentence here, a few words there, spread out across action scenes and great character moments. This technique helps keep your readers from feeling like they’re cramming for a pop quiz, and it can be effective–assuming it’s done with proper timing. Infodrips are fine in the first act of a story, and can be used sparingly in the second act. If you’re still delivering vital world-building information in the third act, your readers will (rightly) feel like you’ve been holding out on them. Oh, it turns out that the Sword of the Deathmuncher can only be destroyed by stabbing it into the heart of the Night Glacier? A fact which we don’t find out until the Swordruiner is actually on top of said glacier? Your readers will feel cheated. Additionally, infodripping can make your readers feel like you’re holding their hand as you cross the street. Like you don’t trust them to “get” your story unless you’re constantly explaining every little detail.

The best solution, in my experience, has been to avoid exposition wherever possible. Not by leaving everything obscure, but by grounding my stories to the maximum possible degree. Secondary worlds are wonderful places to get lost in, but by tying them closely to the real world, they become richer and they resonate better with the reader. The fewer things you need to explain, the more your readers will sink into the actual story. Cut back as much exposition as you can. If your character is carrying a Kandisian force-glaive, could you achieve the same effect by saying they’re holding a plain old halberd? Does your story need a High Hierophant of the Seven Tyronian Mysteries, or can you get away with calling them the Space Pope? Maybe you can’t! Maybe there’s a real difference, one super important to your plot. More often than not, however, you can easily use a simpler term or a more relatable concept to the same effect.

Look at your story, at what you’re trying to say with it, at what effect you want to achieve. Think about how to achieve that sense of mystery or emotional truth with more grounded ideas. If you do absolutely need to put something in your story that has to be explained in depth, that’s fine. But do you really need two such things? Three? High concept notions are fun, and can make your story stand out. Putting too many of them in one story, however, leaves you scrambling to explain how they work and how they interact–robbing you of time you could be spending on character arcs and building suspense. Infodumps are evil, kids! And the trick to fighting necessary evils is to isolate them and break them down into smaller problems, whenever possible.

Three Act Structure

There are, of course, an infinite number of ways to write a book. In these articles I’ve been outlining how I do it, because that’s what I know to write about, but there are no binding rules, no arbitrary guidelines. That said, there are some structural… suggestions that can benefit almost any writer. Stories can have more impact when they follow a basic architecture. Even here there are variations. I know people who stick to the twelve stages of the Hero’s Journey. I know writers who like five act structures, because that was good enough for Shakespeare, dammit. Personally I work with the three act structure, which is the simplest and, I think, the most effective.

You can think of three act structure as the beginning, middle, and end of your story. Or the setup, the buildup, and the punchline. I like to think of it this way;

ACT I: Oh, look, I’m in a forest.

ACT II: Oh, no! I’m getting lost in this forest!

ACT III: Oh, look, there’s a way out of this forest.

Perhaps I should elaborate.

Act I of any story is the shortest. Sadly, it also has to do the most work. This is going to make up about 25% of your total word count, but it needs to do the following things: establish all the main characters of your story, as well as the setting, pace, and tone. Establish the problem of the story, as well as the stakes (what happens if the problem is, or isn’t resolved). By the end of act one your protagonist must be stuck on a path that leads to a final conflict. That can mean that the evil mustachio-twirling villain has kidnapped their boyfriend. It can also mean your hero has realized they have a drinking problem, and they’re headed for rock bottom.

Act II is the longest act, the most fun, and absolutely, without question, the most dangerous. Act two is where you develop all your clever ideas, where your protagonist tries out various solutions to the problem (none of which, of course, work). It’s where you have room and time to explore the setting and build character arcs and do all the fun parts of writing… and if you make a misstep, your story will go right off the rails. Act two is a time of steadily increasing tension, modulated with (occasional) moments of relief. All that exploring you’re doing? Imagine a maze with one exit, and all the various paths through the maze MUST lead to that exit, even if they wind a little bit. It’s way too easy for something to go wrong in act two which then sabotages the most important act…

Act III is longer than act one, but shorter than act two. It’s the most laser-focused of your story’s sections and often the easiest one to write–although, perversely enough, it can also be the thing that kills you. When act three begins the die is cast. Your protagonist knows (or thinks they know) how to solve the problem. They have good, compelling reasons why they MUST solve the problem. The stakes have never been higher. The protagonist works at nothing else past this point–they will sacrifice anything to resolve the story. The antagonist (whether you have a bald, cat-stroking villain or a natural disaster like a mudslide) is moving steadily toward an easy win and they have every reason to be confident. Then the magic happens. Somehow (you’d better know how) the protagonist gets the better of the antagonist in a surprise twist and the world is set to rights. Yay! Then you can have a denouement that’s as long or as short as you like (I prefer super-short), and you’re done.

Of course none of this happens by magic. You need to outline your story (if only in your head) before you start writing. You can save yourself a lot of trouble that way. There’s an old bit of writing advice I’ve found to be almost universally true: if there’s a problem in Act III, it’s a problem with Act I. Go back and look and you’ll see you didn’t set something up properly.

I’ll add two corollaries to this chestnut. First: If there’s a problem in Act I, it’s a problem with Act III. If you have trouble making your protagonist believable (could a four year-old really build a rocket to escape the Mars-beasts?) it’s because they’re the wrong person to face down the big antagonist at the end of the tale. If the setting feels off or boring, it’s because it’s too small to hold the ending.

And finally: if there’s a problem in Act II, it’s because you’re writing the wrong story. Act II is for exploration. Often times, you can explore so far you find yourself in a completely different story–maybe the story you really wanted to write in the first place. If this happens, don’t despair! Either go off and write that story instead… or put it aside, somewhere safe, and go back and find where your act II maze got side-tracked, and fix it!