How to Tell a Story 2 (ARTICLE)

The beginning (Act I) will consist of two parts:

The Introduction, and Rising Action.

The Introduction will introduce the characters, the setting, the goal of the story, and the main villain, or antagonist.

Rising Action is the second part of the story, and it will be a set of scenes that get the characters moving in the direction of the story goal.

Often a mentor will be introduced to help the character learn some truth that they will need to accomplish the goal or to give the characters some kind of aid.

Usually there will be some sort of conflict in the early stages of a story as the characters pursue the story. are sentinels that guard some kind of doorway into a deeper level of the story.

In the early stages of a story, the conflict will slowly rise, creating a greater sense of urgency. The stakes should become greater, further motivating the characters. Every storyteller should ask himself, "what's at stake here?" in every scene.

Act I could consist of a single scene, or it could be two or more scenes in length, depending on how much time the storyteller wants to spend on the story, & the desired pace (how quickly the story progresses).

The middle of the story (Act II) is the largest part of the story, taking up about 50% of its time. The function of this part is to develop the characters and the conflict.

Tests or challenges will often confront the characters in this section. Each of these small goals could provide an element that is needed to defeat the villain or an object to complete the quest.

Allies are new characters that are introduced to aid the characters in their quest.

New enemies are also introduced in this section of the story, as the plot becomes more complicated.

Act II consists of two parts:

Complications and the Crisis.

Complications in the story make things more interesting for the characters. Often a major plot twist is introduced here which will force the main character to change, becoming fully committed, strengthening or clarifying his motivation. This will often be a point of no return.

The Crisis is the lowest point in the story, where everything looks hopeless. This will force the characters to make a crucial decision, leading to the climax of the story.

The end of the story (Act III) is where the main villain is finally overcome and the quest is completed.

The final climax of the story is a scene that everything in the story has been pointing towards. It can be a surprise, but is should be a logical progression of the events in the past. Sometimes in a short story, the climax will be the first (and perhaps the only) scene.

The most important parts of a story are the first scene, where the villain and goal are introduced, and the climax.

Story Endings

There are many ways to end a story, but the end of a story will be of two main kinds:

An open ended story is where the quest has been completed, but not everything has been finished, leaving room for the audience to imagine their own ending.

A closed story is where everything has been completed, creating an obvious ending for the audience.

Characters should be presented with some kind of moral choice at the end of a story, which forces them to finally overcome their character flaw.

This will create a fundamental change in the nature of the character.

After the villain is defeated and the character has changed, the story will be over.

Act III consists of two parts:

The climax, and the resolution.

The climax is a final scene that will often take place in the villain's home, but it could be anywhere else. This scene is where the characters fight and defeat the villain, and obtain the goal of their quest.

The resolution, also called the denouement, is a final scene that shows the outcome of the events of the story. This is where the storyteller shows the consequences of the actions taken in the story.

In quest stories, there will often be some kind of elixir that is given to the society at large, brought back by the characters, which will change their world forever. The item brought back will put everything back into balance that was thrown out of whack by the inciting incident.

A simple example could be a quest for fire.

In the start of the story, the primitive town has lost their fire. The characters could go on a quest to "steal fire from the gods," returning with the object of their quest (fire), which will restore the balance of their world.

This part of the story is also where the character is shown to have overcome their main character flaw, often expressed by the accomplishment of a simple task that was impossible before. Their inner need will then be satisfied.

How to Tell a Story 1 (ARTICLE)

Storytelling is one of the oldest pastimes. Everyone loves a great story, but it is often difficult to find someone that is good at telling one. The best way to learn how to tell a story is to read books on the subject, such as "How to Tell a Story" by Peter Rubie and Gary Provost, or any other book published by Writers Digest Books. Perhaps the two best books on the subject are, "Anatomy of Story" by John Truby and "Zen and the Art of Writing" by Ray Bradbury.

Most people, unfortunately never take the time to learn basic storytelling techniques, and when they try to tell a tale, they find themselves losing their audience. Others refuse to study storytelling techniques because they fear they will lose their creativity by following formulaic story structures.

However, like building a house, there are definite things that you need to know in order to tell a story. Learning how to read blueprints, how to swing a hammer, and how to install a roof are as essential to a carpenter as learning how to set up a story, how to write a basic plot outline and how to write a scene are to the storyteller.

So here is a quick primer on how to tell a story. Hopefully, those reading it will be able to gain some insight into the subject, to the pleasure of their future audiences.

Stories consist of three parts:

1. The Beginning.

2. The Middle.

3. The End.

Traditionally, this is why stories are broken down into three acts. Dividing your story into three acts will help you understand basic story structure. However, this technique will only work for simple stories. More complex structures are needed for something like a novel or a screenplay.

There are six parts to a story contained within these three segments:

Act I

1. Introduction.

2. Rising Action.

Act II

3. Complications.

4. Crisis.

Act III

5. Climax.

6. Resolution.

The Beginning (Act I) has three goals:

The first goal is to get the ball rolling by introducing the main characters, & the setting they are in.

The second goal is to hook your audience with something that is exciting and interesting.

The third goal in the start of a story is to introduce the villain and the main story goal.

All three goals should be accomplished very quickly, often in the first scene.

Choosing a setting depends of the kind of story that is being told, and the desires of the storyteller. For instance, a gothic adventure could take place in Hungary or Transylvania, and could be set in the 15th or 16th century. Arthurian tales would take place in England, in an earlier time period. The setting will have a large affect on the way the story is told.

The characters will often take up a large part of the opening of a story, and this can slow things down considerably. Care should be taken to avoid lengthy character introductions, as it can kill a story before it has begun. One of the marks of an amateur storyteller is to use up a large part of the early story introducing characters.

Characters are defined by what they do, not by who they appear to be. A person's actions speak louder than everything else. Many people begin describing a character by their appearance, but in reality these physical traits are the least important things about a person.

Characters should enter a story doing something.

Weakness/Needs

Good characters will have an inner need, such as a need to fall in love, and this internal goal will influence all of the character's actions. Characters also need to have a main character flaw, such as a distrust of the opposite sex.

Characters may have many flaws, but one will override the others, and it will block the character's inner need, preventing the character from getting what he truly wants. Character flaws can be such things as a quick temper, a desire to become rich and powerful, cowardice, etc. This weakness/need is the basis for creating character change, which is what stories are all about.

There are two types of weaknesses:

Psychological and moral.

A psychological weakness is something that harms the character.

A moral weakness is something that harms the character and other people too.

It has been said that a story is not what happens, but who it happens to. A story is about how a character changes by the events in the plot, or said another way; a story is about how a character overcomes his failings.

Many have argued over which aspect of a story is more important, the plot or the characters. In a good story, they will both support each other.

The plot consists of the events that take place in the story and the revelations discovered. The plot directs what happens in the outer story. It is often called the spine of the story.

The characters control what happens in the inner story, by how they react to events of the plot. This part of the tale is also called the heart of the story.

In this way, a good story will consist of two stories being told at once, in parallel to each other.

A good character will always have some level of internal conflict.

Inner conflict is created by the character's inner need rubbing against a main character flaw. This conflict can often be expressed as two emotions fighting against each other. For instance, a character may be greedy, but will also have a need for people to trust him. In a treasure hunting story, the character could be confronted with a situation where his greed will come in direct conflict with his need to be trusted. A good storyteller will often design his plots to affect the characters internal conflicts, so that the characters will be able to overcome their flaws.

Stories are about how a character changes over time by the events in the plot.

The second goal in the start of the story is to hook your audience with an interesting event.

This event is often called the inciting incident.

The inciting incident is an event that drastically alters the character's reality, propelling them into the story. The event must be something that will practically force the characters into the story.

Some examples could include the destruction of the character's town by a marauding army or an angry dragon, the kidnapping of the characters girlfriend by a band of Vikings, the murder of the character's family, etc. Inciting incidents will affect how the story is told, and will provide the characters with motivation to pursue the goal of the story.

Character motivation is one of the most important aspects of a story. The inciting incident must be compelling enough to give the characters a strong desire to do something. Once the characters become emotionally involved in the story, then they will pursue the story goal without feeling like they were forced into it. For instance, imagine a story where the characters are hired to do a job. Then compare it to a story where their sister is kidnapped by an evil necromancer. Which story would motivate them more?

The third goal in the start of a story is to introduce the villain and the story goal.

Villains are often introduced secretly in the start of a story without any-one realizing that they are the main antagonist. These kinds of stores are often mysteries, but they can also be stories where the storyteller wishes the villain to remain secret. In any event, the villain must always be introduced, even if they are simply appearing on stage just to say hello. Often they are brought into a story discretely, simply appearing in the background.

In other cases, a villain may be shown as the obvious antagonist in the story. Sometimes the best way to motivate a character is to have the villain appear, take something valuable from the character and then leave. This can be tricky, since the characters should not be rendered completely helpless by the villain. If this approach is taken, it can show the characters that they need to acquire some kind of object or artifact in order to overcome the villain.

The main story goal should be obvious to everyone. It should be clear enough so that the characters will understand what to do.

Stories are about characters trying to solve a problem.

There will always be something blocking the solution to the problem, creating conflict. For instance, if the characters are trying to pass through a gateway, it could be guarded by the villain's henchmen.

Every scene should have an obvious goal, and something that interferes with the accomplishment of that goal. Stories could have many goals, but one goal will be the overriding concern.

Minor goals could include subplots such as love stories or minor intrigues between characters.

A Dead Body (SHORT STORY)

A still August night. A mist is rising slowly from the fields and casting an opaque veil over everything within eyesight. Lighted up by the moon, the mist gives the impression at one moment of a calm, boundless sea, at the next of an immense white wall. The air is damp and chilly. Morning is still far off. A step from the bye-road which runs along the edge of the forest a little fire is gleaming. A dead body, covered from head to foot with new white linen, is lying under a young oak-tree. A wooden ikon is lying on its breast. Beside the corpse almost on the road sits the “watch”—two peasants performing one of the most disagreeable and uninviting of peasants’ duties. One, a tall young fellow with a scarcely perceptible moustache and thick black eyebrows, in a tattered sheepskin and bark shoes, is sitting on the wet grass, his feet stuck out straight in front of him, and is trying to while away the time with work. He bends his long neck, and breathing loudly through his nose, makes a spoon out of a big crooked bit of wood; the other—a little scraggy, pock-marked peasant with an aged face, a scanty moustache, and a little goat’s beard—sits with his hands dangling loose on his knees, and without moving gazes listlessly at the light. A small camp-fire is lazily burning down between them, throwing a red glow on their faces. There is perfect stillness. The only sounds are the scrape of the knife on the wood and the crackling of damp sticks in the fire.

“Don’t you go to sleep, Syoma …” says the young man.

“I … I am not asleep …” stammers the goat-beard.

“That’s all right.… It would be dreadful to sit here alone, one would be frightened. You might tell me something, Syoma.”

“I … I can’t.…”

“You are a queer fellow, Syomushka! Other people will laugh and tell a story and sing a song, but you—there is no making you out. You sit like a scarecrow in the garden and roll your eyes at the fire. You can’t say anything properly … when you speak you seem frightened. I dare say you are fifty, but you have less sense than a child.… Aren’t you sorry that you are a simpleton?”

“I am sorry,” the goat-beard answers gloomily.

“And we are sorry to see your foolishness, you may be sure. You are a good-natured, sober peasant, and the only trouble is that you have no sense in your head. You should have picked up some sense for yourself if the Lord has afflicted you and given you no understanding. You must make an effort, Syoma.… You should listen hard when anything good’s being said, note it well, and keep thinking and thinking.… If there is any word you don’t understand, you should make an effort and think over in your head in what meaning the word is used. Do you see? Make an effort! If you don’t gain some sense for yourself you’ll be a simpleton and of no account at all to your dying day.”

All at once a long drawn-out, moaning sound is heard in the forest. Something rustles in the leaves as though torn from the very top of the tree and falls to the ground. All this is faintly repeated by the echo. The young man shudders and looks enquiringly at his companion.

“It’s an owl at the little birds,” says Syoma, gloomily.

“Why, Syoma, it’s time for the birds to fly to the warm countries!”

“To be sure, it is time.”

“It is chilly at dawn now. It is co-old. The crane is a chilly creature, it is tender. Such cold is death to it. I am not a crane, but I am frozen.… Put some more wood on!”

Syoma gets up and disappears in the dark undergrowth. While he is busy among the bushes, breaking dry twigs, his companion puts his hand over his eyes and starts at every sound. Syoma brings an armful

The Old Nurse (short story)

You know, my dears, that your mother was an orphan, and an only child; and I dare say you have heard that your grandfather was a clergyman up in Westmorland, where I come from. I was just a girl in the village school, when, one day, your grandmother came in to ask the mistress if there was any scholar there who would do for a nurse-maid; and mighty proud I was, I can tell ye, when the mistress called me up, and spoke to my being a good girl at my needle, and a steady honest girl, and one whose parents were very respectable, though they might be poor. I thought I should like nothing better than to serve the pretty young lady, who was blushing as deep as I was, as she spoke of the coming baby, and what I should have to do with it. However, I see you don’t care so much for this part of my story, as for what you think is to come, so I’ll tell you at once. I was engaged and settled at the parsonage before Miss Rosamond (that was the baby, who is now your mother) was born. To be sure, I had little enough to do with her when she came, for she was never out of her mother’s arms, and slept by her all night long; and proud enough was I sometimes when missis trusted her to me. There never was such a baby before or since, though you’ve all of you been fine enough in your turns; but for sweet, winning ways, you’ve none of you come up to your mother. She took after her mother, who was a real lady born; a Miss Furnivall, a granddaughter of Lord Furnivall’s, in Northumberland. I believe she had neither brother nor sister, and had been brought up in my lord’s family till she had married your grandfather, who was just a curate, son to a shopkeeper in Carlisle—but a clever, fine gentleman as ever was—and one who was a right- down hard worker in his parish, which was very wide, and scattered all abroad over the Westmorland Fells. When your mother, little Miss Rosamond, was about four or five years old, both her parents died in a fortnight—one after the other. Ah! that was a sad time. My pretty young mistress and me was looking for another baby, when my master came home from one of his long rides, wet, and tired, and took the fever he died of; and then she never held up her head again, but just lived to see her dead baby, and have it laid on her breast before she sighed away her life. My mistress had asked me, on her death- bed, never to leave Miss Rosamond; but if she had never spoken a word, I would have gone with the little child to the end of the world.

The next thing, and before we had well stilled our sobs, the executors and guardians came to settle the affairs. They were my poor young mistress’s own cousin, Lord Furnivall, and Mr. Esthwaite, my master’s brother, a shopkeeper in Manchester; not so well-to-do then as he was afterwards, and with a large family rising about him. Well! I don’t know if it were their settling, or because of a letter my mistress wrote on her death-bed to her cousin, my lord; but somehow it was settled that Miss Rosamond and me were to go to Furnivall Manor House, in Northumberland, and my lord spoke as if it had been her mother’s wish that she should live with his family, and as if he had no objections, for that one or two more or less could make no difference in so grand a household. So, though that was not the way in which I should have wished the coming of my bright and pretty pet to have been looked at—who was like a sunbeam in any family, be it never so grand—I was well pleased that all the folks in the Dale should stare and admire, when they heard I was going to be young lady’s maid at my Lord Furnivall’s at Furnivall Manor.

But I made a mistake in thinking we were to go and live where my lord did. It turned out that the family had left Furnivall Manor House fifty years or more. I could not hear that my poor young mistress had ever been there, though she had been brought up in the family; and I was sorry for that, for I should have liked Miss Rosamond’s youth to have passed where her mother’s had been.

My lord’s gentleman, from whom I asked as many questions as I durst, said that the Manor House was at the foot of the Cumberland Fells, and a very grand place; that an old Miss Furnivall, a great-aunt of my lord’s, lived there, with only a few servants; but that it was a very healthy place, and my lord had thought that it would suit Miss Rosamond very well for a few years, and that her being there might perhaps amuse his old aunt.

I was bidden by my lord to have Miss Rosamond’s things ready by a certain day. He was a stern proud man, as they say all the Lords Furnivall were; and he never spoke a word more than was necessary. Folk did say he had loved my young mistress; but that, because she knew that his father would object, she would never listen to him, and married Mr. Esthwaite; but I don’t know. He never married at any

An Artist's Story (short story)

It was six or seven years ago when I was living in one of the districts of the province of T—, on the estate of a young landowner called Byelokurov, who used to get up very early, wear a peasant tunic, and continually complain to me that he never met with sympathy from anyone. He lived in the lodge in the garden, and I in the old seigniorial house, in a big room with columns, where there was no furniture except a wide sofa on which I used to sleep, and a table on which I used to lay out patience. There was always, even in still weather, a droning noise in the old Amos stoves, and in thunderstorms the whole house shook and seemed to be cracking into pieces; and it was rather terrifying, especially at night, when all then ten big windows were suddenly lit up by lightning.

Condemned by destiny to perpetual idleness, I did absolutely nothing. For hours together I gazed out of the window at the sky, at the birds, at the avenue, read everything that was brought me by post, slept. Sometimes I went out of the house and wandered about till late in the evening.

One day as I was returning home, I accidentally strayed into a place I did not know. The sun was already sinking, and the shades of evening lay across the flowering rye. Two rows of old, closely planted, very tall fir-trees stood like two dense walls forming a picturesque, gloomy avenue. I easily climbed over the fence and walked along the avenue, slipping over the fir-needles which lay two inches deep on the ground. It was still and dark, and only here and there on the high tree-tops the vivid golden light quivered and made rainbows in the spiders’ webs. There was a strong, almost stifling smell of resin. Then I turned into a long avenue of limes. Here, too, all was desolation and age; last year’s leaves rustled mournfully under my feet and in the twilight shadows lurked between the trees. From the old orchard on the right came the faint, reluctant note of the golden oriole, who must have been old too. But at last the limes ended. I walked by an old white house of two storeys with a terrace, and there suddenly opened before me a view of a courtyard, a large pond with a bathing-house, a group of green willows, and a village on the further bank, with a high, narrow belfry on which there glittered a cross reflecting the setting sun.

For a moment it breathed upon me the fascination of something near and very familiar, as though I had seen that landscape at some time in my childhood.

At the white stone gates which led from the yard to the fields, old-fashioned solid gates with lions on them, were standing two girls. One of them, the elder, a slim, pale, very handsome girl with a perfect haystack of chestnut hair and a little obstinate mouth, had a severe expression and scarcely took notice of me, while the other, who was still very young, not more than seventeen or eighteen, and was also slim and pale, with a large mouth and large eyes, looked at me with astonishment as I passed by, said something in English, and was overcome with embarrassment. And it seemed to me that these two charming faces, too, had long been familiar to me. And I returned home feeling as though I had had a delightful dream.

One morning soon afterwards, as Byelokurov and I were walking near the house, a carriage drove unexpectedly into the yard, rustling over the grass, and in it was sitting one of those girls. It was the elder one. She had come to ask for subscriptions for some villagers whose cottages had been burnt down. Speaking with great earnestness and precision, and not looking at us, she told us how many houses in the village of Siyanovo had been burnt, how many men, women, and children were left homeless, and what steps were proposed, to begin with, by the Relief Committee, of which she was now a member. After handing us the subscription list for our signatures, she put it away and immediately began to take leave of us.

‘You have quite forgotten us, Pyotr Petrovitch,’ she said to Byelokurov as she shook hands with him. ‘Do come, and if Monsieur N. (she mentioned my name) cares to make the acquaintance of admirers of his work, and will come and see us, mother and I will be delighted.’

I bowed.