The Traditional 3-Act Structure: Part 3

There is a natural instinct that exists among most writers about where to put the tension beats in, where things need to change, when the reader needs a break from all the action. That is because most writers read a lot, or watch a lot of movies, or... Well, we just spend a lot of time in a fictional world somewhere. When we do that, we do start to see the patterns, even if we don't understand the formula being applied to those stories.

The traditional 3-act structure is just one of countless number of models out there on story structure. Over the past few posts, we have been breaking down the traditional 3-act structure into the nitty-gritty, getting to the root of why it works the way it does.

In Part 1 of this series, we examined the elements of act 1, including the inciting event and the first transition point, what I called the first point of No-Return. In Part 2, we looked at the first half of act 2, heading into the midpoint, and we discussed what is meant by the A-story and the B-story.

In this, the final installment of this series, we're going to look at the final transition point for the manuscript and what the working components go into act 3.

The Traditional 3-Act Structure: Part 2

Much of what a writer does when crafting a story is based on instinct, weaving in the rise and fall of action. The same can be said about a developmental editor. Every story is different, so there is no strict formula that can be applied.

Tools like the traditional 3-act structure are only diagnostic tools, designed to help us understand why something might not be working.

In the first post of this 3-Act Structure series, we introduced the importance of this structure as a whole, and began breaking it down. We looked at the first act (The Setup) and the first point of No-Return. Today, let's get into the nitty-gritty of Act 2.

The Traditional 3-Act Structure: Part 1

Most writers have a natural instinct when it comes to story structure and plot. We do so much reading, or we see so many movies, that understanding pacing is just part of our makeup. Even new writers, still learning their craft, have this instinct.

We know that if we have action scene after action scene, eventually we need to have a calm scene that gives us the chance to breathe. We know that there needs to be those moments of reflection, looking at what has happened in the past, but if we spend too much time dwelling on the past, that explosion will be needed to get things going again. And there will also be those moments when a character decides to risk all and just go for it—damned the consequences.

As writers, we follow a story structure with the instinct of knowing where the rise and fall in the action needs to be. However, when something is off in the pacing of a story, that's when all the discussions come out about one of countless number of models for story structure and the analytical tools associated with it.

As a developmental editor, it is my job to look at story structure and pacing from the macro and micro levels. If pacing is off, for whatever reason, I delve into the mechanics of a manuscript and tear that structure apart to find out why things just don't work. Much of what I do on this particular front is instinct, simply because every single story is different. However, there are some commonalities within the beats of a story, which has given rise to models like the traditional 3-act structure.

It's time to start dissecting the mechanics of some of these models, just so you, as a writer, can see why editors use them so often within our work.

Writing Accent into Fictional Writing

You have a character that comes from a particular region of the world. The people from this region tend to speak in a particular fashion. It's distinctive, and the moment anyone hears it, they instantly get a sense of the type of environment that the character came from.

It's only natural to want to put that into our writing. We want to immerse our readers into the world. We want them to experience it. Being able to imagine a character's accent is only part of that experience.

However, building accent into the written form is not a simple matter of slapping a few letters onto the page. Like everything else we do in writing, it takes careful thought and consideration.

Writing accent into your story could add the perfect color to your fictional world, but it could also turn into a reader's nightmare.

The Long or the Short of a Story

The length of a story has more impact on the nature of a story than people realize. In a previous post, I wrote about how there is a minimum number of words necessary to do a story justice. This is particularly the case when working in the short story form. However, what many writers don’t realize is that the length of the story will help to define the expectations of a reader when it comes to world building, character development and pacing. There will also be a literary expectation imposed by word counts.

With the publishing industry, you have six broad categories for story length: flash fiction, short stories, novelette, novella, short novel and long novel.

It’s time to get down to the nitty-gritty and explain the difference between these different categories and the reader expectations involved.

Trick from the Editor’s Hat: The Top-and-Tail Edit

It doesn't matter how you look at it, editing is a BIG job. Any little tricks to help make things flow are always handy to have.

Here is just one of the many tricks that I employ when editing both my own and clients' writing, giving me a way to examine story flow.

The Top-and-Tail Edit

The idea behind a top-and-tail edit is that you examine the transitions between chapter and sections, looking at the last paragraph(s) of one chapter and reading the first paragraph(s) of the next. Everything in the middle is ignored. This is only looking at the transitions.

This particular idea is highly effective with the development of the cliff-hanger endings.

Breaking the Fourth Wall: A Literary Term Defined

A Classic Story with a Classic Writing Flaw

Dialogue forms a fundamental part of fiction writing. It's how the characters talk to one another—or how they don't talk—that provides insight into what is going on within a scene and what the characters might think about it. It's through dialogue that we can get the actual thoughts of other characters, not just the POV character. So much story often revolves around the dialogue.

However, when writing dialogue, many writers still new to the craft will fall back into an excessive use of dialogue tags. I have written about this some years ago, in the post Billy said... Diana said... In that post, I spoke about how it's not just the use of the word said that causes the issue. It's the over-excessive use of dialogue tags in general that can disrupt the flow of a story.

There are many writers and editors out there who will argue that using the word said isn't a problem. Even Stephen King says this. They rightly argue that our brains are trained to overlook the word said and move on. If you shift to the other dialogue tags (e.g., cried, shouted, bellowed, hissed, growled), our eyes are drawn to them, and we notice them.

This is all true, but the publishing industry as a whole is shifting away from the printed form (and I'm including eBooks as a printed form for this discussion). Audio books are taking a hold, giving people the ability to check out the latest book from their favorite author while they're out walking the dog. Whatever is on that printed page is directly translated to audio form, and the two ARE NOT the same.

Punctuation has a direct impact on this, bringing into question within editors' circles about how rigid we need to be with the punctuation rules. Whereas issues like the he-said-she-said fest become so obvious when read aloud.

Who cares what the chair is called?

A few months ago, I found myself in a conversation with other editors about a description that was given to a particular type of chair, asking whether people would actually know what a writer was referring to if they just used the name of the chair. There was a photo posted with the original post of some rusted chair that glided back and forth. You should have seen the comments that went back and forth about locality and age of editors. It was mad. Then I piped in, looking at the sample writing that was provided in the original post and the clunky description that was given to the chair.

In my comments, I provided a potential rework to the passage to smooth out the sentence flow and highlight the significance of the chair itself, but in my rework I had changed the name of the chair from glider to rocker. OMG, I was lynched, because apparently there is a big difference between a glider and a rocker.

My response to the lynch mob: Who cares what the chair is actually called? What matters is why the character is noticing it in the first place. (I think I actually wrote that on the forums too.) What is the significance of this chair, whatever it was called, to the plot?

MacGuffin: A Literary Term Defined

How many times have you been in a conversation with fellow writers and they have spouted off some term that you had never heard of before? And how many times have those around you nodded their heads, like they've heard it all before, making you feel even worse for not knowing the term?

Well, this particular feeling happens to me all the time. And you know what: it doesn't make me any less of a writer for not knowing the terms. In fact, like today's literary term, most of those random words are insignificant, but today's term is doubly so.

A MacGuffin (also written McGuffin) is an object or goal sought by the characters of a story, keeping the plot moving forward, though the object itself lacks intrinsic importance.