It’s not advancing.

How do you get the plot going again? By having your protagonist reach a decision.

The weighing of options has to reach an end. None of the choices should look attractive or easy, but the character must choose something to do next.

That decision should connect to the story goal, the overall objective. The decision should be a specific choice of the next course of action. It should acknowledge the motivation that lies behind it. It should point out the risks to the reader and share why the protagonist is going to take that risk anyway.

Then the reader can think, Go for it! I’m right there with you!

Reaching a decision is a critical turning point in the sequel because it signals to readers that the interlude is coming to an end. Action is about to follow.

This signal launches a feeling of anticipation or expectation in the reader. A plan has been laid. We’ve looked at the risks and dangers. We’re going to try to circumvent them this way.

Okay, the reader thinks, so what’s going to go wrong? How can we squeak past the danger point? What if we’re caught? I have to keep reading. I can’t put this book down now.

Reaching a decision is all about the protagonist forming a new goal for the scene that will come next.

You are, in effect, positioning the character for the conflict to come and positioning the reader to eagerly await it.

Emotion is a foundation pillar. It stands rooted. It doesn’t move. As long as the character is in a purely emotional state, the story is on “pause.” It doesn’t continue.

Dilemma, by contrast, is motion forward. We don’t want to stall a story indefinitely. Dilemma gets the character going again. Not right away and not all at once, but it’s progress.

Therefore, dilemma is the second element that goes into a sequel. It follows emotion. It doesn’t precede it.

That’s because people react emotionally first. When their feelings start to calm down, then they can think.

Dilemma is all about thinking through the problem at hand.

Writing principle: Dilemma is the logic of your plot.

WHAT?

Didn’t I hammer logic in my last post? I hope not. My point was that logic has no place in character emotion. That doesn’t mean that logic has no place in your story. Of course it does!

Dilemma is part of that connection between the dots of plot events. We get a character stirred up emotionally so that person will take action. But we have to devise stories that make sense and show reasonable amounts of cause and effect.

We don’t want the protagonist pausing in the middle of stirring scene action to reason through the problem. So it’s saved until the scene is over and until the viewpoint character has had a chance to vent some steam.

Because once the raging disappointment and heartbreak following a scene setback fade, our character can think. More importantly, our character should think.

Here’s where Wally Writer can shoehorn plausibility and rationale into the story. No matter how improbable the plot truly is, it can be made to seem reasonable–or at least understandable–by adding the dilemma component to character reaction.

Dilemma is where Polly Protagonist dries her tears a little and starts considering what she will do next.

She does this under two criteria:

1) What is she going to do next based on what’s just happened in the story, and

2) What is she going to do next in terms of her overall story goal?

Writing tip: When you’re plotting, always remember where you’re going.

Keep in mind the following points:

*What has your character just gone through?

*What has your character gone through in the story up to this point?

*How has any of that altered the goal or motivations of the character?

*What new plans will your character make as a result?

Writing principle: when you write dilemma you are working out your plot for yourself while making it seem that the character is formulating a new plan.

Formulating a plan means the protagonist is now ready psychologically to look forward to what he or she will try next in achieving the story goal.

Emotion and Dilemma dovetail together. Each–in its own way–supports the progression of the protagonist from disappointment to new determination.

Writing, to me, is like building something. There’s the architecture–or design–of it, and there’s the construction.

Fiction is the same. You have the artistry of the tale, and you have the construction of the plot and characters.

When you are writing a sequel, which I consider the bridge between scenes, you’re dealing with an array of materials and tools.

The framework of the dramatic unit known as sequel is put together with emotion, dilemma, decision, and new action.

To continue the bridge metaphor: emotion equates to the pylons under the bridge; dilemma can be thought of as the arching span soaring along the top;  decision is the flooring; new action is the bump you go over as you drive back onto firm ground.

We’ll consider them one at a time.

Emotion: Are you surprised to consider emotion as a foundation? Well, it should be. It supports everything that’s going to happen next.

Let’s roll back slightly.  Remember how I explained that a scene should end with some kind of setback or partial failure for the protagonist? So what kind of response does the character have when this happens?

If you fail to write a purely emotional response, then the setback doesn’t seem all that important to a reader. “No feelings about this, huh?” says Rita Reader to herself. “Guess the stakes weren’t as high as I thought.”

Poor Polly Protagonist–if the scene’s stakes matter to her at all–is going to be disappointed, devastated, disgusted, saddened, or hopping mad. She should never be … apathetic or disinterested.

Your protagonist is not an android. (Unless you’re writing science fiction, perhaps.) Let me rephrase this: if your protagonist is human, then your protagonist will have to process the scene setback emotionally.

This is because people tend to feel first and think later. It’s pretty much what keeps us in some kind of trouble most of the time. It’s human.

It makes Polly Protagonist seem more like a person and less like a character to Rita Reader. It strengthens empathy between Rita and Polly, which is what Albert Author wants.

Emotion, however, is more than a bonding agent (sounds like an ad for Fixadent, doesn’t it? But I digress …); it also serves to bolster motivation.

You should be aware that character motivation is a key component to plausible, compelling fiction. A weakly motivated character is quickly boring and becomes too flat to care about. A strongly motivated character, on the other hand, is like a Terminator in that it won’t quit, won’t stop, won’t go away, won’t give up.

Writing Tip: Motivations are seldom logical.

Consider a vintage Judy Holliday film, IT SHOULD HAPPEN TO YOU. Aside from this being Jack Lemmon’s first movie, this light froth of a romantic comedy features a protagonist named Gladys Glover, who spends her savings to rent a huge billboard in Manhattan with nothing but her name on it.

The question becomes WHY?

Gladys has no logical explanation. She’s just always wanted her name in big letters on a billboard. The more she’s asked to justify this, the less reasoned she becomes. It’s an emotional motivation, but it creates a delightful series of consequences across the plot.

In Tom Clancy’s novel, PATRIOT GAMES, the early action involves a terrorist attack on a member of the British royal family. Hero Jack Ryan intervenes, saves the target’s life, and takes out most of the terrorists. Later, a friend asks him why he took a bullet for a stranger. Jack shrugs. “I don’t know. It just made me mad.”

Boo-rah! There’s logic for you.

We eat it up anyway. Why? Because on our instinctual level, down in our gut, we love this. We love Jack Ryan. He did the right thing for the right reason. Semper Fi!

On the other hand, a Vulcan will never understand what bonds the Marine Corps together.

Several weeks ago, I fell in love with an antique sideboard that’s taller than the bedroom ceilings. I love it so much that I’m willing to shift furniture and bank accounts around in order to acquire it. Do I need this monstrosity from the 1860s? No. I have a cabinet to hold my dishes already. Is my house large enough to hold this thing? Not really. Besides, I don’t require another item of furniture to dust. If the economy collapses, I live longer than Social Security lasts, and I end up living in my car eating cat food, what am I going to do with this behemoth? No answer, except I love it. When I gaze at it in the store, my heart goes ping. By all that’s logical and sensible, I shouldn’t buy it, but if I don’t, my heart will ache forever.

That’s emotion for you.

When you write, as an author you may have to plot logically, but keep in mind that your characters are going to take action based on whatever pushes their emotional buttons. To keep them moving in the direction you’ve planned for them, you have to push the right button.

In one option, Polly gets her tree but has to let her manic sister-in-law and feral brood come for the holidays.

OR

Andy Antagonist uses the tree issue as an excuse to tear their relationship completely apart. He ends the marriage.

Which option should Wally Writer use? Dunno! It depends on the plot Wally has outlined for himself. Both options are going to keep Rita Reader turning pages.  But which one hooks the story in the direction Wally Writer wants his story to go next?

Obviously, the first scenario is comedic and would lead to a series of mishaps reminiscent of Chevy Chase’s tacky relatives in the film, CHRISTMAS VACATION.

But let’s say that Wally Writer isn’t writing a comedy. He wants to be serious and dramatic, so he chooses the last option–where Andy unmasks his true colors as a nasty toad of a husband that dumps his wife on Christmas Eve.

We’ve got a doozy of a “no and furthermore” scene ending here. What are we going to do with it?

Consider Poor Polly’s options:

#1) She can wimp out and go crawling back to Andy, begging him to let her stay.

Well, phooey to that one. If she’s that spineless, Rita Reader won’t want to read about her.

#2) Polly can call Connie Confidant and go cry on her best friend’s shoulder.

This has potential. It doesn’t seem all that exciting on the surface but hold onto it.

#3) Polly can swallow some grocery-store wine for courage and drive over to her ex-boyfriend’s house for a fling.

Hmm. This option looks intriguing. If Polly has a wild affair, won’t that complicate her life? Probably, but will it complicate Wally Writer’s project?

Is that where Wally’s story is going? What if that wasn’t what Wally intended at all?

Writer, beware! If you push your protagonist heedlessly from one problem to the next without thinking things through, you’ll probably write yourself into a dead end … or come out where you weren’t planning to go.

So often, in response to the writing advice to “increase the stakes,” “make things harder for the protagonist,” “keep the protagonist constantly in trouble,” etc. it can be easy for the novice to fall into the trap of puppeteering. Are you throwing your character into one problem after another in a contrived, disconnected way–all in the cause of “exciting writing?”

Let’s retreat a bit and re-examine option #2. Connie Confidant looks a little blah initially, but she’s far more useful than you suppose.

If Polly takes a bit of story time to cry on Connie’s sofa, pouring out years of frustration, anger, angst, resentment, and fear for her future, then what’s really happening is that Rita Reader is getting a breather.

We’re letting the big, argumentative, conflictful scene that just occurred sink in. Polly is venting, and Rita Reader is empathizing. The bond between character and reader is growing stronger.

As soon as Polly stops howling, blows her nose, and sits up straight, the story is no longer on emotional pause. Now we’re going to process Polly’s problem, right in front of Rita Reader, who’s avidly turning pages. Rita wants to know what Polly will do next.

Polly is going to work out that solution in a mix of logic and emotion, and she’s going to do so right on the page for Rita to follow.

This process is a dramatic unit of plot equally important to scene. It’s known as a sequel, and it has a structure for writers to build.

We’ll review that construction process in the next installment.

It’s time to discuss how a scene should be plotted.

In my last post, I described plot events and how to select the most important ones for inclusion and development into scenes.

This time, it’s important to note that one story event doesn’t necessarily equal one scene.

A story event can be small enough to be written in one scene. It may be large enough to require two, perhaps three scenes to cover it.

For example, the WWII invasion of Normandy may be a plot event in your historical war novel, but if you try to pass it off in a single small scene you aren’t doing it justice. Why even bother? Instead, if it’s dramatically important enough to have a place in your manuscript, then you’ll be developing several scenes in which to deal with it.

Now, keep in mind that a scene is where the drama of the story is shown to readers and allowed to unfold moment-by-moment as though it’s actually happening. If done skillfully enough, it transports readers into the illusion that they are actually there, witnessing–even participating–in the story’s action.

Scenes, therefore, are structural units of story presentation. They are saved for the story points where the author wishes to show story action as it transpires, rather than tell through narrative what’s taking place.

Each scene is constructed in a particular way that should advance the story.

But advance the story where?

The scene begins with a goal, an objective. Ideally, it’s the scene protagonist’s goal, something this character wants to achieve or obtain right now.

If Polly Protagonist wants to buy a Douglas fir Christmas tree for her new home, she can work toward achieving that goal because it’s

     specific

          &

     obtainable.

However, if Polly decides this is what she wants and drives down to the nearest tree lot and buys her heart’s desire, we have a failed scene. It’s dull, boring, predictable, and entirely uninteresting.

For the scene to work, there must be conflict. Conflict is created when the protagonist meets opposition that directly seeks to thwart the protagonist’s goal.

Enter Andy Antagonist. Andy is a scrooge. He hates Christmas. He thinks spending a lot of money on it is stupid. Real trees make him sneeze. He believes Douglas firs are the ugliest of all possible choices.

Poor Polly is married to Andy. When she puts on her coat to leave the house to buy a tree, Andy tries to talk her out of going. Polly is adamant, however. They have a new home, their first house after years of living cooped up in a small apartment. She wants to celebrate. She wants a Christmas like those she used to enjoy at her grandmother’s house.

Look at the structure this way:

Polly wants a real tree. Andy doesn’t.

They’re both strongly motivated. Their goals are in direct opposition. They’re both persistent. They can’t help but argue. As the conflict escalates in the scene, Rita Reader starts to wonder what the outcome will be. Accordingly, Rita stays intrigued enough to keep turning pages.

Maybe Polly can’t convince Andy no matter what. Is she going to be a doormat and give in? He’s a controller. He’s selfish and horrid. Look! He’s pulling out an ultimatum. How’s it going to turn out?

Scenes can’t go on forever. They have to be resolved once all the tricks, strategies, persuasion, and maneuvers have been tried by both parties.

Scene resolutions have four possible options:

Option #1: Polly wins by convincing Andy his new allergy medicine will keep him sniffle free while the tree’s in the house. She sails triumphantly out the door.

Okay, but if you write that, your story is over. Polly won. She succeeded. If you narrate her driving happily to the tree lot and bringing home the biggest fir she can afford, Rita Reader is yawning and bored again.

Here’s an important writing principle: If you let your protagonist succeed in a scene, you lose all story tension and the tale goes flat.

Try again.

Option #2: Polly fails. She loses the argument. Andy has won as usual. There will be no pretty tree in their newly furnished den. Andy goes smugly back to his ballgame. Polly runs to the bedroom in tears.

Hmm. It’s better than the previous resolution but it hasn’t advanced the story. Polly is stalled. She’s crying her eyes out. Rita Reader may feel sorry for her, but where’s the story going to go from here?

Option #3: Polly manages to wheedle a reluctant agreement from Andy, but only after she promises to vacuum five times a day, keep the doors to the den closed at all times, and not spend more than $15.

Too silly? Too weak? I think so.

How about Polly manages to wheedle a reluctant agreement from Andy, but only if she promises to let him invite his tacky sister and her brood of five kids to Christmas dinner. If Polly and Susie Sister don’t get along, and the kids behave like feral monkeys in a zoo, then the scene has ended in a way that hooks forward and leaves Rita Reader anticipating a future event.

It works very well.

But remember that you have one more option in possible scene resolutions. If you’re at a turning point in your story and you want to really increase pressure on your protagonist, then try this type of scenario:

Option #4: When Polly insists that she wants a tree no matter what, then Andy tells her that not only does he not want a tree but he doesn’t want her either. Their marriage is through. He’s tired of living with a woman who doesn’t respect his wishes to live a minimalist, evergreen-free life. When she walks out the door, she can just move into the motel next to the tree lot because she’s not coming back.

Wow. If you can manage to write conflict without protecting your protagonist from trouble, then your scenes can reach crisis points like this one. The argument this couple is having isn’t really about a Christmas tree at all. It’s about their relationship and just how shaky their marriage is.

This type of resolution also hooks forward. It gives you direction. And your next event is already shaping up. Because, what in the world will Polly do next?

It’s important to choose only the most important issues of your storyline for development into scenes. So when you’re planning and plotting, it’s useful to list all the critical events that would logically span your story from start to finish.

Thinking about this task can become overwhelming. To avoid overloading your circuits, take a notebook and just jot down events as they occur to you. Don’t try to censor or edit in this first pass; let the ideas flow.

Once you’ve got a list, put on your critical hat and start evaluating.

Pretend you’re a casting director and these pieces of story are auditioning for inclusion in your project. Make ‘em dance! Make ‘em sing! You’ve got to be tough here. You can’t keep everything. Some have to be rejected and ejected.

That doesn’t mean you’re a weak writer. It doesn’t mean the story you envision is going to be harmed or less than wonderful because something has to go. Keep the strongest and best; winnow out the chaff.

Remember what I posted previously about knowing your ending? Once again, that’s going to help you decide and choose. What goes? What stays on the list? What’s pertinent to your protagonist’s objective? What’s probably going to pull the plotline off track?

Maybe you discard so much that you have little left. Okay, back to the drawing board. Think up new material. Chances are it will be better anyway.

Cut again.

Each time you rework your list of plot events, make sure anything new passes the pertinence test. Does it help the plot? Does it advance the story toward the ending you want? Or does it distract?

Once you’ve made your choices and are satisfied, you’ll start a new round of elimination.

How many of your listed events are going to be developed into scenes of conflict?

Well, duh! All of them, you might say.

Nope.

There’s no hard rule about how many events go into a story, but a loose guideline would be as follows:

Short stories need 3-5 events. Novels need about 20.

By events, I don’t mean aimless mundane things such as Bo woke up and examined his navel lint to see if more had accumulated during the night.

Plot events should be actions or clashes or encounters centered around conflict between the protagonist and antagonist. They should relate to the story goal or the story’s objective. They should be events with strong consequences for your main character, not incidentals such as It rained during the night.

Unless your story is about a man’s desperate attempt to save his 150-year-old home from being flooded by the rising river, an evening downpour isn’t relevant.

But let’s say you’re writing about a Russian girl held in white slavery in the US. You know she’s going to escape her captors. You know she’s going to be brutally beaten and left for dead. You know she’s going to end up in a morgue. You know you want to give the medical examiner quite a shock when this girl wakes up on the slab.

Each of those events are focused, have consequences, and will advance the story.

So if you’re thriller novelist Tess Gerritsen, and these events have made your finished list–as they do for her novel VANISHED–the next step is determining what order they’ll occur in the manuscript.

Do you start with the beating? Or do you have the medical examiner start an autopsy, only to have the corpse open her eyes?

Not only do you want strong events, but you also have to think about the most effective order of presenting them to readers. What will create the best opening hook? What will top it? What will keep readers turning pages? What will build to the next hook?

Think it through.

WHOA!

To quote one of my favorite cartoon characters–Foghorn Leghorn: “Now hold on–I say, hold on there, son!”

What’s this about? What does a gun have to do with a couple breaking up? Has the gun been in the story before? Is the gun’s presence justified? Does it have anything to do with what’s happening in the story action?

“But I’m raising the stakes,” the writer will say. “I’m trying to make things worse for my characters.”

Hmm, maybe. Except raising the stakes doesn’t mean your character should just plug her spouse for no reason other than the author is stuck. Remember that your plot should be plausible. The events and plot twists that occur should be organic to the situation you’ve set up and not some wild, disconnected behavior that doesn’t make sense for your characters.

Whatever your plot is about, keep it about that. If two people who love each other can’t work out the problem that his career is forcing him to move across the country and she wants to stay on the farmstead she inherited from her grandfather, then what are they going to do?

Split up?

Okay. Let ‘em split up and be miserable without each other for a few pages. That’s raising the emotional stakes plenty. Maybe they need that test in order to grow or change for the better.

Think about the couple. What is the basis of their relationship? What do each of them want and expect from the other? What do each of them envision for their relationship? How will a permanent breakup damage them individually?

When you can answer those questions, chances are you’ll have figured out which character is going to bend for the sake of the other’s happiness.

And not a bullet is flying.

In our rush to keep pages turning, we can sometimes forget to allow space for character reaction. Yet this is necessary for our plot to make sense to readers.

For example, say Polly Protagonist is doing really well at her job. Her boss has praised her efforts. A promotion possibility has been mentioned. The big corner office has been refurnished, and the water cooler buzz is that Polly is probably going to land a directorship.

Buoyed up with excitement and anticipation, Polly goes out and celebrates early, signing a three-year lease on a very expensive car. She knows she shouldn’t do it, that she should wait until she really has her raise, but she can’t stop herself. Her friends are enthusiastic, and it looks like the world’s her oyster.

In the morning, she arrives to find a stranger sitting in the new office. Somebody from the west coast office has been brought in to take the position.

Polly walks into her first meeting of the day and gives her report.

Say what?

Let’s burn some skid marks on the page here. If you skip over the character’s reaction to a big setback, a disappointment, a threat, a plot twist, or even an unexpected maneuver from the antagonist–if you skip a response of some kind, even a numbed inability to register what’s happening, then you’ve cheated your reader.

Even worse, your story has stopped making sense.

If Polly doesn’t go numb, feel sick to her stomach, feel disappointed, angry, resentful, and even scared, then she’s not human. She’s not a character. She’s as lifelike as a piece of tissue paper, and just about as interesting. She’s been torpedoed by her boss, an individual that she’s trusted (until now), maybe even respected (until now).

All the long hours and extra effort that she’s put into her job have been for nothing. She’s sacrificed time, maybe even some relationships, for this opportunity. Now she sees that

a) her boss is a powerless nonentity

or

b) her boss deceived her and used her

Either way, she has to find a moment to process this and decide what she’s going to do about it. She may indeed go into her meeting and give her report, but inside she’ll be distracted. Her emotions will be churning. She’ll be looking at her coworkers with new eyes. She’ll be hearing what’s said with a different interpretation.

Even worse, at some point she has to realize that she’s obligated herself to a leased car she can’t afford because there isn’t going to be a promotion and raise.

In terms of plotting forward, Polly must now determine two courses of action.

The first is what will she do about work?

Is she going to confront her boss or keep her head down?

Is she going to quit her job or stay there and take the humiliation?

Is she going to accept the notion that she just isn’t good enough?

Is she going to figure out a way to sabotage the new guy AND her boss?

The answer depends on Polly’s character plus how you want the story to end. Which option will move her closer to the ending you envision?

Polly’s second problem can be resolved quickly in a paragraph of narrative summary. She called the auto dealership and reneged on her lease agreement.

Or, if you want to compound her troubles, then she won’t be able to break the lease.

Let’s say she’s an impulsive girl and opts to quit. She storms outside, fighting back angry tears, clutching her stapler and briefcase, and sees her new Lexus parked at the curb. A Lexus she can’t afford.

Pulling out her cell phone, she calls the dealership but maybe she bought the car over a long weekend and her three-day change-your-mind clause has expired. Now, thanks to her tendency to act before she thinks, she’s not only in debt over her head but also unemployed.

Her situation is worse. What will she do next?

Sometimes people think a book chapter should be like a short story. Wrong! A short story is complete within itself, with a beginning, middle, and ending.

In plotting forward, you don’t want to write any endings unless you’re tying off a subplot or writing the story’s climax.

So when you stage a plot event–which may involve a single scene or a cluster of two, possibly three, scenes–you want to end that event with a hook.

In effect, you’re closing the plot event only partially. It should be far from resolved.

Example: Let’s go back to the teenage boy who encountered zombies while he was taking out the trash. Remember how he tried to scream and couldn’t? Remember how he tried to get back in the house but couldn’t? Then he fled.

Okay. That partially closed the story event, but it didn’t resolve anything. Instead, the boy’s flight is a hook.

Hooks should keep readers caught in the action through wondering, what’s going to happen next?

My character is now running, but where is he going to go next? What is he going to do next?

Push the pause button on the action and sit in your chair and think. You have several plotting options to weigh and choose from.

Option A: Is he going to run to the front door and try to get in there?

Consider the consequences of that scenario. Will the front door also be locked? Are his parents home and likely to hear him ringing the doorbell? If he gets safely inside, what then? Will he be believed? Is he going to call the authorities? If only his little sister is home, how are the two of them going to cope with their attackers?

Option B: Perhaps, despite his little sister’s cruelty in locking him out, the boy wants to protect her so he runs away from the house. He’s intent on leading the monsters away from his home.

Okay, think through the consequences of that decision. Can he outrun them? How many are pursuing him? What if they don’t follow him? If they do stay on his trail, where’s he going to lead them?

Option C: As he runs through the sideyard, he trips over his mom’s newly planted nandinas and falls, twisting his ankle.

What are the consequences of this one? He’s too hurt to run. Will he be caught and eaten? That will end the story.

Oops! Try again.

Will he be able to hide? Will he remain safely hidden while the zombies tear open his house and kill his family? How will he live with that? Won’t the guilt tear him apart? Will it drive him to become the supreme zombie hunter?

Now, I could go on playing the “what if” game, but what you don’t want are so many plot scenarios that you confuse yourself. That’s why Tip #1–Know Your Ending is so necessary. If you know where you’re going, you can limit your options to a manageable few. Then you won’t find yourself paralyzed by too many choices.

Remember, you’re looking for plausible consequences that will lead to the character’s decision to keep taking action. And any action the character takes should be moving him or her toward the finale you envision.

You have an idea: a family moves into a new neighborhood and discovers that the house next door contains zombies.

Zowee-wow! You’re excited. You’re eager to write. You can see the opening sequence vividly in your mind’s eye:

There’s the teenage boy slouching out the backdoor at twilight to take out the trash. He realizes the terrible smell isn’t coming from the dented trash can on the back porch but instead from the Steadman basement twelve feet away. He looks up, sees a shape shambling toward him from the shadows. He drops the trash. Tries to scream. Stumbles backward, but the door is locked. His younger sister has flipped the deadbolt. She’s laughing at him through the glass. He bangs on the door, shrieking now, but she doesn’t realize the danger he’s in. When he looks over his shoulder, the first creature has reached the porch steps. Another is staggering into view. And another. He vaults over the railing and is saved from breaking his ankles by landing in the overgrown azalea bushes. Scrambling to his feet, he flees. The zombies turn and pursue him.

What fun to write whatever’s inspired you. You feel on top of the world. You’re certain you have something viable, something others will enjoy reading. You’re psyched to keep writing what happens next.

Only … what will come next?

Much of the time, my writing students cook up story ideas that are far superior to my cliched zombie example. But once these fledgling writers envision a major scene, they become stuck. Some can’t figure out how to advance their protagonist to the next plot point.

Do you encounter this problem of transforming inspiration into plot?

 Are you able to envision your key scenes, but can’t move your characters from one to the next?

Do you clearly see your opening and your ending, but you have no idea of what to do in the middle?

Then it’s time you learned how to connect the plotting dots.

In the series to come, I’ll be sharing tips on how to plot from start to finish.

Here’s Tip #1: Know how you want the story to end.

It gives your plot a destination. That will immediately affect what parts of your idea you’re going to keep and what you’re going to delete.

Stay tuned.