The three-act structure is a useful tool. It can help you to structure your story in the early stages of writing, and it’s a great lens through which to examine a draft.

That said, not every successful story is going to fall neatly into the three-act structure. “Ride the Cyclone”, a terrific script from Victoria’s Jacob Richmond is completely episodic. In lesser hands, this could have resulted in a flat attempt at entertainment, but Mr. Richmond’s episodes—and the music that accompanies them—are all so surprising that “Ride the Cyclone” is knockin’ ‘em dead everywhere it plays.

And, even when stories contain all of the steps of the three-act structure, they’re not always in the same order. The Ordinary World, for instance, might be outlined after the protagonist has already received the Call to Adventure. That’s what happens in one of my favourite kids’ stories, “Never Be Afraid!”, which is part of Paul Yee’s story collection, Teach Me to Fly, Skyfighter!

In Yee’s tale, the shy John Chin has already received the Call to Adventure, which is to become a martial artist before the story reveals John’s Ordinary World, with his strict father and sympathetic mother.

So use the three-act structure as a tool, but don’t be bound by it.

Authors sometimes ask me about the structure of short stories. In my experience, this can vary wildly.

Some short stories may include elements of the three-act structure that’s the underpinning of many novels and screenplays—a Call to Adventure, a Refusal of the Call, and so on—but many short stories are perfectly satisfying without these steps.

For me, the bottom line is that, in a short story, something changes and it matters.

Even when I say, “something changes,” that’s kind of negotiable. The hero may try to effect a change and fail. Even then, of course, there is a change of sorts: defeat.

In the three-act structure, there’s a difference between a mentor and a Mentor. Friends, allies, and mentors might help your hero out at any point on her journey, but the capital M Mentor serves a specific function: the Mentor helps your protagonist to overcome the fear that made her refuse the Call to Adventure; the Mentor is the figure who nudges your hero into Crossing the First Threshold.

Occasionally, an author will submit an outline to me that has the Mentor appearing in Act 2 or Act 3, but, by definition, the Mentor is an Act 1 figure, a character who helps the hero to make the leap into Act 2.

I find that writers also get confused sometimes about the Crisis and the Climax. To be clear: the Climax falls hard on the heels of the Crisis. In the Crisis, the hero confronts her greatest challenge. In the Climax, she either succeeds or fails in rising to that challenge. The Climax is the outcome of the Crisis.

Make sense? If not, feel free to get in touch.

Sometimes writers make the mistake of thinking that, to tell a story, all you have to do is answer the question, “What happens next?”

It’s not that simple.

As I see it, the question is more like, “What does the protagonist do next in order to reach her (or his) goal?”

It’s also important to remember that, as the protagonist, strives to reach her goal, she’s learning as she’s going. Her understanding of her goal is deepening.

Let’s take a look at this through the lens of the three-act structure. At the beginning of Act 2, she sets off in search of what she wants. In the Mid-Act Revelation, something happens that deepens her understanding of her goal. And, at the end of Act 2, there’s a major shift; the protagonist goes from pursuing what she wants to pursuing what she needs. Growing self-knowledge is implicit in all of this.

So, from this perspective, storytelling is about an ever-deepening revelation of character.

And in the Crisis and Climax in Act 3, the protagonist faces her greatest challenge. This challenge may well be physical, but it must also be psychological, a test of character. In other words, it’s not enough for the hero to simply slay the dragon. If your hero is capable of dragon-slaying from the beginning of your tale, your tale won’t be very exciting. But if your hero moves from being terrified of dragons to being capable of slaying the beasts—if your hero moves from timidity to courage—then you’ve got a story!

And a great time to set up your hero’s starting point is in the Refusal of the Call. If your hero refuses the call because she’s too afraid of dragons, then she’s got somewhere to go. And there will be lots of tension in your story because its outcome will always be in question.

Make sense? If not, feel free to drop me an email via the link on this website. I’m always happy to answer questions.

When asked what advice I’d give to aspiring writers, I often say, “Take an acting class.” That’s because, in an acting class, you’ll find out what storytelling feels like from a character’s point of view, and you’ll get that feeling in your bones.

An actor knows that, in every scene, her character is trying to get something. She can’t get it right away, so she has to try different strategies to reach their goal.

When you’re structuring your core story, think from the point of view of your protagonist and fill in the blanks in this sentence: This is a story about ________,  who wants ________, but they can’t get it at first because_________,  so they __________.

For Hamlet, you might fill in the sentence like this: This is a story about Hamlet, who wants to avenge his father’s death, but he can’t at first because he gets caught in his own ambivalence, so he approaches the situation indirectly, challenging his mother, his murderous uncle, and the conventions of the court, without directly confronting them until the situation is out of control.

This exercise might sound simple, but, in my experience, it’s always challenging.

It’s also helpful, though, because it will keep  your story based in your protagonist’s goals. It’s not enough to simply ask, “What happens next?” In my view, it’s more interesting to ask, “What does my hero do next in order to reach her goal?”