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Creating a Series Grid From Scratch

Finish Your Book in Three Drafts (3D), the third book in the Book Architecture trilogy, came accompanied by a wealth of writing know-how in the form of 9 bonus PDFs. We are opening up the vault for the first time and publishing them here: one blog at a time. Behold, PDF #4.

Finish Your Book in Three Drafts (3D) lists a lot of good reasons to make a series grid:

• You can see your series repetitions and variations clearly
• You can identify or create foreshadowing
• You can use it to see plot holes immediately
• It can help orchestrate your pacing as suspense, surprise, or shock
• It is holistic and thus points out lateral connections with other series

To demonstrate how to create a series grid from scratch, I could have chosen an unpublished work of my own that no one would know. Or I could have chosen something that most people would have read, even if it was a while ago—something like The Great Gatsby, which we used in chapter four of 3D.

But creating a series grid is an act of love, so I chose Franz Kafka’s novella The Metamorphosis, my favorite work of literature. If you read chapter seven of Book Architecture (BA), you can see the full grid I put together for Kafka’s work as well as a synopsis of the story to refresh your memory. For our purposes here, however, you won’t need any of that, because the point is you don’t necessarily have to have superior tools or insight before you get started on something like this. That’s why we initially do it in pencil.

You already know from the “Cut Up Your Scenes” section in chapter three of 3D that I recommend hands-on work. Getting into the material by constructing a physical series grid slows you down and forces you to think more closely about each of the choices that brought about a particular story.

Setting Up the Rows: Kafka’s Scenes

When we are setting up the rows, the easiest way to keep track at first is by noting the divisions the author has given us. In this case, The Metamorphosis is divided into three parts. Kafka weighted each of the parts almost exactly the same; each is between 31 and 34 pages long. Therefore, I think it is easiest to create the individual rows on the grid by simply dividing each part into five batches of about seven pages each. In the translation I am using (Kafka, Franz. The Metamorphosis. Trans. Susan Bernofsky. New York: W.W. Norton, 2014) the story is 98 pages long, so that’s 15 rows (p. 21–27, where the novella starts, is Row 1; p. 28–34 is Row 2, etc.).

I could also have broken up the story by scene name, which you might want to do if your work-in-progress isn’t far enough evolved to have a final order of chapters. When in doubt, break up the narrative by page numbers to simplify what can be a pretty dense process.

Setting Up the Columns: Kafka’s Series

Setting up the rows either by batches of pages or scenes—that was the easy part. How do we divide the columns? How do we choose our series? Recall that the easiest way to discover your series is simply to keep track of what repeats (an object, a person, a place, a phrase, or a relationship) and how it varies. You can pay special attention to the elements that repeat the most and/or that repeat when other series do (i.e., in key scenes and other critical moments).

In the first two columns, I put the two series of the novella that ask the most basic questions: Will Gregor Get to Work? and Gregor’s Decomposition (i.e., Is this the end of Gregor?). These questions relate to the “plot” most closely and ask the most visceral or immediate questions.

In the third column, I have charted a series entitled Job Security. In some ways, this series is the natural extension of Will Gregor Get to Work? because it lets us know what will happen if Gregor doesn’t get to work. It’s tempting to go for something bigger than Job Security, something like Hierarchy or even The Individual and the Collective. But if we are going to show—rather than tell—then a series needs to embody something sensual we can demonstrate to a reader, and which a reader, in turn, can track. Something like: Gregor hasn’t been ill once in five years, yet the first day he is even a few minutes late, the general manager shows up at his door. That doesn’t bode well.

I have put the series about Gregor’s Family’s Fortune in column four, taking my cue as to the importance of this series from the fact that there are so many iterations of it (out of a possible 15 rows, this column is filled with an event or detail 12 times). In the next column, I placed Father’s Violence. It isn’t that Gregor’s father appears so often—it is more a case of where he appears. Gregor’s father is a person who becomes a character through well-timed (and violent) iterations, at the end of both Part I and Part II.

The next column is a relationship that becomes a dynamic through repetition and variation. The Gregor and Grete series shows the relationship of these siblings changing from compassion and interdependence to increasing irritation and desperation on the part of Grete, until she deserts Gregor (and then returns to him in a bittersweet coda).

The Z-Axis

On the series grid, I chose to chart three more series: Grete’s Music, a character trait of Gregor’s sister which shows her culture and hence her desirability in the society of the time; Sister Emerges, the arc that traces the evolution of Gregor’s sister from “useless girl” to hard-won self-assurance; and the Lodgers, those intruders who room with Gregor’s family when the money gets tight. I could have chosen others: which Doors are locked, whether the Key is on the inside or the outside, Gregor’s mother’s Escapist Tendencies… you get the picture.

The series I have chosen to chart are what I believe to be the first nine in the top-down order of importance. How did I assess this? These nine series make sure that the story’s questions are never all answered at the same time; they push the action forward. What emerges is an interesting phenomenon. As you may recall from high school geometry, the vertical rows on a series grid—what we have here as a succession of seven-page batches of the story—is called the y-axis. The x-axis is the one that stretches out hori- zontally to include the nine series.

Why am I telling you this? Because following the logic that a series worth tracking has to ask a question and that, when one question is answered, another series has to ask a different one, there then exists a z-axis in addition to the x–axis and y-axis. is is actually a thing. If the x-axis is the width and the y-axis is the height, then the z-axis is the depth. On our series grid, it looks like this:

The z-axis, or the diagonal line marked by the ruler, shows how newly occurring series keep the story moving. One thing leads to another, or in the words of my colleague Renee: “Bazinga! I knew it. The diagonals had it the whole time. So, this begs the question: Do I start reconstructing important series in order to augment the diagonal? And if so, then how?”

Well, drawing a series grid is a good start. In the case of the series grid we have created for Kafka’s novella, the last point on our z-axis—that is, the farthest out on the x-axis and the farthest down on the y-axis—is the series where Gregor’s Sister Emerges. This is where the diagonal push and pull of the series grid comes to its culmination; our awareness of this is helped by the fact that the last iteration of this series is literally the last line of the book. Having disposed of Gregor and taken the day off, the family boards a tram for the country. At the end of the ride, Gregor’s sister—far from being a useless girl now—is the most energized family member when she “swiftly sprang to her feet and stretched her young body” (p. 118).

My hope is that by watching me craft an extended series grid, which is covered in smudge marks and mistakes when you look up close, you will have gained some confidence that you can do the same. You can, if you simply focus your attention on the necessary details, where, it turns out, the solutions are to be found as well.

Fifteen (More) Examples of Series

Finish Your Book in Three Drafts (3D), the third book in the Book Architecture trilogy, came accompanied by a wealth of writing know-how in the form of 9 bonus PDFs. We are opening up the vault for the first time and publishing them here: one blog at a time. Behold, PDF #3.

The more series you expose yourself to, the more easily you will recognize series in your own work. As you identify your series, I suggest you give each one a name and then assign it a type: object, person, place, phrase, or relationship.

After you have collected all of the iterations of a particular series, you can describe the repetitions and variations which it undergoes in a single sentence and identify the question that the series asks and eventually answers.

Series work goes on everywhere, from children’s books to classic literature, from modern fantasy to film. In the fifteen examples that follow (source materials are noted within each entry with a bibliographic record at the end), we will look at:

  • how an object becomes a symbol,
  • how a person becomes a character,
  • how a place becomes a setting,
  • how a phrase becomes a philosophy, and
  • how a shifting relationship becomes a dynamic.

We won’t talk a lot about events, because these are all events. Think about that, plot people.

How an Object Becomes a Symbol

#1. Corduroy’s Missing Button. This series defines the nature of the quest the teddy bear will go on in the children’s book Corduroy. Corduroy’s missing button initiates the story’s action: Corduroy goes looking for his button. It then precipitates the turning point: Corduroy tries to pull a button o a mattress, slips, and breaks a oor lamp, thereby alerting the security guard, who returns him to his floor. The button also signals the story’s ending, when Lisa sews it back on Corduroy’s overalls while speaking about unconditional love.

#2. The T. J. Eckleburg Billboard. In The Great Gatsby, the billboard of the long-retired oculist Doctor T. J. Eckleburg presides over the stop on the train line between New York City and West Egg and East Egg. Nick narrates:

The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a non-existent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved away… (p.24)

When the garage attendant, Wilson, has confirmed for himself that his wife, Myrtle, has been cheating on him with someone whom he doesn’t yet know, he sees something different in those eyes.

“I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence. “I told her she might fool me but she couldn’t fool God. I took her to the window”—with an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and leaned with his face pressed against it—“and I said ‘God knows what you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing. You may fool me, but you can’t fool God!’” (p.159)

Michaelis, a local businessman, is standing behind Wilson and sees with some shock that Wilson is:

…looking at the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale and enormous, from the dissolving night.

“God sees everything,” repeated Wilson.
“That’s an advertisement,” Michaelis assured him. (p.160)

As an object series, the T. J. Eckleburg sign becomes a proxy for nothing short of a character’s religious understanding: Nick is an agnostic, Wilson a devout believer, Michaelis a disbelieving pragmatist.

#3. The Number of Members Facebook Has. In the film The Social Network, the founding and exponential growth of Facebook is shown in terms of the number of its members, the number of schools where it is popular, and eventually, the number of countries where it is available.

Here is a series grid that shows not only the repetitions but also the variations in the Facebook Members series. Variations are crucial so that the story feels dynamic instead of cookie-cutter. We touched on Facebook’s number of members, colleges, and countries, but how about adding in a few more variants: the number of continents, who’s delivering the news about the most recent growth spurt, whether that news is delivered by a character or is visually represented, whether it is aspirational or actual, and whether or not it means anything at all in the big scheme of life.

The Facebook Members series does a good job of helping us keep track of our progress through the film. It communicates the emotional tone of the moment, and it lets us build to the scene of the “Millionth Member Party” for the film’s climax. It also lets us know what’s at stake; as one of the taglines for the film reads, “You can’t get to 500 million friends without making a few enemies.”

How a Person Becomes a Character

#4. Cameron Winklevoss, Gentleman of Harvard. Sticking with The Social Network, Cameron Winklevoss is one of two twins who row crew for Harvard—the “Winklevei,” as Mark refers to them together. These brothers live in the upper echelons of society and epitomize everything Mark wants. Mark allegedly steals their idea for a website, which results in the founding of Facebook. But Cameron doesn’t want to sue Mark until all other avenues have been exhausted, believing that that is not what a Gentleman of Harvard does. The Gentleman of Harvard series ends 80 percent of the way through the film when Cameron changes his mind: “Screw it. Let’s gut the freakin’ nerd.”

#5. Yossarian’s Naked Series. In Joseph Heller’s novel Catch-22, the Naked series begins when the main character, Yossarian, is treating Snowden’s eventually fatal wound; Yossarian strips down to help the tail-gunner, who keeps complaining, “I’m cold.”

But then Yossarian leaves his clothes off. He goes to Snowden’s funeral naked and escapes notice by climbing a nearby tree. Yossarian is still naked in the third iteration of the series when he lines up to get his medal for the Ferrara mission. His superiors try to explain to the general that a man was killed in Yossarian’s plane over Avignon the previous week and had bled all over him, and that Yossarian is naked because his uniform hasn’t come back from the laundry yet, that his other uniforms are in the laundry, and so is all his underwear.

“That sounds like a lot of crap to me,” General Dreedle declared.

“It is a lot of crap, sir,” Yossarian said. (p. 218)

The Naked series shows us a man at his breaking point better than a long discussion of a breaking point ever could.

#6. Is Snape Fighting for the Good Guys or the Bad Guys? This is such a complex series that it actually takes place over the course of all seven Harry Potter books in J.K. Rowling’s series (conventional definition of series). In book five, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix—the one that my co-author, C.S. Plocher, and I studied in a chapter of Book Architecture (BA) —we finally get a glimpse at the suspicious Professor Snape’s past and a partial explanation as to why Snape seems to have such an ingrained hatred for Harry, on account of Harry’s father. Despite these developments in book five, this series pretty much stays consistent throughout all seven books, revolving around its main question: Is Snape fighting for the good guys or bad guys?

C.S. put together this series grid to show the repetitions and variations that this series undergoes over the course of the entire multi-volume narrative—which is a lot to keep track of and why a series grid is a great idea, so that you can stay ahead of the game.

How a Place Becomes a Setting

#7. The Weather Series in “The Ugly Duckling.” If you don’t know this story, you can get the gist just by following the iterations of the Weather series. In the first two, the innocence that accompanies newborn animals is reflected in the loveliness and gloriousness of the environment. The downturn in the events that affect the “ugly duckling” is mirrored in the deterioration of the next three iterations in the Weather series: it starts as a fierce wind, which turns into the kind of sheer cold that makes one shiver, and then finally the duckling becomes so weary he is frozen fast in ice.

You may believe that influencing the reader with such effects is manipulative—yet it is exactly these parallels that enrich the texture of a narrative, similar to the physiological effect of an evocative musical score in a film. We can feel the story at a sensual level, and when the weather improves in the last two iterations, it signals to us a change in the duckling’s fate and the happy ending that will follow (Hint: He’s a swan).

#8. Hall of Prophecy. For almost all of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, the true nature of the Hall of Prophecy series is a mystery to both Harry and us. By the end of the novel, however, the series ends up being the most important one in the book—and arguably all of the Harry Potter books—as it finally reveals the inevitable outcome in the war between Harry and Voldemort.

Right from the beginning, Harry dreams over and over again of a locked door. He doesn’t know why he’s having these dreams or even what these dreams are about. Then, almost exactly halfway through the narrative, Harry has a dream that Mr. Weasley, who is sleeping in front of this locked door, gets attacked by a giant snake, and the dream turns out to be true. Soon after, Harry realizes that the door he’s been dreaming about leads to the Department of Mysteries (although he’s still unaware of the Hall of Prophecy inside of it). Harry is now aware that he’s dreaming of a real place with real dangers, and he wants to know more—even though everyone around him is urging him to close his mind to it. The dreams continue without much change until 80 percent of the way through the novel, when Harry has a dream that Voldemort is in the Hall of Prophecy and is torturing Sirius, Harry’s beloved godfather.

Harry races to the Hall of Prophecy, where he discovers that Voldemort has tricked him into coming. After a battle between the good guys and bad guys, Dumbledore finally reveals the prophecy and explains to Harry why Voldemort will never stop hunting him down. Although the Hall of Prophecy is “only” a series about setting, Rowling turns it into the reason and motivation for Harry’s actions throughout the remaining two Harry Potter books.

#9. Gregor’s Bedroom. In Kafka’s novella The Metamorphosis, Gregor, the traveling salesman, wakes up one day to find he has been transformed into a giant dung beetle. He leaves his room only once more in his life. The repetitions and variations of the Gregor’s Bedroom series include Gregor trying to get out, the general manager from his offce trying to get in, Gregor being chased back inside the one time he gets out, the door being locked from the outside, and his sister, Grete, trying to get in to rearrange the furniture—before she is rebuffed. The next time Gregor leaves his bedroom is after he dies, and the charwoman reports to the rest of his family that “there’s no need for you to go worrying about how to get rid of that mess in there. It’s already taken care of.” (p.116)

How a Phrase Becomes a Philosophy

#10. “I’ve Always Wanted.” In the story Corduroy, the lead bear reflects on the things he (thinks he) has always wanted no less than six times in a 28-page children’s book.

When you start trying to find your series, all you have to remember is repetition and variation. What do you find repeated? The I’ve Always Wanted series jumps out at us through its sheer frequency. When we look closer, however, at not only the repetitions but also the variations of this particular narrative element, we see that the philosophy of Corduroy is communicated through the use of this phrase series.

If we read the book closely (or for the tenth time to an interested young party), we see that we go from “I think I’ve always wanted to climb a mountain” and “I guess I’ve always wanted to live in a palace” to “I know I’ve always wanted a home . . . and a friend” (italics mine). These repetitions and variations create meaning; if we had to define the theme of Corduroy now based on the direction of this series, I guess we could say that it’s actually an anti-materialist screed about what’s really important in this life.

#11. The Q & A Series. In the film Slumdog Millionaire, we meet Jamal, a young man from the slums of India who works a menial job
transporting tea to workers at a telemarketing center. Jamal ends up on the Indian version of the television game show “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” The progression of questions Jamal is asked during the quiz show, the ten iterations of the Q & A series, corresponds to the increasing value of the question asked.

The questions go in chronological order (see PDF #5), which helps us keep track of where we are in the film—how close we are to the end, basically, since Jamal keeps winning. The iterations are also fairly evenly spaced out, as you can see from the scene number (out of 197) in the grid below where the iteration appears.

#12. Is Mark an Asshole? Mark is Mark Zuckerberg, the genius but socially inept Harvard student behind the founding of the now mega-social media site Facebook in The Social Network. His girlfriend at the beginning of the film is Erica Albright, a student who attends Boston University (BU). In the first scene, they break up, and Erica offers Mark this clarification:

ERICA: You are probably going to be a very successful computer person. But you’re going to go through life thinking that girls don’t like you because you’re a nerd. And I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that that won’t be true. It’ll be because you’re an asshole. (p. 10)

In the very last scene—nearly two hours later in the film—we get the second and only other iteration of this series. The scene involves Marylin, the second-year junior associate who advises Mark to settle out of court on both of the lawsuits that resulted from the explosive success of Facebook. She tells him:

MARYLIN: You’re not an asshole, Mark. You’re just trying so hard to be. (p. 163)

The second iteration in this series is more than 150 pages later in the screenplay (or 110 minutes of running time in a 120-minute movie), but it registers just as clearly as if the first iteration had been only a few pages before. There is no formula that I know of that teaches you to bookend two powerful iterations of a series this way, but it works for this film.

How a Relationship Becomes a Dynamic

#13. Erica & Mark. Erica (Albright) and Mark (Zuckerberg) are the ill-fated couple in The Social Network referred to in the previous entry. The very first scene of the film has them breaking up in a bar.

ERICA: I think we should just be friends.
MARK: I don’t want friends.
ERICA: I was being polite, I have no intention of being friends with you. (p. 9)

Erica then disappears for half the movie. When they run into each other at a club, Mark tries to apologize but Erica isn’t having it. In fact, she won’t even get up from the table where she is sitting with her friends to talk with him.

ERICA: You called me a bitch on the internet, Mark.

MARK: That’s why I wanted to talk to you. If we could just –

ERICA: On the internet. (p.78)

At the end of the film, even though Mark has become the youngest billionaire in the world, Erica—who is on Facebook—won’t accept his friend request on Facebook. As the Beatles sing “Baby You’re a Rich Man,” Mark continually refreshes his computer screen, but each time he comes up empty.

 When we put the running time in and chart each of the iterations along a series arc (for information about how to create such an arc, see PDF #8), we can see that the Erica & Mark series takes up the whole movie, with iterations at 0-5 minutes into the film’s running length, 53-55 minutes, and 1:53 minutes to the end. Three iterations, that’s it— that correspond exactly to the beginning, the middle, and the end of the film. This one series lends structure to the entire narrative.

#14. Pain and Aggression in “The Ugly Duckling.” In “The Ugly Duckling,” a Pain and Aggression series marks the main character’s interactions with pretty much everyone he comes across. They either want to kick him in the water, fly at him and bite him in the neck, push him around, or peck at him. In these four iterations of the Pain and Aggression series, nothing of importance actually changes. Instead it is an example of how repetition without variation builds the internal pressure of the story, leading the reader to seek some narrative resolution. The relentlessness of the presentation leads us to the inevitable conclusion that suffering pain and inciting the aggression of others is the natural result of the ugly duckling’s existence.

Once the repetitions have been clearly established in this way, the variations will have an even more powerful impact on the reader. The next variation occurs when the duckling is taken into the home of a peasant couple; when the children try to play with him,“the duckling thought they were going to ill-use him, rushed in his fright into the milk pan, and the milk spurted out all over the room.” This is just like life; the ugly duckling has seen this scenario unfold one too many times. He now assumes that every creature he meets will want to attack him. My wife, who is a psychologist, would say that the ugly duckling had posttraumatic stress disorder, including the characteristics of “persistent re-experiencing of the traumatic event” and “avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma.” The important thing for us to consider here is the twist in this series. Andersen knew what all good storytellers know—that each time an iteration is presented, there is an opportunity to evolve the series to which it belongs.

#15. Gregor and Grete. In the Gregor and Grete series in The Metamorphosis, we see Gregor’s sister, Grete, going through a change and thus becoming a round character. After Gregor first turns into a monstrous insect, Grete is the only one to approach his condition with a lament. When Gregor can’t seem to explain his predicament suitably to his general manager, he wishes Grete were there because she is clever and could have talked the man out of his fear.

She is the only family member who cares for Gregor, bringing him milk, which used to be his favorite drink, except now that he’s an insect, he prefers two-day-old milk and old cheese, so she brings him that instead. She even moves the armchair back to where she knows he likes it after she is done cleaning his room.

She’s really doing the best she can, until Gregor interferes with her plan to adjust the contents of his room. Gregor’s mother, who hasn’t seen him in weeks, is part of the moving team. When Gregor bursts out of hiding, his mother faints, which enrages Grete. She then raises her fist at Gregor with “a threatening glower.” Her gesture of violence, along with shouting his name—the first time she has addressed him directly since his metamorphosis—shows her allegiance transferring to the side of their father—which, if you haven’t read the novella, is not a good place to be. Remember, not all series have to improve. Even though “Americans love a tragedy with a happy ending,” according to William Dean Howells, some series can deteriorate until the point of tragedy and then stop—that’s it. Then it’s up to us, as the reader, to make some sense out of that, so that the net effect is not tragic.

Cut Up Your Scenes

Finish Your Book in Three Drafts (3D), the third book in the Book Architecture trilogy, came accompanied by a wealth of writing know-how in the form of 9 bonus PDFs. We are opening up the vault for the first time and publishing them here: one blog at a time. Behold, PDF #2.

Before you get started here you may want to watch THIS VIDEO. When I tour the country, I usually ask the audience to save all questions until the end, but this is one subject where people can’t seem to control themselves.

“You mean, you actually print the manuscript out and cut it up?”

“Is that every scene in the whole book right there?”

“I don’t have a table big enough for that!”

So I wanted to show you some real people.

This is Liz; Liz is doing it. There are her orange scissors. Closest to her in the front row are some meaty scenes, where multiple paragraphs and pages are paper-clipped together. And there, in the center of her table, are those scraps of paper she has been dragging around from draft to draft that probably belong in this pile:

We call that the detritus pile, because that is one of the nastiest words for “trash.”

We heard Biz talk about how terrifying it is to toss something out: “What if the best line ever written by a human being is somehow stuck under that pile?” Well, as Ro$hi tells Biz in one of the deleted scenes, “We don’t have anything to fear, because your creativity is inexhaustible.” Besides, forward motion cures many ills.

Here’s another example of a work-in-progress:

After Wendy cut up her scenes, she was able to move her individual scene names around with more confidence. In the foreground you can see her scene list of the good, bad, forgotten, and missing. And in the background is her outline, the one she was able to put together after her messy draft—as opposed to those complex outlines done before any work has begun that I have rarely seen truly work.

And eventually it looks like this:

This is the end of Sondra’s process in preparation for her method draft. Her scenes have been grouped and rearranged, and some have been dropped. The Post-it notes on top of each scene contain instructions that she wanted to remind herself about when she rewrote each scene.

Sondra was writing a memoir about her sister, who died of cancer. When Sondra and I met for the final time to put all of her scenes together, we convened in a room at Grub Street, Boston’s incredible writing center. There was nothing in the room at all except this one book, a poetry collection from a college writing program whose front cover simply read, “MARGIE”— which was Sondra’s sister’s name. I think we both felt at liberty to follow our instincts that day, to trust ourselves to envision the structure a little more deeply.

The Five Definitions of Scene

Finish Your Book in Three Drafts (3D), the third book in the Book Architecture trilogy, came accompanied by a wealth of writing know-how in the form of 9 bonus PDFs. We are opening up the vault for the first time and publishing them here: one blog at a time. Behold, PDF #1.

What’s the big deal about scene? Well, as a group of self-contained passages within your narrative, they are nothing less than the building blocks of your work. Finding the places where your scenes break and separating them into discrete units can help you move scenes around, divide and combine them, and eliminate them when necessary.

The most commonly heard expression in writing circles is probably “Show, don’t tell,” which means you must put us in the scene. Don’t tell us about it, don’t tell us that it happened, don’t tell us that your characters—or you as the narrator—had a certain set of feelings about it; make it happen for us as readers, as viewers.

From this we get the first definition of scene:

#1. A scene is where something happens.

If you are working in non-fiction, consider a scene to be the material that is grouped under a subhead where you have demonstrated your point, which is the same thing as making things happen. Now that you have introduced new material into the discourse, the discourse has shifted—which is what our second definition of scene is getting at:

#2. A scene is where because something happens, something changes.

These first two definitions are the only ones mentioned in Finish Your Book in Three Drafts (3D). Ro$hi and Biz fight; as a result, their dynamic changes: Ro$hi has increased respect for Biz, and Biz becomes willing to listen, at least for a little while.

As I said above, a scene is the basic measuring unit by which you will construct your manuscript. Once you have identified these units, you can determine if each scene is weak or strong, a hopeless aside, or the climactic scene, in large part by whether or not any given scene belongs to a recognizable series.

#3. A scene has to be capable of series.

You would be surprised by the number of scenes that are written which contain nothing that is repeated elsewhere—not the characters, not the place, not the ideas. Readers have a limited ability to track information, so unless you are intentionally presenting a red herring, what are these one-iteration series doing, just hanging out? The vibrant cafe owner with caustic wit but a heart of gold: Where did he go? That cabin that seemed so mysterious: How come we never went back there?

One of the series in 3D is Biz’s manuscript, that blue folder containing her sheaf of papers we first see clutched in her hand on the train. In this scene, something happens: the pencil train hits the jersey barrier of writer’s block. And because something happens, something changes: Her manuscript explodes, papers fly everywhere (just before she decides to “put the middle at the beginning, to make it more interesting”).

Later, we see the manuscript with some pages spread out as Biz writes her messy draft; we see Ro$hi take it away from her when she brainstorms her scenes from memory. Then we don’t see it much more… but we remember it, so that it strikes a chord in us when it reappears in her hands as she heads off to seek her publication fortune in the city. By the end, this object, her manuscript tucked inside its blue folder and held to her chest, has become a symbol of Biz’s finished work—or even her career as a writer. A series becomes animated (no pun intended) through scenes like these; if a scene doesn’t have any series to embody, it will likely feel flat and lifeless.

If you take all of your series and braid them together as strands, you get a strong rope, which is your theme. Because your theme is strengthened by each and every one of your series threads, which, in turn, spool out of your scenes, it makes sense that,

#4. A scene has to be in the service of the one central theme.

If all of your scenes serve the one central theme, you almost can’t miss at that point. But if you do have a scene that is not related to the one thing your book is about (because your book can only be about one thing), it has to be expandable, or it is expendable.

Finally, the fifth definition of scene is this:

#5. A scene has to have “it.”

That’s it; just “it.” I, for one, don’t think we should be above talking about things in this way. Each scene must carry with it a sense of excitement, for both the writer and the reader. A bad or forgotten scene that you decide to keep while putting together your pro- visional scenic order might have “it.” That might be why you haven’t dropped it yet. You may not know what “it” is, but you can still detect it; it resonates; you can’t quite shake it. This scene has “it”—not that it’s perfect.

Not only should we not be above talking in ways like this, sometimes I think the situation demands it. The scene where Ro$hi and Biz fight met the “it” definition for me. We almost didn’t do the scene; Ro$hi doesn’t bend that way, so that’s actually a stunt double in the video. But, if you’re going to have a character named Ro$hi—Japanese for “Zen master”—and you’re going to voice that character, I thought it would also be important that he get kneed in the nuts.