Million Dollar Outlines - 2013

Part 4B: What is a Story and How Does it Work?

Time and again, reading through perhaps a hundred textbooks and through my personal study, those who seriously consider plot suggest that in any opening sequence a mystery or puzzle is usually produced, one that the protagonist must resolve.

If the author doesn't resolve that puzzle—if the author leaves the ending open and lets the reader "decide," the tale is nearly always unsatisfying. The reader will not be able to relax himself—return to his original state of rest—until he gets an authoritative answer regarding the resolution. In fact, most readers will feel cheated if the question isn't answered. If you watch a murder mystery, you want to know whodunit. If you're reading a romance, you want to know if the protagonists find true love. If you're reading a historical novel, you want to find out the author's version of what really happened.

In fact, if any questions are left unanswered—as to the motivations of characters, how the protagonists tried to resolve the issues, and so on—the reader will be left agitated, and will thus be angry about the story.

Recent studies show that when we are confronted with a mystery and try to resolve it, the brain releases dopamine in order to reward us for the search. As soon as the answer to the mystery is found, the release of dopamine ceases, and serotonin gets released. In other words, we are rewarded in part just for the search, but the biggest reward comes from finding the answer.

So in the opening of every successful story, a mystery or puzzle must be produced, or no story exists at all. Somerset Maugham's little tale about the queen's death doesn't succeed as a story in part because it doesn't create a mystery.

Having said this, I have to consider whether my definition really satisfies you. On the surface, it may sound odd. Why does the story have to answer "Why?"

For example, mysteries are often referred to as "Whodunits," not "Why-dunits." When a dead body is found, the detective immediately sets out to figure out who did it.

But in order to solve the crime, the detective must meet three criteria: he must show the perpetrator's method, his motive, and that he had an opportunity to commit the crime.

Thus, when you find a multimillionaire stabbed in the middle of an airport, you may have ten thousand suspects at first. The detective doesn't need to look far for the method—the guy has a knife sticking out of his back. Nor does he have to consider the question of opportunity. Anyone in the airport has a chance at the victim. Motive becomes the central question in every case.

So a mystery is never finished until the answer to "why?" has been determined. Indeed, if you're reading a mystery and the police have a suspect without a motive, you can be sure that a new suspect will pop up shortly.

In a romance tale, we may believe that most readers are interested in sharing a vicarious love experience. But every romance writer knows that for two characters to be in love, there has to be some attraction. There has to be a reason "why" these two people love one another and get together in the end.

In adventure, it is not enough that the protagonist survive the perils thrown at him. We must answer why. It may be that he's as strong as Conan, has the True Grit of John Wayne, is as clever as MacGyver, or has more gadgets than Agent 007.

It really doesn't matter, so long as the hero has some strength, some unusual talent or determination that illustrates why he prevails.

And yet—my basic definition of a story still isn't complete. Nor is the lion story, for that matter. Something is still bothering you, if you've got a keen sense of story.