Lester D. Crawford Blog

As the name implies, the Midpoint marks the halfway point of the story and is its most significant beat. This is when the protagonist moves from being reactive to being proactive and thus is the moment that decides the ultimate fate of the story.

In my current project, Hope encounters a moment of truth at the midpoint when she has to stop passively caring for the dragon and begin being more bold with his nurturing, has to stop simply surviving and begin actively improving her life, has to stop living day-by-day and begin living for the future. This is a significant emotional moment for Hope that changes her as a person and sets her on the path to her, and the dragons, future.

Moreover, as a part of my continuous learning efforts, I learned about research into how brain changes induced by adversity can lead a person to prioritizing immediate relief over planning for a future they don’t think will be any different than the present. I realized this is why things happen that cause Hope to say, “I should have planned for this.” These events would obviously happen, but she had ignored them. Her dislike, and even fear, of change is tied to this behavior as well. The midpoint of the story is a challenge to Hope’s tendency to only think about surviving the present and not to prepare for the future. The midpoint sends Hope and the story down a new path.

Years ago, circumstances and opportunities led me to begin writing fiction. Then, I learned my technical writing skills did not transfer to writing fiction. Thus began my journey to build my fiction writing skills.

I read every book I could borrow or acquire and followed a multitude of websites and podcasts about writing fiction. I practiced by writing hundreds of thousands of words. Even as I learned and improved, I was not achieving what I felt I needed to achieve.

Gradually, my understanding and implementation of story structure improved, which boosted my confidence. The magic came when character change arcs clicked for me. That was a life changing moment. Everything I’ve written since has been driven by character change arcs.

There are several types of archetypal character arcs each of which mirrors the experiences of the various stages of a human life. The most famous archetype is the Hero’s Journey Arc. I discovered most of my stories follow the Maiden Arc, which are coming-of-age stories that touch my heart and soul.

My stories aren’t made of words and sentences. They’re made of heart and soul.

An addictive aspect of writing are moments of intense satisfaction. The right words in the right place. Perfect words that bring perfect emotions. The dopamine rush caused by these moments triggers reward-seeking behavior. I’m addicted and want to do it again.

Writing the following at the end of a scene when the baby dragon had been chasing his tail, caught it, bit it, and then needed Hope to comfort him triggered the dopamine.

Hope hugged the baby dragon. She had spent so much of her life merely surviving, she hadn’t actually lived. Now, she felt like she was living.

Sometimes, I must pause to allow my mind minions to ponder details of a scene. In the next scene, the main character is assaulted by a group of bullyboys. The scene is essential for the character to accept needing to learn skills used later in the story, and to accept that changes are coming even if they don’t want to face those changes.

The scene is difficult because I don’t like violence. However, the story requires it. Knowing that, my mind minions have given me an answer that meets the need of the scene, creates the setups for later use, and still keeps me from a fit of depression because of the violence.

I owe a lot to my mind minions. They often save the day.

As an additional note. My submission for the Speculative Literature Foundation’s Older Writers Grant made it into the second round of jury deliberations. While I don’t expect to win, the fact I made it to the second round is one of the greatest validations I’ve ever experienced. That is as good as a win.

The dragons in my stories don’t have “hoards.” They insist what they have are “collections.” The baby dragon has an instinctive desire to collect something, but I couldn’t think of what. The only source of collectables is the piles of refuse in the alley. What could he possibly find there?

Researching the subject of collecting, I created a list of 240 items, but none of them were appropriate in this context. Flagging the scene for updating later, I pushed on.

Then, as I wrote, the main character hid behind an abandoned, busted crate in the alley behind an old warehouse where many busted crates had been dumped. That’s it! My mind minions had finally come through with a solution.

Rusty nails.

When I searched the internet for “rusty nail,” I learned it’s a cocktail made by mixing Scotch whisky with Drambuie. That was all I could find about rusty nails, although I did eventually find a picture of actual rusty nails for visualizing.

I am happy the baby dragon now has something to collect.

Writing is magic.

As I expanded my main character’s backstory, I had a “creating from the heart” moment.

The character is an orphan child living in a dystopian society. She finds discarded items she thinks are useful, cleans them, and sometimes fixes them, then trades them for food. The adults accept the items and give her food. They never tell her the items aren’t actually useful.

Tears came to my eyes. I had hit something lost in deep time. I had flashbacks of doing this sort of thing in my childhood. I had forgotten. Now I remember. The memories hurt.

One of the risks of writing is sometimes you discover things about yourself. It’s moments like this, as I keep wiping tears off my keyboard, that I feel my writing is most powerful.

Writing magic burst forth superseding my plan for the first pinch point. As Eisenhower constantly said, “Plans are worthless, but planning is everything.” Plans help me prepare, but when the actual situation arises, I must be flexible and adapt.

The plan had called for the first pinch point to be a moment when the protagonist faces another obstacle trying to feed the baby dragon. She confronts the obstacle, devises a solution, and implements it. The details would come with the writing.

Then, the magic happened. As I wrote the setup, catastrophe struck. The protagonist was suddenly in peril for her very survival. Danger descended on her and she had to act to save herself. She was left traumatized. This was so much better than what I had planned.

The first pinch point is a reminder of the antagonistic force’s power to thwart the protagonist and sets up events in future plot points. There are multiple antagonistic forces in this story. This writing magic moment revealed that I was using the wrong antagonistic force, one that was not the main antagonistic force of the story.

I will adjust the plan for the midpoint and second pinch point to better align with my new understanding of the main antagonistic force, yet still have the protagonist struggling against the other antagonistic forces.

Every day, the story gets better.

I’m a planner; therefore, I plan. However, my plans are not rigid; they are adaptable.

I hit an example of this when I discovered the midpoint was wrong. Originally, the midpoint was when the main character realizes the dragon is not an animal, but he is as much a person as she is. Then, I discovered she has never thought of the dragon as anything other than a person. Instead, the midpoint is defined by the main character realizing that as she grows up, she can no longer hide in the shadows as she could when she was a child. She has to find a new way to stay unnoticed, which moves her from being reactive to being proactive.

Also, I’ve never had a well defined second pinch point. Then, I discovered this is when the main character comes into significant conflict with the mentor who had taught her how to live on the streets. He has found a way to fit into society and thinks she should join him. She has no intention of fitting into that dystopian society.

Those problems fixed, I turned to satisfying a request for a synopsis. I haven’t done one of those before. The first thing I learned is a synopsis is not an outline, so my plans do not meet that need. Instead, there is a special structure expected for a synopsis. After a little research, I was able to fulfill the request.

I feel I’m on a roll.

Symbolism is a literary device that uses one thing to represent something more abstract. I have intentionally used symbolism before in my stories, but sometimes they appear on their own. In the last month, this happened twice in my current project.

First, a picture of a baby dragon with a teddy bear inspired me to have the main character find a stuffed toy animal similar to one she had had before her parents disappeared and give it to the baby dragon. Instead, I decided to give the stuffed toy animal to the main character as the only object she has from before her parents disappeared and left her orphaned, an object that becomes a symbol of her parents. The effect was immediate and remarkable by revealing a new layer to the character’s personality and internal life, and a new method of exposition as she talks to the toy.

Second, in a scene when a teacher tests the main character to evaluate if she has lost proficiency in skills after a prolonged interruption in her training, she is asked to perform a soliloquy from a play, which meant the scene needed a soliloquy for her to perform. I explored several possibilities before settling on a speech about the character portrayed in the play being a symbol that inspires others against oppression. Even though the main character doesn’t’ know it, she is seen by others as a symbol for their own resistance to oppression. Thus, the soliloquy introduces the idea of there being such a symbol. The trick is to have that symbol drive that particular plot thread without having the main character realize she is the symbol.

This is hard work, but it’s fun.