So What Makes A Story So Compelling

 

So What Makes A Story So Compelling

By Luke Mitchell (Sci-Fi author) 2023

 

I've got a question for you, today..

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What do you get when you mix a sprawling space adventure with dashes of political intrigue, daring space battles, and sinister forces seeking to topple everything and take over?

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I'd stand up and shout that you get Star Wars. Right?

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Sure.

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But isn't it also true that you maybe get Battlestar Galactica? Or The Expanse? Or the Hyperion Cantos? (Just to name a few.)

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How about when you mix some good old fashioned archaeological intrigue with evil forces bent on conquering Earth?

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Could be Indiana Jones and those pesky nazis. Could be the Michael Bay Transformers movies. To some extent, it could even be The Da Vinci Code.

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I'm not expecting any of this will strike you as a Robert-Langdon-sized epiphany.

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It's no surprise that many stories within a genre end up using similar elements, right? Or that you can even find plenty of common patterns between stories across many different genres.

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But what exactly is it that separates Battlestar Galactica from The Expanse? Or The Witcher from Game of Thrones? Or Indiana Jones from Robert Langdon?

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It's kind of a big question, and there are nearly infinite answers, ranging from "basically everything" to "almost nothing," depending on how broad or nuanced a view we'd like to take.

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Entire books could be (and have been) written about what makes a story a story, what makes it unique (yet universal), and why it is that two authors can take the EXACT same premise and outline and STILL end up with wildly different stories at the end.

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There are a ton of interesting facets to unpack here.

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But the one I want to talk about today is tone.

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... Which would normally dictate that I define what I actually mean by "tone." But I don't have an especially insightful definition to offer. Tone, in my mind, is something that's too pervasive in too many different ways from story to story to really pinpoint the breadth of it.

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It's there in the bleak, gritty aesthetic and dramatic camera cuts of Battlestar Galactica, just as it's there in Star Wars with the whimsical blaster/hyperdrive vocabulary and the mythical stature of Jedi Knights and the Light Side vs. the Dark.

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It's there in Indiana Jone's fedora-capped quips and roguish grins (and don't forget the whip!), just as it's there in Robert Langdon's tense races to delve through all that well-researched exposition in order to solve the puzzle and move deeper into the metaphorical (or actual) labyrinth before the evil henchmen catch up.

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If I had to assign a simple word or two, I'd say that tone is the mood or feeling of a story. Maybe even the texture—the unique fingerprint that distinguishes it from myriad similar (or sometimes nearly identical, as in the case between Black Panther and Aquaman) plots.

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And sure, these might just seem like surface details. The paint job that lets you recognize your car from your co-worker's doesn't actually affect what's happening under the hood, does it? (That's a serious question. How do cars work?)

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And true, in some stories, tone really does end up feeling like something that was pasted on after the fact, once all the meat of the story was already in place. (e.g. all the movies that inexplicably started throwing everyone into weird black trench coats following the wild success of The Matrix.)

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But I'd argue that, in an "effective" story, tone is actually an invaluable tool for amplifying, highlighting, and sometimes even challenging whatever themes, emotions, or points the storyteller is trying to get at.

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Tone can be a significant part of what makes a good story really feel cohesive and complete.

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Much like a well-matched character can lend serious emotional gravitas to a given plot through their growth and self-realization, a well-paired tone (as opposed to random, ad-hoc one) can make a story feel immensely more meaningful.

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And that, in my not-so-humble opinion, is a big deal.

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Imagine how much different Lord of the Rings would've felt if Frodo had been a prophesied Chosen One and Gandalf had gone running around waving a wand and casting spells willy-nilly with Latin incantations (a-la Harry Potter) rather than working the sort of deep, slow magic that we see him work when he absolutely must (and facing the toll that it so clearly takes on him when he does).

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Small details at first, maybe. But think about how they begin to seep through the entire story and erode the emotional weight of what these characters must go through to complete their respective journeys.

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(Note: this is not at all to say that I think Harry Potter lacks emotional fortitude, or anything of the sort. I love Harry Potter. I'm just offering one little example of how tone and "small details" can deeply affect the kind of emotional resonance a story might evoke.)

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Think about the last few books you read. (Especially the ones that were from markedly different genres, but gripped you all the same.)

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What drew you to those books? What was it (specifically) that you enjoyed as you read? Was there a common feeling, mood, or character archetype you can identify across all of these stories?

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When you pick up a book, do you find yourself craving a particular genre, or are you in fact seeking your favourite tone?

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WASU BECAME AN EAGLE

WASU BECAME AN EAGLE
(author Summer Grace Vanni)

”I was waiting in line for a ride at the airport. When a cab pulled up, the first thing I noticed was that the taxi was polished to a bright shine. Smartly dressed in a white shirt, black tie, and freshly pressed black slacks, the cab driver jumped out and rounded the car to open the back passenger door for me.

He handed me a laminated card and said: 'I'm Wasu, your driver. While I'm loading your bags in the trunk I'd like you to read my mission statement.'

Taken aback, I read the card. It said: Wasu's Mission Statement:

To get my customers to their destination in the quickest, safest, and cheapest way possible in a friendly environment.

This blew me away. Especially when I noticed that the inside of the cab matched the outside. Spotlessly clean!

As he slid behind the wheel, Wasu said, 'Would you like a cup of coffee? I have a thermos of regular and one of decaf.'

I said jokingly, 'No, I'd prefer a soft drink.'

Wasu smiled and said, 'No problem. I have a cooler up front with regular and Diet Coke, lassi, water, and orange juice.'

Almost stuttering, I said, 'I'll take a lassi since I’ve never had one before.'

Handing me my drink, Wasu said, 'If you'd like something to read, I have Good Housekeeping magazine, Reader’s Digest, The Bible, and a Travel + Leisure magazine.'

As they were pulling away, Wasu handed me another laminated card, 'These are the stations I get and the music they play, if you'd like to listen to the radio.'

And as if that weren't enough, Wasu told me that he had the heater on and asked if the temperature was comfortable for me.

Then he advised me of the best route to my destination for that time of day. He also let me know that he'd be happy to chat and tell me about some of the sights or, if I preferred, to leave me with my own thoughts.

'Tell me, Wasu,' I was amazed and asked him, 'have you always served customers like this?'

Wasu smiled into the rear view mirror. 'No, not always. In fact, it's only been in the last two years. My first five years driving, I spent most of my time complaining like all the rest of the cabbies do. Then I heard about power of choice one day.'

'Power of choice is that you can be a duck or an eagle.'

'If you get up in the morning expecting to have a bad day, you'll rarely disappoint yourself. Stop complaining!'

'Don't be a duck. Be an eagle. Ducks quack and complain. Eagles soar above the crowd.'

'That hit me right,' said Wasu. He continued and said, 'It is about me. I was always quacking and complaining, so I decided to change my attitude and become an eagle. I looked around at the other cabs and their drivers. The cabs were dirty, the drivers were unfriendly, and the customers were unhappy. So I decided to make some changes. I put in a few at a time. When my customers responded well, I did more.'

'I take it that has paid off for you,' I said.

'It sure has,' Wasu replied. 'My first year as an eagle, I doubled my income from the previous year. This year I'll probably quadruple it. My customers call me for appointments on my cell phone or leave a message on it.'

Wasu made a different choice. He decided to stop quacking like ducks and start soaring like eagles.

Have an eagle life ahead.....

I hope you all decide to soar like an Eagle and not quack like a duck”

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THERE IS ALWAYS A TOMORROW

 

THERE IS ALWAYS A TOMORROW

(author unknown)

My name is Tomorrow "not my real name", I own a company, none of my staff knew me as the owner except the Manager and the Secretary. (I had told them not to disclose my identity).

I don't usually go for a visit.

One day, I visited the company and I saw my Ex wife, who had thrown me out of my own house. I asked the Manager and he said she is one of their staff.

I instructed the Manager to promote her to Personnel Officer, gave her a car, a bungalow, garden boy, security and other emoluments. An undeserved position though, of which he did.

A month later, I went there as a job seeker. As soon as she saw me with my application and CV, she rejected me outright, threw my application at my face, and immediately retrieved it from the floor and tore it to pieces and threw it into the waste bin. After regaling me with all my past, she informed me I would never get employment nor an opportunity at the company. Also, she swore on heaven and the earth that all this would happen. She boldly declared that the only way I’d get employment at the company was over her cold dead body.

I came the following day with another application and went on my knees to beg her, but she refused and spat into the waste bin and said even if I was the only bridge to cross to come to work, she would opt for a boat and called the security men to throw me out, so I left.

One day, I went to the company in my real identity and entered her office with the Manager who introduced me to her, she quickly knelt down crying and begging me, "the proposed rejected bridge.” She informed me that her entire family depended on her for survival. If her employment was terminated, she added, life would be absolutely horrendous not only for her but also her entire family. She even promised to remarry me.

We both stood there motionless and speechless which left the Manager befuddled.

Many things started racing in my head. Should I call for the police? Should I strip her of her current position to her former position? Should I cancel the unqualified benefits given to her? Should I accept such a woman back?

I'm still standing at her office indecisive.

If you were in my shoes, what would you do?

THERE IS TOMORROW

Whenever you are dealing with people, you must always remember that there is tomorrow and you might need them tomorrow. You may end up needing help from the people who are asking for your help today, so help as much as you can.

Life is like a moving wheel, sometimes you are up and sometimes you are down. Sometimes we destroy the bridges that we might need to help us cross back tomorrow. Sometimes we treat people as though there is never going to be tomorrow. We sometimes act as though we will never need help from anyone. Remember there's tomorrow.

Joseph helped the cupbearer in prison and later the cupbearer connected Joseph with Pharaoh. Imagine how Portiphar's wife felt when she heard that Joseph was now the Governor of Egypt, after she had falsely accused him. The brother who sold Joseph away ended up being fed by him. Don't ever think of going to the extreme with your offenders, they might be rescuers tomorrow. Always remember that there is tomorrow and it will surely come.

The little help you give to people today, will profit you tomorrow.

May the good Lord touch your heart to live your life knowing that there is tomorrow.

In Everything You Do, Always

Remember That, There Is always a Tomorrow. and the best is yet to be

I just hope you've learnt something.

Thank You So Much For Reading Through

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THE LITTLE BOY

THE LITTLE BOY

(author unknown)

Every month Martín’s parents took a trip to see Grandma and came home on the same train the next day. One day the child said to his parents:

“I'm already grown up. Can I go to my grandma's alone?"

After a brief discussion, his parents accepted. They stood with him as he waited for the train to exit. They said goodbye to their son and gave him some tips through the window. Martin repeated to them:

“I know. I've been told this more than a thousand times."

As the train was about to leave, his father murmured in his ear:

“Son if you feel bad or insecure, this is for you!"

And he put something in his pocket.

Now Martin was alone, sitting on the train as he had wanted, without his parents for the first time.

He was admiring the landscape out the window. Around him some unknowns pushed themselves in. They made a lot of noise. They got in and out of the train car. The conductor made some comments about him being alone. One person looked at him with eyes of sadness.

Martin was feeling more uneasy with every minute that passed. And now he was scared. He felt cornered and alone. He put his head down, and with tears in his eyes, he remembered his dad had put something in his pocket. Trembling, he searched for what his father had given him. Upon finding the piece of paper he read it:

“Son, I'm in the last train car!"

That's how life is, we must let our kids go. We must let them try new things. But we always like to be in the last car, watching, in case they are afraid or in case they find obstacles and don’t know what to do. We want to be close to them as long as we are still alive.

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REFLECTION

REFLECTION (author unknown)

"My parents were married for 55 years. One morning, my mom was going downstairs to make dad breakfast, she had a heart attack and fell. My father picked her up as best he could and almost dragged her into the truck. At full speed , without respecting traffic lights, he drove her to the hospital.

When he arrived, unfortunately she was no longer with us.

During the funeral, my father did not speak; his gaze was lost. He hardly cried.

That night, his children joined him. In an atmosphere of pain and nostalgia, we remembered beautiful anecdotes and he asked my brother, a theologian, to tell him where Mom would be at that moment. My brother began to talk about life after death, and guesses as to how and where she would be.

My father listened carefully. Suddenly he asked us to take him to the cemetery.

Dad!" we replied, "it's 11 at night, we can't go to the cemetery right now!"

He raised his voice, and with a glazed look he said:

"Don't argue with me, please don't argue with the man who just lost his wife of 55 years."

There was a moment of respectful silence, we didn't argue anymore. We went to the cemetery, we asked the night watchman for permission. With a flashlight we reached the tomb. My father caressed her, prayed and told his children, who watched the scene moved:

"It was 55 years... you know? No one can talk about true love if they have no idea what it's like to share life with a woman."

He paused and wiped his face. "She and I, we were together in that crisis. I changed jobs ..." he continued. "We packed up when we sold the house and moved out of town. We shared the joy of seeing our children finish their careers, we mourned the departure of loved ones side by side, we prayed together in the waiting room of some hospitals, we support each other in pain, we hug each Christmas, and we forgive our mistakes... Children, now it's gone, and I'm happy, do you know why?

Because she left before me. She didn't have to go through the agony and pain of burying me, of being left alone after my departure. I will be the one to go through that, and I thank God. I love her so much that I wouldn't have liked her to suffer..."

When my father finished speaking, my brothers and I had tears streaming down our faces. We hugged him, and he comforted us, "It's okay, we can go home, it's been a good day."

That night I understood what true love is; It is far from romanticism, it does not have much to do with eroticism, or with sex, rather it is linked to work, to complement, to care and, above all, to the true love that two really committed people profess ".

Peace in your hearts.

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THE STORY OF A LOVER

 

THE STORY OF A LOVER

By Hutchins Hapgood

Chapter One

I was thirty years old when I saw her for the first time. We did not speak, we were not introduced, but I knew that I must meet her; I knew that love which had hitherto been gnawing in my imagination and my senses, had found an object. I fell in love at first sight. She did not see me, and I sometimes think she has never seen me since, although we are married and have lived together for fifteen years. Life had prepared me to love. I was born sensitive and passionate, and had acquired more emotion than I was endowed with. I had acquired it partly through ill-health and ignorance as a lad, and partly through an intense sex[1]imagination to which I habitually and gladly yielded. My boyhood was filled with brooding, warm dreams, and partial experiences, always unsatisfied, and leaving a nature more and more stirred, more and more demanding the great adventure. Then, in youth and early manhood, a student, a traveller, experiences came rich enough in number. The mysterious beauty and terrible attraction that woman has for the adolescent was not even relatively satisfied by my many adventures. Each left me more unsatisfied than before. My hunger for profound relationship grew so strong that all my ideas of beauty, in art, in life and in nature, seemed to be a mere comment, a partial explanation, of that which was a flame in my soul.....

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ACCEPTABLE RISK by Ronin Cook

 

ACCEPTABLE RISK

BY ROBIN COOK

(NY TIMES BESTSELLER}

 

Spurred on by the penetrating cold, Mercy Griggs snapped her riding crop above the back of her mare. The horse picked up the pace, drawing the sleigh effortlessly over the hard-packed snow. Mercy snuggled deeper into the high collar of her sealskin coat and clasped her hands together within her muff in a vain attempt to shield herself from the arctic air. It was a windless, clear day of pallid sunshine. Seasonally banished to its southern trajectory, the sun had to struggle to illuminate the snowy landscape locked in the grip of a cruel New England winter. Even at midday long violet shadows extended northward from the trunks of the leafless trees. Congealed masses of smoke hung motionlessly above the chimneys of the widely dispersed farmhouses as if frozen against the ice blue polar sky. Mercy had been travelling for almost a half hour. She’d come southwest along the Ipswich Road from her home at the base of Leach’s Hill on the Royal Side. She’d crossed bridges spanning the Frost Fish River, the Crane River, and the Cow House River and now entered into the Northfields section of Salem Town. From that point it was only a mile and a half to the town centre. But Mercy wasn’t going to town. As she passed the Jacobs’ farmhouse, she could see her destination. It was the home of Ronald Stewart, a successful merchant and ship owner. What had drawn Mercy away from her own warm hearth on such a frigid day was neighbourly concern mixed with a dose of curiosity. At the moment the Stewart household was the source of the most interesting gossip. Pulling her mare to a stop in front of the house, Mercy eyed the structure. It certainly bespoke of Mr. Stewart’s acumen as a merchant. It was an imposing, multi-gabled building, sheathed in brown clapboard and roofed with the highest-grade slate. Its many windows were glazed with imported, diamond-shaped panes of glass. Most impressive of all were the elaborately turned pendants suspended from the corners of the second-floor overhang. All in all the house appeared more suited to the centre of town than to the countryside. Confident that the sound of the sleigh bells on her horse’s harness had announced her arrival, Mercy waited. To the right of the front door was another horse and sleigh, suggesting that company had already arrived. The horse was under a blanket. From its nostrils issued intermittent billows of vapor that vanished instantly into the bone-dry air. Mercy didn’t have long to wait. Almost immediately the door opened and within the doorframe stood a twenty-seven-year-old, raven-haired, green-eyed woman whom Mercy knew to be Elizabeth Stewart. In her arms she comfortably cradled a musket. From around her sides issued a multitude of children’s curious faces; unexpected social visits in isolated homes were not common in such weather. "Mercy Griggs," called the visitor. "Wife of Dr. William Griggs. I’ve come to bid you good day." "~’Tis a pleasure, indeed," called Elizabeth in return. "Come in for some hot cider to chase the chill from your bones." Elizabeth leaned the musket against the inside doorframe and directed her oldest boy, Jonathan, age nine, to go out to cover and tether Mrs. Griggs’ horse. With great pleasure Mercy entered the house, and, following Elizabeth’s direction, turned right into the common room. As she passed the musket, she eyed it. Elizabeth, catching her line of sight, explained: "~’Tis from having grown up in the wilderness of Andover. We had to be on the lookout for Indians all hours of the day." "I see," Mercy said, although a woman wielding a musket was apart from her normal experience. Mercy hesitated for a moment on the threshold of the kitchen and surveyed the domestic scene, which appeared more like a school-house than a home. There were more than a half dozen children. On the hearth was a large, crackling fire that radiated a welcoming warmth. Enveloping the room was a mixture of savoury aromas: some of them were coming from the kettle of pork stew simmering on its lug pole over the fire; others were rising from a large bowl of cooling corn pudding; but most were coming from the beehive oven built into the back of the fireplace. Inside, multiple loaves of bread were turning a dark, golden brown. "I hope in God’s name I am not a bother," Mercy said.....

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