I can’t think of a better literary lab rat than The Hunger Games (specific here to the first book in the trilogy), at least at the commercial level. This story is a glowing example of each of the Six Core Competencies in play, as well as the underlying story physics that energize a story—any story—toward greatness.
Like the Harry Potter stories, Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games trilogy broke out from a young adult niche to cross over into mainstream juggernaut territory, selling nearly thirty million copies and inspiring a blockbuster film. The film is a very true adaptation of the first book in the series, even though it adds extra scenes from a point of view not delivered in the novel.
You won’t hear me claim that this story is perfect.
Anytime a genre book reaches these heights, somebody always steps up to slam the writing. I’ve heard such comments about The Hunger Games—I don’t agree, by the way; I think it’s well written—but that level of analysis isn’t the focus of this discussion. This is about story-building craft, and on that count the novel is, if not a perfect story, at least a perfect specimen and learning tool.
It hasn’t blown up because it sucks, folks. It’s compelling and disturbing, as well as vicariously delicious.
Aesthetics are a matter of taste, and many won’t care for the violence and the fantasy elements of the story. But reading outside your own writing niche can be very helpful, especially when a story hits all the notes relative to craft, as The Hunger Games certainly does.
Here are a few things to look for as you experience this story.
Notice how context and subtext play a huge role in the reader/audience experience.
Part One (before the First Plot Point) is especially driven by the subtext of the hero’s impending and nearly certain death. She realizes she may die from square one. This informs and colors everything—every scene, every nuance, every line of dialogue—with a certain irony and a creepy flavor of fear, and it’s one of the things that emotionally penetrates early in the story. This is the author leveraging the power of story physics early on, through reader empathy.
Collins makes it easy to root for her protagonist. Katniss, the young heroine, emerges as a strong yet vulnerable character with a large amount of rootability (another realm of story physics), which is a key reason this story has resonated, particularly with younger audiences.
You may not notice it at first, but at its heart this is a love story.
In fact, that particular subtext becomes the backbone of the entire structure, over and above the exterior plot (romance writers, take note). This notion alone might pop a few story development light bulbs for you as we go through the book.
The Hunger Games is no Harry Potter, however, even though both stories take us on a trip to the dark side with elements of fantasy and, in the former case, science fiction (Hunger has both). Harry Potter’s vicarious juice is enchantment and wonder, while Hunger Games presents pure terror and a creepy sense of cultural hopelessness that echoes our own reality-television-loving society a little too closely.
The Hunger Games became a home run due in part to some accidental kismet and pure luck. Other novels, past and present, are just as good and never get a fraction of this attention, and some don’t even get published. Writing is not an exact science, and while we all plan for and seek to create a tremendous outcome, we are not anywhere close to having complete or even significant control over getting there.
Collins makes some challenging choices in her narrative strategy. She mashes her scenes together like a skillet breakfast at Denny’s (don’t mistake scenes for chapters; they are very different in this book). This is a function of time-spanning first-person narrative, wherein the narrator flashes back to things and then returns to the present, moving through her journey as a memory told to a long lost friend. You have to pay close attention to the scene strategy, but it’s there, and it works.
First-person point of view was the best and only real choice for a story like this.
Notice how (unlike the movie), the book remains true to the hero/narrator’s (Katniss) point of view for the entire journey. This limits the author, but it also empowers a deeper dive into what things mean and what they could mean, and creates a sense of fear, anger, paranoia, and hope that is as much subtextual as it is sometimes right on the nose.
The subtext in The Hunger Games infiltrates and informs virtually every scene, thereby elevating dramatic moments into something more than simply eating on a train or sleeping in a tree or schmoozing with a freaky television host as part of the Game’s pageantry. Impending darkness, death, distrust, and terror are always right below the surface, always unspoken. This alone imbues the story with one of the key elements of story physics: reader empathy. We are scared for Katniss from the moment she steps forward as a Tribute.
And thus we root for her because of who she is (her courage is quickly displayed when she steps forward to save her sister). She deserves our empathy.
Katniss is, in all probability, going to die. Horribly. She knows it, and everybody else knows it. And she’s going to kill others before that happens. She will kill children who, like her, don’t deserve to die. This, too, enlists our empathy and engages us from a dark and complex emotional place.
One of the creepiest elements of the subtext is that these actions—the killing she will do and her own impending death—are precisely the point. They are the delicious inevitability and largely hopeless stakes of the Games. They sate the lust and fascination of a society that is just like us—which is yet another genius dose of subtext at a thematic level.
But the real killer subtext in this narrative, alongside the more thematic ones, is her unfolding relationship with Peeta. In fact, this is the expositional spine of the structure—you may be surprised to hear that, but I’ll show you—and it becomes the heart and soul of the story itself.
Titanic was more about a relationship than a sinking ship. The ship and the dire situation were pure subtext. The outcome of that was never in doubt.
Same with The Hunger Games. This story is also more about a relationship than an impending disaster. In both cases it is the danger, the proximity of death, and the impact of fear that become the driving empathetic essence (an element of story physics), and in Collins’s case, the primary source of dramatic tension.
The danger is a catalyst for an unfolding relationship. If that budding relationship had taken place outside of the Games, it would have been dull as soap opera dirt. But here in the arena it is deeply compelling at a level only story physics can empower.
I ask you, did you ever for a moment consider that Katniss might die? No. It’s a trilogy, and the hero never dies in a story like this. So that’s not the primary source of tension. Which leaves … what? The answer: How she’ll survive, which is completely linked to Peeta, because he is positioned as potentially dangerous to Katniss—especially in her own mind—from the moment his name is called as a Tribute.
Maybe subtext isn’t something you’ve noticed as a reader, but it is certainly something you need to understand and command as an author. It is all-powerful in storytelling, and in The Hunger Games it is the very thing that sparks reader empathy.
And as a result, it showcases a masterpiece of reader manipulation.
Collins uses a flowing, organic first-person narrative in this story, which defines her scene strategy. The book, unlike the movie, is 100 percent from Katniss’s point of view, which puts a fence around what is shown to the reader. It makes the delineation of scenes—separating one from the next—tough to call, because they flow into each other seamlessly, with vague transitions or none at all. When one of these segments has no real expositional mission but flows into one that does, I consider that a single scene (the first is a “setup” moment for the next). So this scene breakdown is imprecise, though each time and place shift (the criteria for a new scene) is noted.
Also note—and don’t be confused by—the fact that Collins’s structure of titled “parts” within the novel do not align with the dramatic paradigm of the four-part structure, at least in terms of chapter and part numbers. Dramatically, however, they are totally in sync with the model. The dramatic contextual parts, the plot points, and the character arc are all right where they should be, despite her chapterization and part labels. Whether she planned this or it came about as a result of her very well-developed sense of story optimization, we can’t say. It doesn’t matter though, because this is how a professional structures an optimally effective story, no matter how she got there.
One final note before the Beat Sheet: Ask yourself, as you read this, if you think Collins prepared this sequence of scenes, perhaps at the high level of detail presented below, before she wrote a draft. The truth is, we don’t know … but she could have. Which means you can do this, too, prior to writing a draft (it’s basically creating the entire arc of the story beforehand). Or, after a draft, you can summarize it this way with a view toward determining what needs to change in the next draft.
Either way, a completed Beat Sheet tells a whole story. And when that story works at this level, the odds of completing a successful draft are significantly improved.
Here we go. …
6. A continuation of the moment of Prim’s selection (this is an example of using chapterization to create emphasis or a “cut and thrust” into the next scene). Katniss quickly steps up to volunteer thus saving her sister (which wouldn’t work emotionally if those first five setup scenes hadn’t existed). We meet Haymitch (the only previous Games winner from District Twelve). Peeta is chosen as the other District Twelve Tribute. (All of this is delivered in one scene. You could validly argue these are multiple expositional points that, by definition, become their own scene.)
7. Flashback to her first encounter with Peeta, where he discretely throws her bread … establishes her initial context for the ensuing relationship, and we also meet Peeta’s father. (This is critical setup and foreshadowing, because the story ultimately becomes about Katniss’s relationship with Peeta.)
8. Back to the reaping ceremony, where Katniss and Peeta are presented to the crowd. Katniss realizes that to win, she’ll have to kill him if someone doesn’t do it for or before her. (Important context: The only person having fun here is Effie, her handler for the Games. This is important foreshadowing of the city we’ll soon visit.)
9. A series of emotional farewells from family (stakes and empathy), Peeta’s father (who kindly gives Katniss some cookies for their journey), and finally Gale (prospective love interest; provides conflict in unfolding relationship with Peeta), who encourages her to make a bow in the wild to use as a weapon. Katniss is certain she’ll never see any of them again, just as she is sure Peeta must die if she is to win (reader empathy and tension established). You could argue that each of these farewells is a separate scene, though Collins narrates them as a single episodic scene.
10. The train ride to the Capitol city. Collins uses this to give us specific background about the Games. Katniss and Peeta see a video about the Tributes from the other Districts, thus showing us the antagonists who will face them in the forest. Continued dynamics with her handlers, Effie and Haymitch. Continued tension with Peeta, who is enigmatic (we don’t know his intentions at this point, because all of this is told from Katniss’s first-person point of view).
11. Still on the train, we see Peeta caring for Katniss (what’s his game?), which causes her confusion and skepticism. She resists getting close. As a metaphor for her quiet declaration of independence (and opposition?) to Peeta, she throws the cookies Peeta’s father had given her off the train.
12. Another flashback scene showcasing her skills as a hunter with a bow. We learn the backstory of her family, specifically her father’s death and her mother’s crippling reaction to it, casting Katniss into the lead role as provider for the family.
13. Back on the train … Haymitch continues to prep Katniss and Peeta with advice on how to survive the opening minutes in the arena Cornucopia. His advice: Run in the opposite direction.
14. A narrative bridge … Katniss reflects on all of this information as the train arrives at the Capitol. She realizes and believes that Peeta is already playing the Game and strategizing, and that his kindness is his attempt to position himself to kill her when the time comes.
15. They are prepared for their introduction to the people. Her stylist, Cinna, is introduced and seems to be an ally. He talks about Katniss’s costume and helps with her strategy: Katniss and Peeta will be presented as a united front. Peeta is all smiles and helpful.
16. The parade of Tributes for the citizens … Peeta and Katniss are presented in flaming (literally) uniforms. This is a key moment in the story, in which the two are deliberately pitched to the crowd as a team (which everyone knows might result in one killing the other). Peeta takes her hand, as if he buys into this.
17. The immediate aftermath … the flames are extinguished. We hear Katniss’s interior monologue: So this is how it is. Peeta is luring her in, making her vulnerable. The closer he is, the more dangerous he will be.
At the final moment in the scene, Katniss finally buys in to the strategy and returns the gesture of affection. She kisses Peeta on the cheek, “right on his bruise.” It’s on. Her journey just changed, shifting into a higher gear. She’s now strategizing. She’s in survival mode. For her, the Games have finally begun. (This occurs on page 72, at the 19.4 percent mark, almost exactly at the optimal twenty percent target milestone.)
This is the First Plot Point. The Part One setup is over … we now move into Part Two, in which the overall context driving the mission of these scenes is how Katniss responds and reacts to her new quest. Notice how all the scenes in Part Two align with this context.
18. A lot of orientation for us and for Katniss … with further insight into the politics of the Game (sponsors, favorites, etc.). Here the author introduces the other Tributes. Katniss isn’t encouraged by what she sees. A theme of social/class prejudice, already on the table in this story, now comes into play.
19. At dinner with the District Twelve “team” Katniss sees a servant girl (a muted criminal) that she thinks she recognizes. This is a catalyst for Peeta to step forward and have her back, which confuses Katniss further. Is it strategy or true friendship? She’s sure it’s the former, yet she has her first hint of doubt.
20. Talking with Peeta and the mute servant girl after this dinner (which includes a scary explanation from her handlers that contributes to the stakes). Peeta lied for her and had her back, because it would be dangerous for Katniss to admit she knows the girl.
21. A flashback to when she really did run into the girl while hunting in the woods with Gale. The girl was victimized by the Peacekeeper forces.
22. After the flashback, Peeta talks about his recollection of Katniss back home, and how he gave her the bread that day.
23. A short scene in which Katniss goes back to her room. The mute girl is there, distant. Katniss is guilty—out of fear, she had watched the Peacekeepers kill the mute girl’s friend and then mutilate the girl herself, just as if Katniss was watching the Games. Just like the people who will watch her suffer and die. She wonders if this girl will enjoy watching that happen.
24. The next morning, Katniss prepares for the day, her first in her training. She eats alone, remembers home.
25. Peeta and Haymitch arrive. Peeta is dressed identical to Katniss for the introduction of the Tributes. Haymitch offers to coach them separately. They discuss their respective skills. Peeta is supportive of Katniss. Haymitch agrees with him—people will be clamoring to help her. Haymitch instructs them to stay together always, in and away from training. This is strategy, the only thing that will keep them alive.
26. Training begins. She sizes up the other Tributes, now out of their intro uniforms, and finds some of them intimidating, especially the boy from District Two (a “Career,” bred for the Games since early childhood) … more foreshadowing. The Gamekeepers show up to observe. We learn about eating protocol, which is tied to politics (deliberately like a high school clique). She and Peeta are grateful to not be alone. (This is a time-spanning scene that delivers several periods of the day, an example of time compression within a single scene.)
27. Second day of training. We meet Rue (who will be a player in this story later).
28. Later they review the day’s events with Haymitch and Effie.
29. Katniss and Peeta are alone, and Katniss finds herself laughing with him. She catches herself and tells him they should stop pretending when they are alone, rejecting him and the strategy… she knows it’s all just part of the Game.
30. Third day of training. Katniss tries to impress the Gamekeepers with her bow-shooting skills. They seem not to notice, which angers her. She shoots an arrow into their midst, momentarily terrifying them. She has their attention now. (A genius scene idea, by the way.)
31. Alone afterward, Katniss reflects. She’s sure she’s made a fatal error.
32. At dinner her act is discussed. Haymitch is supportive.
33. After dinner they gather to view the scoring (results from the training). She gets an 11, the highest score of all. She’s now the favorite to win, which she knows will put her in the bull’s-eye of the other Tributes.
34. A flashback of the day she met Gale connects to her proficiency with the bow and hunting (giving her and us a sense of hope).
35. Moving forward in time, Katniss realizes that she feels for Gale.
36. The next morning, Katniss is greeted with the news that Peeta has requested to be trained separately from now on.
37. Katniss feels betrayed but glad the “strategy” and the charade are over. She meets with Effie to talk about wardrobe.
38. She meets with Haymitch to talk strategy, now that she’s the favorite. Haymitch believes gaining favor with the people is an advantage, as they (through sponsors) can send help to her in the Games. Peeta’s strategy is to be “likeable,” and Haymitch reminds her that she’s not. She needs a story.
39. The next day, with Cinna, her stylist. Her training with Effie and Haymitch is over. Haymitch dresses her, tries to cheer her up, and coaches her toward being more likeable. He wants to be considered a friend.
40. A press conference, televised. Haymitch tells Peeta and Katniss they must continue to present themselves as a couple, which Katniss doesn’t like. Caesar, the host, interviews the other Tributes, while Katniss sizes them up. She nails her own interview and establishes herself as a crowd favorite. When Peeta is interviewed, he makes it clear that they’re a couple, and that he’ll die before she does.
41. Peeta is still being interviewed. He’s affirming this as a love story between them, one that she (Katniss) wasn’t aware of … until now. Hearts flutter.
42. As the Tributes are transported back to their quarters, Katniss confronts Peeta, outraged by what he said during the interview. They debate this with Haymitch, who says she’s just been helped. Peeta has given her a much stronger chance at survival, because now people love her. They will root for her, and sponsors will step up.
43. The Games begin the next morning. Effie and Haymitch say their farewells, though they’ll continue working on their behalf to line up sponsors (this is important foreshadowing). Haymitch gives last-minute critical advice: Run away from the opening confrontation at the Cornucopia, which is a blood bath.
44. Katniss can’t sleep. She goes to the roof, reflecting on it all. Peeta is there, too, doing the same thing. He’s resigned to dying; he wants to die as “himself.” They discuss how the Gamekeepers can manipulate the Games from behind the scenes to achieve the most popular outcome (foreshadowing).
Note that the First Pinch Point occurs in this scene, on page 141, almost exactly at its target point at the thirty-seventh to thirty-eighth percentile mark. This story is densely populated with many pinch-point moments (when the antagonistic force comes front and center for the reader, reminding us of what’s at stake), but notice how this moment is different: It relates to the depth of the characters’ most inner selves, the desire to not give in and to die as themselves, which will be their only victory. You’ll notice later how the other Tributes turn into blood-lusting sadists in the arena … while our heroes will die before they allow themselves to sink that far. It all comes front and center in this scene.
45. Cinna prepares Katniss to enter the arena. In a warm exchange, he gives her Prim’s mockingjay pin (foreshadowing, both for this and subsequent books) as she enters the chute and hears the announcement: The Games have begun.
46. Katniss is elevated into the arena. The Tributes await the opening horn. She considers going in, trying to score a weapon. When it sounds … she runs as fast as she can away from the Cornucopia, where weapons await, and where half the Tributes will die within the first few minutes. She does exactly as Haymitch advised. (Interesting note here: This is perhaps the biggest expositional transition in the story, and yet it is not one of the major story milestones. Why? Because we’re still in Part Two, which began right after the First Plot Point. The mission-driven context of the story hasn’t changed, and she’s still in response mode to the subtextual contrived relationship with Peeta and the Games themselves. Only when she turns into a proactive attacker will Part Three of this story be underway.)
47. She does decide, however, to snatch up some supplies and reverses ground to get a backpack. She has to fight for it, but her adversary is killed from behind. She’s next. A knife is thrown, but it lodges in the backpack, now hers to use. She runs.
48. Katniss flees through the woods. Later, she hears the cannons sounding, indicating the number of dead Tributes: Eleven, nearly half. She wonders if Peeta is among them and is not sure how she feels about it. At least she won’t have to kill him if he has already died. She stops and inspects the pack, hoping for water. No luck. Twilight is coming. She sets some traps to get food.
49. It’s night now, and Katniss is perched in a tree, strapped in. The death recap is broadcasted into the sky holographically, showing her who has died and who hasn’t. Peeta is alive, and so are five Careers. And Rue. She isn’t aware that she’s dozed off.
50. She’s awakened by snapping sounds nearby and sees a pack of aligned Tributes. She hears them kill another Tribute and hears their conversation—they’re after her. To her surprise and horror, Peeta is among them.
51. The pack of Tributes is right below her. They send Peeta back to the Tribute they killed to look for supplies, and they consider killing him now. They decide not to, as he’s their best chance of finding her.
52. Dawn. The pack moves on. Before Katniss can get out of the tree, a hovercraft appears to fetch the body of the girl the pack killed the night before.
53. Katniss runs, hunts, and tries to find water. She knows she’s being televised, and that the viewers are rooting for her and/or rooting for her death. She tries to impress them. She feels weak and sick. She almost eats deadly toxic berries. She climbs a tree for the night.
54. Morning. She feels worse and needs water. She considers the lake near the Cornucopia and sets off.
55. She finds mud, which means water, and then finds a pond. She slowly drinks, eats a rabbit, and rests. Night comes and she climbs a tree and sleeps. She is awakened suddenly … by a wall of fire.
56. She flees the fire and considers it all as she runs, realizing the Game has changed and the odds are being manipulated offstage. Her leg is burned badly. The fire ceases, and quiet returns. She rests, feeling helpless, until dawn.
57. She bathes in the small pond, washing away blood and assessing the damage. Fatigue overcomes her and she dozes off.
58. She’s awakened when the pack that includes Peeta finds her, but she has time to hide. She climbs a high tree, but they stop directly beneath her. Resigned to her death, she calls down to them with a mocking tone, playing to the television audience. They try to climb after her, but can’t make it. One girl shoots an arrow and misses; the arrow is now hers. They decide to leave her until morning, striking a camp at the base of her tree.
59. Then she hears something, not from the ground, but to the side, up in the next tree. It’s Rue, who has seen the whole thing. Rue points to something, signaling her help. Katniss is no longer alone.
The next scene is the Midpoint. This new context has changed the story. It transforms Katniss from the responder that she has been into a proactive attacker of her problem.
This happens on Page 185 … at 49.5 percent of the story’s total length, almost precisely on target. (I can’t be sure if it was Collins’s awareness of this principle or her killer story instincts that caused her to be this closely on target. What matters most is that it happens as it does, almost precisely according to the structural principles being defined here, and the effectiveness of the story attests to the power of the story physics being employed. Less effective stories are usually those that play loose with both structure and story physics.)
60. Rue has shown Katniss a hive of deadly genetically engineered wasps hanging directly over the sleeping pack below. If Katniss can cut it, allowing it to fall on them, she’ll have a chance. But doing so without getting stung herself will be nearly impossible. She waits until the nightly anthem plays over the arena loudspeakers to mask the sounds of her cutting, using the knife from the Cornucopia attack.
61. The anthem finally sounds, and she begins to cut. But with her injuries it is too painful and slow—it’s not going to work. (Notice how, very literally, she’s not running here, but attacking. This is the contextual difference between Parts Two and Three: the shift from responder to attacker.)
62. Then she notices that something has been delivered to her, resting on her bag in the tree. It’s a salve from Haymitch, which will heal her wound very quickly. Her pain vanishes immediately.
63. She returns to cutting loose the hive of wasps but is stung in the process. She knows this will result in great pain and possible hallucinations, but she keeps at it … and the hive finally falls. The pack panics and runs, but two of the girls are stung to death. Katniss is alone and safe … for now. But she’s already feeling the effects of being stung herself.
64. She descends and finds a bow next to the body of the newly dead pack girl. The warrior now has a weapon, the weapon of her choice.
65. But the poison stings overcome her. She falls, just as one of the hunters arrives … but it’s Peeta. He tells her to run, saving her after all.
66. She flees in a poisoned haze, just as one of the Careers almost reaches her. She falls into a nest of stinging ants and passes out.
67. Katniss awakens in agony. As she comes to her senses, she flashes back to a discussion with Gale, debating on leaving the District. They should have left. Then she remembers she has the bow, her strong suit. She has a chance.
Note how she thinks to herself that having the bow gives her “an entirely new perspective on the Games,” which is precisely the purpose of the post-Midpoint scenes. Not a coincidence.
68. Rue comes to her as she tends to her wounds and refreshes with water from the pond where she’s woken. Rue wants an alliance and tends to Katniss’s stings with some medicinal leaves she has. Katniss shoots game, and they eat.
69. Rue tells Katniss that the “sunglasses” in her pack are actually for night vision. They decide they need an offensive (attacking) plan.
70. The death cannon wakes them. There are eight Tributes left, including Peeta, wherever he is. They decide to raid the Careers’ food stash so they hatch a plan. They’ll use the mockingjays to communicate from a distance.
71. They separate to implement their plan, an attack on the Cornucopia fortress where the pack is stockpiling their booty from the kills they’ve made.
72. Katniss reaches the Cornucopia and assesses the situation. She sees the booby traps and overhears the Careers talking about her, their rage and intent to kill her—slowly. (That is a deliberate touch by the author to ratchet up the dramatic tension and stakes.)
73. She finally sees her opportunity and takes it, shooting an arrow into the stockpile and releasing apples, which tumble onto the surrounding land mine. The whole thing blows up.
74. Aftermath of explosion … Katniss wants to flee, but she’s dazed. Another blast knocks her down again. She hides as the Career pack returns to the devastated pile. She remains overnight to wait this out and seek her next opening.
75. She wakes in the morning and sees one of the girls going through the pile, laughing. The others are gone for now.
76. Katniss returns to where she and Rue separated, climbs a tree to wait for Rue to return, eats, and waits.
77. After a while, she goes to the next agreed-upon meeting place. Soon she hears a scream and runs toward it. Rue is in a net. Just as Katniss gets there, a spear pierces Rue’s body. (Note: This is the Second Pinch Point, on page 232, which marks the sixty-second percentile mark, the optimal target for this moment. This is the first time Katniss must directly kill another combatant, and both she and the reader directly experience the darkness of the circumstances—which is the mission of a pinch point—as Rue’s fate is sealed.
78. Katniss quickly shoots the boy who threw the spear. She sings a comforting song to Rue as she dies (hero empathy). Katniss reflects on Rue and her own progress within the Games so far. She decorates Rue’s body so the Gamekeepers will show it and leaves the spear embedded in it so that the Careers can’t use it later. The hovercraft comes for Rue’s body. (This is a single scene consisting of a sequence of connected events, all aligned under a single scene mission.)
79. Katniss regroups, staying in hiding. A tiny parachute arrives with a loaf of bread. It’s from Rue’s district, in gratitude. She climbs a tree and settles in for the night. The evening anthem shows the dead for that day: Rue and her killer. Six Tributes are left.
80. She returns to the site of Rue’s third fire, consolidates supplies, and waits. She kills some birds and eats, then goes to the water source and camps. It’s an uneventful day. She reflects on the boy she killed.
81. And then the unexpected happens: She hears an announcement from the Gamekeeper over the public address, stating that a rule change has been made: If two Tributes from the same district survive as the last two standing, they will be declared co-winners. She calls out Peeta’s name.
Again, don’t be fooled—this isn’t a Plot Point along the dramatic and character arcs. It’s new information, certainly, and a new subtext for Katniss. This is an example of an author inserting as many twists, subtext shifts, and plot turns as she wants, which doesn’t negate the overall four-part, context-driven model or the major milestones that separate them. One of those milestones—the Second Plot Point—is still to come.
82. Katniss is happy at this news, which fills her with hope. Peeta’s love story strategy has worked after all. She reflects on it all, then goes to sleep.
83. She begins looking for Peeta, sees blood, and follows the trail. She finds him hiding in camouflage (which was foreshadowed back at the Training Center). He’s injured. He cracks a joke about her kissing him. She rolls him into the stream to clean him up and feeds him. He makes another kiss comment.
84. Katniss moves Peeta into a cave to hide. She kisses him to get him to stop talking about dying. It’s her first kiss … ever. Haymitch sends food, as if to encourage them to keep this up, because the audience will love it.
This entire chapter plays like one long scene, with no discernible breaks. You could argue there are several scenes here, but that’s not a critical call, provided one sees what’s going on strategically. It’s written as a time compression, a narrative device Collins uses frequently to rapidly move the story forward. She’s trying to achieve pace and exposition.
I’ve broken this chapter into four scenes here to show how the mission of the story beats changes and evolves.
85. Katniss cares for and feeds Peeta, then sleeps. When she wakes, she checks his leg, which is worse. She feeds him again and tells a story from the past.
86. An announcement is made: A backpack with essential supplies awaits each Tribute at the Cornucopia. It’s a ploy to force the combatants together. Peeta and Katniss argue: He wants her to stay with him, fearing she’ll be killed. She wants to go, because they need those supplies.
87. Haymitch sends medicine to speed Peeta’s recovery.
88. Katniss drugs him with some berries she knows will knock him out. She’s free to go.
89. Katniss prepares for her trip to the Cornucopia. She visualizes people at home in District Twelve rooting for her and heads out into the woods.
90. She arrives at the staged scene and sees the waiting backpack. As she watches, one of the other Tributes dashes out, grabs a pack, and runs off. This inspires Katniss to go for it.
91. But she’s sideswiped by yet another Tribute (Clove, a knife specialist), who pins her down, taunts her about Peeta, and prepares to kill her.
Just in time, Thresh, Rue’s district mate, pulls Clove off her. He’s furious at Clove, believing it was she who killed Rue. He kills her. He then turns to Katniss and says he’ll let her live—a one-time pass—for her kindness to his friend Rue. (Notice that for this to work, the author would need to make sure the reader saw Thresh and Rue as friends earlier in the story.)
92. She returns to the cave. She has a syringe full of the city’s best medicine to cure and save Peeta. She administers it, then falls asleep. They have new hope. She and Peeta will now be a team, after all.
This change in the story—the Second Plot Point—sets the stage for a final countdown, then a showdown. Something had to happen to change the course of Katniss’s quest and her relationship with Peeta (which has from the beginning been the spine of this structure), and this is it. This is on page 297 … the seventy-ninth percentile, very close to being right on cue.
93. Katniss wakes in the cave, delirious from her injuries sustained at the Cornucopia. Peeta, now healed, nurses her. They have a rambling discussion about the situation, Thrash and Cato, and one of them needing to die to save the other. In her inner dialogue, Katniss doesn’t want to lose Peeta now (this is the mission of this scene, but it needed to occur organically in context to their discussion). They kiss, but this time it’s different.
94. Later that evening, they return to the topic of their suddenly real romance. Then a parachute delivery comes … a feast. They assume it’s from Haymitch as a reward and sign of approval of their new level of love for each other. This was his strategy and hope all along.
95. More banter about their relationship, playing to the audience. They ponder how Haymitch won when he was a Tribute and consider life back at home if they survive as a winning couple. They eat more and gather their strength.
96. They finally leave the cave to hunt for food. They talk about cheese missing from Peeta’s stash outside the cave. The cannon sounds, the hovercraft comes to pick up the body of the other lone girl survivor (Foxface); she’s eaten the poisoned berries (from earlier foreshadowing) Peeta had stashed.
Katniss tells Peeta the berries are poisonous; he would have eaten them himself at some point. They plant the berries in a pouch and leave it behind in the hope that Cato will find them and eat them, too. They light a fire to try to draw him close, knowing he’s looking for them. Soon they decide to return to the cave.
97. Katniss contemplates where she and Peeta are at this point. (Notice how much of the narrative, especially here in Part Four, is inner dialogue, which allows us to experience both her fear and her courage as she considers options … as well as her deepening feelings for Peeta. This is the mission of this and several other scenes in this section.)
98. They return to the lake for water, but the Gamekeepers have dried up other water sources; they are forcing a final showdown with Cato, who appears to them now (the mission of this scene). But he’s running from something: A pack of wild wolflike creatures (genetically engineered “muttations”) has been chasing him … and now they’re chasing down Katniss and Peeta as well.
99. Katniss, Peeta, and Cato run to the safety of the Cornucopia, climbing to the top of the structure where the muttations can’t reach them. Peeta has lagged behind, and Katniss must help him up before the muttations tear off his legs. Upon closer examination, Katniss realizes these muttations are, in fact, the actual life forces of the dead Tributes. (This little twist isn’t in the movie, which treats the muttations with more focus and a different approach; in the book the dogs are a metaphor for the Gamekeepers turning these children against each other.) They reach Peeta as he’s climbing, and he kills one with his knife.
100. Cato, who has been reeling from his own injuries, gets Peeta in a death headlock. They square off. Katniss draws an arrow and aims at his head. A stalemate: If she shoots him, both he and Peeta will fall into the open jaws of the muttations who await at the base of the Cornucopia.
Katniss shoots an arrow into his hand, and Peeta gets free just as Cato falls into the pack of vicious mutts. She grabs Peeta and saves him from falling.
101. Cato is fighting off the mutts in a bloody confrontation.
102. Cato’s fight and death take a disturbingly long time, much to the delight, Katniss assumes, of the television audience. As this happens, Katniss cares for Peeta’s wounds while still atop the Cornucopia.
103. At dawn, there’s enough light for Katniss to see Cato, still barely alive. She uses her last arrow to end his suffering. The mutts disappear into a hole in the ground. Katniss and Peeta have won the Hunger Games.
104. Or so they think. The Gamekeepers announce that they’ve changed their minds, and that the earlier rule revision has been revoked: Only one Tribute can win after all. (How much do we hate the people behind all of this? That hatred is part of the appeal of the story, and the author prompts us to feel that hatred frequently, along with our empathy for Katniss.)
105. Katniss and Peeta discuss this new twist and come up with an idea. They won’t let the Gamekeepers win. Using the berries, they’ll commit simultaneous suicide (setting up a possible Romeo and Juliet outcome). They have every intention of following through … Katniss actually puts the berries in her mouth. This is no bluff.
The Gamekeeper suddenly, urgently, orders them to stop … and announces that the two of them have just won the Hunger Games.
Katniss and Peeta, however, have won more than that, and they have defeated more than the other Tributes in doing so.
106. The hovercraft comes for them, and they are taken back to the Training Center for medical treatment and rest. Katniss narrates her inner feelings the entire time, contemplating what this means.
107. She gets closure with the mute servant girl she had recognized earlier. It turns out the girl didn’t wish her dead after all. Humanity resides with the meek and oppressed, not the oppressors. (Note: This isn’t in the film version.)
108. Time passes and Katniss heals. (This isn’t really its own scene, but simply a part of the time compression narrative strategy applied here, which can play as if it’s a scene in a narrative sense, since it bears a single mission.)
109. She finally reunites with her team. Cinna prepares her to be presented to the people through another televised event. She is still a product to be used by the Gamekeepers, who want to alter her physically through surgery, giving us our first sense that Katniss is not out of the woods.
110. Haymitch warns she is still in danger. She’s beaten the Game and in the process humiliated the Gamekeepers and the President. They will try to get even with her and punish her in some way. His counsel is to make sure she explains that her actions were motivated by her love for Peeta, and to go nowhere near the politics and her need to defy and beat the Gamekeepers.
111. Katniss decides that this is actually worse than being hunted in the arena.
112. We are shown the televised documentary hosted by Caesar (who couldn’t be any creepier). The program includes video footage of Katniss’s journey, hitting the highlights. Katniss notices they omit anything that could be perceived as rebellion (such as her covering Rue’s body with flowers; this is a statement on Big Brother politics and media spin).
Katniss and Peeta are taken to the President’s celebratory dinner gala. Haymitch is there, and he has Katniss’s back. (This is a one-paragraph aside—not a separate scene—before Katniss moves us forward to her next experience.)
113. It’s time for her interview with Caesar. After a brief greeting from Peeta (who is concerned because it seems the Gamekeepers are keeping them apart), they are on the air, sitting together. The context of their answers to all of Caesar’s questions and prompts is that of their great love for each other and how this love allowed them to survive and ultimately triumph.
114. Peeta reveals he’s been fitted with a prosthetic leg (which explains why they had been kept apart; Katniss had no idea). In the end, the final moment is all about love, a perfect P.R. ploy for the Games. Katniss and Peeta hang between the truth and the illusion and pander to this expectation in order to save themselves long enough to get back to District Twelve.
115. During the journey home, Haymitch assures them that they barely dodged a bullet with the Capitol, who thought the stunt with the berries was rebellious.
116. Peeta realizes Katniss’s affection toward him in the arena was, after all, just a survival strategy. Now that it’s over he senses her distance, something Katniss can’t completely refute. She’s confused about her own feelings now that she’s going home.
117. There remains one more parting shot for the television audience. They manage one final, somewhat forced, gesture of unity for the crowd.
The remainder of this story analysis refers to various milestones in the story. I recommend you use this beat sheet to fit each milestone in its proper narrative place.
For now, though, take an inventory of how the story physics worked for you, and how the structure and narrative strategies played to the power of those forces. Notice how the story was told in major blocks: Katniss at home (the Tribute selection and flashbacks) … transport to the Capitol city … training and preparation … opening of the Games and Katniss’s initial period of running … her alliance with Rue and attacking … Rue’s death and Katniss’s reunion with Peeta … their attack on the Cornucopia, leading to the showdown with Cato … and the aftermath of the Games.
As a writer looking to plan a story, this is precisely what you can do to make it happen. Create the narrative blocks, then juxtapose them to (and integrate them with) the contextual four-part sequence: setup … response … attack … resolution. When you apply the Six Core Competencies as tools to define the elements of the story (you need to cover these four bases: concept, character, theme, and structure), and then keep the ever-present potential of story physics in mind as you finalize your scenes and your beat sheet and when you actually draft the scenes. That’s a process that will lead you toward a draft that actually works. It will be something you can revise and/or polish into a submitted piece of work.
Why is the First Plot Point the most important moment in a story?
Because it fully launches the hero’s story-specific journey. Everything prior to the First Plot Point has been part of a setup for this moment.
I say “story-specific” because your hero may indeed be on a compelling path prior to the First Plot Point (which is a good thing), and the actual “plot” of the story may already be in play as well. The First Plot Point suddenly and more fully (or initially) defines the forthcoming hero’s quest, need, problem, or journey in context to two things: stakes and antagonistic opposition.
The job of your Part One setup scenes is to put all of this in play while investing the reader in your hero on an emotional level.
No small feat, that.
If your First Plot Point is soft, in the wrong place, or nonexistent, it plays havoc with the story’s underlying story physics. You won’t hear an editor tell you your novel or screenplay is being rejected because of First Plot Point issues … but if they bother to tell you the reason at all (rare), it will connect to those very same compromised story physics that your mishandled First Plot Point caused, guaranteed.
“Takes too long to get going.” “Didn’t care about the hero.” “Stakes are weak.” “Story treading water.” “Just not compelling enough.”
In The Hunger Games, the First Plot Point is masked behind a series of prior Inciting Incidents (yes, they can and often do pop up in Part One prior to the First Plot Point). It doesn’t matter if Collins uses or doesn’t use this terminology, but her story sensibilities absolutely do put a textbook First Plot Point right where it should be (page 72 of the trade paperback, as reflected on the beat sheet).
Some have challenged this. It doesn’t look like a First Plot Point … if you’re looking for the wrong thing, which is easy to do in this story. The key to finding a First Plot Point in a story—and more importantly, to writing one properly—is to understand what the core story is.
And in The Hunger Games it may not be what you think it is.
Both Titanic and The Hunger Games have highly dramatic plot turns that deal with that dramatic landscape. But in both stories—even though there are twists specific to the more obvious danger threatening the characters—the core structure revolves around the hero and the love story. Those sinking ship-related—and Games-related—twists and transitions are catalysts for the core story: In the case of The Hunger Games, it’s the relationship between Katniss and Peeta.
Whoa. That changes everything, at least if you were looking for obvious story transitions as plot points, which isn’t the case here. Those transitions are terrific and forward the plot. But they aren’t evolutions of the love story, which is the core story that drives its four-part contextual structure.
The point is that you have to know which thread is the core story of your novel or screenplay and then build your plot points and milestones around it.
When something massively transitional happens in the story prior to the First Plot Point, it’s an Inciting Incident. In The Hunger Games, we see a bunch of them: Prim gets picked as a Tribute … Katniss volunteers in her place … Peeta gets picked … they leave their home for the Capitol facing nearly certain death … and (this is a big one), they are set up to be a couple as a strategy to win favor with sponsors and the audience.
None of those are the First Plot Point. All of them are Inciting Incidents.
They all contribute to the effectiveness of this story: They hook us … they make us feel it … they allow us to see deep into Katniss and really root for her … and (here’s an example of story physics in play) we begin to take this journey with her in a vicarious way.
So why aren’t any of these the First Plot Point (FPP)? Two reasons.
One: Placement. All of these scenes occur too early to be the milestone FPP. They do change the story and help define the forthcoming hero’s quest … but only as building blocks within a setup context. None of them define the core journey … they all merely help set it up. The real launch of the core story journey (and it’s not the beginning of the Games themselves) is about to come. Because the real structural core of this story, and thus the hero’s core journey, is the love story.
On page 72, Katniss finally gives in to the “couple” strategy she’s been fighting. She’s suspicious of it and of Peeta, who may be playing her, making her vulnerable to an opening where he can put a knife in her heart. She doesn’t know what to do with this, and it conflicts her.
Until page 72, when she buys in, accepts it, and begins to engage with it, at least from outward appearances. She declares to us (through her actions) that she’ll play Peeta’s dark game and beat him at it. Notice the story physics in play here: We empathize with her, we root for her (dramatic tension), we wonder what will happen next (dramatic tension), we feel that anxiety that comes with the prospect of love (vicarious experience), we sense that this could be as strategic as it is real (compelling premise), and because we’re not exactly sure about it all, we want more (execution X-factor).
When she kisses his cheek as his partner, she does so on an existing bruise. It’s nice visual poetry and irony at work. From that action, from the way it’s set up and written, the story changes right there. This is the First Plot Point. It begins her journey and defines her core quest: to survive not only the Games, but the deception of her closest ally and supposed partner. It does so in context to those two things: stakes and the opposition. The dramatic tension just got higher, the empathy just got complicated, and the vicarious experience just shot to the moon.
The brilliance of Collins here is that the exterior plot, the Games themselves, is so strong and compelling on a story physics level that this core love story disappears into it, yet remains the spine of it. A reader has two emotional tracks available, and their melding exceeds the sum of their parts.
In interviews Collins admits her original idea for this story came from watching reality television. But that idea wasn’t a story yet. It had to become a concept before a story was available.
The concept was this: “What if, in a futuristic dystopian society, young people are pitted against each other by a cruel ruling elite class in a televised death match to avenge and control formerly revolutionary districts?”
There’s more, of course, but that’s the point: The first idea, and the first concepts that result from it, always grow into what will become the nuances and layers of the story.
It became a premise when she added this: “When a young woman volunteers to take her sister’s place in this almost-certain death match, her district partner is a boy she’s noticed before, and who claims to be falling for her as the Games grow nearer, presenting a possibly lifesaving strategy if she perpetrates this illusion and leverages it to glean the favor of the viewing audience and sponsors.”
Idea … to concept … to layers of concept … to a compelling premise housed within the contextual framework of the collective hierarchy of concepts.
At any given point, writers should check in with this sequence to see where they are.
We can look at Suzanne Collins’s structure—or the structure of any bestseller—and learn from it. See the moving parts at work. Juxtapose it against the principles of mission-driven, four-part, milestone-reliant exposition and sequencing.
But when we look at concept, what is there to learn?
In the case of The Hunger Games, the concept in play is huge and compelling. This is the case with most bestsellers (exceptions include more literary works, like those of John Irving and Jonathan Franzen). But why? What makes this concept the platform for a great story? That’s what we can learn from analyzing it.
Concept is like an engine. But without wheels, a transmission, an undercarriage, a seat to sit in, a steering wheel, and some pedals, the vehicle doesn’t function. It just sits there making a lot of noise while emitting toxic fumes. An engine, just sitting on blocks bellowing smoke, is easily misunderstood and perceived as useless.
And, of course, a vehicle goes nowhere without one.
We can’t be sure. But we can say why we enjoyed the ride.
You came for the Games. You stayed—you gasped, you kept turning pages—because you cared. That was because of the love story and the horrific thematic resonance. Because of the story physics.
It doesn’t matter where Suzanne Collins started. Stories almost always begin with one of three story elements: a concept … a character … or a theme. Sometimes, especially in the case of “based on a true story” projects, it begins with structure or a sequence of events.
But in each case this is also true: It doesn’t become a great story, or even an effective one, until all of those elements are in place. It doesn’t matter where you begin your story development, as long as you eventually nail all Six Core Competencies.
Even then, though, you’ll need more than that to elevate the story to greatness. More on this topic—and how Collins did it—in a moment.
Rumor holds that Collins was watching television one night, switching back and forth between a war documentary and a reality show, both of which, it seems, pushed her buttons.
And thus the concept for The Hunger Games was hatched. That wasn’t Collins’s first idea. No, the first idea, whatever it was, led her to this concept.
While perhaps implied, that “what if?” statement does not introduce a character, or even a theme. Those had to be added, wrapped around, and melted into the concept (this stirring process is the art of storytelling), which is certainly what Collins did. Neither that concept nor these elements arrived fully realized—they were both products of an evolving process of development: the incubation of elements and the melding of the elements into one another.
You can engage in the process through story planning or through story drafting. Both can get you there, because both depend on the power of story physics to make the story work.
Resist the temptation to jump the gun, or the shark, which is easy to do, especially if you are a drafter, because: a) it’s harder to see the elements working within a draft, as opposed to an outline, and b) it’s daunting to revise a draft that shows itself to be deficient in midstream, making it oh-so-tempting to settle, or worse, to start over after 400 pages of carpel-tunnel-inducing typing.
Whatever element you begin with (and it is often concept), play with it, poke it, fertilize it, until is grows into something more, something where character and theme emerge in a completely logical and compelling way. Allow story physics to drive that process, always shooting for more and better levels.
The mistake—the common shortcoming of unpublished manuscripts—is to write almost exclusively about your concept or your theme without the visible, visceral presence of the other elements. Without a plot. Notice how The Hunger Games, while a very character-driven story, leverages dramatic tension (plot) to give the characters something to do and challenge them to change (arc). Briskly paced dramatic tension is the fuel for high levels of empathy and vicarious experience.
In The Hunger Games, while Collins almost certainly began with this concept, the story ended up being about a love story at its core, with dramatic tension escalating throughout because of the huge stakes attached. The exterior drama unfolding within the arena of the Games is, in essence, the tapestry upon which the stitches of this love story emerge.
The First Plot Point, in fact, is driven by the love story. Call it an “A Plot” and a “B Plot” if you wish (how you label these things is less important than how you understand and implement them), but their sum is vastly in excess of their individual parts.
Without the love story, the Games become nothing more than a weekly episode of Survivor with knives. Without the Games, the love story is just another afternoon soap opera.
Without the heinous Gamekeepers and the dystopian society they serve, none of this has much weight, and their presence gives the reader something to root for, and—importantly—something to root against. This is what lends the story its powerful themes and thus how it emotionally engages (and enrages, in this case) the reader … perhaps the strongest aspect of this story.
Story physics are the powers of narrative that move the reader toward engagement and response. And that’s part of the lesson we take from this story: Like the Six Core Competencies that allow you to work with them, you need to nail the six essences of story physics as well. No matter how strong your concept, it doesn’t rise to this level without all of those story physics in play. And that can’t happen unless you bring strong characters, powerful themes, and solid structure to the execution of your concept.
Powerful story physics are what you’re going for. The Six Core Competencies are how you get there. It’s a circular, paradoxical dance, one that you need to engage in.
Without the Games, this love story has little dramatic tension and absolutely no stakes (the key to reader empathy). In fact, it doesn’t exist.
Without the love story, we have less reader empathy and a more shallow vicarious experience. In fact, without the love story, this book plays more like a video game.
Without the dystopian society, less reader empathy is achieved.
The outcome of your understanding of all of this—as demonstrated so ably in The Hunger Games—leads to a checklist you can use to vet and improve your story. How are you dealing with each of the Six Core Competencies? How do your story elements optimize the major modalities of story physics?
You can plan for and command them, or you can wrestle your story toward them as you write. But in the end, what will make your story more effective is never a mystery.
How you get there is your call. If you’re willing to look closely and recognize the inner machinations in play, stories like The Hunger Games become a clinic on how to do so.
You’ve heard me say that the First Plot Point is the most important moment in your story. Now that we know what the First Plot Point is in this story, we can examine how the scenes prior to it—which comprise the entirety of the Part One setup—fulfill this mission.
The contextual mission of all Part One scenes is to set up two things: the forthcoming First Plot Point … and the story to follow. The First Plot Point is the trigger, the catalyst, for the rest of your story. Which is why, in turn, it is the most important moment in your story.
Here’s a provocative truth: The degree to which you succeed with your Part One setup scenes defines how successful your story will be overall. Of all the places you shouldn’t settle, or worse, write without an awareness of the importance of context, this is it.
These setup scenes (usually about ten to eighteen or so) need to accomplish a number of critical missions:
All of which leads to the First Plot Point (pacing, dramatic tension, hero empathy, vicarious experience).
With all of this in place, you are ready to lower the boom, ignite the fuse, and launch the journey with your First Plot Point, which comes in context (and an emotional investment) to these same objectives. This is all the foundation of your novel or screenplay’s story physics. It all starts here, in Part One.
If you deliver your First Plot Point too soon, without adequate setup, you risk compromising reader empathy for the hero (which is essential to success), as well as putting all of those bulleted missions at risk.
If you engage in too much setup, then you risk compromising pace, which (especially at this point in the story) is also essential.
The narrative style and flow Collins uses in this series makes it challenging and imprecise to identify and segregate scenes. She uses what I call a “deep first-person” voice, meaning it is presented like a stream of consciousness flow of thoughts from Katniss, during which she might reflect on something that happened in the past. When that occurs, you could consider it a flashback, as its own scene … or not. Normally a “scene” announces itself with a shift of time, place, or both … but in The Hunger Games this becomes a fuzzy line.
That said, I’ve identified seventeen scenes in Part One. All of them are clearly, in terms of context, used to set up the forthcoming First Plot Point, as well as the rest of the story. Go back to the beat sheet and look for this context in play in all the Part One scenes. They’re all leading to the First Plot Point, which is how Katniss plans on surviving the Games.
The kiss-on-the-bruised-cheek moment is the First Plot Point because it defines their journey going forward, and it does so in context to known stakes and opposition. Katniss has made a shift that launches the core spine of this story, which, along with its location in the story, defines it as the First Plot Point.
To prepare for this section, I watched the DVD of The Hunger Games again. I first heard about this story through the media … then watched the movie… then watched the movie again and read the novel casually … then read and broke down the novel slowly and analytically … and then watched the film again. Every phase of this immersion illuminated something new and taught me something more.
It occurs to me that the way I experienced this story, in which I became familiar enough to write about it, is almost the same evolving manner in which we experience our own stories as we write them. We don’t know enough about a story until we’ve immersed ourselves in it several times, to a point where we can validly estimate our understanding to be complete enough to conclude we are done. Pantsers risk this because changes are made on the fly, and you really can’t nail them until you reenter the story in another draft. This exposes a potential pitfall on that path: It’s easy to settle, to quit learning about our stories before we’ve discovered all of their inherent potential.
One of the most powerful narrative tools at our disposal is scene sequencing, which in essence breaks down a block of action into distinct scenes, each with its own story beat contributing toward the block in question, and each leading seamlessly and urgently into the next. Once again, The Hunger Games is a transparent laboratory to study this narrative device at work.
A chase scene in a movie is a great example: Is this a collection of scenes or a single scene broken down into a sequence of moments and revelations that comprise a whole narrative mission? I think it’s the latter. These scenes don’t involve a time, location, or point of view shift, all of which are benchmarks for a new scene.
Often those sequence blocks use time and place shifts to segregate scenes, but a sequence links these scenes together into a microstory.
For example, consider the sequence in The Hunger Games when Katniss is sleeping in the tree with the hunter pack camped below and Rue awakens her, silently pointing out the hornets’ nest a few feet away, signaling that she could cut it loose and drop in on the others below … and then Katniss climbs up and begins sawing at the branch, and is stung in the process (which sets up the subsequent sequence) … and then the nest falls and all hell breaks loose … and then Katniss climbs down and claims the bow from one of the dead girls.
End of sequence.
Was this all one scene? You could argue that it was. But when you look closely, you see it can also be accurately described as a series of linked scenes creating a sort of microstory with beginning, middle, and ending beats that propel the macrostory forward.
This sequence, which is the Midpoint of the story (both in the book and the film), has the structural and expositional mission to evolve Katniss from her Part Two reaction/wandering self into a Part Two attacker/warrior self. In a narrative sense, the mission of the scene is to have Katniss gain possession of the bow and arrows, which allows this transition from wanderer to warrior to happen.
When you know what your scene or mission must accomplish, and when that mission fits structurally, contextually, and narratively (as it does here), something wonderful happens for the writer: You are then free to blow it out of the water, to optimize the story physics of dramatic tension, pace, and empathy through a more vivid vicarious experience.
Did those wasps scare the bejesus out of you? They did me. Collins could have created anything she wanted as a means for Katniss to get the bow and arrow from the girl (who, not coincidentally, had been presented as sadistic and arrogant, making her demise gratifying in its violence), but she optimized the moment with this particular choice.
When we are mission driven in our scene and sequence choices, that optimization and gratification is what can lift our stories to a higher level. When we are searching for purpose within a scene, optimization is harder to achieve.
One of the cool things about the use of sequences is that they really fill up your pages. In a sixty-scene novel, for example, if you have six sequences of five scenes each, they become half of the story itself. You don’t have to come up with sixty units of dramatic setup and action; instead, you can cover half of those with six microstories that move the overall narrative forward in an optimized way.
Here are some other sequences in The Hunger Games. Notice how much of the story they occupy: The reaping … the train ride … the training … the opening of the Games … Katniss fleeing… the hornets’ nest sequence described above … Katniss’s reaction to the stings (where Peeta appears as her savior) … the strategy with Rue and the attack on the food … healing Peeta in the cave … the unleashing of the vicious digital dogs … the end battle at the Cornucopia … the aftermath.
They’re all sequences. These thirteen sequences alone take up about half of the total scenes in the story. They are blocks of narrative. If you can envision and sequence the blocks first, injecting the right missions and then breaking them down into component beats, you can tell your story at the beat sheet and outline phase, even before writing a draft. And if you’re an organic drafter, if you have these sequences in mind as you write, you will be much closer to a structurally optimized and physics-intensified story when you’re finished, with fewer drafts required to reach the point where you can call the draft “final.”
Once your sequences are defined in terms of their mission or what they need to achieve and deliver to the reader, you can break them down into scenes.
It’s all mission driven, contextually empowered, and narratively seamless.
Sometimes the coach calls a time-out to lecture a player about footwork. About mechanics. Sometimes the coach calls a time-out to say a few words about how the game is approached, or about mind-set, or about how to avoid getting in your own way, or about how to get the most of the talent you are bringing to your game.
This is one of those times.
I’ve called out several ways and specific instances in which The Hunger Games movie is different than the book upon which it is based. Suzanne Collins received a screen-writing credit (which may or may not mean anything in terms of who actually wrote the final shooting script, and it only very rarely signifies a collaboration), so let’s assume she was in on this very deliberate departure. Or at least signed off on it while sitting on a yacht in Cannes.
But why change anything, one might ask? A good question, that.
There’s always a pat answer for that: What plays in a novel may not play as well on the screen. And that’s almost certainly, to some extent, part of it. But there’s more to it. In fact, there’s a lesson for storytellers—novelists and screenwriters—that’s just itching to make us better at what we do.
Here’s a truth nobody involved will admit to out of respect to Suzanne Collins: The movie was changed not just to optimize it for the screen, but to make the story better.
But wait, I hear you crying out. How can you make a thirty-million-copy-selling novel better? Why change what has proven to be magic, what is universally loved?
Because—get ready for it—it can be better.
As novelists, we are a creative committee of one.
We alone get to say what stays, what goes, what changes, at least in our “final” draft. Editors hop on the team at that point, but they’re not likely to make the types of changes that filmmakers make to a novel they’re adapting. Which means the author lives and dies by her creative decisions, which are always made in light of, and in context to, what she knows and believes about storytelling craft.
Suzanne Collins was no rookie when she penned this story. No matter how the filmmakers switched some things around, her decisions were stellar. But her experience, her craft—the very qualities that empowered her to write this great story—are precisely what played into her acceptance of the changes themselves. That, and perhaps an eight-figure direct deposit to her savings account.
The point: One mind alone, especially the mind of a newer writer or an unpublished writer, rarely optimizes each and every creative decision that must be made in the course of writing a story. We nail some, we get by on others, and a few we tank. The real problem—and the opportunity I’m putting in italics here —is that when we unknowingly, or because of ignorance, haste, or blinders that fit tighter than a muzzle, settle for the first organic idea we have, our stories suffer for it.
Happens all the time. To all of us. Even Suzanne Collins, to some extent.
Why else would the filmmakers tell her story differently than the book did, even slightly so?
To make it better. To raise the level of story physics. To jack dramatic tension. Heighten stakes. Intensify reader empathy. To elevate thematic resonance.
As a footnote, it should be noted that Collins was actively involved in the writing of the film script based on her novel, receiving a credit (and a paycheck) for doing so. She was aware of, participated in, and signed off on every story change noted here.
Every change in the book-to-story evolution points directly to one or more of these underlying motivations. It’s all about story physics, the forces that make a story work … and those are always up for grabs.
We, as writers, need to do the same with our stories.
Hopefully you do it before you stuff it into an envelope or hit the SEND button once you get a nibble from an agent or editor.
The Hunger Games was told in rigid first person. This was Collins’s choice. We aren’t privy to anything that transpires beyond the curtain of her hero’s awareness, which limits the ability to fully understand the motives and Machiavellian cruelty of the folks who are pulling the strings of the Games.
The more we understand that, the more emotion we’re likely to invest. This is what the filmmakers knew, and why they changed the story.
In the book we only get a historical overview from Katniss’s POV. We never meet President Snow or the head Gamekeeper. We never see the machinations of folks with crazy facial hair pulling levers that result in fires and parachute deliveries and digital hounds from hell. (While in the book these dogs were representative of dead Tributes, in the film they were simply generically terrifying. The film took great liberties with this concept by creating new laws of physics—not story physics, but actual classroom laws-of-nature physics—that pushed the story into the realm of fantasy).
Limited first-person POV limits the story on almost all the elements of story physics cited above. And so, the filmmakers added scenes from behind that curtain, including a subplot with its own dramatic tension that pits the President against the head Gamekeeper.
If you saw the film, you know how that turned out. But if you only read the first book in the series, you didn’t. That dynamic and its outcome aren’t revealed until the second book, and even then, without the up-close-and-personal cache of the film.
There were other changes.
Many of Katniss’s backstory flashbacks were combined and compressed.
Gale, who occupies Katniss’s thoughts, is given almost no airtime in the film after she departs for the Games. And in a major addition, the film shows us a moment in which Katniss gives a sign of respect to the people of District Eleven, whose Tribute Rue has just been killed and mourned by Katniss, resulting in a rebellious riot (connecting to stakes and theme).
Imagine a room full of people wearing cool clothes, sitting in front of iPads, sipping designer water and lattes. That’s the team of screenwriters, producers, and even actors as they discuss the script they are about to write and shoot, based on your book. When it happens to you, a film based on your book, you may or may not be there … probably not.
They must love your story, right? Why else would someone driving an Aston Martin have optioned and then given it a green light? Why else would Michael Douglas and Meryl Streep be sitting in that room?
Answer: They’re trying to make your story better.
They are playing with options on all fronts, asking “what if?” questions, firing off ideas. They aren’t settling for your last and best creative decisions, even if they are in love with the general concept and arc of your story. Even if your name is Suzanne Collins.
There shouldn’t be a difference.
But then—either in the moment, or via another pass—ask yourself if your decisions, your story moments, are the absolute very best they can be. If the story physics pack a significant punch. If what you’ve written, moment by moment, optimizes dramatic tension while forwarding exposition, both at the macrostory level and the sequence and scene level.
Do your scenes and sequences have their own tension and stakes? Are they compelling? Will your reader be right there in those moments?
Are you maximizing point of view? Does what happens behind the curtain enhance the story? How are you handling that … and backstory … and foreshadowing … all within the infinitesimal subtleties of your characterizations?
Have you asked yourself why anyone will care? What level of emotion are you plucking at in any given moment? Can you make what you’ve written even better? You need to make that your highest priority at some point in the process, over and above moving forward.
As someone who advocates writing fiction from a context of structural story architecture, mission-driven elements, and aesthetic discipline driven by market standards, I am sometimes pitted against others who advocate “taking risks” with our stories, as if, somehow, these philosophies are not aligned.
I suppose it depends on how you frame the issue.
Is breaking certain principles and laws in this life a risk … or is it suicide? The question applies to our stories as much as it does anything else.
Is jumping off a bridge onto a freeway a risk, or is it certain death that will appear, to anyone looking in, to be suicide? The act violates all the known laws of physics and survival, which is always suicidal.
That analogy, without compromise, accurately frames the question of risk-taking in our stories.
Risk is good. Suicide is tragic and stupid. Death by naiveté is even worse.
Those who encourage us to take risks—a group to which I belong—are not suggesting we write stories that violate the basic tenets of dramatic physics, structural integrity, or creative license. Go ahead, write a story with no conflict, lackluster pacing, zero inherent compelling interest, and nobody to root for … then see what happens.
That manuscript lying on the freeway, right next to the guy who just jumped off a bridge? That’s his novel.
Risk taking, in this context, has everything to do with courage and bold vision.
It has to do with the bucking of belief systems, social boundaries, and the occasional use of creative narration techniques. It relates to the boldness with which an author takes a theme and explodes it into a dramatic framework that challenges, frightens, disturbs, grips, and entertains.
The Hunger Games is a prime example of this.
I’ve heard some writers wax outrage about The Hunger Games, saying that the book is obscene in the violence and darkness perpetrated on the children who inhabit it, and that as authors we have a responsibility to hold our fiction to higher standards. People seem to take pride in hating it, as much because they don’t believe Suzanne Collins is all that good (they’re wrong, based on results, which stem directly from her bold vision and keen sense of craft; every iconic bestseller brings the green out in a certain percentage of lesser writers and critics) as because their worldview has been challenged.
The risk, then, is this: Whose standards are they?
Yours? Society’s? Risk comes when we challenge norms, speculate on alternative realities, and show consequences, and do so with the full knowledge that it very likely will piss off a certain percentage of the market.
Suzanne Collins, who wrote a story about children killing children, took significant risks. Dan Brown took similar risks in The Da Vinci Code, challenging the spiritual views of a few generations of practicing Catholics in the process. If that’s all you see in these stories, then frankly, you didn’t get it. You didn’t get what millions of other readers did get.
For Collins, let’s just agree that the risks she took paid off, at least in terms of commercial success. There are still plenty of haters, the fact of which, I’m assuming, makes Collins smile widely from the comfort of her 40,000 square foot home with a killer view and a helipad.
The Hunger Games, by the way, took no risks when it came to story physics. It is, in fact, a model for it.
It’s gut check time: Are you being seduced in the wrong way by the “take-risks-in-your-writing” mantra? Are you tempting fate by jumping off a literary bridge? Or are you framing this properly as a challenge to take your book to new places, with bold ideas that explore relevant themes and then empower the story through a fierce adherence to the very principles that will make it work?
Here’s hoping it’s the latter.
May all your risks turn out to be survivable, and just possibly, a catalyst for your success. May you be accused of writing with vision and courage. Never forget that your parachute, the thing that will save your story’s life, has strings called the Six Core Competencies, which connect you to the very things that will allow you to land safely, and on target … a literary parachute boldly emblazoned with these words: Story Physics.
May your landings be soft and your stories be … amazing.