(The Importance of Women in STEM Representation in Fictional Works.)

Still, something was missing. My tribe’s stories are sacred, so I was reluctant to stretch tradition too far, but early drafts lacked cohesion.

Then, in 2020, Covid afforded me the unsolicited opportunity to wait in school car loop lines four hours a day with my kids. I listened to hundreds of hours of kids’ audiobooks. This was when I encountered Chinese-American author Grace Lin.

Grace Lin’s novels, inspired by Chinese folklore, sounded like traditional stories that could have been. Just like that, I found the missing ingredient—a way to write from tradition without cannibalizing my tribe’s stories. I wrote a capstone myth for Undrowned in the rhythms and imagery of traditional Chickasaw tales. My story stood apart yet honored its origins.

I knew feedback from my tribe’s leaders was essential. I may be Chickasaw, but I don’t represent every tribal member, after all. I shared Undrowned with Chickasaw Press and eventually came to be a Leaning Pole Press author. What I learned from tribal editors and elders reinforced my opinion of the importance of traditional stories.

Why is traditional storytelling so alluring?

Simply put, because it’s revealing. Tradition speaks of dietary habits, resource availability, priorities, landscape, how time is spent, family dynamics, how problems are solved, and what is worthy of celebration. Storytelling reminds us that solutions often come from unexpected relationships, like the eight-legged spider who brought fire to two-legged Chickasaws by protecting the ember in a web. It would behoove you not to overlook others, the story intones. Traditional storytelling is chalk full of cultural values. And culture is fascinating.

Storytelling is a portal to a past when oral tradition framed the way in which information was disseminated through clans. Within the Chickasaw Nation, storytelling remains as fun as it is formative, and storytellers continue to shape the way Chickasaw values impart to the next generation.

Though some Chickasaw stories have been written down, tribal memory is alive in oral storytelling. Our stories are defining. They answer the million-dollar questions: Who am I? What am I to do? They are sacred, our stories, and storytellers are revered as keepers of the flame.

Because traditional stories speak to identity, retelling them without a relationship to the tribe is ill-advised. I’m talking, of course, about the cringe-worthy awkwardness of cultural appropriation.

My story has Native American characters. Will you take a look and let me know what you think?

Since I first began writing, I’ve been asked this question in every writing group. I welcome such good faith questions. Most writers are not trying to perpetuate stereotypes, after all. Usually, writers ask because they have no tribal connection, they want to feature a diverse cast of characters, they believe they are showing appreciation for tribal heritage, or they’re looking for a sensitivity reader.

So, at what point does writing from a different cultural perspective become cultural appropriation?

Cultural appropriation occurs when marginalized groups have no control over their cultural expressions. A nontribal member borrows a cultural element and strips it of all but one dimension. Markets it as Indigenous. Sells it. Never confers with tribal elders. You see it with music, dance, regalia, literature, art, you name it. Culturally appropriated artistic expressions are often poor imitations of the original, cheaply made, lacking context, and sold outside the tribe without consent.

This pattern of cultural appropriation is neither new nor unique to First Nations tribes. It occurs across all marginalized groups the world over. It’s why tribal elders protect their most sacred rites with the same zeal that major corporations defend their logos.

So, I can’t write anything Native American?

True appreciation begins with curiosity, listening, building trust. Not just borrowing stories. If you have no tribal connection, you might start by reading Native authors. Become familiar with the tribe’s history. Then, when you reach out to tribal literary groups, you’ll understand the context. Share your genuine curiosity, be respectful, and explain your intentions are to collaborate, not appropriate. Retelling traditional stories, whether they’re yours or another’s, requires nuance.

If given the opportunity, share your writing not just with recognized tribal members but respected elders. Be ready to have your literary characters and themes challenged. And don’t be surprised if tribal relationships enrich far more than your writing. In seeking to honor the tradition of storytelling, you may find yourself heartily uplifting the Indigenous voices, not of strangers, but friends.

Check out G. M. DiDesidero’s Undrowned here:

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(Why I Don’t Want to Quit My Day Job for Writing.)

I spent the next few weeks applying to every job posting I could find, but I wasn’t hearing back from anyone. As my bank account hit an all-time low, I remember staying up past 3am, just scrolling through postings, when I stumbled across an opening for a Jr Writer/Producer position at a boutique motion picture marketing company.

In other words, movie trailers.

I was instantly intrigued. As a frequent movie-goer, I was already a huge fan of trailers—in fact, I always made sure to get to the theater extra early so I wouldn’t miss a single one. Yet I had never thought about who actually created those mini-movies or what went into making them.

As I read through the requirements, I quickly realized I possessed none of the experience or technical knowledge being sought. Disappointed, I was about to X out of the page, when a wave of sleep-deprived defiance washed over me, and my mom’s favorite phrase ran through my mind: “El no ya lo tenés.”

You already have the no.

I was already unemployed—so what did I have to lose?

It was easily the most unhinged letter I’ve ever written. The post specified they wanted someone proficient in Avid editing systems, and I wrote: “I don’t know what Avid systems are, but I do know I’m an avid writer and editor.” It only got worse from there.

I fell asleep at my laptop, and when I woke up, I found an email from an assistant at the company. I expected to open it and find a referral to a therapist, but instead she said the CEO was so tickled by my letter that he asked to meet me in person.

I had somehow written my way to an interview despite being entirely unqualified.

That, I learned, was the power of interesting writing.

I worked for that company five-plus years, and it was an education that taught me so much about storytelling. My nights and weekends were spent drafting YA manuscripts in hopes of landing an agent, and I found that many of the skills I was learning at my job were transferable.

The following are the five biggest lessons on writing that came from my career in movie trailers:

1. DON’T BE FANCY; BE ACCESSIBLE

The first trailer I worked on was for an indie film starring Michael Douglas and Evan Rachel Wood called King of California. I was trying to come up with a strong copy line, something about how there’s a bit of treasure in every family if you just delve deep enough.

The first thing my boss did was cross off “delve” and replace it with “dig.”

After more corrections like these (“ignite” became “start,” “fracture” became “break,” and so on) I started to feel that to excel at this job, I would have to deconstruct my English degree. In my college creative writing classes, we’d been trained to reach for the rarest word we could find, and it’s what I was also doing in my novels.

Only I wasn’t drafting literary fiction—I was writing high concept commercial stories for teens. This was the first lesson I incorporated into my books: If I wanted to reach the widest audience possible, I had to stop writing for other writers.

2. SOUND FIRST; PICTURE LAST

After learning how to write copy for trailers, I had to learn how to produce them.

The first thing an editor did was build a trailer’s soundbed—basically, its structure. The best way to watch the first pass was to sit in the edit bay and close my eyes: If I could follow the story through just the audio, then the structure was sound. (Pun intended.)

Even if we were planning to incorporate voiceover or written copy, the trailer first had to work without it. Otherwise, we would be using these devices as crutches to hold up a shaky structure.

The lesson from this process was that no number of gimmicks will make up for a faulty foundation. I had to figure out the core of my story first, then I could focus on stylizing it.

For example, if it doesn’t feel like my main romance has enough tension, the solution would not be to complicate it by tossing in a love triangle. Instead, I need to keep delving—I mean digging—until I reach a deeper understanding of my characters’ basic nature, then apply more pressure so they’ll spin their own twists.

Check out Romina Garber’s Castle of the Cursed here:

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3. EVERY SHOT COUNTS

Once the dialogue and music are in place, the trailer is ready for its picture pass.

Visuals are all about showcasing a film’s production value. The goal is to try to include at least one shot from every set in the movie.

Ideally, a trailer won’t show the same setting twice. Even if most of the dialogue is sourced from a single location, an editor will play it over footage of other scenes to get across the production’s breadth and scope.

This tactic taught me to be intentional about the settings I employ in my books. Rather than having my characters return to the same space for serious conversations, I started moving them around, particularly for important plot points. It’s an easy way to broaden the world of a book and make it feel richer without having to travel to other planets or new dimensions.

Simply describing a room that the reader hasn’t entered yet can amplify their experience of the story.

4. WITHOUT HOOKING THE VIEWER, YOU CAN’T REEL THEM IN

Movie trailers are short, and so are people’s attention spans. We have literally seconds to reel in a viewer, or we’ve lost them.

It’s very similar with books. Readers are on the hunt for something that will make them turn the page. The title, cover design, and back cover copy are how a book makes its first impression—but it’s through the opening lines that a writer can reel in a reader.

In general, the best book openings don’t convey information; they offer us a taste of what’s to come. They allow us to sample a story’s voice and tone and texture.

I remember attending a writing workshop and listening to the late, great Richard Peck say, “Nothing gets better than the first line.” It made me think of movie trailers because in my experience, very few films live up to their trailers.

Something that goes hand-in-hand with opening lines are closing lines. Even when the reader is sucked in, they could still put the book down at any time. One way to keep them turning those pages is by making sure every chapter ends on a strong hook.

Often, we can write past that hook and tie up our chapters too neatly. Instead, I learned it’s best to end a chapter on a breathless note, thereby increasing the odds that the reader will flip the page to keep reading (and breathing).

5. BUILD TO THE BEAT

There is an art to whittling down a two-hour film to a two-minute trailer. It’s not about telling the whole story; it’s about the story you can tell.

Movies are too complicated to summarize in such a short time frame, and even if that could be achieved, it might not be exciting enough to hook the viewer. The guiding question for crafting a 90-120 second trailer is: What story can you sell?

What’s most compelling about a story often isn’t the plot but the emotional journey. And the best way to get that across in a trailer is through its soundtrack.

Even if a trailer employs no dialogue or voiceover, its music should tell a story on its own. And if the music never shifts gears, then our emotions never heighten.

Books have their own music, too. Think of the three biggest plot twists in the story: the inciting incident (what kicks off our character’s journey), the midpoint reversal (the point of no return for our character), and the black moment (our character’s worst fears made tangible). In order for these moments to stand out, we must write scenes that build up to these climactic revelations, and then we must deflate the tension so that it can rise again when the next beat drops.

Put differently: If someone keeps screaming at you, eventually you will tune them out. Yet if someone builds to a shout, and then drops their voice to a whisper, it’s more likely to grip your attention.

I can’t close this piece without adding a note on love triangles: I personally love them, but I think they get a bad rap from stories that incorporate them as dramatic devices. For a love triangle to work, I think it must stem from character, not plot. I could go on…but I’ll save that for another essay! 

The post The Movie Trailer School of Story (and Storytelling) appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Trust me: The more we dig, the more sense it’s going to make.

Whether you’re watching The Sound of Music or Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon: a group of people come together, and as they interact, their emotions grow—until they boil over.

At which point, there is singing or there is fighting.

That emotional peak is like the crest of a wave.

Your pulse rises. Your senses are engaged.

Like all waves, it must recede, and the story dips down into the trough. That cooling off period is like a pressure release valve. The characters need it, but so do you.

Because there’s another wave coming.

That’s what waves do—they rise and fall, much like a story should. And in a really good story, those crests and troughs are going to get bigger as you go along, building to a climax: a soul-stirring song or a fight to determine someone’s fate.

Good fights and good songs are cool, sure, but they’re not there because they’re cool. They advance the story. They make you a promise. Most of all, they make the characters more accessible and draw you closer to them. On a technical level, these genres are great for establishing their authority. But on an emotional level, putting characters in a place of emotional or physical vulnerability makes it easier to identify with them—and to root for them.

It’s in recognizing these things that you can become a better storyteller.

World-Building

In the 1999 film The Matrix, humans have been enslaved by machines and stuck into a virtual reality designed to keep them docile. A group of rebels led by Morpheus (Laurence Fishburne) recruit Neo (Keanu Reeves), who they believe is the chosen one meant to free them.

Neo’s training begins, via virtual downloads, because the war will be fought on a digital landscape; in the realm of the mind rather than the physical body. After 10 hours of this training, Neo proclaims, “I know kung fu.”

Morpheus responds: “Show me.”

And they’re whisked into a virtual program, which Morpheus explains was designed to teach the rebel fighters that they’re only limited by their minds—some rules of physics can be bent, while others can be broken.

Then they fight!

Neo is bursting with excitement at his newfound prowess. Morpheus defends himself in a confident, almost detached manner. Neo grows frustrated, unable to land a single punch.

Morpheus chides him. “You’re faster than this. Don’t think you are. Know you are.”

Neo takes a breath. He drops into a place of stillness. They engage again. This time, Neo is faster, more focused, and the fight ends as he nearly strikes Morpheus, his fist hovering a fraction of an inch from his mentor’s face.

What did we learn here?

The whole sequence lasts a little under five minutes, but we got some great world-building on the rules of the virtual world—dictated and simultaneously expressed through combat. We got a sense of both characters. We watched them emotionally develop, as Neo comes into his confidence, and Morpheus recognizes Neo’s aptitude. We got to cheer for Neo as he took another step toward the ultimate goal of saving humanity (something we all have a vested interest in, even in a fictional setting).

It’s the zenith of that old writing adage: “Show, don’t tell.” Neo telling Morpheus he knows kung fu is meaningless. He had to show him—and us.

Plus, we got a really cool sequence designed by the legendary fight choreographer Yuen Woo-ping, because what’s the point if we’re not having fun?

After that, we take a breath. More world-building. More character stuff.

Until the next action sequence comes, which is slightly bigger, each acting as a plateau that drives the narrative to the next foundational level.

Character

West Side Story. A spin on Romeo & Juliet, set in the 1950s and featuring two rival New York City gangs, the Jets and the Sharks, both grappling for turf on the Upper West Side. For the sake of this exercise, we’ll refer to Steven Spielberg’s 2021 film version (there are clips of this song and the aforementioned fight scene on YouTube, if you want to follow along).

Ansel Elgort plays Tony, a Jet on parole, trying to live a more virtuous life. He meets and falls in love with María (Rachel Zegler), who is engaged to a Shark.

Things are not destined to end well.

Pretty early into the story we get “Jet Song,” which introduces us to, you guessed it, the Jets. The number starts with the gang discussing Tony: members are worried that Tony is out, but their leader Riff (Mike Faist) insists Tony is still one of them—through the power of song.

Riff learns about the Jets: their culture, their values, their hierarchy. It’s clear they consider themselves a family, and Tony leaving is a threat to their strength and identity. When we see the familial bond these characters have, we can better understand why they fight so hard for each other. We can all identify with the power of family—whether it’s the kind we’re born with, or in this case, the chosen kind.

And they don’t just tell us they’re a powerful unit by means of the lyrics—they show us through choreographed action. The gang dances in tandem through the streets, wandering into traffic as cars screech to a halt. People see them and recoil or run in fear.

The entire performance lasts less than three minutes, but in that brief time we got world-building, a musical dissertation on the stakes, and an introduction to one of the movie’s major factions. It established the gang’s bond, their tough-guy bona fides (as tough as a group of theater kids can be), and their technical proficiency as singers.

Structure

These are great scenes, but I doubt anyone would rank them as the best in their respective films. A good storytelling wave isn’t a horizontal line. It climbs, reaching its height at the climax.

Do you put the biggest and the best fight at the beginning of The Matrix? Nope! It comes at the end. Neo versus nigh-invincible computer programs in the form of black-suited agents.

“Jet Song” is a fine piece of singing, but it doesn’t carry the emotional weight of María singing over Tony’s dead body (that’s not a spoiler, the first production was in 1957, and anyway, I already said the story was a spin on Romeo & Juliet).

It’s important to think about this prioritization of impact when structuring your own narratives.

If you break it down, Spielberg’s West Side Story has 22 numbers, each one offering a crest, with a trough of character development and scene-setting and breath-catching in between. The Matrix has approximately seven major action set pieces (that’s if you consider set pieces within the last act as separate [the helicopter rescue, the subway fight], which, I do).

More than that, every song and every action sequence has to be relevant and transformational to the story.

Cool, but functional.

Stephen Sondheim, who wrote the lyrics for West Side Story, said that anyone can write a “bad song,” but even worse is writing a “wrong song,” one that doesn’t have any purpose or meaning.

And dancing is a little like fighting, right? Moulin Rouge! The Musical choreographer Sonya Tayeh said she watches shows “without music and [edits] accordingly, making sure every breath, every inch of movement is driving the story.”

You ever see a plot diagram? You can find one pretty easily online. It looks like a mountain, with the beginning, then a straight slope up, consisting of rising action, until you get to the peak—the climax. The slope down is the falling action, until you get to the end.

To my mind, the lines in the classic plot diagram are far too straight.

I believe a good storytelling line has little crests and troughs in them throughout—which tend to be much more apparent in genre stories, because of the expectations they set through the promises they make to the viewer: that some form of peril is imminent.

Pacing

Pacing is so important, and it’s everywhere. If you take a quick turn to Broadway, you realize how technical the format is. The ebb and flow of action and information is built into the foundational structure of many shows, so much so there are terms for them.

Most musicals have a big Opening Number, clearly establishing the world, the characters, and the show you’re about to see. In “Alexander Hamilton,” the first track in Hamilton, the whole cast comes out to tell you about the life of the play’s subject, and Aaron Burr literally tells you he’s going to shoot the guy (again, not a spoiler, because, history).

There’s the I Want song, where the protagonist literally tells us … what they want. In “The Wizard and I,” which Elphaba belts early in Wicked, she dreams about meeting the Wizard (of Oz) so she can find the love and acceptance and beauty she’s always craved.

And then there’s the 11 O’Clock Number, which comes toward the end of the show, and is meant to be a showstopper—a reward for an audience that stayed up late, but also, the culmination of the emotional journey. See: “Memory,” from Cats. I’m not entirely sure what the show is about, but it’s a really dope song.

I’m not saying all stories need to sound the same or follow the exact same format.

But I am saying that some things work because they work.

Head and Heart

We covered world-building, character, and structure. Just as important is the way these stories make a promise by creating a heightened sense of reality, and through this, establishing authority.

This is something Fight Club author Chuck Palahniuk talks about. That once you establish authority, “the reader will trust you, believe you, and you can do anything with the plot.”

There are two ways to do this, he says. The “heart” method, through honesty and frankness, and the “head” method, by demonstrating knowledge or proficiency.

Both kung fu movies and musicals are excellent for establishing a high level of technical prowess. It’s easy for us to trust people who are good at things and then to accept the reality their skill sets create, where everyone is a martial arts master or a Broadway-caliber singer.

And there’s an amplified emotional intensity in both of these genres that is captivating and undeniable. The characters are drawn closer—into hitting or kissing range—and we learn more about their true selves in these high-stakes scenarios.

What they want, who they love, what they’ll fight for, and who they’ll die for.

It’s this emotional or physical peril that gives us the opportunity to cheer for them.

Whether it’s Elphaba’s singing “The Wizard and I” or Neo battling for the fate of humanity, these are the moments that truly highlight the stakes, when our allegiance to these characters becomes strongest.

The Bigger Picture

We don’t need to explicitly focus on kung fu movies or musicals to understand the point here.

In fact, I don’t want you to.

I start with those because it’s a little bit funny and will get you to pay attention, but it underscores something really important: You should be reading and watching stories outside your chosen format so you can better see the invisible strands of storytelling common across all genres.

Pull the camera back a little and instead of kung fu, just think about action movies in general. Look at Mad Max: Fury Road. For as propulsive as it is, there is a sense of rising and falling action that gives the juggernaut a heartbeat. There are still moments in which director George Miller allows the audience to catch their breath, but only for a moment—and even that intentionally shortened space amplifies the feeling of perpetual motion.

Crests and troughs. They’re everywhere.

You’ve got dancing in Saturday Night Fever.

You’ve got gunfights in John Wick.

You’ve got boxing in Rocky and football in Friday Night Lights.

I could go on. But I don’t think I need to. Because at this point, I bet you can see it.

Moving forward, those crests and troughs—what they accomplish, what they offer you as a creator—ought to stand out just a little bit more, and you should be better equipped to utilize them in your own stories.

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