Whoa! Two weeks in a row. Haven’t managed that in a while...
One of my
favorite television shows is winding up, and while I absolutely love it
overall, I’ve been looking back on it with a bit more of a critical eye. Specifically one season where it felt like
the show went off the rails.
No, it’s
not important which show.
The thing
is, it struck me that at one point the basic idea of the show changed, but the
show itself didn’t. It kept telling the
same kind of stories—stories that didn’t fit this new idea. And that’s where it fumbled. A similar show I was watching had the same
problem—its stories didn’t fit its basic premise.
This isn’t
an uncommon problem. I’ve seen it in
books, too. Heck, as my editor just
pointed out, I got my feet a bit wet in it with one of my recent drafts (which
kind of sparked this).
So, let’s
talk about ideas.
I’ve talked in the past about limited and unlimited concepts. I think about
99.99% of all stories fall into one of these categories. Which one I’m using should have an effect on
how I structure my story.
A limited
concept is one that comes with a clear, specific goal. Yakko wants to get home.
Dot wants to get the girl. Wakko wants
to save the farm. Phoebe wants to stop
the bad guy. My character has an
objective, the story is about them achieving it. A to B.
At its
heart, this is probably the simplest kind of story, and one of the most
common. A self-contained book is a
limited concept. So are most
movies. There may be more steps involved
than just A to B, but really it boils down to discover goal, accomplish goal.
The
flipside of this is an unlimited concept. This is where my characters
have less of a goal and more of a general mission, if that makes sense. Wakko
is trying to raise his kids as a single dad in the big city. Yakko solves complex medical cases. Dot and her team of specialists protect the
country—and sometimes the world—from supernatural and alien threats.
An
unlimited concept is a bit more complex because it’s a much broader idea. Most ongoing television shows (the thought-out
ones, anyway) are unlimited concepts. So
are most book series. The reason for
this is because an unlimited concept, by its nature, can go on and on for a
long time without feeling stretched out.
They don’t have a clear end point.
Now,
we’ve all seen what happens when these things get swapped. A writer may have a
very solid limited concept that they decide—or are told—to do as an unlimited
one. It doesn’t matter if you have a
very solid three-season story about people trying to get off this weird island,
the network says it needs to run for four seasons. Sorry, we meant five.
Okay, make it six.
This is
when things start to fall apart. The
story starts to feel padded because we all recognize that it’s... well,
padded. Forward movement has stopped,
because forward movement would mean hitting the end of the story.
Everybody
loves to talk about prequels, but every prequel inherently has to be a
limited concept. A is where we begin, B
is the story we already know. There’s only so much that happens between them. Every prequel automatically starts with a
limited amount of time to tell a story in.
As a writer, I can’t keep putting off B.
Eventually we have to get there, because if we don’t, it’s going to
become clear I’m putting off B for no reason except to put off B. This is a big problem a lot of prequels have.
Let me give
you an example.
In
case you forgot, Smallville was the story of high school student Clark
Kent growing up in the titular town, developing the powers and learning the
lessons that will eventually make him the greatest hero ever. The producers joked early on that when Clark
learned to fly, the series would be over. After all, at that point he’d be
Superman. We began with Clark already
strong, fast, and invulnerable. Heat
vision and X-ray vision showed up before season two was halfway done, then
super-hearing (all usually just in time to counter a specific problem). And then...
Well, Smallville
did really well in the ratings. So it
kept getting renewed. The network and
the producers didn’t want the show to end, so they had to keep coming up with
reasons for Clark to not become Superman. Because Superman was point B. Once we’re there, the show’s over. So Clark developed every Kryptonian power
there was and then spent eight more years not learning to fly and not
being Superman. Heck, the last four seasons pretty much took place entirely in Metropolis. And while a good chunk
of it was still interesting... a lot of it just felt like stretching things
out.
The
other issue with a limited concept is when the characters just start to ignore
their goal. Like when the whole point of
my story is to save the farm, but I’ve just spent six chapters on Wakko going
to an art gallery opening and buying something by a hot new—wait a minute! He’s trying to save the farm but he’s
dropping money on outsider art? What the
hell?
Once I’ve
set a goal for my character—and it should be a big one—this needs to be
their focus. They can head in another
direction for a little bit, but their attention really needs to stay on that
end point of B. Veering too far off
course and getting distracted will just have my readers rolling their
eyes. I can’t say Dot only has until tomorrow to stop Armageddon and then have her take an afternoon at the spa and
dinner out with the cute guy from marketing because, hey, life is short, right?
That
fantastic show I mentioned up top—the one that’s ending—it had this
problem. It started as an unlimited
concept, a very procedural-type show.
But halfway through season three, the show shifted (very beautifully and organically) into a limited concept.
Thing is... it kept doing procedural, one off stories all through season
four. There’s a bomb ticking away
somewhere, ready to take out half the city, but our heroes keep stopping in their
search to hand out speeding tickets and chase down drug dealers. It became teeth-grindingly frustrating as the
protagonists continued to get bogged down in minor side stories while that huge
B goal loomed over them.
Another
problem I see a lot with limited concept stories is when people try to go past
B. Because in an A to B story... B is the end. We’re done. Anything after this is just... well, excess. Trying to force the story on past B to C just
becomes awkward. Once the crew of the
Federation starship Voyager makes it home to the Alpha Quadrant, the
show’s over. Sure, we could’ve had
another season of everyone being debriefed, getting accustomed to life back on
Earth, maybe getting assigned to new ships or new missions... but that’s not
what Voyager was about.
A great
example of this you may have heard of is the Moonlighting Curse, named
after the old show with Bruce Willis and Cybil Shepherd. The idea is, basically, once my two main
characters sleep together, my show is doomed.
And I think there is some truth to this... in certain cases.
Y’see,
Timmy, a lot of television and book series will have a plot built around an
unlimited concept (two zany, mismatched partners solve crimes). The story, however, is a
limited concept about these two characters—will they fall in love, or at least fall into bed? And when that
happens, when they’ve hit point B, their story is over. It doesn’t matter if the plot is
unlimited—there’s nowhere else for the characters to go except past B, and that’s
fumbly, unexplored, and usually uninteresting territory (when compared to that
original A to B).
Whenever I
get an idea, I try to take a good look at it.
Is it limited or unlimited? What
am I thinking of doing with it? Does my
idea match up with the story I’m hoping to tell?
Because if
it doesn’t... something’s going to need to change.
Next time,
I’d like to alter the mood a bit and talk about rejection.
Until
then... go write.
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