Transcript:

This video is the start of a new series where we’ll break down all the nitty-gritty aspects of writing, from the simplest ideas to the most complex concepts we can explore in a format like this.

There’s already a ton of excellent writing advice out there, especially on YouTube, and I highly encourage you to check out those other channels. But I’ve noticed a bit of a gap, specifically for newer, burgeoning writers. As a teacher, I care deeply about identifying where someone’s understanding begins, meeting them there, and helping them build from that foundation.

So, over the next few months, I’ll be focusing on concepts that might seem basic to seasoned writers, but could be game-changing for those just starting to dip their toes into the craft.

And to get us started, we’re going to break down the anatomy of a story. If you’re someone who tends to start strong but gets stuck in the middle or rushes your ending because you’ve run out of steam, this video is for you.

Hi, I’m C. Sloan Lewis, your virtual writing coach, and my goal is to help you not just improve your writing, but to support you as a writer. Welcome to my channel!

Anatomy of a Story: Beginning

As long as stories have existed, they’ve followed some kind of structure. It might shift depending on the genre, culture, or form, but there’s always a structure. At the most basic level, that’s a beginning, middle, and end. But there’s much more nuance to it than that.

Before we get into structures like Save the Cat or Dan Harmon’s Story Circle, it’s important to understand the basic anatomy of a story.

But wait—didn’t we already learn this in middle school with the plot diagram?

If you can recall any detailed information you were taught in Middle School, congratulations your retention skills are much better than mine. But memorizing terms like “rising action” and “falling action” doesn’t mean we fully understand story structure.

Plot diagrams don’t account for the three-act structure, which—especially when you’re writing longer works like novels—can offer a much more intuitive foundation to work from.

Let’s break this down, starting with the beginning.

At the start of a story, we meet a character or a few characters, and they’re living in a world they more or less understand. They may not like their situation, but it’s familiar. We’re setting the status quo here—something stable and predictable, even if it’s unpleasant.

Take Harry Potter: when we meet him, he’s living under the stairs, being mistreated by his aunt and uncle. It’s awful, but it’s his normal. Nothing’s really changing for him—he’s just getting older and about to start a new school year.

And that’s why we need an inciting incident.

This is the moment that launches the character into the actual story. It’s a significant shift, a break from the norm. There’s debate over exactly where this should fall, but generally, it’s at the end of your beginning.

Some classic examples:

• Harry receives his Hogwarts letter.
• The stormtroopers kill Luke’s aunt and uncle.
• Prim’s name is drawn in The Hunger Games.
• The villain shows up and causes chaos in, well, pretty much any superhero movie.

Quick side note: A lot of new writers confuse the inciting incident with starting in media res—jumping right into the action. But while an action-packed opening can hook a reader, that’s not the same thing as the inciting incident. If you introduce it too early, readers won’t care about the character yet, which undermines its emotional weight. Set the stage first, so that when the inciting incident hits, it matters

Middle: Act Two – The Long Haul

Next, we have the middle—also known as Act Two. And, let’s be honest, this is usually the hardest part to write. It’s often the longest section and doesn’t always feel as “exciting” as the beginning or the end, which can lead to what’s lovingly called the “sagging middle.” Or the soggy one. Or the floopy one. You get it.

The middle contains three key elements: the rising action, complications, and the midpoint shift.

Your character is on a journey—even if they’re physically stuck in one place. The rising action makes up about 90% of that movement. It’s where your character learns, grows, and faces challenges that prepare them for the climax.

Think of it like a training montage, but stretched over chapters instead of a 90-second song.

They gain skills, encounter allies and enemies, and slowly move toward what they want—and ideally, what they need, which we’ll dive deeper into in another video.

But the journey isn’t smooth. That’s where complications come in—setbacks that test the character and force growth, even if they emerge bruised.

Then comes the midpoint shift—a major turning point that dramatically alters the trajectory of the story. This is not the climax, but it influences how your character will face it.

When Luke witnesses Obi Wan’s death in A New Hope or learns that Darth Vader is his father in The Empire Strikes Back, those are his midpoint shifts —the first for a single movie and the second for the trilogy as a whole— which ultimately end up shaping his decision for that climax. Would he have used the force without the ethereal Obi-Wan telling him to, or spared Darth Vader, killing Palpatine instead, without knowing Vader is his father? Probably not.

Another example of this is when a character makes a vital decision that they wouldn’t have made at the start of the story. In The Hobbit, this is when Bilbo acts bravely enough to stand up against Gollum and trick him in the riddle competition. In the Hunger Games, it’s when Katniss starts to actually “play” the game and blows up the food supply the Careers had collected.

The midpoint shift shows us that the character is evolving, and it reshapes how they’ll behave in the story’s final act.

End: Climax, Resolution, Emotional Payoff

So. now we reach the end—Act Three.

First up: the climax. If there’s a “big bad,” this is the final showdown. But not all stories have clear villains. So what is the climax, then?

It’s the emotional or narrative high point where everything the character has learned, experienced, or suffered culminates in a defining moment.

Let’s use The Great Gatsby as an example. Some may argue that when Gatsby is shot, that’s the climax, but it’s actually a little bit before that, making his death part of the resolution instead. The climax is when Gatsby lies and says he’s the one who killed Myrtle because he wanted to protect Daisy, which in turn is why Myrtle’s husband shoots him.

Another example —and I know I’m all over the place with examples, so bear with me— is from Inside Out, when Joy realizes she needs Sadness to give Riley a good and healthy life. There’s a lot of stuff that follows that climax, like the death of BingBong, so keep in mind too that the climax doesn’t have to be within the last few pages or minutes of a story either.

After the climax comes the resolution—the world settling into its new state—and the emotional payoff that gives your audience closure.

Maybe its a party on Endor to celebrate a well-earned victory against the Empire or the journey back to the status quo for our hero, who returns wiser and richer than before, or the processing of events after the POV character has experienced or witnessed something intense.

The key element for your resolution is the emotional payoff. Whatever happens at the end needs to have been promised at the beginning and, most importantly, needs to be earned. If you need help figuring out how to do that, stay tuned, because I have a video planned to tackle just that.

But, now I want to hear from you:

Which part of a story do you struggle with most—beginning, middle, or end?

Drop your answer in the comments—I’d love to hear your thoughts. And if this breakdown helped clarify anything for you, give the video a like, and consider subscribing so you don’t miss the next topic in the series.

We’ve got a lot more ground to cover, and I’m excited to dive in with you.

You’ve got some writing to do, so I’ll see you in the next video. Ta-ta!