Freytag’s Pyramid, Fiction, and Forgiveness

An alternative to the triangle from third grade

Since grade three we’ve had that story structure pyramid drawn on the chalkboard or paper, and heard the words about “rising action,” “climax,” and “denouement,” aka Freytag’s pyramid.

There are many ways to “diagram” a story. But here I want to talk about an alternative way to think about the essence of story, instead of such words and phrases as “upping stakes,” “inciting incident,” “plot points.”

Freytag’s pyramid exists for good reason: most stories do follow this incline and decline. But there are other ways to envision and process the drive in a story.

Some years ago, I heard the great Katherine Paterson speak at Vancouver’s “Serendipity” — what used to be an annual event of children’s literature. Paterson grew up as an “MK” — a missionary kid — and has been a minister’s spouse. Her books for young people have been banned for many reasons, including her portrayal of spiritual faith.

Her themes are not light. She said, when I heard her, that her reason for writing The Great Gilly Hopkins was to try to understand her own failed attempt at being a foster parent. (Hard to imagine! I’d move into her house any day, and do her Saturday morning vacuuming for gold stars on the fridge door chart, yes!) She has won both the Newbery and the US National Book Award twice.

She understands story structure, at the levels of human empathy, compassion, suffering, and healing. At the same time, she understands how to use language with a light hand and laughter.

Slipped into the middle of her presentation she shared an idea that I’ve pondered and wrestled with since. When you’ve written for a long time, and been to multiple conferences, you really don’t expect to walk away from one with much. But Paterson handed over a wisdom nugget that required a wheelbarrow to take home.

“In every story there’s a need for forgiveness.”

All those words we usually hear, about conflict and tension and resolution, took a turn in that moment!

I remember returning to the grad workshop group I was teaching at the time, a group of less than twelve. It was an all-year class — hard to find now. For the majority of the writers, all those months in the classroom meant writing the first rough draft of a novel, or most of, anyway.

There were a number who considered themselves to be feminist, and a few who had majored in women’s studies; for these people in particular, Freytag’s Pyramid was a problem — they called it an ‘ejaculatory model’ for story-building, and they’d been looking for something else.

One expressed to me her dismay about the constant call for “conflict” in story: she wanted something else, but didn’t know what. When I shared Paterson’s words with the group, lightbulbs went on, and more than a few sparks flew.

Of course, the “need for forgiveness” is rife with tension/conflict and dramatic elements! But… it is a different way to see.

So often in writing, we need a different angle to approach. sometimes, moving a mental and emotional half-step in another direction allows us to see anew or with more clarity. Funny thing that, like standing in front of a window with venetian blinds, and finding the little stick-thingey that we can turn, and all the slats will suddenly allow the sunlight to flow through differently. Or they’ll all align, and we can see nothing. Or everything.

At times, new information about our old ways acts in the same way.

So now, setting aside the pyramid, as new questions, with a view to “forgiveness.”

To consider:

Who has done what?

In what ways does it require forgiveness from another? from self? from an estranged person? from a beloved?

To what degree are the characters cognizant of this need? Does this change through the story? Think: forgiver and forgivee. How does all of this affect others?

Are there multiple needs and sources of forgiveness within the story?

Is the awareness, and the growth/process, an evolving one? Or an awareness that moves quickly? In a moment of epiphany?

How do you reveal/show this forgiveness? What shape does the forgiveness take? Is there a physicality to it? What are its intellectual and/or emotional properties?

Are you forgiving of your characters as you write?*

Can you feel your heart harden toward any? soften? How does that work in your writing?

In the opening line of C.S. Lewis’s The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is a word that denotes the writer’s and/or narrator’s sense of this:

“There was a boy named Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.”

But not quite.

The almost makes all the difference.

Note: * of course, even if you are forgiving towards your characters, you’ll not be off the hook for causing “terrible things” to happen to them… as must be!

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