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Story Structure: The Classics
Apr. 23rd, 2025 05:30 am![[syndicated profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/feed.png){kind=small}
rachelneumeier_feedThis post at Jane Friedman’s blog caught my eye because of the recent Mythcreant’s post about how story structures are fool’s gold and foxfire and will lead you into peril and disaster. (I’m summarizing the basic tone of the Mythcreant’s post.)
Anyway, here’s the one at Friedman’s blog: Structural Mastery: Why the Classics Endure
These books have endured not because of subject matter alone, but because they were structurally effective. The right moments happened at the right times to elicit reader investment and momentum. … So, let’s take a closer look at why structure works—not as a mechanical template, but as an emotional engine that corresponds to human nature and thereby drives a reader’s engagement.
This post is focusing on standard beats: inciting incident, point of no return, rising action, midpoint with emotional uncertainty, all is lost, climax, resolution. More about each of these at the linked post, but this is all, as I say, standard.
However, the linked post then looks at various classics and how they fit this structure. The Old Man and the Sea. The Great Gatsby. I read them both in school. I sort of didn’t hate The Old Man and the Sea, but I don’t remember it well, only that I didn’t hate it. I thoroughly disliked Gatsby and after reading the brief summary at this post, no wonder. Once again the perennial question: Why do teachers feel they have to assign only tragedies? And of course we know why: Because tragedies have more depth. [Insert eye roll here.]
Anyway, back to the post.
Why it works: thematic and structural alignment
The structure of The Old Man and the Sea keeps the reader emotionally engaged by balancing tension, release, and inevitability. Santiago’s struggle isn’t just about catching a fish—it’s about proving to himself that he still has strength and purpose. The reader is drawn in by his determination, rooting for him even as the odds stack higher.
The midpoint flashback shifts the reader’s perception of Santiago. Until then, he has been losing ground, pulled farther from safety. But the memory of his arm-wrestling victory reframes the battle—Santiago has overcome impossible odds before, and now the reader has hope that he might do it again. This moment raises the stakes and deepens the emotional investment in his final effort.
The false victory—Santiago harpooning the marlin—gives the reader a moment of triumph before pulling the rug out. When the sharks arrive, the emotional turn is one of devastation, not just for Santiago but for the reader, who now realizes that the victory was never truly his to claim. The final resolution, where Santiago returns home empty-handed but still admired by his young companion, Manolin, provides a quiet catharsis. The reader feels the weight of loss, but also the endurance of dignity.
All right, that one isn’t actually a tragedy, because if the story is abut proving to himself that he still has strength and purpose, then he did prove that to himself. Also to his young companion.
Gatsby is a tragedy, the worst kind, a pointless self-destructive plot arc that is just really annoying to me personally, no matter what you think of the structure:
By structuring The Great Gatsby as a mystery rather than a straightforward tragic romance, Fitzgerald deepens the reader’s emotional investment. Instead of presenting Gatsby’s story chronologically, he withholds key pieces of information, allowing Nick—and by extension, the reader—to gradually uncover the truth. This creates intrigue, transforming Gatsby from a mere lovesick dreamer into an enigmatic figure whose past, motivations, and eventual downfall must be pieced together. The emotional weight of the novel builds not just from what Gatsby wants, but from the slow realization that his dream was always doomed.
If Fitzgerald had told Gatsby’s story in order, it would be a simple rise-and-fall narrative: a man amasses wealth to reclaim lost love, only to be destroyed by forces beyond his control. By filtering events through Nick’s perspective and revealing Gatsby’s past in layers, the novel fosters suspense and a sense of inevitable tragedy. The structural delay means that by the time the reader fully understands Gatsby’s quest, it is already unraveling.
The forces weren’t beyond his control. If he’d focused on something else besides trying to re-seduce a woman who had rejected him and married someone else, I expect the story would have had a different ending. BUT FINE, given this brief discussion, I expect the structure probably contributed to the story’s success.
I’m sure plenty of people must have analyzed novels I actually like. Okay, here is Persuasion, fitted into the Save the Cat structure.
Here’s The Hunger Games, fitted into a four-act structure.
Oh, The Hunger Games is a popular novel for this sort of analysis. Here’s another, this time in seven points. There are a lot. This one goes Hook, Plot Turn 1, Pinch Point 1, Midpoint, Pinch Point 2, Plot Turn 2, Resolution. No climax? ??? That’s seems strange when talking about structure. Looks like this post calls the climax part of the resolution. I wouldn’t.
What’s a pinch point, you may ask. (I asked that.) Here’s “Pinch Point 1”: This is where more pressure is applied. This is often used to introduce the antagonist. All right, so what is Pinch Point 2? It’s this: This is where even more pressure is applied. The story takes the ultimate dive. The character is at his/her darkest moment. He/she has lost everything. Okay, so that’s the “dark night of the soul.”
Wow, googling “structure of the lord of the ring” gets you to a Wikipedia article with plenty of citations:
Tolkien scholars have noted the unusual narrative structure of The Lord of the Rings, describing it in a variety of ways, including as a balanced pair of outer and inner quests;[7] a linear sequence of scenes or static tableaux;[8] a fractal arrangement of separate episodes that successively elaborate upon recurring themes;[9] a Gothic cathedral-like edifice of many different elements that combine to create a space with varying lights and vistas;[9] or an elaborate medieval-style interlacing of intersecting threads of story.[10]
I get a kick out of this. I like all these brief descriptions EXCEPT “a linear sequence of scenes or static tableaux,” which applies to juuuuust about any story ever told, minus the smallish fraction that are nonlinear. That line is as meaning-free as any phrase I have ever seen in my life. It just means, “TLotR is a linear story,” and gosh, that’s an acute observation, good job with that. Also, the story is so broken up, with Frodo captured by the orcs and let’s pause for the battle of Helm’s Deep before he’s rescued, that actually I don’t even think I’d agree it’s simply linear.
What do you think of the fractal arrangement notion? Maybe, maybe. At least it sounds neat and you can think about it. I do enjoy describing TLotR as a Gothic cathedral. I sort of feel Tolkien might have enjoyed having TLotR described that way.
Anyway, I’m mildly inclined to see if I can fit Tuyo into Save the Cat, but only mildly. Eventually maybe I’ll try that when I don’t have anything else pressing to do.
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