Living, Healing, And Writing In A 5-Act Structure

Life is a story, and sometimes, stories show us how to live it

It is in our nature to break complex topics into systems and formulas that facilitate higher comprehension. Telling stories — like living stories — comes to us innately. Our entire experience in linear time works like a story, one-beat, one-breath, after the other. Life moves in arcs. The arcs within which we break patterns and evolve are resolved. Those where we choose to stay the same become cycles, and cycles stave off resolutions.

I’m currently working toward a Masters degree in Creative Writing. However, my courses thus far have taught me far more than the craft of it all. I’ve experienced more breakthroughs in my workshops than I ever had in therapy. The most emotionally affecting class yet has been my Screenwriting Workshop, wherein we explore the fundamentals of screen craft like a science. In almost every session, I’ve needed two notebooks: one for technical notes, and another to hold my growing list of emotional, psychological, and spiritual revelations.

This brings me to the 5-Act Structure. The 5-Act Structure is a method of storytelling that involves dividing a narrative into five quadrants. It’s proven to be one of the most efficacious approaches to long-form content like novellas, novels, or films. However, it isn’t a mere formula at work here. The 5-Act Structure goes far deeper than that. It isn’t a mathematical cheat code to hacking attention, it is a massively-simplified observance of the way the human psyche perceives reality in linear time.

As I said, we humans live stories as much as we write them. We all experience our own variation of the Hero’s Journey, which is why the trope is so popular. We all experience different angles of love and romance, which explains the genre’s importance in the media landscape. Genuinely, we are all protagonists. Life mimics art, and art mimics life. Understanding the 5-Act Structure allows us to craft successful stories through an exploration of how real life unfolds. In turn, I believe it also encourages us to live in a deeper and more meaningful way.

Writers are weavers of chaos into order. Human beings are weavers of chaos into order. Let’s observe how we might braid strings of the infinite into accessible form, so that we can write more engaging stories, and live braver, fuller, and more purposeful lives.

Act 1

Act 1 unveils your protagonist at their starting point. They are situated comfortably in a given status quo, moving through life as it’s been, for however long it’s been. This part of the story is usually quite brief, because it is change, entropy, and action that audiences come to your breach in reality to experience. Change, entropy, and action are ignited at a well-known, essential plot point known as the Inciting Incident.

There was a time when I struggled to understand how to create a compelling Inciting Incident. However, in one of my recent lectures, my wise and wonderful professor broadened my horizons by reversing the term. The Inciting Incident isn’t an inciting incident. It is an incident that incites. It propels the protagonist into action and ignites the chain of events that yanks them head-first into the story, hurdling toward destiny as assigned by the writer.

In life, we experience a myriad of Act 1s, stacked atop one another like film rolls. We might be in Act 4 of a self-love arc, but Act 1 of a romantic love arc. We might be in Act 2 of an education arc, but Act 1 of a health arc. We’re constantly surrounded by starting points, and it’s so exciting! At any given moment, we have the power to seek out an Inciting Incident, shake up the status quo, and start the journey towards change.

Act 2

Act 2 is characterized by a succession of developments that prepare the protagonist for the story’s Turning Point. A turning point exists at the end of each act, but ideally, the Turning Point should be situated at the end of Act 2. It is the point at which the plot is sent in a new direction, one that makes it infinitely more difficult for the protagonist to return to the comfort of their status quo. It raises their internal stakes, and thereby, raises their external stakes.

In most stories, protagonists are driven by a Dramatic Want that sits in polar opposition to their Dramatic Need. The Dramatic Want is something they are conscious of, because it is their external goal. The Dramatic Need is entirely unconscious, because it is assigned to them by the writer, who is ostensibly their god. Act 2’s Turning Point is strategically designed to thrust them farther away from achieving their Dramatic Want than ever before. With no way to return to or find comfort in it, they must accept — on some level — the journey urging them toward their Dramatic Need.

Have you ever considered your own Dramatic Wants and Needs? Dramatic Wants will always try to pull you back to the safety of Act 1’s status quo. Your self-assigned destiny might be to take on Hollywood and act in blockbuster films, but your Act 1 Self feels safest at the local bakery. In this case, your Dramatic Need is to fearlessly go after your goals, brave the opposition, and become a self-fulfilled prophecy you’re proud of! Your Dramatic Want will veer on the side of the known, because the known feels safe. It’ll tempt you back toward the confines of Act 1, unchanged, and further than ever from the dream in your heart.

Act 2 in life is all about approaching an action that makes the old status quo less accessible. You take action, put yourself in new, exciting, and brave circumstances, and hurdle unflinchingly toward Act 3. Well, you might flinch here and there, but that’s all part of the story, your story. What really matters is that you don’t turn back, and you don’t give up.

Act 3

Act 3 is where we’ll find the infamous Midpoint. I know many writers who find themselves frustrated right around this narrative spot. Much like within a week, this is the symbolic Wednesday of storytelling. If it’s a good Wednesday, it energizes the successive Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. If the energy is lost, the momentum of Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday fizzles. All that is to say, this is obviously a very important spot, and it must be handled with both prowess and passion.

Externally speaking, the Midpoint is an event or action near the middle of the script that rockets the protagonist towards the climax of the story. Metaphorically speaking, it is the point at which the protagonist enters a “magical cave” and discovers “magical knowledge” that changes everything. They start to become conscious of their Dramatic Need, and thus, they have an opportunity to act directly from it.

Of course, they can reject their transformation, which makes life all the more exciting for particularly sadistic writers. If the protagonist refuses to change here, Act 4 will be all about torturing them until they succumb. Either way, the midpoint propels the protagonist toward the transformation which will inevitably result int he story’s climax.

Act 3 is probably one of my favorite places where self-development merges with storytelling. It’s that magical moment when the voice of the Act 1 Self begins to fade, replaced by a new voice direct from Act 5. At last, we humans become conscious of our truest desires, desires every comfort-addicted internal force has been rebelling against. We begin to understand that we don’t really want things to go back to how they were, because we need them to change. We need to change.

Act 4

Regardless of whether or not your protagonist behaved during the Midpoint, Act 4 is all about putting them through hell. This is the point of no return. Life will never be the same, the status quo is a long-lost dream, and crises-upon-crises occur to insist that they transform in accordance with their Dramatic Need, and more specifically, with their writer’s will.

The major plot point fo Act 4 is the Crisis. All of the crises within lead up to it, but it isn’t like the others. This is the biggest, baddest Crisis there is. It is an event meant to elevate and emphasize the protagonist’s internal battle between Dramatic Want and Dramatic Need. At this point, they are given a choice: change in accordance with the writer’s will, or reject it altogether. In Act 5, their answer is revealed.

Thankfully, life is usually a lot less intense during Act 4. For humans beyond the screen, I’d say it’s just a succession of external events that require the might of our Act 5 self to face. In my Hollywood example, for instance, this might be the point at which you — the protagonist — have back-to-back auditions lined up. You’ve got multiple job offers, so much to do, and things are going stupendously well. Only… your Act 1 Self is still alive, and they’re absolutely terrified.

Act 4 is wrought with circumstances only your changed self can handle. Therefore, in order to handle them, you must do the work internally and externally. You must change. You must become. Thanks to the Turning Point of Act 2 and all that’s transpired since, returning to the status quo isn’t an option. Thanks to the Midpoint in Act 3, you likely know you wouldn’t want to return if you could. Now is the time to solidify all you’ve been working toward. You’ve spent long enough inside the chrysalis. Spread those wings…

Act 5

…and make the decision to fly.

In storytelling, Act 5 begins with the Decision point. This is where we learn what the protagonist chose to do at the very end of Act 4. This choice sets off a sequence of cause-and-effect dominos that bring us barreling toward the story’s Climax. Without this Decision, the Climax is impossible. After it, the Climax becomes inevitable.

While the Climax does not conclude the story, it does conclude the external plot. It is an event that must happen because of the protagonist’s choice to change or not to change, an explosive product of cause-and-effect that unwaveringly cements the new status quo. Oftentimes, the Climax is a very short scene. It’s a burst which writers and audiences wait anxiously for, unavoidable from the very end of Act 1.

In life, this is you in flight. You’ve left the chrysalis behind, and despite the risk of falling, you chosen to take a leap of faith. Everything falls into place. You’re soaring. You’re new. You’re reborn. The events that transpire around you are a direct result of who you’ve become.

Finally, we reach the Resolution. Ironically, this isn’t really the place where everything is resolved. Instead, it is the point at which audiences are presented with the protagonist’s new reality. Its goal is to suggest an end to the plot, but a grand opening of possibility for life beyond the confines of the narrative. For us outside the screen, it’s the end of one arc, and the beginning of many, many more.

Conclusion

The 5-Act Structure is strangely, almost impossibly simple, and this is one of the reasons I cherish it so much. As I said, writers are weavers of infinite chaos, and it can be very difficult to channel that chaos into order. We live within our mind vortexes, compiling Pinterest boards and Spotify playlists. We visualize scenes and run through blips and bursts of disjointed dialogue. We know the heart of our stories.

Using a formula like the 5-Act Structure helps us to organize and express that heart as effectively as possible. I once thought of it as a cage for creativity. Now, I see it more like a racetrack on which my endless ideas can ride. They’re free to go off-road in my head, but when it’s time to share them, this structure makes it possible.

It goes without saying, but taking a look at life in this structured way has helped me understand myself and my journeys more deeply than ever before. I’ve come to realize that every challenge, every moment of hardship, and every lesson was just a pivotal plot point serving an Act 5 destiny much greater than the comforts of Act 1. I’ve come to embrace it all, the shadows and the light, because I trust they’re just necessary dominos on the path to a happier, healthier, and more fulfilled me.