Here we are at what is, for now, the **fifth post** in this series of reflections born from reading Luca Aimeri's _Manuale di Sceneggiatura Cinematografica_ (Screenwriting Manual). I must admit, to write these articles, I had to make choices: the book is a true goldmine, and the material available was (and is) vast. I had to decide what to focus on, and I chose to prioritize the more theoretical and foundational aspects of narration. Perhaps, in the not-too-distant future, I will return to discuss the different narrative structures Aimeri explores. But not today. Today, in fact, I want to focus precisely on this concept: **the choice of what to tell is an integral and fundamental part of the story itself**. Indeed, we could say it's the final piece we were missing to fully define what a story is. ### Let's Recap the (Narrative) Journey So Far Let's take a step back and retrace together the stages of our exploratory journey into the heart of narration: 1. We started with an **idea** ([Anatomy of an Idea](BLOG/2025/05/Anatomy%20of%20an%20Idea%20-%20When%20a%20Question%20Becomes%20a%20Story.md)). 2. We brought **characters** to life, our conduits for making that idea vivid ([It's All About Them](BLOG/2025/05/It's%20All%20About%20Them%20-%20Unpacking%20the%20Centrality%20of%20Characters%20in%20Any%20Story.md)). 3. We put these characters **through the wringer**, shattering their world and breaking their equilibrium (the _fall_ triggered by a _push_) ([No Change, No Story](BLOG/2025/05/No%20Change,%20No%20Story%20-%20The%20Necessity%20of%20Breaking%20a%20Character's%20Equilibrium.md)). 4. We established that the only way for them to regain balance is to **reach their McGuffin, their goal** ([The Story's Compass](BLOG/2025/05/The%20Story's%20Compass%20-%20Character%20Goals%20and%20the%20Allure%20of%20the%20McGuffin.md)). We, as creators and narrators of this universe, have the honor and the burden of telling the story as it unfolds before our (and their) eyes. ### The Impossibility (and Uselessness) of Telling Everything But beware: **we cannot – and must not –** _**really**_ **tell everything**. Even if we had infinite space, unlimited time, and superhuman narrative abilities, recounting every single detail would be counterproductive. Think about it for a moment. Imagine a scene: our character, after a restless night, has finally managed to fall asleep. But the alarm clock rings, relentlessly. They reach out, turn it off. They sigh, shift under the covers, and silently curse life. They have no desire to get up. But they must. They put one foot out of bed, fumbling for slippers. They can't find them. Another sigh. In short, it's a simple sequence: the character has to get out of bed. We could describe every single micro-movement, every tiny action, every fleeting thought. We could even be excellent narrators and make even this chronicle of waking up compelling. But, inevitably, after a while, **it would all become tedious**. In the best-case scenario, our reader will wonder about the reason for such an abundance of detail, perhaps searching (in vain) for clues useful for the rest of the story. In the worst case, they will close the book, sighing themselves and wondering why on earth they should waste time with a meticulous description of **just another morning for just another person**. What's the crux of the problem? Real life is a continuous, often chaotic and redundant, flow of events. Even the world our characters inhabit, to be believable, must have this semblance of complexity. But, unlike the real world, **the world of the story is a constructed world, a purposeful world**. It's a universe where, ideally, everything that is narrated happens for a specific reason. And we, the creators, decide what happens. And, even more importantly, **we are always the ones who decide what to tell and what to leave out**. ### The Narrator's Goal: Entertain (While Avoiding Boredom) I think I've mentioned it before, but perhaps it's useful to reiterate: we too, like our characters, have a primary goal. What is it? **To entertain, amuse, engage, and make our readers reflect**. The ultimate purpose of our story, beyond the messages we want to convey, is to prevent boredom in those who read our work. How is this goal achieved? Through a **careful selection of elements to narrate**. And the selection rule, ultimately, is simple: we only tell _**narrative events**_. ### What Is (and Isn't) a Narrative Event? But what exactly is a "narrative event"? We can define it as **an action, an occurrence, a dialogue, or a choice that produces a significant change of state and moves the story forward in some relevant direction.** Distinguishing a true narrative event from a simple "common event" or a superfluous detail is not always straightforward. Simplifying a bit, we can say that every element we decide to include in our story should serve one (or more) of these fundamental purposes: 1. **Move the story towards the protagonist's goal (or away from it):** Does the event bring the character closer to or further from their goal? Does it introduce new obstacles or provide new tools to overcome them? Does it change the stakes? 2. **Develop or reveal crucial aspects of the character:** Does the event confront the character with a choice that reveals their nature, values, or contradictions? Does it force them to face their deepest fears or most ardent desires? Does it show their evolution, an inner change (for better or worse)? 3. **Clarify, deepen, or illustrate the central theme of the story:** Does the event offer a new perspective on the theme we want to explore? Does it dramatize the implications of that theme in the characters' lives? If an event, a scene, a dialogue, or a descriptive detail does not significantly contribute to at least one of these aspects, then it is highly probable that it is superfluous. It becomes dead weight that bogs down the narration without adding real value. Here, more than ever, the golden rule of effective minimalism applies: **everything that is useless, redundant, that does not serve to advance the story or illuminate the characters and themes, must be cut mercilessly.** As Antoine de Saint-Exupéry said in _Terre des hommes_ (Wind, Sand and Stars): "Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away." ### The Chain of Events: Cause, Effect, and Narrative Inevitability However, there is a second, equally crucial, aspect to consider. A story that works is not a simple jumble of significant narrative events, but a **well-crafted chain**. Each link in this chain is, or should appear to be, the logical consequence of what precedes it and, at the same time, the necessary preparation for what follows. For every significant event we include, we should be able to ask ourselves: "**What is the purpose of this event?**" And the answer, in a well-structured story, can only be: "**To make what comes next happen**." Similarly, looking at an event, we should be able to ask: "**Why did this happen?**" And we should be able to answer by listing the preceding events that were its preparatory cause or triggering element. In essence, our task is to create a **sense of internal coherence and apparent inevitability**. Once the work is complete, looking back, the reader should perceive how every choice, every action, and every single event contributed almost ineluctably to bringing the story to its conclusion, whatever it may be. **Nothing, in the narrative world we have built, should seem left to chance.** This does not mean at all that there cannot be surprises, plot twists, or unexpected turns—quite the contrary! These elements are often the spice of good narration. But even the most effective surprises must be prepared, cleverly sown beforehand, so that, once revealed, they appear surprising but not arbitrary or pulled out of thin air. The reader should think, "I should have seen that coming!" and not "Where did this come from?". ### The Art of Cutting and (Narrative) Care Weaving such a cohesive and meaningful plot is not at all simple, and this result is rarely achieved on the first try. Like skilled gardeners, we will have to return to our story again and again, **modifying it, pruning dead or useless branches** (or, worse still, those that are irredeemably boring) and guiding its growth with love, patience, and a good dose of critical sense. This process also implies, and perhaps above all, the ability to **discard pieces of our literary creation without regret**. If that dialogue that seemed so brilliant to us, that picturesque secondary character we had invented, or that particularly evocative descriptive scene do not really serve the story, if they do not advance it significantly, if they do not reveal anything essential about the characters or the theme, then, even with a little pain, we must have the courage to eliminate them. It is an act of love towards the story as a whole and towards the reader. Okay, I think the concept of selecting and linking events is clear enough. We can therefore add a new, and for now final, "law" to our narrator's toolkit. So we have our complete list: 1. There is no story without conflict, just as there is no conflict without a story within it. 2. There is no story without characters, and there are no (engaging) characters without (significant) actions. 3. There is no story without a fall that initiates it, nor a fall without the push that causes it. 4. There is no character without a goal that propels them, nor a goal that does not define their journey and their worth. 5. **There is no compelling story without a rigorous selection of the events that compose it and their coherent concatenation.** With this fifth law, the circle of fundamental elements of narration, at least as we have explored them so far, seems to close. We have the idea, the characters, the breaking of equilibrium, the goal, and finally, the crucial choice of _what_ and _how_ to tell their journey. See you around (online)! 👋