Alright, here I am again with Luca Aimeri's _Manuale di Sceneggiatura Cinematografica_ (Screenwriting Manual) in front of me. I'm continuing to read it and finding several **decidedly** interesting insights for those who love to write and understand the mechanics of storytelling. ### The Rules of the Game (So Far) and the Missing "Why" In our previous journey through these reflections, we focused on two fundamental "laws" of narration: 1. There is no story without conflict, just as there is no conflict without a story within it. ([Anatomy of an Idea](BLOG/2025/05/Anatomy%20of%20an%20Idea%20-%20When%20a%20Question%20Becomes%20a%20Story.md)) 2. There is no story without characters, and there are no compelling characters without meaningful actions. ([It's All About Them](BLOG/2025/05/It's%20All%20About%20Them%20-%20Unpacking%20the%20Centrality%20of%20Characters%20in%20Any%20Story.md)) So we have the _who_ (the character) and the _what_ (the action, the conflict). But, like a detective at an incomplete crime scene, we feel that a crucial piece is still missing: the _why_. And **the "why" is the keystone**. We have our character, our hero, our alter ego with whom we identify. We know that through them, we will live a thousand adventures and that, for a while, we will be the ones wearing their shoes. But **why on earth would our alter ego set off on an adventure?** ### In Praise of Stasis: Why Characters (Like Us) Hate Change There's an unwritten but universally recognized law that governs the lives of human beings (and, consequently, our characters): **humanity is a fundamentally lazy species**. And not just lazy, but also **tenaciously resistant to change**. Change makes us uncomfortable; it unsettles us; sometimes it sends us into a panic. Once we've found our balance, our comfortable routine, why on earth would we want to alter it? If we're doing well, we risk doing less well. And if, by chance, we're already doing badly, well, who can assure us that a change won't make the situation even worse? Our life, and the life of _him_ (our character), constantly tends to seek and maintain its own equilibrium, its own "normality." And as long as we, and our narrative alter ego, find ourselves in this state of equilibrium, **we will have no real intrinsic motivation to act**, to undertake something new or risky. And, as we've already established, **without action, there is no narration worthy of the name**. ### Narrative Equilibrium: Starting Point (and Sometimes Return Point) Equilibrium, therefore, is not just an existential condition but a pillar of narrative structure. It **represents the obligatory starting point and, very often, the arrival point** (or a new starting point) of every story. These two points – the initial equilibrium and the final one – can be radically different or surprisingly similar. The character can transform profoundly – for better or worse – but at the end of their journey, **they will find themselves in a situation of "new normality"**, in a renewed status quo. And at that moment, the story, at least that particular narrative arc, can be considered concluded. ### The Spark in the Engine: The Inciting Incident That Kicks Everything Off What does all this imply? That to start a story, at a certain point, **the protagonist's initial equilibrium** _**must**_ **be broken**. Something happens. It can be an unforeseen event, sometimes disruptive and spectacular. Or it can manifest as something more subtle, almost subterranean, that begins to erode and question the character's established normality. This is what Aimeri defines as a **dynamic event**, or **inciting incident**: the spark that ignites the story's engine, kicking off the entire succession of future events and, above all, **forcing the protagonist to act**. Yes, you read that right: it precisely **"forces"** the protagonist. The inciting incident is not a mere inconvenience, a small hiccup in the routine. It cannot be, if it **is to be** effective. It must be something powerful enough to push the characters out of their comfort zone (or, why not, their established and familiar _discomfort_ zone). **They must have no choice**, or at least they must perceive it that way: **they must act, or face catastrophe** – disaster, irreparable loss, the greatest and most feared consequence possible for _that_ specific character. The inciting incident can take a thousand forms, as many as there are possible stories: - Unexpected news that turns perspectives upside down. - The arrival of a stranger who brings turmoil or new possibilities. - An accident, apparently random, that changes everything. - A discovery that illuminates hidden truths or opens new chasms. - An injustice suffered personally or witnessed that cannot be ignored. - A desperate cry for help. - Even a new wrinkle that suddenly appears on the face, if for that specific character it represents the catalyst for a profound crisis. Every story has its own unique and unrepeatable inciting incident. And this event can, indeed, _**must**_ **be different and significant for each character**, because each character, with their baggage of experiences, desires, and fears, is different. Just as with real people, fictional characters will also have specific problems, urgent needs, and existential questions that, at a certain point, they can no longer evade. ### When the (Character's) World Collapses A rupture of equilibrium, then, and a consequent, inevitable emotional and practical "**earthquake**" in our characters' lives. Shaken to their foundations, they will instinctively try to reach a new equilibrium, a new stability. However, it will not be an easy path, nor a linear one. From that first primary conflict, generated by the inciting incident, many others will cascade. Our characters will soon find themselves entangled in a world they perceive as increasingly difficult, hostile, or simply different from how they knew it, and they will be forced to make choices – often difficult, sometimes painful. We can therefore distill from these reflections a third law for our narrative toolkit: > There is no story without a **fall** that initiates it, nor a **fall** without the **push** that causes it. They will try in every way to regain their lost equilibrium, or at least to build a new one, perhaps more mature or aware. But how? What will be their compass in this storm? And it is precisely here, in this search, that a narrative element as fascinating as it is elusive often comes into play: the McGuffin. But I'll talk about that another time. Now it's time to prepare dinner. See you around. 👋