October 28, 2025 • 21 mins
What do you do when your genre just refuses to work?
When you’ve tried every content genre you know—Action, Crime, Horror, Thriller, Performance, Love, Society, and more—and every single one just does not fit your story?
Sure, some parts of several of those genres fit your story. Those parts even seem essential.
Some parts feel like a stretch, but you can make them work if you squint.
And some parts don’t fit at all.
If you’re honest, it’s like your story is secretly three genres in a trenchcoat trying to sneak past some gatekeeper rubric.
In other words: your genre feels like an utter mess. A confusing mish-mash. Like somewhere, somehow, your story took a wrong turn, and now it’s doing a bunch of things poorly and nothing really well. It simply refuses to check all the right genre boxes at the same time.
And when you try to just pick the best-fitting genre and make it work, it feels like you’re ham-fistedly shoving your beautiful, unique, personal creation into a standardized mold it truly doesn’t fit.
When genre feels like all of that, what do you do?
That’s what I’m exploring in this episode. I’m taking genre deeper than conventions and obligatory moments to show you what it’s really measuring.
You’ll hear:
- A key reason why your story’s genre is so hard to spot (hint: you’re not the problem, and your story isn’t either)
- How the content genres map onto real life—and how I can take one bike ride with my brother and spin it into four different genres
- How knowing your story’s genre helps your readers follow the plot—and derive meaning from your story
- And more!
Plus, I’m taking you on vacation with me. I just got back from the beach, where my brother and I rode bikes along the marsh. And in this episode, I’m bringing you along for the ride.
What genre was our bike ride? You’ll have to listen to find out!
Links mentioned in the episode:
- Your primer on content genres: The 12 Core Genres That Power Every Great Story
- Get the free Content Genre Overview with resources for every genre
- See photos from my bike ride with Thomas
- Listen to peaceful marsh sounds
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
What do you do when your genrejust doesn't work?
(00:03):
I see it all the time.
You try on two or three or fourcontent genres for size to see
how they fit your story, action,crime, performance, society.
Every one of them matches a fewmoments in your story moments
that feel absolutely essential,and everyone has gaping holes
that don't match at all, and youdon't see any root to filling
(00:26):
them.
And when you finally just pickone and try your best to make it
work, it feels incrediblyuncomfortable and wrong.
Like you're taking yourexpansive, unique, deeply
intimate and personal creation,and you're shoving it ham-fisted
into a standardized mold, notmade for it at all.
(00:47):
It makes you wonder, are yougrossly misunderstanding genre,
misunderstanding your own story?
Or is the problem not your storyor your genre, but you, the
writer who might just be bad atthis?
I can tell you right now, theproblem is not you, but the
problem might be that genrefeels like a box, a mold, a
(01:10):
cage, a.
So in this episode, I'm going toexplore another way to think
about genre, a way that's notcentered on a list of
conventions and obligatorymoments that your story must
include, but instead invites youto examine the conflict
underneath any moment.
I won't promise to fix what'sbroken in your stories genre in
(01:30):
the span of one episode, but Iwill give you a pathway to
explore what's really going onin your story.
In other words, what are wereally talking about when we
talk about genre?
In order to answer thatquestion, let's take a trip to
the beach.
(02:36):
Welcome to your next draft.
Last week I went on a familyvacation to the beach.
I love going to the beach.
We've been going to the samebeach for decades.
And yet I find that I'm stilldiscovering new things that I
haven't seen before.
Every time this year, for thefirst time we decided to rent
bikes, there's a little pavedbike path that runs between two
(02:59):
rows of houses, then up aroundthe golf course along the marsh,
through the teeny tiny strip oftown and shops along the highway
for about half a mile.
And then into the state park, Agorgeous wilderness of palmetto
trees.
I'm not a very skilled cyclist,but I got in 15 miles a day for
a few days, trekking up to thestate park and back midway
(03:21):
through the week, my brotherdecided to join me.
I'd already refreshed my memoryon the route, so I had the
advantage of recent experience.
Thomas had ridden this path onour trip in the spring, so he
knew generally where we weregoing, but he rediscovered the
specifics along the way, likethe first bridge.
Right next to the golf course,there's a little wooden bridge
(03:44):
that crosses a narrow strip ofpond.
It's short and flat with tallwooden rails on both sides,
which is good because there's abit of a curve at the point
where the path meets the bridge.
And Thomas still getting hisfooting on both the bike and the
route.
took that curve at just thewrong speed and angle, and
wobbled his way right into therailing.
(04:05):
If the railing hadn't been thereto catch him, he'd have landed
in the pond.
He recovered quickly though,walked his bike to the end of
the bridge and hopped right backon to lead us on the ride along
the marsh and through the townat the highway, we swapped
spots.
I took the lead since the carsare fast and the bike lane on
the edge of the road is narrowand the shoulder drops off right
(04:25):
into the marsh, and I knewprecisely where we were going to
turn.
And a few minutes later withoutincident, we made it to the
state park.
The trails through the statepark are just gorgeous.
They weave through the forestpacked dirt, bumpy with tree
roots.
Sometimes there are sandypatches, which I called out to
Thomas because they were softand slippery under our wheels
(04:46):
and made it difficult to staybalanced.
But the sand is also covered infascinating tracks made by deer
and a bunch of other animalsthat I don't know how to
identify.
Occasionally the trails open upto stunning marsh views.
In a couple places a boardwalktakes you across a section of
marsh to the next stretch ofland and trees.
And when we reached the firstone this time, I paused to warn
(05:09):
Thomas Boardwalk ahead.
I told him, and this one doesn'thave rails.
The stakes are much higher thistime.
He said, and I.
The first boardwalk is thelongest.
The second is half its length,and then right before the
landmark at the end of thetrail, there's a teeny tiny
boardwalk, maybe six feet longand two feet above the ground
(05:31):
that carries you over a teenytiny stream, which was dry when
we crossed it.
This teeny tiny boardwalkdoesn't have a rail, so there's
always the possibility offalling off it, but even if you
do, you don't have very far tofall.
The stakes on this one are muchlower.
I told Thomas.
Which all got me thinking, whatare we talking about when we
(05:54):
talk about genre?
I'm going to pivot for a momentfrom the Beachside bike ride and
talk about riding Bear with me.
Lately, I've been having lots ofconversations with writers about
genre and stakes.
I've given several writers thefeedback that I'm having trouble
identifying their story'sstakes, that their stakes are
unclear, Or that their genreseems to shift in the middle of
(06:17):
the story.
It starts as an action story andends as a performance story, or
it starts as a crime story andends as a status story.
Which of course begs thequestion, what genre is their
story?
I think sometimes writers getuncomfortable when we start
talking about the genres thatyour stories fit into.
(06:38):
Genre can feel like arestrictive cage, a formulaic
beat sheet, or a prescriptiveset of scenes and tropes and
conventions and moments thatyou're obligated to include in
your story.
It can feel like instead ofbeing guided by your own unique
creative mind, you're simplyregurgitating a pattern that a
thousand other storytellers havealready recited.
(06:58):
I assume that writers sometimesget uncomfortable when we start
talking about genre because Iknow that I get uncomfortable
talking about genre.
The last thing that I want to dois make writers feel like I'm
restricting your creativityrather than empowering it to
flourish.
I worry that when I tell awriter their genre isn't clear,
or their story bounces from onegenre to another and then ends
(07:21):
in a third, that they'll feellike I'm removing the things
about their story that they lovethe most.
I worry that when I take awriter on a process of
exploration to discover theirgenre, and we consider and
discard two or three as genresthat don't fit, that they will
feel frustrated or like theirstory is somehow wrong for not
easily offering up its genre.
(07:41):
I worry that if the genre that Isee and propose to the writer
comes as a great surprise tothem and doesn't seem to fit at
first, that they will feel likeI misunderstood their story or
I'm trying to force it to becomesomething that it isn't.
When in reality what I'm seeingis connections that already
exist to a trustworthy frameworkthat they can innovate on.
(08:02):
All this to say, I getuncomfortable when a story's
genre isn't obvious because Iworry that the process of
finding that genre will feel tothe writer, like we're cramming
their story into an ill-fittingmold.
And if I find the process ofidentifying a story's genre
uncomfortable, I have to imaginethat sometimes you do too.
So why does this matter so much?
(08:24):
Why put ourselves through thisif it's just a way to make us
both feel bad that I ammisunderstanding the story and
the writer has created somethingthat doesn't fit in the standard
box?
Why are we worrying about genreat all?
because the stories genre tellsus the writer.
The editor and the reader whatwe're measuring in the story.
(08:46):
The genre tells us what matters.
It tells us what to focus on.
It tells us what to track as wefollow the characters from the
first page to the last.
In other words, the genre tellsus the stakes.
It tells us what the story isactually about, what the
protagonist is fighting to gainor at risk of losing, what the
arc of story is amidst all thechaos and noise of everyday
(09:09):
life.
The genre points us to thethread to follow, and we need to
know which thread to followbecause that's how we draw
meaning from every single eventin the story.
Otherwise, they're just a listof things that happen and we
don't know what to do with them.
I should specify here that I'mtalking about content genres.
(09:29):
These aren't the words thatcategorize the books on the
shelves of Bartons and Noble.
They're the words that point tothe stakes at the heart of your
story.
Words like action, war, crime,horror, thriller, love,
performance, and society.
If that terminology is new toyou, I highly recommend that you
head back to episode 90, the 12core genres that power every
(09:52):
Great story.
For a deeper dive on contentgenres, find it@alicesaddo.com
slash 90 or find the link in theshow notes.
but assuming that you'retracking with me, let's go back
to the bikes in the forest bythe marsh.
What did Thomas and I mean, whenwe said that the stakes were
high on one boardwalk and thestakes were much lower on
(10:15):
another, we meant that we weremeasuring something specific on
that bike ride.
And when the stakes were high,we were very, very aware that
the thing we were measuring wasit risk.
Did I mention that I'm not avery experienced cyclist and
that Thomas had already fallenoff his bike once?
The stakes I was measuringthroughout that entire ride were
(10:38):
survival stakes.
The preservation of my physicalbody.
I would get muddy if I fell offthe teeny tiny boardwalk.
I might get scraped up, bloodiedand bruised.
If I fell off the longerboardwalk into the marsh, I
could fracture a limb.
If my bike slipped in a patch ofsand and I caught myself wrong
in the fall or crashed into atree, and on the highway with
its narrow bike lane, I couldget hit by a car.
(11:01):
so while 95% of this ride wasalong, peaceful, quiet, nearly
empty trails and paths andstreets, in my mind, the genre
was an action story where thestakes are life and death.
At some point though, I had tocall that into question because
let's face it, it was extremelyunlikely that I was going to die
(11:22):
on that bike ride.
And indeed I did not die, andneither did Thomas.
So then I wondered what otherstakes could we measure?
Well, if life and death are notin question, but we're still at
risk of falling off our bikes,then this isn't a story about
survival.
It's a story about skill.
And the genre where we measure aprotagonist's skill is the
(11:45):
performance genre.
In the performance genre, thestakes are respect versus shame.
Suppose Thomas or I fell off theboardwalk into the marsh in a
performance story.
I might still get scraped up,but what we'd really be
measuring is how embarrassed amI to have fallen?
How bad am I really at riding abike?
(12:05):
And how much of my family'srespect and my own have I lost
by falling That story wouldn'tbe about how many bruises I got
or how much dirt I was coveredin.
It would be about how much shameI felt for having lost control
of my bike and getting coveredin dirt and bruises.
Action and performance are themost obvious genres for this
(12:26):
bike ride action because it'sthe genre I felt like I was in
and performance because it's thegenre I was actually in.
But this is a fun exercise, so Iran it again.
What other stakes could wemeasure?
Well, I was hanging out with mybrother on this bike ride, so
this could be a story aboutconnection and the genre that
(12:46):
measures human connection is thelove genre.
In the love genre, the stakesare love versus hate.
Thomas and I are very close andget along great, but suppose he
got angry at me for not warninghim about the curve before the
first bridge, or suppose Ipushed him off the boardwalk.
Or suppose we made it over everyboardwalk entirely unscathed,
(13:07):
but got into a fight along our15 mile ride.
That story wouldn't be aboutwhether or not Thomas got a
splinter when he ran into therail of the bridge.
It would be about how he feltabout me and how I felt about
him, and he'd probably feel alot more negatively towards me
if he got a splinter on thebridge and then blamed me for
giving it to him.
(13:28):
Let's run the exercise again.
What other stakes could wemeasure?
Well, we were on a family beachtrip, so this could be a story
about family dynamics and powerhierarchies and our ability to
be recognized within a communityand the genre that measures
recognition.
Is the society genre In thesociety genre, the stakes are
(13:49):
power versus impotence.
Someone has power and someoneelse does not.
Suppose we had a very strictgrandmother who had a regimented
schedule for how our time at thebeach would go, or who frowned
upon bike rides for whateverreason.
Suppose Thomas and I had snuckout of the beach house with our
bikes undetected, and we weretrying to enjoy a fun morning
(14:11):
ride without drawing her eye.
Maybe if we got back in time, wecould sneak back in without her
noticing.
but if we came back muddy fromfalling into the marsh, She'd be
sure to see and berate us.
That story wouldn't be aboutwhether or not we got injured in
a fall in the marsh.
It would be about whether wewere able to fulfill our own
(14:31):
plans without penalty and tofall into the pl.
Mud would definitely incurpenalty.
I could keep going.
I could point to the animaltracks and take us to a crime
story, or I could point to thespeed at which we raced along
the highway and through theforest and speculate about a
thriller antagonist chasing us.
It's a little bit more of astretch to try to contort this
(14:52):
into a war story or a western,but I bet I could do it if
pressed.
My point though is this, that 15mile bike ride along the marsh
with my brother could have somany meanings.
There are so many human lifevalues at stake that we could
measure That is the nature oflife, our experience every
(15:14):
single day.
We are balancing our needs forsurvival and safety and
connection and esteem, andrecognition and respect, and
self actualization, and selftranscendence all at the same
time.
At one moment, one need is morepainful and the next another
gets louder.
Stories distill that constantchaos of everyday life into a
(15:35):
singular narrative from which wecan draw clear meaning about one
thing.
The genre allows us to identifythe one value at stake that we
are measuring throughout theentire story.
That way we're not gettingdistracted by life or death
action stakes when the story isreally a performance story about
(15:55):
esteem.
Or we're not getting distractedby love or hate, love story
stakes.
When the story is really asociety story about power
dynamics or we're not leftwondering what the heck is going
on and why it matters at all.
When a story does its best tomimic real life by giving us all
the stakes at once.
That may make for good veris andmilitude and feel very real, but
(16:18):
it doesn't make for a veryengaging story.
When I guide a writer to findtheir story's true genre, this
is what I'm doing.
I'm looking at the story they'vecreated and I'm seeking out the
stakes.
I'm asking what are we measuringat the beginning of the story in
the middle?
At the end, The events in thestory are clues about the
(16:40):
story's genre.
Every genre has a stock incitingincident and a stock climax.
Every genre has conventions andobligatory moments because these
are the moments in the storywhere the arc of the thing that
we're measuring takes majorturns, and we see that
measurement really clearly.
but underneath all of that,Beyond the beat sheets and
(17:01):
obligatory moments, there is thething that we are measuring the
heartbeat under every scene, thehuman life value that matters
most in this story when theobligatory scenes are all over
the place and genre feels like acage, this is what I come back
(17:22):
to.
What are we measuring?
What is at stake?
From there, we can figure outwhat the story is really about
and then choose the genre thatwill make that clear to the
reader.
From there, we can sift throughall the scattered stakes of the
story and orient around the onethat is most important, which
(17:46):
brings us to the end of ourMarsh bike story.
Thomas and I made it safely backover the teeny tiny boardwalk,
the medium boardwalk, and thelong boardwalk out of the state
park along the highway, throughthe town around the marsh, over
the bridge with no falls thistime and back home to our beach
(18:08):
house, we had a really, reallylovely ride, which makes for a
terribly boring story because atthe end of the day, none of
those stakes were truly at risk.
Not the action stakes or theperformance stakes or the love
stakes or the society stakes.
The parts of life that don'tmake for a good story are some
of the parts that I enjoy themost.
(18:30):
Your story though, is probablythe opposite of our ride.
It probably has many stakes atrisk, which is one of the
reasons why identifying a genreis just so dang hard.
It doesn't mean that you'redoing it wrong.
It doesn't mean that your storyis broken.
It simply means that right nowyou're sending your reader's
(18:51):
attention and a lot ofdirections at once, and in order
for them to draw meaning fromyour story, you need to point
them to the one clear thing thatyou want them to measure.
What are the stakes of yourstory?
If you want to take a closerlook at all the content genres
to help you sort through whatyour story is truly about.
(19:11):
I highly recommend checking outthe episode, the 12 core genres
that power every great story.
Find it@alicesudler.com slash 90or find the link in the show
notes.
At that link, you will also finda cheat sheet that you can print
with all the genres and links todeeper dives into every single
one.
So you'll definitely want to goto that link, alice
(19:32):
sudler.com/ninety, And if youare really, truly stuck and you
cannot, for the life of you sortthrough which genre matters most
in your story, that is a perfecttime to reach out for help.
The first phase of my revisioncoaching process is called Next
Right Step.
In It.
I'll help you identify whetheryour genre and stakes are
(19:54):
working right now.
If they're not i'll spot whatquestions you can explore to
unlock them, and if they are,then yay.
I'll point you to your nextrevision priority.
If that sounds like the kind ofsupport that you need, go to
alice sudler.com/nrs and tell meabout your story, and I'll be in
touch.
Until next time, I wish youclear and thrilling stakes in
(20:17):
all your stories, andwonderfully boring lack of
stakes in your own life.
May it all be as peaceful as abike ride on the marsh.
Ps.
If you head over to my blog,then you can go see a picture of
Thomas and me riding our bikesover the marsh.
Well, a picture of the boardwalkand the marsh and Thomas on his
bike.
And I've also got a link to avideo where you can hear marsh
(20:41):
sounds so you can kind ofimmerse yourself in this whole
episode.
You can read along and listen tothe little plopping sounds of
the marsh, the tide coming inand out.
It's very lovely.
At any rate, that's what I'vebeen listening to since I
returned from the beach, and Ihope you enjoy it.
Until next time, happy editing.
What do you do when your genrejust doesn't work?
(00:03):
I see it all the time.
You try on two or three or fourcontent genres for size to see
how they fit your story, action,crime, performance, society.
Every one of them matches a fewmoments in your story moments
that feel absolutely essential,and everyone has gaping holes
that don't match at all, and youdon't see any root to filling
(00:26):
them.
And when you finally just pickone and try your best to make it
work, it feels incrediblyuncomfortable and wrong.
Like you're taking yourexpansive, unique, deeply
intimate and personal creation,and you're shoving it ham-fisted
into a standardized mold, notmade for it at all.
(00:47):
It makes you wonder, are yougrossly misunderstanding genre,
misunderstanding your own story?
Or is the problem not your storyor your genre, but you, the
writer who might just be bad atthis?
I can tell you right now, theproblem is not you, but the
problem might be that genrefeels like a box, a mold, a
(01:10):
cage, a.
So in this episode, I'm going toexplore another way to think
about genre, a way that's notcentered on a list of
conventions and obligatorymoments that your story must
include, but instead invites youto examine the conflict
underneath any moment.
I won't promise to fix what'sbroken in your stories genre in
(01:30):
the span of one episode, but Iwill give you a pathway to
explore what's really going onin your story.
In other words, what are wereally talking about when we
talk about genre?
In order to answer thatquestion, let's take a trip to
the beach.
(02:36):
Welcome to your next draft.
Last week I went on a familyvacation to the beach.
I love going to the beach.
We've been going to the samebeach for decades.
And yet I find that I'm stilldiscovering new things that I
haven't seen before.
Every time this year, for thefirst time we decided to rent
bikes, there's a little pavedbike path that runs between two
(02:59):
rows of houses, then up aroundthe golf course along the marsh,
through the teeny tiny strip oftown and shops along the highway
for about half a mile.
And then into the state park, Agorgeous wilderness of palmetto
trees.
I'm not a very skilled cyclist,but I got in 15 miles a day for
a few days, trekking up to thestate park and back midway
(03:21):
through the week, my brotherdecided to join me.
I'd already refreshed my memoryon the route, so I had the
advantage of recent experience.
Thomas had ridden this path onour trip in the spring, so he
knew generally where we weregoing, but he rediscovered the
specifics along the way, likethe first bridge.
Right next to the golf course,there's a little wooden bridge
(03:44):
that crosses a narrow strip ofpond.
It's short and flat with tallwooden rails on both sides,
which is good because there's abit of a curve at the point
where the path meets the bridge.
And Thomas still getting hisfooting on both the bike and the
route.
took that curve at just thewrong speed and angle, and
wobbled his way right into therailing.
(04:05):
If the railing hadn't been thereto catch him, he'd have landed
in the pond.
He recovered quickly though,walked his bike to the end of
the bridge and hopped right backon to lead us on the ride along
the marsh and through the townat the highway, we swapped
spots.
I took the lead since the carsare fast and the bike lane on
the edge of the road is narrowand the shoulder drops off right
(04:25):
into the marsh, and I knewprecisely where we were going to
turn.
And a few minutes later withoutincident, we made it to the
state park.
The trails through the statepark are just gorgeous.
They weave through the forestpacked dirt, bumpy with tree
roots.
Sometimes there are sandypatches, which I called out to
Thomas because they were softand slippery under our wheels
(04:46):
and made it difficult to staybalanced.
But the sand is also covered infascinating tracks made by deer
and a bunch of other animalsthat I don't know how to
identify.
Occasionally the trails open upto stunning marsh views.
In a couple places a boardwalktakes you across a section of
marsh to the next stretch ofland and trees.
And when we reached the firstone this time, I paused to warn
(05:09):
Thomas Boardwalk ahead.
I told him, and this one doesn'thave rails.
The stakes are much higher thistime.
He said, and I.
The first boardwalk is thelongest.
The second is half its length,and then right before the
landmark at the end of thetrail, there's a teeny tiny
boardwalk, maybe six feet longand two feet above the ground
(05:31):
that carries you over a teenytiny stream, which was dry when
we crossed it.
This teeny tiny boardwalkdoesn't have a rail, so there's
always the possibility offalling off it, but even if you
do, you don't have very far tofall.
The stakes on this one are muchlower.
I told Thomas.
Which all got me thinking, whatare we talking about when we
(05:54):
talk about genre?
I'm going to pivot for a momentfrom the Beachside bike ride and
talk about riding Bear with me.
Lately, I've been having lots ofconversations with writers about
genre and stakes.
I've given several writers thefeedback that I'm having trouble
identifying their story'sstakes, that their stakes are
unclear, Or that their genreseems to shift in the middle of
(06:17):
the story.
It starts as an action story andends as a performance story, or
it starts as a crime story andends as a status story.
Which of course begs thequestion, what genre is their
story?
I think sometimes writers getuncomfortable when we start
talking about the genres thatyour stories fit into.
(06:38):
Genre can feel like arestrictive cage, a formulaic
beat sheet, or a prescriptiveset of scenes and tropes and
conventions and moments thatyou're obligated to include in
your story.
It can feel like instead ofbeing guided by your own unique
creative mind, you're simplyregurgitating a pattern that a
thousand other storytellers havealready recited.
(06:58):
I assume that writers sometimesget uncomfortable when we start
talking about genre because Iknow that I get uncomfortable
talking about genre.
The last thing that I want to dois make writers feel like I'm
restricting your creativityrather than empowering it to
flourish.
I worry that when I tell awriter their genre isn't clear,
or their story bounces from onegenre to another and then ends
(07:21):
in a third, that they'll feellike I'm removing the things
about their story that they lovethe most.
I worry that when I take awriter on a process of
exploration to discover theirgenre, and we consider and
discard two or three as genresthat don't fit, that they will
feel frustrated or like theirstory is somehow wrong for not
easily offering up its genre.
(07:41):
I worry that if the genre that Isee and propose to the writer
comes as a great surprise tothem and doesn't seem to fit at
first, that they will feel likeI misunderstood their story or
I'm trying to force it to becomesomething that it isn't.
When in reality what I'm seeingis connections that already
exist to a trustworthy frameworkthat they can innovate on.
(08:02):
All this to say, I getuncomfortable when a story's
genre isn't obvious because Iworry that the process of
finding that genre will feel tothe writer, like we're cramming
their story into an ill-fittingmold.
And if I find the process ofidentifying a story's genre
uncomfortable, I have to imaginethat sometimes you do too.
So why does this matter so much?
(08:24):
Why put ourselves through thisif it's just a way to make us
both feel bad that I ammisunderstanding the story and
the writer has created somethingthat doesn't fit in the standard
box?
Why are we worrying about genreat all?
because the stories genre tellsus the writer.
The editor and the reader whatwe're measuring in the story.
(08:46):
The genre tells us what matters.
It tells us what to focus on.
It tells us what to track as wefollow the characters from the
first page to the last.
In other words, the genre tellsus the stakes.
It tells us what the story isactually about, what the
protagonist is fighting to gainor at risk of losing, what the
arc of story is amidst all thechaos and noise of everyday
(09:09):
life.
The genre points us to thethread to follow, and we need to
know which thread to followbecause that's how we draw
meaning from every single eventin the story.
Otherwise, they're just a listof things that happen and we
don't know what to do with them.
I should specify here that I'mtalking about content genres.
(09:29):
These aren't the words thatcategorize the books on the
shelves of Bartons and Noble.
They're the words that point tothe stakes at the heart of your
story.
Words like action, war, crime,horror, thriller, love,
performance, and society.
If that terminology is new toyou, I highly recommend that you
head back to episode 90, the 12core genres that power every
(09:52):
Great story.
For a deeper dive on contentgenres, find it@alicesaddo.com
slash 90 or find the link in theshow notes.
but assuming that you'retracking with me, let's go back
to the bikes in the forest bythe marsh.
What did Thomas and I mean, whenwe said that the stakes were
high on one boardwalk and thestakes were much lower on
(10:15):
another, we meant that we weremeasuring something specific on
that bike ride.
And when the stakes were high,we were very, very aware that
the thing we were measuring wasit risk.
Did I mention that I'm not avery experienced cyclist and
that Thomas had already fallenoff his bike once?
The stakes I was measuringthroughout that entire ride were
(10:38):
survival stakes.
The preservation of my physicalbody.
I would get muddy if I fell offthe teeny tiny boardwalk.
I might get scraped up, bloodiedand bruised.
If I fell off the longerboardwalk into the marsh, I
could fracture a limb.
If my bike slipped in a patch ofsand and I caught myself wrong
in the fall or crashed into atree, and on the highway with
its narrow bike lane, I couldget hit by a car.
(11:01):
so while 95% of this ride wasalong, peaceful, quiet, nearly
empty trails and paths andstreets, in my mind, the genre
was an action story where thestakes are life and death.
At some point though, I had tocall that into question because
let's face it, it was extremelyunlikely that I was going to die
(11:22):
on that bike ride.
And indeed I did not die, andneither did Thomas.
So then I wondered what otherstakes could we measure?
Well, if life and death are notin question, but we're still at
risk of falling off our bikes,then this isn't a story about
survival.
It's a story about skill.
And the genre where we measure aprotagonist's skill is the
(11:45):
performance genre.
In the performance genre, thestakes are respect versus shame.
Suppose Thomas or I fell off theboardwalk into the marsh in a
performance story.
I might still get scraped up,but what we'd really be
measuring is how embarrassed amI to have fallen?
How bad am I really at riding abike?
(12:05):
And how much of my family'srespect and my own have I lost
by falling That story wouldn'tbe about how many bruises I got
or how much dirt I was coveredin.
It would be about how much shameI felt for having lost control
of my bike and getting coveredin dirt and bruises.
Action and performance are themost obvious genres for this
(12:26):
bike ride action because it'sthe genre I felt like I was in
and performance because it's thegenre I was actually in.
But this is a fun exercise, so Iran it again.
What other stakes could wemeasure?
Well, I was hanging out with mybrother on this bike ride, so
this could be a story aboutconnection and the genre that
(12:46):
measures human connection is thelove genre.
In the love genre, the stakesare love versus hate.
Thomas and I are very close andget along great, but suppose he
got angry at me for not warninghim about the curve before the
first bridge, or suppose Ipushed him off the boardwalk.
Or suppose we made it over everyboardwalk entirely unscathed,
(13:07):
but got into a fight along our15 mile ride.
That story wouldn't be aboutwhether or not Thomas got a
splinter when he ran into therail of the bridge.
It would be about how he feltabout me and how I felt about
him, and he'd probably feel alot more negatively towards me
if he got a splinter on thebridge and then blamed me for
giving it to him.
(13:28):
Let's run the exercise again.
What other stakes could wemeasure?
Well, we were on a family beachtrip, so this could be a story
about family dynamics and powerhierarchies and our ability to
be recognized within a communityand the genre that measures
recognition.
Is the society genre In thesociety genre, the stakes are
(13:49):
power versus impotence.
Someone has power and someoneelse does not.
Suppose we had a very strictgrandmother who had a regimented
schedule for how our time at thebeach would go, or who frowned
upon bike rides for whateverreason.
Suppose Thomas and I had snuckout of the beach house with our
bikes undetected, and we weretrying to enjoy a fun morning
(14:11):
ride without drawing her eye.
Maybe if we got back in time, wecould sneak back in without her
noticing.
but if we came back muddy fromfalling into the marsh, She'd be
sure to see and berate us.
That story wouldn't be aboutwhether or not we got injured in
a fall in the marsh.
It would be about whether wewere able to fulfill our own
(14:31):
plans without penalty and tofall into the pl.
Mud would definitely incurpenalty.
I could keep going.
I could point to the animaltracks and take us to a crime
story, or I could point to thespeed at which we raced along
the highway and through theforest and speculate about a
thriller antagonist chasing us.
It's a little bit more of astretch to try to contort this
(14:52):
into a war story or a western,but I bet I could do it if
pressed.
My point though is this, that 15mile bike ride along the marsh
with my brother could have somany meanings.
There are so many human lifevalues at stake that we could
measure That is the nature oflife, our experience every
(15:14):
single day.
We are balancing our needs forsurvival and safety and
connection and esteem, andrecognition and respect, and
self actualization, and selftranscendence all at the same
time.
At one moment, one need is morepainful and the next another
gets louder.
Stories distill that constantchaos of everyday life into a
(15:35):
singular narrative from which wecan draw clear meaning about one
thing.
The genre allows us to identifythe one value at stake that we
are measuring throughout theentire story.
That way we're not gettingdistracted by life or death
action stakes when the story isreally a performance story about
(15:55):
esteem.
Or we're not getting distractedby love or hate, love story
stakes.
When the story is really asociety story about power
dynamics or we're not leftwondering what the heck is going
on and why it matters at all.
When a story does its best tomimic real life by giving us all
the stakes at once.
That may make for good veris andmilitude and feel very real, but
(16:18):
it doesn't make for a veryengaging story.
When I guide a writer to findtheir story's true genre, this
is what I'm doing.
I'm looking at the story they'vecreated and I'm seeking out the
stakes.
I'm asking what are we measuringat the beginning of the story in
the middle?
At the end, The events in thestory are clues about the
(16:40):
story's genre.
Every genre has a stock incitingincident and a stock climax.
Every genre has conventions andobligatory moments because these
are the moments in the storywhere the arc of the thing that
we're measuring takes majorturns, and we see that
measurement really clearly.
but underneath all of that,Beyond the beat sheets and
(17:01):
obligatory moments, there is thething that we are measuring the
heartbeat under every scene, thehuman life value that matters
most in this story when theobligatory scenes are all over
the place and genre feels like acage, this is what I come back
(17:22):
to.
What are we measuring?
What is at stake?
From there, we can figure outwhat the story is really about
and then choose the genre thatwill make that clear to the
reader.
From there, we can sift throughall the scattered stakes of the
story and orient around the onethat is most important, which
(17:46):
brings us to the end of ourMarsh bike story.
Thomas and I made it safely backover the teeny tiny boardwalk,
the medium boardwalk, and thelong boardwalk out of the state
park along the highway, throughthe town around the marsh, over
the bridge with no falls thistime and back home to our beach
(18:08):
house, we had a really, reallylovely ride, which makes for a
terribly boring story because atthe end of the day, none of
those stakes were truly at risk.
Not the action stakes or theperformance stakes or the love
stakes or the society stakes.
The parts of life that don'tmake for a good story are some
of the parts that I enjoy themost.
(18:30):
Your story though, is probablythe opposite of our ride.
It probably has many stakes atrisk, which is one of the
reasons why identifying a genreis just so dang hard.
It doesn't mean that you'redoing it wrong.
It doesn't mean that your storyis broken.
It simply means that right nowyou're sending your reader's
(18:51):
attention and a lot ofdirections at once, and in order
for them to draw meaning fromyour story, you need to point
them to the one clear thing thatyou want them to measure.
What are the stakes of yourstory?
If you want to take a closerlook at all the content genres
to help you sort through whatyour story is truly about.
(19:11):
I highly recommend checking outthe episode, the 12 core genres
that power every great story.
Find it@alicesudler.com slash 90or find the link in the show
notes.
At that link, you will also finda cheat sheet that you can print
with all the genres and links todeeper dives into every single
one.
So you'll definitely want to goto that link, alice
(19:32):
sudler.com/ninety, And if youare really, truly stuck and you
cannot, for the life of you sortthrough which genre matters most
in your story, that is a perfecttime to reach out for help.
The first phase of my revisioncoaching process is called Next
Right Step.
In It.
I'll help you identify whetheryour genre and stakes are
(19:54):
working right now.
If they're not i'll spot whatquestions you can explore to
unlock them, and if they are,then yay.
I'll point you to your nextrevision priority.
If that sounds like the kind ofsupport that you need, go to
alice sudler.com/nrs and tell meabout your story, and I'll be in
touch.
Until next time, I wish youclear and thrilling stakes in
(20:17):
all your stories, andwonderfully boring lack of
stakes in your own life.
May it all be as peaceful as abike ride on the marsh.
Ps.
If you head over to my blog,then you can go see a picture of
Thomas and me riding our bikesover the marsh.
Well, a picture of the boardwalkand the marsh and Thomas on his
bike.
And I've also got a link to avideo where you can hear marsh
(20:41):
sounds so you can kind ofimmerse yourself in this whole
episode.
You can read along and listen tothe little plopping sounds of
the marsh, the tide coming inand out.
It's very lovely.
At any rate, that's what I'vebeen listening to since I
returned from the beach, and Ihope you enjoy it.
Until next time, happy editing.
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