Writing slice-of-life and horror via the kishōtenketsu structure

Ever wondered how to structure a "day-in-the-life" type of story? Also known as slice-of-life, those kinds of stories can be fun, and can be a great way to show other facets of familiar characters. Yet, it's also easy to screw up slice of life so that it looks like mere filler or "padding" at best, and "meandering stories that don't go anywhere" at worst.

But there is a way to successfully pull off a slice-of-life story, and the key is structure.

Enter kishōtenketsu.

This is the name used by the Japanese for a narrative structure rooted in folktales. That this is a folktale structure suits my sensibilities, because I always look to classics for my templates: that which endures for generation upon generation is that which is worth studying. As it happens, kishōtenketsu also works very well for a particular kind of horror, both in Japan and in the West, where we see kishōtenketsu used in urban legends.

Before I go further let me get clear on the terms: conflict-driven stories refer to stories in which there is an antagonist whom the protagonist must defeat, in order to conclude the story. Luke Skywalker vs. Darth Vader, Harry Potter vs. Voldemort, the Pevensie children vs. Jadis the White Witch. When stories are conflict driven, they feature the "Man vs. Man" plot, as opposed to Man vs. Self, or Man vs. Nature.

Kishōtenketsu is causality driven, meaning that Man vs. Man is not a feature; there may not even be an antagonist who can be fought. Instead, a cause invites an effect: zombies show up in town, a hurricane looms, a volcano erupts, etc. These are the central problems of the story. Characters must react to these events, but these central problems -- hurricanes and zombies -- can't be defeated in a climactic battle. While people might fight zombies, they can't do as they would with Dracula, where you defeat a "head zombie" and then the other zombies go away. There's no President Snow for a Katniss to square off against.

For horror, this structure neatly sidesteps the “just-world fallacy” that causes audiences to lose sympathy for characters in some horror movies. Specifically, the type of movie where a character does something "wrong" or "stupid" and is punished with demons or zombies or whatever.

The idea of the just-world fallacy is that "good things happen to good people, and bad things happen to bad people. In media stories (especially long-form "think-pieces") it's super important when writing about other people's misfortunes that you don't choose remorseless people who brought their misfortunes upon themselves. Readers get enraged, which is not surprising if you've ever seen how they excoriate people who die in car accidents. *Shudder*.

I think the victim-blame reflex is partly a reflection of our living in a cause-and-effect society, as opposed to a fatalistic society where "things just happen." And the idea is that if you avoid doing things that are obviously bad or wrong, "it won't happen to you." Criticizing someone for their plight is like warding off the evil eye; it keeps catastrophes at bay.

But in horror tales, you don't want audiences to say, “I would never do that [stupid thing], and I have no sympathy for a character experiencing the natural consequences of their stupidity.”

In the kishōtenketsu narrative structure, something does happen to a character, possibly without their input. BUT: the key here is that the structure focuses on the character's reactions. Something happens, which causes a character to react thusly. Such a story lends itself very well to a main character rather than a protagonist.

Yes, I am speaking of main characters as distinct from protagonists because the two concepts are not interchangeable. While a main character can be a protagonist, the protagonist doesn't have to be the main character. The key is that protagonists drive the plot; they affect its course by their actions. A main character is simply the primary point of view character, but their actions don't drive the story; they may simply react to events.

As an example, consider Squid Game, the South Korean series airing on Netflix. In that show, the principal character is a man who the plot happens to. He didn't cause the horrors he's experiencing after signing up for what he thought was a game show. Nor is it even possible for him to proactively deal with those horrors, or oblige the villains to respond to his actions even if he could take them. He is simply the main character, the principal viewpoint through which the audience experiences the story. He and his companions must cope with what tests the villains are putting them through, and the suspense lies in seeing how they cope, and if they will choose the right strategies to survive.

Interestingly, the finale of the first season strongly implies the main character will become a protagonist in the second season, as he apparently intends to face off against the game's creators. His goal requires him to do something about the horrific game, not merely endure it. Further, the villains must now react to his actions.

When readers complain of passive, inert main characters, chances are the character is in a conflict-driven story where a protagonist is required, and not a causality-driven story where a main character is permitted. As a writer, you must know your Squid Games from your Hunger Games when deciding who or what your primary point-of-view character will be.

Onward, now, to the meat.

Kishōtenketsu has a person doing regular things in their life, when suddenly! Zombies, aliens, or hurricanes show up, and the characters have to cope. The same idea applies when using this structure for slice of life: something happens, and the characters have to deal with it. As explained in this post at Tofugu.com,

Let's see an example I took from the post linked in the quote:

Intro (ki):

A young man is driving home in the rain late one night.

Development (shō):

He stops for a young, beautiful woman who is motioning for a ride, and offers to take her home.

Twist (ten):

When he arrives at the woman’s house he discovers that the woman has disappeared from his car.

Conclusion (ketsu):

He knocks on the door of the woman’s house and is informed by an older gentleman that the woman was his daughter … who died four years ago on this very night. She’s still trying to get home.

The Intro, Development, Twist, and Conclusion are the four acts of the kishōtenketsu structure. The twist conveys the discovery of new information which must necessarily change the perspective of the characters. This is similar to the Midpoint in the four-act structure, when a character gets game-changing new information. From the Midpoint onward the main character stops reacting and starts acting.

Per Barret, the extra specialness of the Twist for horror is that "if what you discover in the third act is a little scary, it makes everything else scary by association." Again, see Squid Game, particularly in the first episode when the characters discover the hard way that they must win the childrens' games they're playing, or they will die. This is the twist that turns the game into a horror show.

As for slice-of-life stories, the kishōtenketsu structure lends itself to stories that are not an aimless, disconnected series of events. Think of the “Tales of Ba Sing Se” episode in Avatar: The Last Airbender:

Intro (ki):

General Iroh goes about his business in Ba Sing Se.

Development (shō):

Someone tries to mug him.

Twist (ten):

Iroh critiques the mugger’s incompetent fighting stance, then has a heart-to-heart wherein he convinces the guy to straighten up and fly right.

Conclusion (ketsu):

Iroh holds a private memorial service for his son, and wishes he could have helped his son as he helped the mugger.

I think the Twist in that episode made all the difference, because it gave meaning to the Conclusion. If the story was simply what you see in the Intro, where Iroh is just going about his day, then skips to the Conclusion with the memorial service, there's less of a "point" to Iroh's vignette in that episode.

But the Twist underscores an aspect of Iroh's paternal instincts: his compassion, and his preference to teach wisdom rather than punish ignorance. Not only this, but the Conclusion suggests there's more to Iroh's character than comedic relief. Iroh is a classic Mentor character; as the storyline progresses you get the impression he's already undergone his own Journey in his youth before the beginning of A:TLA. His heartbreak over not being able to help his son also adds a dimension to his relationship with his nephew: his guidance of Zuko may be a self-imposed "redemption arc" for Iroh.

There you have it. Kishōtenketsu structure is another arrow to add to your quiver of storytelling techniques. For the curious, the post I linked at Tofugu is worth reading in full, as it goes into more detail about the structure of Japanese folktales and Buddhist beliefs, particularly concerning goals, and enduring adversity rather than fighting against it.