How To Tell a Great Story, Part 1: Structure

It might seem like following a formula will result in essays that feel formulaic. But the six-part story structure presented here leaves plenty of room for creativity. And it’s organized this way because it makes sense intellectually and emotionally from many readers’ perspectives.

By following this framework, your essays will:

1. Capture readers’ attention.
2. Tell your audience what the story is about and why it matters, so they can decide if they want to read it.
3. Give readers the context they will need to understand the points you’re going to make.
4. Explain your points through anecdotes and evidence, so readers thoroughly grasp the central question or dilemma and, especially if it’s an op-ed, have reasons to be convinced of your perspective.
5. Provide counterpoints or explain potential challenges, so your audience understands the complexity of the situation or solutions.
6. Provide a summary, so readers are left with a satisfying and memorable takeaway.

That’s a deceptively tricky and debated concept. But when you boil it down, a story typically contains the following ingredients: One or more characters take some action, setting off a sequence of events involving conflict, challenges, and/or consequences.

The effect of this narrative on the audience is what radio host Ira Glass calls “a moment of reflection.” In other words, a story isn’t just a series of actions, such as “what I did this weekend.” It has to have a sense of momentum, of cause and effect, and, ultimately, of meaning.

That may sound complicated, but in the context of an article, an effective story can be quite simple. A classic example comes from the SAPIENS op-ed “Stop Destroying African American Cemeteries.” Archaeologist Alexandra Jones opens with this story:

This lead features characters at different time periods taking actions that result in conflict and potentially serious consequences. For the reader, it provokes feelings about systemic racism, priorities, values, injustice, and community. It’s three short paragraphs, but it’s a story.

Now let’s take a closer look at the elements of a story, along with examples of how to effectively implement them.

The nut paragraph, or “nut graf” in journalism speak, usually consists of one to five sentences that encapsulate your main point in a nutshell.

Think of it as a signpost on a hiking trail. If there’s clear signage at a trailhead, with a map showing you the trail leads to a waterfall and petroglyphs, you can proceed with a sense of confidence and anticipation. It’s the same with a clear nut graf: It lets readers know what they can expect to learn. But if a path doesn’t have a signpost, or an article doesn’t have a clear nut graf, readers are very quickly going to say to themselves, “I have no idea where this is going. I’ll just stop here.”

If you’ve written your pitch, you may have already written your nut graf—or something very close to it. The nut graf incorporates two main elements of a pitch: Why does this matter? And why does it matter now?

In the aforementioned Aeon article “Out of the Forest,” the author emphasizes a sense of timeliness and significance in his nut graf (somewhat condensed here):

In her SAPIENS essay about people inadvertently harming animals, Seabrook’s nut graf uses her research on goats as a springboard to explore a larger issue:

In her essay on “sustainable” palm oil, Chao reinforces and personalizes her nut graf with a quote:

Need more examples of the nut graf? Check these out: here, here, and here.

You can think of the lead and nut graf as the main elements in the first section of your article. In this first section, you might also include information about who you are and why you’re writing about your topic, as Chao did above. This can establish your expertise, help readers understand why they should value your insights, and spark a connection with readers.

In addition, you might need to include a brief amount of backstory and context. But keep it to a minimum; you’ll go into more detail in the second section.

The first section should be as fast-paced as possible. People are deciding whether they want to read the article, and if it feels like the pace is dragging, they’ll stop reading. So the first section should have momentum that propels readers into the rest of the article.

This is where you’ll explain the history, culture, scientific theory, methods, environment, or any other information readers need to be aware of to understand the issue.

At this point, readers have (conditionally) committed to reading the article, so you can slow the pace slightly. But it’s important not to overwhelm your audience, so the main thing to determine in this section is: What information should I include, and what should I leave out? To help you decide, ask yourself: What information is directly related to my nut graf and supports my main points?

April Zhu found herself faced with that question while writing “What Kenya’s Killer Cops Reveal About Police Culture.” She needed to describe Kenya’s colonial history to explain the origins of Nairobi’s harsh law enforcement system. That’s a complex topic.

So Zhu began her backstory section with a sentence that signposted to readers what they would learn: “The foundations of Nairobi’s social divisions and brutal, bifurcated policing system were laid in the first few decades of its existence.” Then she carefully chronicled only the history that explained Nairobi’s harsh, two-pronged policing system. This ensured that the pace wasn’t too slow, and readers weren’t bogged down with information.

The background or context section can also be the place to present research and general facts. For example, an author might zoom out in this section to talk about a health condition, as in this article about diabetes or this essay on placenta rituals. It may be the place to explain the nitty-gritty of a legal issue, as in this op-ed about the exclusionary rules of the Fulbright-Hays fellowship. This section could also provide a sense of place, as in this feature about defending the San Pedro River in Mexico.

Note that not every essay needs a background and context section. Some personal essays may not need it because the entire article is backstory. Some op-eds don’t require it if the issue is well understood or if the very act of making your points involves providing history and context.

This is where you expand on and support your main points. You’ll probably provide evidence in the form of statistics and/or facts from published research papers (with hyperlinks). You might weave together one or more anecdotes with quotes from people you’ve interviewed. You might describe insights from personal experiences.

As ever, keep your reader in mind. They’ve continued reading up to this point because they want to understand what your nut graf told them you would deliver. So when you’re deciding what to include and what to leave out, your nut graf is your North Star, and your destination is your readers’ attentions and greater understanding.

As an example, let’s look at paleoanthropologist Bruce Hardy’s essay “Did Neanderthals Make Art?” The author’s nut graf consists of two straightforward questions:

His details section consists of subheaded sections that explore cave paintings, stone circles, engraved bones, and jewelry. Under each subhead, he provides evidence in the form of scientific studies, explanations of dating methods, and descriptions of the archaeological finds.

By contrast, in “How a Coerced Confession Shaped a Family History,” the details section mainly consists of one story, as told by Crumbley’s mother. (It begins under the subhead “WHAT HAD HAPPENED: BERNICE’S STORY.”) Then, because the author is relating the story in part to illustrate larger points about racism, she takes a more telescopic view and provides statistics about racial disparities in sentencing.

Presenting counterarguments to your main points and perspective enhances your credibility and conveys the complexity inherent to the issue.

Not every article needs a counterpoint section. However, if your perspective is contentious, you’ll need to explain why some people might disagree with you. Or if you’re writing about a solution to a problem, and that solution would require overcoming hurdles, you’ll need to explain those challenges.

When you are structuring your essay, you could weave counterpoints and challenges into your arguments. Or you could put them in their own section after you make your points.

In the Neanderthal art story, the author interwove his counterarguments because he was discussing several archaeological finds that were scientifically analyzed using different methods. It made sense to present readers with a point and counterpoint for each purported artwork.

On the other hand, if you were writing about a community program that addresses a problem, it might make more sense to describe all the program’s methods and solutions and then explain why some people oppose the program. The author of the San Pedro River piece uses this approach, presenting the challenges river defenders face in their work under the subheading “VANQUISHERS OF THE DESERT.”

You may recall being told in school that the way to write an essay is: “Say what you’re going to say. Say it. Then say it again.”

While there are elements of truth in this advice, it’s misleading because it implies that you’re supposed to repeat yourself ad nauseam or, at best, break out the thesaurus and use slightly different words to say the same thing over and over. That’s boring. And it’s a missed opportunity to give readers a satisfying, moving, or galvanizing takeaway. With a little creative thinking, you could instead write a conclusion that:

• transports readers to the future with a message about what needs to be done next,
• circles back to your lead story while offering new commentary,
• hammers home the consequences of an issue or what’s at stake if the actions you outlined aren’t taken,
• makes readers laugh or get teary-eyed, or
• offers a motivating call to arms.

Let’s look at a few effective examples. 

In the Aeon essay “Out of the Forest,” Roberts’ final paragraph rounds back to his earlier reflections on humanity’s past relationships with rainforests. Then he ends with a thought-provoking statement about our future relationship with these ecosystems:

Anthropologist Thomas W. Pearson concludes his essay about his daughter’s Down syndrome diagnosis by crystallizing the lessons he’s learned from his almost 4-year-old:

In a New York Times book review about the origins of walking, Rebecca Wragg Sykes closes with an invitation to ponder and appreciate the wonder of walking:

And in these last three examples, the endings contain spoilers or wouldn’t fully make sense if you saw them out of context, so you’ll have to read the articles to get the full effect: 

Anthropologist Charlotte Williams wraps up her essay “Excavating My Dad’s Life” with a description of her most moving find among her late father’s possessions, potentially leaving readers a little misty-eyed. 

In “Why Are People Who Use Illegal Drugs Demonized?,” anthropologist Gideon Lasco ends with a mic drop by exposing the occasional hypocrisy involved in using harsh tactics against people who take drugs. 

And in his essay on Icelandic volcanoes, biocultural anthropologist Adam Netzer Zimmer finishes with a fun reference to an amusing description he had presented at the beginning of the essay. 

In the end, close your essay with the thought, argument, or image that you want to stay with your readers long after they’ve read your final word.