One Story, Two Versions

What a difference a single change can make.

I recently wrote the same short story about a lonely priest twice, with what, to me, were drastically different results. The thing I found most interesting is that I only changed one thing between the two versions: my writing partner, SAM.

Who is SAM?

The Story Grid methodology incorporates the concept of an imaginary single audience member—SAM for short—who has a problem they’re trying to solve. As you write your story, you’re supposed to envision yourself sitting across from SAM in a coffee shop, for instance, telling her a story that you know will solve a current problem she has. I’ll explain SAM’s purpose in a moment, but we need to discuss your protagonist first so that everything makes sense.

SAM and Your Protagonist

For your story to be helpful to SAM—and for SAM to be helpful to your story—your protagonist must have the same problem SAM does, and it cannot be a simple one. The issue must be complex, and its solution should change depending on context. There should also be a price to pay, regardless of what choice the protagonist makes. Story Grid refers to these types of issues as double-factor problems.

SAM’s Double-Factor Problem

To illustrate what a double-factor problem looks like, let’s create two scenarios using the same protagonist and then contrast them.

In our first scenario, let’s pretend you’re writing a story about a detective investigating a kidnapping case. Under normal circumstances, the solution is easy; find the kid and arrest the kidnapper. However, this doesn’t make for an interesting story because there is no real conflict and no difficult decisions for the protagonist detective to make. Story Grid refers to these easy-solution issues as single-factor problems, and they’re the literary equivalent of wearing cement shoes into a deep lake. They’re boring and will sink your story fast. Let’s fix that.

In our second scenario, let’s pretend your detective interviews the parents of a kidnapped girl and checks the house for clues. He looks at the girl’s bedroom and sees there are no sheets on the bed, just a feather-tick pillow and a thin blanket. The only toy in the room is a stuffed bear with a missing eye, and there’s a crayon drawing of a sad girl on the floor. As he interviews the parents, the mother keeps glancing at her watch, and the father responds to the detective’s questions with brief, one- or two-word answers while watching TV.

Later, the detective finds the kidnapper and the girl. When he slams his way into the kidnapper’s home, he discovers the kidnapper and the girls sitting at the kitchen table coloring together. The kidnapper is a middle-aged woman who lost her daughter in an accident and kidnapped the girl because she reminded the woman of her daughter. The girl is well-dressed and seemed to be having a happy conversation with her kidnapper before the detective interrupted. As he looks around, he finds toys strewn about the house, princess bedding on the child’s bed, and dozens of drawings of a happy girl engaged in various activities.

Now, you have a double-factor problem: Should the detective arrest the kidnapper and return the girl to her parents, where her parents will continue to abuse and neglect her, or should he look the other way and let the kidnapper keep the girl, where the woman will love her and give her a better life?

The upside of the first choice is that the detective will uphold the law and be rewarded for doing a good job. The downside is that he will have to live with the guilt of placing the girl back in a bad situation and sacrificing her future happiness for his career.

The upside of the second choice is that the girl will have a better life, and the detective can secretly take pleasure in knowing he did the right thing for her. The downside is that his choice could ruin his career if anyone discovered what he had done, and he could end up in prison as an accessory.

SAM’s Purpose

So, back to your single audience member, SAM’s purpose is, among other things, to remind you to stay focused on your double-factor problem. SAM ensures you show readers your protagonist’s external actions and internal processing in an impactful way as they work through their problem. SAM also helps you maintain a consistent focus and voice throughout your story.

My Two SAMs

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I ended up with two distinctly different stories by using different SAMs. In my first version of the story, SAM was internal to the story as the tale’s antagonist. Both the protagonist and the antagonist struggled with the same problem of being lonely and isolated.

My second story contained the same problem of isolation and loneliness, but this time, SAM was another priest, external to the story, to whom the main character was confiding.

By doing nothing more than swapping out SAM and writing the same story again, I ended up with two drastically different results. Everyone interprets stories differently, but for me, the first one felt light-hearted and humorous. In contrast, the second one gave me a sense of melancholy and allowed me to feel the depth of the priest’s loneliness to a greater degree.

What Do You Think?

Here is a link to my first version of the story.

The Other Priest

I’ll post the second version below. Read and compare both versions (they’re short) and let me know if swapping out SAM affected the final mood of the story for you. Which one do you like better? Also, what did you learn about the priest in the second version that you didn’t realize about him in the first?

Feel free to leave a comment, reach out to me in a chat, or interact with me in a Note.

The Other Priest (Take Two)

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I knew I had to brush my teeth, but I only had the energy to scrub the front two, maybe. I pulled off my tab collar and leaned on the edge of the counter, contemplating the wrinkles in my face as I dug deep into my aging reserves, scavenging for just enough power to complete my evening ablutions.

Above the furrows plowed into my skin by a lifetime of long days with too many hours and not enough time, I noticed a single gray hair standing at attention high on my forehead, like a sentinel defending the forgotten frontline of a follicular battle lost long ago. I discharged the holdout with a pinch and a tug, and then reached for my toothbrush, which sat in a cup next to the mirror.

As my hand neared the glass, my reflection, which to this point had been diligent in mimicking my every move, stopped. Instead of grabbing its own toothbrush, it reached through the mirror and grasped my hand.

I leaped back in shock, rubbing my hand as if my reflection had bitten me. My carbon copy leaned further into the room and picked up the wintery hair that I had flicked onto the counter. It clicked its tongue in disappointment and told me I should have kept the hair and worked on a combover. Then, it tipped its head back, inspecting my bald pate down the length of its nose, and brushed its hand across my head, despite the lack of any brushable locks.

The replica then complimented my looks and asked me on a date. I jerked my head back, uttering my objection much louder than I intended, then grabbed its wrists, determined to shove it back through to its side of the mirror. Instead, my knuckles hit the glass, refusing to go through, leaving the replica’s hands flapping on my side of the glass.

The carbon copy twisted free from my grip, sandwiched my right hand between its, and asked me out again. I protested, of course, and explained to it that I would lose my congregation if I were to do such a thing.

I shook my hand loose and backed away from the mirror, cornering myself against the back wall of my bathroom. Mirror-me smiled and leapt to sit on its side of the counter. It then spun its bum legs around to my side of the glass and sprang from the counter towards me.

It begged me, pleaded with me to let it stay, using our mutual loneliness as a justification. That declaration of our isolation hit me harder than I expected. The reflection took advantage of my disorientation and advanced closer. I closed my eyes and held up my hands in defense, trying to redirect its desire as it approached and caressed my cheek with the back of its hand. Still, I must confess that the astonishing experience began to tempt me, its companionship tipping the scales against the night of pious solitude I had planned.

My doppleganger leaned against my hands, pressing me to the wall. I felt its lips touch mine. Again, I must confide, I faltered between my angels and my demons for longer than a spiritual man should. However, righteousness prevailed as, eyes still closed against the temptation of companionship, I broke the kiss, shouted *no*, and shoved the reflection away.

When I opened my eyes, I had my palms slammed against the mirror, the reflection once again following my every move. The pungent taste of Windex flooded my mouth.