It’s the 1980s. I’m combing through the course catalog (made of a thing called “paper”) looking for another writing course or two to fulfill my graduation requirements. There is one called something like Scriptwriting for Film and TV that caught my eye. My land-locked school wasn’t exactly famous for being a pipeline to Hollywood, but I couldn’t bear the thought of yet another journalism or public relations course.

I’m in the bookstore to fork over all my money. The last book I track down is simply called Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting, by Sir Syd Field (not really a “sir,” but if screenwriters knighted people, he’d be in on the first ballot). Screenplay remains, these many decades later, the only textbook on my bookshelf from my college years. I devoured it. (I offer as proof the top right corner of the book that shows either my teeth marks or – and I believe this latter hypothesis to be far more likely – the girls’ bunny named Honey got loose sometime in the ’90s, grew bored of eating phone cables and made her way to my bookshelf to give paperbacks a try.) In its pages, Honey and I discover a treasure map (see structure diagram below) that has helped decades of wannabe screenwriters like me structure their loose ideas into a screenplay. Every generation since has come up with a dozen new and improved formulas and techniques to repudiate Sir Syd. To them I say “whatever works for you, friend” (but also you’re wrong, friend).

Syd Field’s three-act structure is as solid as Indiana Jones’ fedora—timeless, practical, and able to withstand just about anything. (If I ever had to do a dissertation, it would be an analysis of how Indy’s fedora always managed to find him whenever they were separated. I would call it, “Raiders of the Lost Hat: The Narrative Resilience of Indiana Jones’ Fedora in Cinematic Storytelling.” But I digress.) 

Here’s Sir Syd’s diagram of the three-act structure:

Turns out there is a method to writing stories for the silver screen. Here’s the short version:

• Act I sets the stage: we meet Indiana Jones, globe-trotting archaeologist, charmer, and man who really hates snakes. He’s roped into a race against the Nazis to find the Ark of the Covenant—classic plot point. 
• Act II sees our protagonist confront a gauntlet of disaster: bar fights, betrayals, a truck chase, and a snake pit that would make anyone reconsider their career choice as an archaeologist. Every time he gets close, the bad guys snatch victory away, leaving him tied up while the enemy claims the prize. 
• Act III is the time to resolve matters based on what we’ve learned in Act II—Indy, for once, doesn’t punch or outsmart his way out. He and Marion close their eyes, let the divine handle the Nazis, and live to tell the tale. The Ark gets crated up in government limbo, and Indy moves on, proving that the best endings aren’t always about winning—sometimes they’re about knowing when to let go. Plus we gotta get working on that sequel.

The Three-Act Life: Why the Final Act Should Rock

Some health concerns of late have made me see the three-act structure in a new light. Life, much like a well-structured screenplay, unfolds in three acts. The first is all promise and possibility—wide-eyed and ready for adventure. Roughly speaking, up through your 20s. The second act, ballpark of 30s-50s, is where things get messy. Plans go sideways, dreams shift, and we find ourselves knee-deep in plot twists. But then comes Act Three, let’s go with 60s+, and this, my friends, often gets overlooked and minimized, like the previous two acts took all our mojo and we mail in the ending. As with screenplays, you don’t want life’s Act III to fizzle, because you don’t want that “meh” feeling sticking with your audience/people on the way out. Act III is where we get to apply what we’ve gathered along the way.

Syd Field taught us that the third act is about resolution—the part of the story where the hero rises, makes their move, and changes the world in a way only they can. This is where the best stories shine.

If you’re in your third act, this is no time to fade into the background. Let this be the moment to be bold, to create fearlessly, and to share what treasures you may have picked up from a lifetime of living. We can focus less on what “they” want or how to make something commercial. Let us hear your truth, your scars, your stories, your art, your good stuff. Tell the stories only you can tell–even if it turns out they were meant for only one person, and that one person is you.