Conflict

When my daughter was three, she had to stay in hospital (gastroenteritus, not nice, not too serious.) We'd read the books we'd brought from home a few times. We'd read some books we'd got from the library trolley (what a great idea. Long live the hospital library trolley, I say)

I said, "shall I tell you a story?"
and she said "yes."
"How about Little Red Riding Hood?"
"yes please," she said and added in a wobbly voice, "but no wolf."

She was too weak to handle a wolf in a story, poor little thing.

So I told her about Little Red Riding Hood who took a basket of bread and cake to her Granny, walking through the woods, picking some lovely flowers and taking them to her Granny in her bed, who was ever so grateful.

That was it. Really boring.

Why was it really boring? There was no conflict, no danger, no reason to keep listening to the story. She went for a walk in the woods. So what?

You have to have conflict.

LRRH took the basket of cakes from her mother.
"Now remember, stick to the path and don't talk to strangers," she said.

So what does she do? stray and talk to a wolf.