When Story Was The Show - The Last Time I Introduced Syd Field

WHEN STORY WAS THE SHOW

The Last Time I Introduced Syd Field

I wasn't supposed to cry.

I had introduced hundreds of speakers over the years—story gurus, celebrities, well-known writers and directors.

It was part of the gig - you walk to the podium, welcome everyone and introduce the speaker.

Easy stuff.

Except this time, it wasn't.

It was September 6, 2013 at 12:30pm. The very first Story Expo. The very first session. The Opening Keynote. I knew a lot of the people attending were TV writers and screenwriters from around the world, so there was only one person I could think of to deliver the opening keynote...

Syd Field.

Syd and I had taken the Screenwriters' Summits together around the world with John Truby, Chris Vogler, Linda Seger and Michael Hauge for eight years. We'd taken his legendary two day seminar to London twice for sold-out events. We did Toronto. Multiple Los Angeles events. And now we were in the middle of negotiating to bring him to China for a massive event.

But at this moment, we were at the Westin LAX Hotel.

And Ballroom A, which I had rechristened the Story Ballroom, was packed.

Writers had come from all over the world, and I had the honor of introducing the man who had helped shape modern screenwriting more than anyone else to that point.

As I began introducing him, something happened that I still can't completely explain.

I lost it.

The words were there, but every few seconds I'd stop.

I was crying so hard I could barely get the words out.

I remember standing there wondering, "What is wrong with me?"

This wasn't me. This was a time of celebration. Story Expo was my biggest and most ambitious event yet, and more than 1,000 people flew in for the inaugural event.

But I couldn’t stop crying.

And, at the time, I couldn't explain it.

A few weeks earlier, I had been with Syd and his wife Aviva while he was doing several international television interviews from a satellite studio.

I had coffee with them beforehand. As always, we talked a bit of business in between talking mostly about people and life.

Syd seemed tired, a little run down. Nothing more.

When we got to the studio, they put Syd inside a little glass recording booth.

That's when I saw it. My eyes locked onto his face. His eyes.

Something wasn't right.

The countdown would begin.

Three...Two...One...

Smile.

Energy.

Authority.

The interview ended.

His smile disappeared.

He winced.

He took a deep breath.

Aviva opened the door and handed him water and words of encouragement.

He gathered himself.

The producer counted down again.

Three...Two...One...

Smile.

Energy.

Authority.

The last interview ran long.

The longer it ran, the harder it became for Syd to hide what was happening.

The television audience probably never noticed.

But I did. He wasn't well. He just wanted to get through it.

And he did.

He never complained.

Never asked to cut it short.

I could absolutely see the agony behind that smile.

He gave the press exactly what they came for...

The legendary SYD FIELD.

But man, I knew something wasn't right.

I didn't know what.

I quietly asked Aviva, "Is he alright?"

She smiled and assured me he just wasn't feeling 100%.

Syd once told me, "I don't want to be forgotten."

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't self-pity.

It was just Syd being honest and totally disarmed.

For someone who had influenced generations of writers, who was revered by so many powerhouse writers and executives in Hollywood, it was a surprisingly human fear.

Maybe that's why introducing him affected me so much.

I think I was putting together pieces I hadn't consciously assembled yet.

Not once did I think my tears that first day introducing him had anything to do with launching Story Expo.

Those tears were from something much deeper. Something personal.

My heart knew something my brain wasn’t allowing me to process.

I just knew in a few months, we – me, Syd, John, Chris, Michael, and Linda - would be in London for the Screenwriters’ Summit.

What I didn’t know, however, was today, September 6th, 2013 at 12:30pm, would be the last time Syd Field would ever stand on a stage and teach.

Two months later, I was in London with John Truby, Chris Vogler, Linda Seger and Michael Hauge for the Screenwriters' Summit.

Syd was supposed to be there, but he was too ill to travel.

Two days before I went to London, I visited him in the hospital.

I walked in smiling and upbeat.

We laughed. We told stories. We talked as though we were back in his guesthouse office, just like always.

I gave him a hug and said I’d see him after London.

But I knew.

I got to the parking garage.

And I lost my shit.

This time I knew where the tears were coming from.

A few days later, after Day 1 of the Summit in London, John, Chris, Linda and I found ourselves sitting in the bar at the Kensington Hilton.

We were all missing Syd’s presence – his jokes, his laughter, his gentleness.

We were all sad.

As it so often did, the conversation drifted toward story.

Which meant, of course, it drifted toward Syd.

How could it not? We all knew any minute we would get the word, and it weighed on us.

John had famously disagreed with Syd's three-act structure for years.

Everybody knew it.

Syd knew it.

People would literally run up to me during our conferences:

"John is saying three-act structure is terrible!"

"He's disagreeing with Syd Field!"

Later when I would tell them, John and Syd would laugh about it.

They loved that people were so passionate and cared so much about them.

JOHN TRUBY:

I found it amusing that you said people would come up to you and tell you I hated Syd’s 3 act structure. I would always talk briefly about it at the beginning of my own story structure class just to accentuate the major structural differences between them.

But I made a point never to discuss 3-act or my own views about it in a Screenwriters’ Summit. All of us were there to give our own techniques and not to make simplistic comparisons in the limited time we had.

Which brings me to that fateful night in London and the story argument we had at the Kensington Hotel Bar among Linda, Chris, Michael, and me.

It didn't just happen.

But this night was different. The mood was different.

It had the emotional energy of when you’re in a doctor's office waiting for results you know you don’t want to hear.

Then Linda leaned forward aggressively.

Chris pulled his chair forward.

Michael, always the peacekeeper, defended Syd while trying to keep the discussion from boiling over.

But John wasn't backing down.

The voices got louder.

The body language changed. Dramatically.

Nobody was angry. Everybody just cared. They cared a lot.

I sat there with my eyes wide open watching these four giants of story debate story.

It was three against one.

And only one thought crossed my mind.

Shit!

I wish I was recording this.

CHRIS VOGLER:

I wouldn't call the Kensington Hilton Bar scene "three against one" exactly. It was really Linda taking John to task for hurting her feelings by consistently belittling three-act structure over the years. She felt she had built her whole brand on 3-act structure and took John's critiques personally. Michael Hauge was being very careful and diplomatic and didn't really say much, except that 3-act was one of many ways to analyze stories, and that his "thing" wasn't structure at all, but more about the inner and outer journeys of the characters. I seem to remember saying that 3-act structure is a real thing that I had seen in practice in the studio story departments, and that it's something that audiences understand and enjoy. So you could say that it was two against one, with one abstaining.

The funny part is, Syd would have hated the argument.

Not because John disagreed with him, but because Syd had reached a place where he simply let the work speak for itself.

He didn't need to win.

Whenever John and Syd's philosophical difference on story came up, Syd would smile.

"That's okay."

"Everyone needs to do what works best for them."

That was Syd.

John believed what John believed.

Syd believed what Syd believed.

Neither man needed the other one to lose.

That's respect. That's love.

JOHN TRUBY:

As I said, that night in the bar didn’t just happen.

An hour earlier during the Summit’s Saturday night Q&A with the four of us on stage, one of the writers in the audience posed a question. Something to the effect of “John Truby is not a fan of Syd Field’s 3-act structure. What do the rest of you think of it?"

The next moment was one of two regrets I had about that night. Before anyone else could answer, I should have immediately jumped in and said, “Syd Field is too sick to be here himself. In asking that question, you're only interested in creating conflict. I will not be part of it.”

But because I believed that any question should be answered, I failed to see the uniqueness of the situation, and I let the others speak.

And conflict is exactly what that questioner got.

Cut to an hour later at the Kensington Hotel Bar. My compatriots didn't want to let it go. Faced with an attack from three sides, my feeling was, “You want to talk story theory? Let’s go. I can talk that stuff all day.” The fact that it was three against one got my juices going even more.

Which completely missed the point.

And was my second regret that night.

This wasn’t about whether Syd’s story theories were good or bad, right or wrong. That was the text of the scene. But the subtext was five people suffering because their good friend was fighting for his life. And we could do nothing about it.

My opponents in the argument were trying to show love and support in any way they could. It wasn't much, but at least they could fight for his legacy in a theoretical discussion about story.

Later on, when I realized what that moment was really about, I wish I had brought the subtext to the surface and said, “There’s no need for us to fight. We're all grieving for Syd. He was a giant in our world and a great human being, and we will all miss him.”

The conference ended Sunday.

A few hours later...

Syd passed away.

To all of us in London, it felt like he'd waited until we'd finished.

MICHAEL HAUGE:

Syd passed away just hours after the rest of us finished presenting the Summit in London. Linda opened the event with a message from Syd – as always he was the one who welcomed everyone – and then the four of us did what we could to make it a fulfilling and inspiring event. But for us it was very sad, and unreal. He was a part of us, and he was there, but he wasn’t. To me it was like we were spokes on a wheel that had lost its hub.

Some 13 years later, I still think about that London bar.

I still think about introducing him that morning at Story Expo.

I still think about the thousands of writers whose careers changed because Syd took what he knew and shared it with the rest of us.

People still debate Syd's theories.

They probably always will.

That’s why he’ll never be forgotten.

JOHN TRUBY:

Two weeks before the event in London, I had the opportunity to visit Syd in the hospital. Derek had told me about Syd’s greatest fear, that he didn't want to be forgotten. Even though we disagreed on theory, we both had immense respect for one another.

I told him that he was our leader. That everything we did was only possible because he blazed the trail. That he helped millions of writers tell their story and reach their dream. No matter what anyone else did, he was THE GUY. And he always would be.

I meant every word.

And he knew it.

Michael Hauge, after reading a draft of this essay, told me he went back and reread the tribute he had written when Syd passed away. His email to me ended with a sentence that hit hard:

"After getting your essay I went back and read my Syd tribute, and my tears started all over again. I still miss him, and now Linda, and those wonderful days of the Summit."

Me too.

The Screenwriters' Summits were never just conferences.

They were adventures.

For eight years, Syd, John, Linda, Chris, Michael and I kept finding ourselves together again. Los Angeles. New York. Toronto. London. Vancouver. Tel Aviv. Mexico City. Las Vegas.

Different cities. Different audiences. Same family.

The audience saw five of the biggest names in screenwriting. We just saw friends.

We shared stages, jokes, stories, hotel lobbies, late-night dinners, airports, and long flights home.

None of us knew we were living through what Michael would later call "those wonderful days of the Summit."

We just thought we'd do it all again next year.

Years later, here in 2026, Syd still has the power to bring us back together, to make us laugh, to make us cry, to make us feel.

I don't think Syd would mind the debates. I think he’d smile knowing they still cared enough to argue.

In fact, he'd probably use it as an opportunity to gently remind us, "Everyone needs to do what works best for them."

That wasn't just Syd's philosophy about story.

It was Syd's philosophy about people.

He never backed down.

But he never had to put up a fight, either.

That was the magic of Syd Field.

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I’m currently working on a long-form piece about the golden age of story seminars (roughly 1999–2020)—a time when hundreds of writers would gather simply to learn how story works.

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