In fact, most of my writing tends to fall naturally into a four part structure.

Which I thought weird for the longest time, as in Western narratives, three act/five act structures have been pretty predominant. (See: every fantasy trilogy in existence.) I did learn that four-part structures are preferred by some TV writers due to the way commercial breaks are aligned, but other than that, I chalked down my preference to the fact that a lot of my writing is seasonally structured, and I also rely a lot on Four Gods imagery (dragon/phoenix/turtle/tiger), which is of course also tied to the seasons. I'm also in love with T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets, which has also occasionally influenced my structural backbone.

But even the work I don't deliberately or consciously try to structure tends to fall into four parts. I won't break down my personal examples, as I prefer leaving this kind of analysis to readers, who may very well choose to superimpose different structures over the stories I've released and find that their interpretations are equally valid. But from a creative perspective, it's definitely the four act structure that I'm working from. Specifically, the structure that is known in Japanese as kishoutenketsu, or in Chinese as 起承轉合 (qi3 cheng2 zhuan3 he2), loosely translated as "Introduction, Development, Turn, Reconciliation."

Or, to briefly sum up:

起 literally means "to rise" or "to start." It describes an inciting moment, whether it's the first spark of an idea or an argument, or the beginning of a story.

承 means "to continue," or in essence "to carry forward." It flows directly from the introduction.

轉 (転 in Japanese) is literally "turn" or "change." This part is the key to the structure as a whole, but is also the most difficult to grasp, as it is fairly ambiguous and can be interpreted in a variety of ways*, all of which are arguably valid -- a twist/reversal of what has already been stated, a paradigm shift, a change in direction or perspective, the introduction of a new and completely unrelated concept, etc. However, I should note that this phase is NOT necessarily what Western audiences would interpret as a "twist". More on this in the next part.

合 (結) is "to unite/connect/join". After the sharp veer in direction, everything is brought together again to reveal the true or main thrust of the argument or narrative. Despite this "reconciliation", this phase of the structure does not necessarily indicate a return to the original premise (in fact it usually doesn't). Often it simply provides the full context for what has come before, shedding light on the apparent contradictions. It is this final step, not the "turn", that tends to come across as what traditional Western narratives would consider the "twist".

* This paper discusses the term as well as various other East Asian essay structures.

I'd been aware of this concept in the context of Chinese poetry for a long time. But it wasn't until about two years ago that I made the connection between it and my own structural tendencies. By design, it's a very broad, flexible sort of structure. It can be, but is not always bound to a linear flow. Connections are often implicit or meant to be inferred, rather than outright stated. It also, interestingly, as others have noted, removes the reliance on conflict/resolution in the textual content without necessarily sacrificing "dramatic" tension -- simply by embedding tension in form of dissonance in the underlying structure itself. At the same time, it does not necessarily eschew conflict entirely.

Kishoutenketsu is most apparent in poetry, I think -- especially the four-line verse form. It's also commonly used in formal essays. However, I think most of the English language commentaries that have cropped up in the last few years are mistaken in thinking that Asian narratives are exclusively or even predominantly structured this way -- and some of the examples I've seen pointed out are incorrect or not quite grasping the essence of the form. (Some commentaries are also underestimating the influence of Western modes of storytelling on modern Asia.) But it's also undeniable that the form exists, and that it's a fairly strong cultural influence.

And apparently it is one of my personal influences.

- - -

There is a beautiful Ryukyuan song by Ikue Asazaki called "Obokuri-Eeumi", which I first encountered in the anime series Samurai Champloo. And the lyrics (translation below) are a perfect example of kishoutenketsu at work.

In search of new lands, let us build a new house
Thatch the roof with reed stalks, gathered neatly in bundles
Thatch the roof with reed stalks, gathered neatly in bundles 

At the stone wall, let us celebrate the golden house, built by a hundred carpenters
At the stone wall, let us celebrate the golden house, built by a hundred carpenters
Let us celebrate the golden house, that was built by a hundred carpenters

The eighth month is fast approaching, and yet I have nothing to wear
I want to dress up, so brother, will you lend me just one sleeve?
I wish to dress my children and loved ones in the one kimono that I own
As for me, I will wear vines that I plucked deep in the mountains 

The light of the full moon shines down,
Illuminating the world with its divine light
When my lover sneaks in to visit me,
I wish that the clouds would hide that light just a little.

The first two verses document the establishment of a new community via the symbolic building of a "golden house". It is a celebration taking simple joy in the fruits of shared efforts and labor.

The third verse continues that theme of sharing and fraternal love, but from a subtly different approach. Instead of the relatively straightforward construction of a house (an obvious communal effort), the song suddenly shifts focus to community and compassion and support at a more personal level, during more difficult times. (To clarify, the "eight month" is the height of autumn, roughly corresponding to late September/early October.)

And that final, lonely and secretive verse (which itself is line-by-line in kishoutenketsu form) puts everything in perspective at last. Despite freely sharing both joy and struggle with the community at large, there is one thing that the singer/narrator selfishly wishes to hide or keep to him/herself. Exactly what that is, I think is left ambiguous and up to interpretation. Is it shame arising from reluctance to face his or her lover while in a state of need and poverty? Or an illicit affair (as implied by the earlier mention of children)?

Personally, I think the latter. But the true beauty of the kishoutenketsu structure, in my opinion, is that the audience is allowed to reach their own conclusions about the details. What is truly important has already been conveyed: the hypocrisy inherent in any community, the contrast between selfless and selfish love.