Which Came First: The Writer or The Angst

Writers seem to be emotional people. We worry. We fret the details. We grieve and get down. We spin up on cloud nine. We have more empathy than most. Writers seem to have their hearts on their sleeves. Don't get me wrong, we're a tough lot also. Thick skin comes with being a writer after any length of time.

But it often gets me wondering a certain chicken or the egg scenario: Are we writers because we feel more or Do we feel more because we write? There is a slight difference. Does the fact that we have that large share of empathy turn us into writers and somehow make us fit into that profession? Are we just an emotional bunch and writing lets us express that and get it out of our system?

Or does writing so many difficult situations and hitting our main characters with so many emotional problems cause writers to suffer the corresponding emotions.

I almost never cry for myself. Rejections sting, and of course, make me get down on life, but it's not until I see someone else suffering that my emotions really come out. I sympathize and find it too easy to imagine myself in their situation. That's when my heart really grieves. It's even true for fictional people. I still can't re-read Grudging without shedding tears at certain scenes because the characters' heartbreak becomes mine. With deadly stakes and scenes of loss, just writing the series often puts the real me in a funk of dark thoughts. I laugh less during the months I write. I suffer along with the characters.

But I'm also the kind of person who cries at a heartwarming movie, or even a stinking commercial for goodness sake. Tears also come when I get angry and try to form that into words--basically whenever I feel very strongly about something. I wish it wasn't so, but it's part of what makes me. On the other hand, small things like seeing my favorite cosplay character or getting a book in the mail send me into happy dances. I've always been emotional.

I guess the answer doesn't really matter. Whether the writing makes the emotion or it was there all along, the important part is putting that angst into our writing. Being able to move other people with words is a true talent. We, as writers, make other people feel by sharing our own emotion on topics large and small. That can move the world.

Are you emotional? Do you feel a character's plight too much? Does it hurt when they die? Do you cry at movies and can watching the nightly news make you too depressed for words? Then you're probably a writer--rejoice!   

Making the Peril Real

My favorite authors in fantasy and science fiction are the ones who can convince me the characters are in true peril. I need to feel that the characters have a very real shot of dying--not every moment of course, but when the action heats up. That always makes the book feel so much more real and closer to me. Readers need that sense of true danger and possibility of the ultimate failure to make us care.

Somehow, the best authors can overcome the thinking in a reader's head that a main character or primary characters won't die. (Especially a true worry if there are sequels coming.) With a few exceptions, a main character is too important to the plot and to the author to be killed off willy-nilly. We simply need them too much. But to really connect readers need to believe that there is a chance it could be the end.

I tried to accomplish that in Grudging and hope I succeeded. 

So how do the good authors manage to make readers suspend that safe main character mentality and fear for the character. Writers have a couple of tricks.

Show the Danger- A well-crafted book will find a redshirt. The author will show the danger is real by killing off some secondary characters, like they do in StarTrek. Send in the unknown actor in the red shirt to die and prove the situation is serious. There instantly becomes a sense of real threat, especially if the secondary character is well-liked and innocent. If it's cleverly managed, a reader won't even notice the trick.

Injuries Matter- Jim Butcher does this so well in his Dresden Series. The main character suffers a variety of real and debilitating injures. He/She bleeds, gets shot, gets beat up. Suffers physically. Another good example is the early Die Hard movies. Poor John McClane is a member of the walking wounded by the end of the movie. 

This can be hard to do for an author as we love our characters so much. Authors might want a character to suffer emotionally, but physical suffering seems to be harder to do. Unfortunately, you have to let them bleed to make it real.

Ixnay on the Healay- Don't use magic to fix a character. When a character can magically heal and does so over and over, all sense of true danger goes out the window. Sure, you can really take your characters to the brink, but one problem--no one will care anymore. The fear is gone. So if you're going to using magic healing in your book, make sure there are limits to it and use it sparingly.

No bluffing- Don't have a villain that bluffs and never follows through. Let your antagonist do actual "bad" things and have real motivation for the acts he/she commits. The more hated and fearful they are, the more believable the peril will be. 

Do the Deed- Some authors actually do the deed. They kill off the main character. This necessitates another character stepping up to take their place and runs the risk of reader backlash. Some readers will lose all interest in the story and stop reading. This is what happened to me and Game of Thrones. I backed away. But it can work beautifully if there are other loved characters, such as in Brandon Sanderson's SPOILER SPOILER LOOK AWAY IF YOU PLAN TO READ HIS BOOKS----


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Mistborn series. How can you doubt anyone could perish when your favorite character and star of the show just bit the dust? It's the ultimate in peril.

So there are a couple of ways to make the danger real. 

Let me know your favorite book with a real sense of peril. And if you know of other methods, please share them!   

Getting Emotion into Writing with Aaron Bradford Starr

I'm happy to welcome a friend from my writing group to talk about getting emotion into your writing. Aaron does a masterful job of showing us how it's done! Thanks, Aaron!

Emotions in Writing

I felt the rush of air as the dart passed by my ear, and drew up straight, the wrench in my hand dropping into the snow. From just behind me, a mass fell at once, clouding the area with sparkling flakes as it plowed into the drifts. I took one look at the white-furred bulk, my breath coming in gasps, and then turned to where Michelle sat atop the fuselage of our downed plane.

“You cut that a bit close, didn't you?” I asked with a frown, my heart pounding within my parka, suddenly too warm. Michelle shrugged.

“You're the one who wanted to work in silence,” she pointed out. “I keep telling you they're afraid of the sound of our speech.”

Gripping the pages of the repair manual in my gloves, I gave them a shake. “Well these are pretty hard to follow,” I snapped. “What language is this, anyway?”

“Hindi,” Michelle said, “with a mix of Greek and Esperanto.”

“Who writes engine repair manuals in Esperanto?” I asked.

“Esperantans, I suppose,” she said, opening the breech of the air rifle and slipping in another bright red dart. Jacking it closed, she leaned back once more, crossing her boots. Fixing me with a stare of supreme unconcern, she sketched a yawn. “Better find that wrench before it gets dark, and you can't read any more.”

Pursing my lips, I dug around in the loose powder until I found the tool, and straightened with a sigh, my cheeks reddening under my scarf. “Alright, you win. You can fix the engine.”

With a delighted squeak, Michelle hopped from the wing, handed me the rifle, and plucked both manual and wrench from me. Humming to herself, she flipped trough the pages until she found the diagram of the engine, and began following it with her finger, nodding to herself and murmuring in Greek and what I assumed was Esperanto. I clamored up onto the wing, and leaned against the fuselage, quickly scanning the horizon. All around us, the mountains of the Himalayas glowed orange and pink with the setting sun.

“Before we crashed,” Michelle said from below, “you mentioned something about writing emotional scenes.”

I licked my lips, eyes sweeping the ridgelines for the movement of white on white. “Are you sure you can work and talk at the same time?” I asked. Beneath my goggles, my brow furrowed. She laughed and waved a dismissive hand at the engine.

“It's just an engine,” she said. “Either we talk, or I begin to sing.”

“I'll talk, I'll talk,” I muttered. With her classical training in opera, Michelle was as likely to bring down an untimely avalanche as scare away yeti.

“Good,” she answered, her voice muffled from within the engine housing. “You were talking about feelings.”

“No,” I corrected, glancing down at the open box of tranquilizer darts at my feet. The yeti on it was smiling, a night cap on his furry head. “I was talking about how people feel emotion. That's why we call them feelings. Emotions, after all, are a mental state with a physical sensation.”

“And that's what you need to record, as a writer,” she added. “The sensations associated with their emotions.”

“Yeah, exactly. Readers will feel what your characters do more often if you relate how their body reacts to their emotions, rather than simply recoding what those emotions are.” I frowned, lifting my goggles to swipe at my face, which was running with sweat. The glare was blinding, and I quickly slid them back into place, my eyes skittering around to surrounding vista, drawn by every stream of blowing snow off the drifts. “How long is this going to take to fix, anyway?”

“What, this?” Michelle asked, patting the engine housing with her head and shoulders well into the inner works. “This is no big deal. Just a few minutes more.”

I gave an involuntary bark of derisive laughter. The plane was perched atop a huge slope, teetering and groaning. Even with two running engines, it would be a miracle to get aloft again. I sighed, and glanced across to the charred stub where another engine had once hung beneath the opposite wing. I'd give anything to have two engines again.

“What about dialogue?” Michelle asked, startling me. I stammered, quickly glancing about the surroundings. How long had I been daydreaming?

“Uh, characters could become distracted,” I managed, bringing the rifle up and peering through the scope at a shifting movement in the distance. “You know, like losing their train of thought.”

“Retracted?” Michelle asked, her voice echoing within the engine housing, mixed with the clicking of a ratchet wrench.

“Distracted,” I snapped, more loudly than I'd intended. “And irritable. These are all things writers can do to show emotions like nervousness. How much longer?”

“Don't be such a baby,” Michelle said, beginning to wriggle from the innards of the engine. “I'm almost done here.”

About time, I thought, casting my eyes this way and that. Drawing in a quick breath, I peered at the ridgeline, through the glare of the setting sun. Raising the scope, I took a closer look, careful not to blind myself, and drew in a quick breath.

“We've got to go, right now!” I shouted, dropping the rifle to my side and leaping from the wing. Scooping the spare darts to my parka, I hauled open the door and threw both box and gun inside the plane's dark interior. Michelle looked from me to the distant edge of the ice field. A mass of movement gamboled across the flat expanse, white on white.

“Wow,” Michelle said, her voice placid. “Now that is a lot of yeti. I wonder what the plural of yeti is?”

“It's get the heck into the plane!” I shouted, jumping aboard and clamoring up the the cockpit.

Michelle followed, shutting the door and sitting as I fired up our remaining engine. After a mechanical protest, it roared to life, and Michelle gripped the controls. With a fierce grin, she nodded to me.

“Hit it!” she shouted, and I triggered the detonators.

On the slopes far above, the dynamite broke the snowpack free, and I tightened up my straps as we waited for the leading edge, my eyes locked on the approaching yetis out the side window, and Michelle rolling her shoulders and cracking her knuckles.

“So how would you get your characters to establish-” she began, and then broke off as the plane lurched forward and up, driven by the sliding snow that roared around and beneath us from up the hill. “Oh, wait, here we go!”

The plane tipped forward off the ridge, plunging down the slope, my shriek and Michelle's laughter mixing with the roar of the lone engine, and the howls of the yeti left far behind or swept along beside us.

As we gathered speed, crashing and grinding echoing through the interior, Michelle leaned over and tugged my sleeve.

“So what do you think about showing internal conflict?” she asked.

I pointed out the window to where the cliffside streaked closer. “Are you nuts?” I bellowed.

We launched over the edge, and Michelle draped a wrist across the yoke, waving her hand in my direction. “Oh, fine,” she muttered, as the plane struggled for altitude, lone remaining engine screaming. I swept off my goggles and brushed back my hood, breathing hard, sweat stinging my eyes.

“Are you crying?” she asked, incredulous.

“No I'm not crying,” I insisted, wiping my cheeks. “I'm just relieved, is all.”

Michelle shook her head. “What a big baby.”

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Aaron Bradford Starr has published short stories in paintings, and interior art in Black Gate Magazine, Black Gate Online, Stupefying Stories, and Rampant Loon Press. He is a member of the writing group The Speculative Fiction Forum on Agent Query Connect. Find more about him on his blog, Imaginary Friend. 

Robbed, Jipped, Bamboozled: Blasted Dream Sequences

How many times have you heard not to start your manuscript with a dream or vision? The advice goes even further and says keep them out of the first chapter, and maybe out of your first fifty pages. I’ve heard over and over that agents hate them. I’ve seen agents say exactly that on twitter.

Dream scenes are overdone. Avoid them. Never. Never. Never do it. I didn’t really understood why the hate. Now I do.

I went to a big budget movie with my sister yesterday. I won’t go into details to avoid spoilers for someone who hasn’t seen the movie or read the book, but I can give you my impression. The movie built and built to a climatic action fight scene. It was the whole point of the picture.

The scene came and it was everything a person could hope. Good characters died in shocking and unexpected ways. Bad characters got what they deserved. Though I went to the movie as a favor to my sister, so she could have someone to sit with, I found myself invested. I cared. I was shocked when a favorite character died. I rooted for the bad guys to get it. Then you guessed it—the whole elaborate fight was a vision. A trick.

My immediate reaction was relief. The characters I liked weren’t dead after all. That was speedily followed by consternation. What! Jipped. Robbed. The bad guys didn’t get theirs. They were allowed to walk away. Stalemate. No big fight. A goody-goody resolution that left no one completely happy.

Maybe it was clever. The author got to pretend people died without having to actually kill anyone. The villains are still there if another sequel should ever be produced. However, my trust was broken. I couldn’t believe anything I saw. The author got to have it both ways, but I felt fooled.

This ruse wasn’t pulled on viewers until the end. Imagine if it happened in the opening pages. How could the reader ever believe anything they read? It could all be a trick. And that, I believe, is why dream sequences should be avoided. Readers don’t like feeling deceived and neither do agents.

Tears on the Page

At a chat with fellow writers the other day, a friend mentioned that The Hunger Games almost made her cry. The five or six of us there all went on to list books or movies that had made us cry. I’m a crybaby so the list was long for me. Unsurprisingly, we agreed on a lot of titles. One other thing became pretty clear, movies have an advantage. As they say: seeing is believing. Or in this case, seeing is sympathizing. Plus, the visual art form also gets to weave in sound effects. How can you resist joining in a tear-fest you can both see and hear? Just like a yawn, see someone cry and you respond in kind. Hardly fair for writers, you might say. Writers have words on a page. Black against white.

But writing can run the gauntlet of emotion from the ultra blah, how to program your DVD player, to that tear-jerker novel you can’t put down. So how do the successful writers do it? Think about the scenes that made you cry, or maybe made you wish you could. (Come on, tough guys cry too.) They all have some things in common. The writer created a world or a character so real that it didn’t matter that none of it ever existed. Isn’t that what happened? You just wept over something that is complete fiction. It happened only in one person’s imagination. Yet, you felt for that fictional situation maybe even more than for a story you’d hear on the news. Emotional writing involves fully alive characters in a believable world.

And it should go without saying that, the character has to be a likeable character, not the antagonist. We should cheer when the villain gets theirs, not cry. Another given: the writing also has to be clean and have a good flow.

So why don’t writers try to provoke tears in every chapter? Obviously if writers killed off characters left and right, they would stop getting a proper reaction. Readers would give up on the book altogether or become deadened to being jerked around. So trauma must be a situation called for in the plot. You can’t just throw in a scene without reason and expect readers to react. It has to flow with the rest of the book and not stick out like a sore thumb. In other words: use super-emotion sparingly.

So what kinds of situations cause the most sorrow?

I can only speak for myself, but I boiled it down to a few situations I’ve noticed in multiple novels. The biggie: Anytime an animal is injured or killed, especial if a child is attached to it, look out. Think Black Beauty, or that staple of elementary school reading, Where the Red Fern Grows. Boy loves dogs, dogs die in tragic fashion. Not one, but both dogs. Tears galore. My personal record for crying is with the books by James Herriot, the Yorkshire veterinarian. Pets put down. Yikes, those chapters still make me break down.

Next most weepy: death of a beloved favorite character. Anybody remember Beth from Little Women? You knew it was coming, but you couldn’t help yourself anyway. Another example: Tonks and Lupin from Harry Potter. They just had a baby, sob. (Hope this isn’t a spoiler, but everybody who was going to read Harry Potter has probably seen the movie.) The list could go on and on.

There is a third shorter category of tear-jerkers: when a favorite place/setting is destroyed. The place has to have a mystic kind of perfection in some fashion to make this work. In the end of Return of the King, when the Shire is burned and enslaved. The Shire represented peaceful co-existence, a utopia that didn’t go untouched and so tore your heart to see it reduced. The rampage that wrecked Hogwarts at the end of Harry Potter is another example. Hogwarts should have been a place of safety; it was a beloved castle where loyal friendships were forged. Thus the hurt to see it torn apart.

And lastly, perhaps the hardest to pull off: the heroic sacrifice. A character makes a sacrifice out of love and loyalty to protect another. (Often this doesn’t have to end in death, thank goodness.) My favorite example is in Lord of the Rings when Merry and Pippin jump out, exposing themselves to the orcs in order to draw the orcs away from Frodo. Frodo gets away, Merry and Pippin get taken. Foolish, brave little hobbits, makes me cry every time. Another probably unknown example from Patrick O’Brian’s books. The main character was sentenced (unjustly) to the pillory as a form of public humiliation. You might remember the pillory scene from A Knight’s Tale, your head and wrists are locked in place, making the victim helpless. O’Brian’s book is similar, but written before that movie came out. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of loyal sailors came to the square to protect their Captain from being pelted with garbage or slapped around while he was helpless. A real emotion scene of pride and love. And then, there’s Dobby from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I can’t think about it with dry eyes. Dobby frees his friends, but takes a knife. “Here lies Dobby: A free elf.” Just try not to cry at that one.

So that’s my thoughts on the subject. I probably left out many important points as there are so many possibilities. Please feel free to list your favorite tear-jerkers in the comments, or any ideas you have for what makes a good sad scene.