Layers of Conflict

I’m working my way through a terrific writing book, Screenwriting Tricks for Authors, by the inimitable Alexandra Sokoloff. As a “pantser” of long standing, the kind of writer whose forays into outlining before I write have uniformly ended badly, Alex’s book is especially interesting, because I’m discovering that my novel-in-progress intuitively follows many of the arcs and milestones Alex talks about.

This is the first in what I hope will be a series of posts inspired by Alex’s book, and today I’m thinking about layers of conflict in fiction.

In a mystery novel, the central conflict of the story is usually fairly clear. And it’s usually a variant on a basic, age-old pattern: The villain wants to get away with his plan, the hero or heroine wants to stop or unmask or apprehend him or her.

But in a great story, there are so many opportunities for conflict. These generally fall into one of two patterns:

• Interpersonal Conflicts: Two characters have needs or desires which are in opposition to one another. In my novel, the main character is raising her grandchildren because her daughter is a drug addict. She wants to keep her grandchildren safe, but her daughter wants custody back. Both of them cannot get what they want.
• Internal Conflicts: These conflicts are internal to one character, between two parts of her personality or between who she is and who she wishes to be. Oftentimes, they arise from the latter. The heroine wants to get the man of her dreams, but her past experience with an abusive husband holds her back. Of course, the man of her dreams is fighting his own inner conflicts at the same time… Often these conflicts stem from a gap between who the character is and who s/he wishes s/he could be. Jane wishes she could be bold enough to express her love for John, but how could she ever let herself be that vulnerable again?

What makes a dramatic story dramatic, I think, is the interplay between these conflicts. John and Jane both want a relationship, but their own internal baggage makes each of them unwilling to trust, to let go of past hurts and make the leap. Or, Jane wants John, but he’s still prisoner to the baggage of his past relationship with Sally. Until he lets go of that, he won’t be able to fully open his heart to Jane.

At the same time as these internal conflicts are playing out, of course, the larger interpersonal conflicts are unfolding, influenced by the internal struggles of all the players. The heroine must overcome her inner fears and demons, even as her personal collision course with the evil conspiracy marches inexorably closer to a confrontation that will free, or destroy, her.

To add richness and depth to your stories, think about these layers of internal and external conflict. Think about how the interplay of each character’s internal conflicts with one another, and with the larger external conflicts, shapes the decisions each character makes. The result will be a richer, more vivid, more credible story.

Ideas Aren’t the Problem

I came across a post by Jennifer Blanchard on Better Writing Habits about the various notebooks she feels writers should use. Jennifer has lots of good information on her site, but I have to take issue with one of her recommendations.

Jennifer writes:

…as a writer, you will want to keep a notebook on you at all times, because you never know when you’ll want to write something down. Also, when you keep a notebook with you all the time, you’re showing the Universe that you’re open to ideas, and that in itself will attract more ideas to you.

Now, let me be clear: I absolutely agree that carrying a notebook is a good idea. I carry a Moleskine with me everywhere, and I often jot down ideas for stories, or for scenes in my novel. I also collect names of possible sources, URLs for web sites and blogs to check out, and the like in my notebook. So, Jennifer’s idea that you should carry a notebook? Totally agree.

The place I have a bit of an issue is with her suggestion that the problem most writers face is inability to attract enough ideas. Because, frankly, most writers I know have exactly the opposite problem.

I write crime fiction, and for me, ideas are everywhere. Turn on the TV news, open a newspaper magazine, and ideas fly at you by the dozens. Heck, a walk through a mall or a half hour of people-watching at a train station can easily produce ideas. I imagine the same is true for other kinds of writers, because ultimately fiction is about human thought and behavior, and humans are everywhere.

The trick, though, is in the filtering. It’s not in attracting a zillion new ideas, it’s in knowing which ones have enough energy, enough mass, enough momentum to sustain a short story, a novella, a novel. And, it’s about knowing which ideas you personally care about enough to write.

I recently had coffee with a writer friend, and I gave him four ideas for pieces of a novel he’s working on. I didn’t feel bad about “giving away” these ideas, because I had no desire to write them and they fit in with my friend’s novel. So, share and share alike. Besides, as anyone who’s done a writing prompt knows, twenty writers could start with the same idea and produce twenty completely different stories.

Ideas are like oxygen: They’re everywhere, and no one writer can use them all. Capture the ideas that strike a chord with you, and write the ones that spark your creative fire. If you’re reasonably attentive, if you care about the world you live in, a shortage of ideas won’t be one of your problems. If you’re paying attention, the problem will be having too many ideas and not enough time to pursue them all.

Writer’s Block is a Luxury You Can’t Afford

Like more than a few writers I know, I got my professional start as a freelancer for a small local newspaper. It was a great crash course, better than any dozen workshops. When you’re working in a newsroom, you learn the difference between amateur and professional in a hurry.

My editor at the Record was a man named Russ, a grizzled old newsman who’d often celebrate the completion of the day’s edition with a coffee and a cigarette on the second story balcony overlooking downtown. His office was perennially stacked with papers and books, an unabridged dictionary and the ever-present AP Style Guide mixed with folders full of notes, old copies of the paper, the awards he’d received over a career.

Russ was a man of few words, but there was power and wisdom in those words. It was from Russ that I learned what’s been the single most valuable lesson of my career.

It was 8:45 on a cool Tuesday morning in September. I was in the newsroom putting the finishing touches on a story, and another freelancer was wrapping up a feature. He was a new reporter, inexperienced in the newspaper business but a local writer of some success. I can no longer remember what he was writing about that day, but he was having trouble getting it done.

Russ was prowling the newsroom, as he always did when deadlines were approaching. He came and stood behind the other reporter, looking over his shoulder. “What’s the problem?” he growled. It wasn’t an unfriendly growl, just the way Russ was when deadline drew near and he had a thousand balls in the air. It was then that the new reporter made his mistake. He muttered something about writer’s block.

Russ wasn’t a large man, but he had a big presence, and the whole newsroom came to a standstill when Russ cleared his throat. He leaned over the freelancer’s shoulder, pointed a meaty finger at the screen for emphasis when he spoke. “When it’s 15 minutes before our press deadline, and the 15-inch hole on page one is YOUR fault,” he rumbled, “writer’s block is a luxury you cannot afford.”

The other reporter stammered and fumbled for an excuse, as I recall, but I sat back in my chair, thunderstruck. I’d been a member of a local writing group for some years at that point, and cries of writer’s block were frequent excuses for failures to complete writing prompts or to bring work for critiquing. But what I realized that Tuesday was that being a professional writer wasn’t just about how well you could write. It was about mindset, about attitude. We wouldn’t accept an excuse of “mechanic’s block” from the car repair shop, or “accountant’s block” a week before tax day. Writing is no different – being a professional writer means delivering the goods when you’re tired, or bored, or feeling uninspired. For a professional writer, the solution to writer’s block is to keep on writing.

The wayward article got finished that morning, and we made our press deadline. I knew we would, of course. Russ would’ve rolled up his sleeves and started dictating himself, if he needed to, because missing deadline was never an option. And along the way, everyone in that newsroom learned an important lesson: Writer’s block simply isn’t good enough.

Russ is gone now, a victim of quick-moving cancer six or so years ago. God, how I miss him.