The Weight
By Donald Maass | October 3, 2018 |
Are you hiding something?
Did I just see you flinch? I won’t tell. In fact, you don’t even have to tell me what it was that just flashed through your mind. It’s enough that I know it’s there. You are carrying a burden, a weight that much of the time you can ignore but which nevertheless never completely goes away.
Guilt is like that. It persists. It’s a stab that doesn’t stop. Until it is spoken and absolved, confessed and forgiven, it remains real. Now, what’s that you say? You insist that you have nothing about which you feel guilty? Why do I not believe you? If that is true, which I doubt, then you have lived a life that is either lucky, pure or blameless. Either that or you have no conscience or empathy, in which case go seek public office.
Sorry, cheap shot. Back to guilt. It’s a primary emotion, primary meaning not only important but universal. We’ve all felt it. If our greatest offense was big enough, even if was committed long ago, we feel it still. The stab. What we have to feel guilty about may be something we said or did, or it may be what we failed to say or do. Remaining silent when a shout is called for can be as damning as anything.
What I’m talking about today is not the wound we feel, but the weight we bear. Characters too.
The Wound of late has been much discussed in the realm of fiction writing. It’s the backstory hurt or injustice that has shaped a character into who he or she is in the present. It is the root of yearning, the yawning hole, the empty bucket to fill, the unmet need that shapes and drives a character, producing a false belief and an anguish that demands relief.
The Wound is a fine and important aspect of character development, one entirely fitting for our era. The hurts we feel must be healed, and when met by a lack of understanding, ownership or apology, those hurts do not go away. They burst forth as anger. Those treated unjustly demand justice. They shout. They march. Our current Age of Resentment has its origins in complaints both direct and indirect, sharp and long-standing. The public clamor going on these days, ask me, is healthy. It is our society trying to heal. It’s our collective story and a fundamental aspect of the stories we tell.
The Weight is different. The Weight drives us in other ways. The Weight may lead to avoidance and denial, or it may cause us to project our own guilt onto others. If you have ever gone on a bender, taken a joy ride, or run away from a situation, or have too quickly pointed an accusing finger at others, then you have felt the displacement of The Weight. Guilt spills over, like water when a stone is dropped into a brimming beaker. Guilt has to go somewhere, and that usually that is into blaming others. Our hope is that when the burden of guilt gets strong enough, it will lead to change. If you have ever resolved to be a better person, then you have felt that effect.
In a way The Wound and The Weight are equal, flip sides of one coin. In the greatest story ever told—you know the one—a savior comes both to heal our suffering and to absolve us from sin. The practice of faith includes acts of comfort and charity; it also involves humility, confession, contrition, penance and forgiveness. Which human need, I wonder, more reliably drives people through the doors of church, temple or mosque? Is the awareness sought in “mindfulness” more an expression of peace and compassion or more a relief of guilt for not doing better or doing more?
I mention The Weight today because it’s equally important as The Wound in providing the deepest level of character motivation, the current at the bottom of the river, the undertow that sucks at your feet when you’re standing in the water on the shore and a wave reverses direction and streams back to the sea. The Weight is like that force. It tugs. It directs characters to do things in certain ways that reflect—or more accurately deflect—that guilt.
There is, you may argue, a gray area between The Wound and The Weight. Victims of a crime or a tragedy, for instance, may feel (incorrectly) that they are in part to blame, perhaps even for being in a bad situation in the first place. In such cases, although an individual may in fact be wounded, I would argue that it is the weight of guilt that predominates, for now, and for story purposes it probably is most useful to treat a character’s condition that way. A soldier whose buddy died on the battlefield did not fire the bullet or plant the IED but guilt may grab hold of him or her, even so.
Likewise, if a protagonist has in his or her backstory a mistake, the reasons for it may be understandable. But a having good reason for a mistake does not always mitigate The Weight. Compare that with the shame that attends The Wound. That shame is a forward and conscious feeling. Guilt tends to be buried under layers of denial. If there is a practical difference in characters who feel The Wound versus those who bear The Weight, it is perhaps this: conscious awareness versus displacement and denial of the reasons for one’s behavior.
Let’s check out some ways in which The Weight can be made practical generator of story actions:
As we meet your protagonist is he or she either, A) overly responsible, caretaking, community minded, self-sacrificing, or B) self-involved, fun-loving, judgmental or critical? How do we see that tendency right away?
If your protagonist were to have a free morning, what would he or she do with that time? Something for others or something for self? Can you turn that thing into a prime directive, an imperative or goal? Can it become a sub-plot?
Whom does your protagonist blame for his or her problems? In what way is that partly true, and in what way is that actually wrong? Which other character in your story sees the whole picture, and when does that character zap your protagonist with that perspective?
In what way is your protagonist righteous? Justified? Insistent on principles, code, ideals? Can you make that righteousness stronger? What is the biggest thing your protagonist can do to knock someone else for not measuring up? How is that judgment wrapped up in false kindness?
In what way is your protagonist blind to the truth of another, and how is he or she certain of the truth of himself or herself?
Who can be determined to take your protagonist down? What is that antagonist’s chief complaint about your protagonist? In what way can your protagonist bear out that belief or prove that antagonist correct?
In what way is your protagonist trying to make up for his or her fundamental deficiency? How does your protagonist pardon himself or herself? How can that absolution fail spectacularly?
Looking to backstory, what does your protagonist actually have to feel guilty about? What would make that guilt even worse? What is cringe-worthy to the max? What would be nasty, offensive, opprobrious, scandalous, shameful, or shocking?
To whom should your protagonist confess? In front of whom should your protagonist humble himself or herself? What makes that impossible? What makes it necessary? When is it most critical? How does your protagonist fail? Who is most disappointed or hurt by your protagonist’s pride?
What finally triggers your protagonist to change? After changing, what can your protagonist do differently than before? Work backwards through the story to build your protagonist’s negative modus operandi, so that his or her later reform will be even more meaningful.
When denial ends and The Weight finally reaches the surface of consciousness, what does it feel like to your protagonist? Get it down in words.
Hey, we all make mistakes. Some are embarrassing, others are humiliating, still others may be so awful that we deny, minimize, escape or project our fault onto others. Unjustified or understandable, forgivable or not, we all bear guilt. That guilt, in one way or another, seeps out. The Weight is not invisible, we express it in visible actions. We work it out in real time. We live in a confessional booth.
Why should protagonists be any different? To burden your protagonist with The Weight is to both increase drama and enhance reader identification. That may seem counter-intuitive, but if you’re worried that readers might turn against your flawed character, remember this: We’ve all been there.
How is your protagonist carrying The Weight? How will we see that? How will things go? Let us know!
[coffee]
Donald Maass (he/him) founded the Donald Maass Literary Agency. in New York in 1980. He is the author of The Career Novelist (1996), Writing the Breakout Novel (2001), Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook (2004), The Fire in Fiction (2009), The Breakout Novelist (2011), Writing 21st Century Fiction (2012) and The Emotional Craft of Fiction (2019). He has presented hundreds of workshops around the world and is a past president of the American Association of Literary Agents (formerly AAR).
Thank you for this careful elucidation of something I’ve been wrestling with for a long time. This post will be printed and put in my educational file to help me work through a sticking point in my current WforeverIP.
Hey Don – As I was reading your essay, Maureen was getting ready for work in the adjacent room. “Who’s up?” she asked.
“Don.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about how ‘The Wound’ and ‘The Weight’ are flip sides of a coin.” I went on to describe both, and ended with, “Am I explaining it clearly?”
“So it’s like how Vahldan’s Wound is that he ended his father’s life, but his Weight is that he blames himself, and because of it he takes on and carries his father’s ambition, and that everything he does is tied up in ridding himself of the burden?”
“Uh, yeah, sort of…exactly like that.”
Guess I managed to convey your valuable lesson. Thanks for making it clear enough to do so. And thanks (to you and to Mo – she says hello, btw) for the valuable reminder of the Weight my protagonist carries, and how the burden informs everything he will do – up to and including redeeming himself. Onward!
Provocative questions as always, Don, thanks! My character carries the weight of deep uncertainty. After risking everything (marriage, financial stability, home) to help a friend, the friend falls off the radar. We learn the true weight of this when later in the story, she can make things right with the protagonist’s brother, her fist love, by telling him how hard she had tried to help—but she can’t find the words to do so, since she doesn’t know if her sacrifice even mattered. She may have simply thrown money at a problem that needed a more personal investment, while at the same time endangering her children and the business she had built.
Kathryn, great example of how The Weight is heavy even when there’s little true guilt. Or is there? That’s the narrative beauty of it: We all could do better and we know it. The Weight is upon us all.
The Weight that Vahldan carries is heavy indeed, and I suspect will cloud his leadership and lead to many more hubristic (is that a word?) mistakes.
It will be a long while, I think, before he can humble himself and change, but if The Weight is there (and even if not named, it is) then I will be hoping hard for his redemption. What a journey he is on!
What a journey for us all, eh? Hi back to Mo, too. Miss you both.
The best example of how The Weight affects a character is shown in today’s national debate on the selection of a Supreme Court Justice, where each “character” staggers beneath The Weight of his and her own past, Weight that could destroy one or the other–or both–depending upon how he and she confront it.
Gosh! I was not thinking of the Kavanaugh hearing AT ALL when I wrote this post. Oh no. Not a bit. I wonder what triggered the connection for you?
Several things seemed obvious:
1. How The Weight still exists in the mind, plainly visible through a self-imposed framework of denials, lies, half-truths, and memory lapses.
2. How greatly impacted many people are by someone else’s Weight being exposed. It is as though that other person’s Weight has also become theirs to bear, thereby enabling them the freedom to either champion or damn that other person.
3. How The Weight can lie dormant for so many years and still retain its power, like smoldering embers we thought to be long dead and cold suddenly burst into flame again.
4. In the end, the story isn’t whether or not The Weight is lifted, the story is how the character responds to it, what it says about the character. Does he or she show valor or shame? And how does this choice affect the observers (or readers).
At least that’s my take.
Well, now I’m going to be singing ‘the Weight’ all day! But sixteen-year-old Cassie carries the weight of a family promise on her shoulders, one that, should she honor it fully, would set her apart as a hero. But it would also shine a light on all the qualities that make her different, and in her mind, different means unloveable.
“The weight of a family promise”. Intriguing! And guilt provoking? Definitely. The inadequacies we feel in ourselves are the most common guilt of all, but sounds like you have found a way to blow that up large.
Geez, this was fantastic. I’m writing a thriller, and the protagonist has both Wound and Weight. The guilt generated by the Weight will be both save her and ruin her.
I gotta tell you, the WEIGHT for the author of such a story is every bit as profound as for the character! I keep clucking over it, even though I know it’s what makes my story unique.
If you feel The Weight yourself, as author, then a good plan, always, is to use it! Give it to your characters. They then can carry it for us. Thanks for weighing…(groan)…in.
I laughed aloud at this prompt: “In what way is your protagonist righteous? Justified? Insistent on principles, code, ideals?” — because in what way is she not?
Bookmarking this one for editing-time next spring when I’m done with my current WIP. Your distinction between Wound and Weight feels like it’ll be a useful tool for punching up my protagonist, who’s been a bit challenging to work with this time around because she carries some horrific Wounds but processed/grew her way out from under some of their Weight in the previous narrative. I’ve had a few moments in the sequel where I had to scrub initial scene directions because “wait — she learned her lesson on this one and wouldn’t make this mistake twice!” A changed character means there’s room for new mistakes, though — thus new ways for the Weight to appear and drive the story harder, deeper, and more powerfully — and I suspect this will be a handy set of prompts for refining those.
Don, thanks for teasing out the differences in Wound and Weight for us. Thinking in these terms, for my MC, the Wound is created by what someone did to her, but the Weight is created by something she failed to do for her friend. They are intimately related, but they work themselves out in different ways. What I find interesting is how my MC bravely faces the perpetrator of the Wound and demands answers, but she has been dealing with the Weight through avoidance for years. We do tend to demand explanations from others when they mistreat us even as we quietly tuck away any evidence of our mistreatment of others.
Terrific. I wonder in your story when The Weight becomes so heavy for your MC that there is no avoiding it any longer? What happens to bring it to the surface?
Don, Yes–the greatest story! Your posts are so packed that I copy and paste them into Word so I can ponder them when I have room in my brain. And without looking at your byline, I always can tell when they’re coming from you. Many thanks for your insights.
I always know when it’s Don’s post too! So funny. *fist bump*
I copy and paste many WU posts too, glad to know mine are among your keepers.
Really fascinating distinction between Wound and Weight, which I had not previously thought about. Thanks. Of course, this means that now I need to go hit the weights. (See what I did there?)
Seriously, Donald – I love the way your mind works in taking apart the storytelling process. SO clear, and so helpful.
Oh, the gym metaphors for story…protagonists on the treadmill…dead lifting…strides per minute to measure pace…we could go on, I’m sure. A future workout…I mean, post?
Don, I’ve never heard this distinction before and I think it’s a really important one–thanks for that. I’m sitting here thinking about my WIP. My MC’s wound is from an abusive father and absent mother, and her weight is both carrying the burden of her sister’s death, and this sort of desperate need to reestablish herself in a new country because she promised her sister she would for the both of them. Then there’s the burden of all that reinvention as an immigrant. There’s certainly weight there.
Great questions, too. I’m going to work through them. :) I hope you’re well!
I’m well, thanks. I like the way you’re seeing your story in both sides of the coin. Now the trick is to infuse those backstory elements in the present action in the way that oak is infused in wine, or smoke in BBQ.
Did I just liken deep character motives to Texas ribs? Sheesh. But I hope you see what I mean.
I’ll remember The Wound and The Weight next time I crack open a Lee Child blockbuster!
Reacher is a study in repression. He’s like a keg of gunpowder, to the eye just an inert barrel but also a massive explosion waiting to happen. The way in which Lee implies that is something I have not yet studied enough to understand. Some homework for me, perhaps.
Hi, Don:
This is a fascinating post, and it concerns a subject I’m covering in the new book, THE COMPASS OF CHARACTER, which addresses motivation.
I particularly like you’re seeing the dark side of our wounds. However, what I worry about in this approach is that, by focusing on the second-level reaction to the wound, the student might underplay the wound itself. It is only in understanding the devastating effect of the wound that we can understand how the shame or guilt seep in, not to mention the denial and projection that so often follow.
The approach I teach (and use in my own fiction) involves exploring moments of helplessness (loss, shame, guilt, fear, betrayal) or sudden unconscious willfulness (connection, pride, forgiveness, courage, trust) in the character’s past. The shape the character’s fr of the pain of life and confidence in the promise of life, as he or she knows it so far.
On the basis of those past moments of painful helplessness, the character has developed habits of behavior to protect herself from “going there again.” This is the kind of defensive projection, denial, risk-aversion, substance abuse and so on that form what I call “Pathological Maneuvers” (a term I’ve borrowed from Elizabeth George). To counter-balance that, I also focus on the “stubborn virtues” formed by the moments of unconscious courage, connection, pride, etc. These form the habits that enable the character some belief that pursuing the promise of life is possible.
What I love about your post is the litany of questions you provide, all of which deal woth how the character has moved from that wounding moment of helplessness to a reactive Pathological Maneuver — and you do it through scenes, which is always the most productive way to explore character.
But what I also think is not just valuable but unique and creative in this post is how you recognize the shame and guilt that often accompany being wounded. I think shame often arrives immediately after the wounding event, whereas guilt may not arise until the character is trying to assess why the event happened, and comes to place blame on himself. Either way, it recognizes that wounding attacks not just our emotions or sense of safety but our sense of self, and we accordingly begin shaping not just our behavior but our identity around how we respond from there.
I could talk about this stuff all day. Unfortunately, a book needs to be written. Thanks for addressing this, though. Really fascinating stuff.
Bit it’s not just wounds tht create shame or guilt, of course. It’s our own overt acts of cruelty, vindictiveness, and so on.
Please ignore the final paragraph, typos and all (and several other typos the edit clock would not permit me time to correct). That last paragraph was part of my “typing out loud” as I was thinking my way through my comment. It’s meant to address the scenes that create guilt and shame directly. I think it might be wise to save all that for another day. :-)
We could indeed talk about this stuff all day, David! We must! Looking forward to your new book.
Just one quick note in response: Approaches may different, but anything that gets authors looking at, and using, layers of motive in their work is good, I think we agree on that, yes?
Abso-oodly-doodly, as Ned Flanders would say.
Thank you so much for writing this post. I’ve been struggling to find a pithy way to articulate the difference between my WIP’s protagonist and antagonist, and the wound/weight dychotomy you propose fits the bill exactly. Both characters have a similar wound (witnessing the violent death of a loved one as a child); both feel guilty over it; but each bears the weight of that guilt differently, which leads them to behave differently as well.
Very cool, Eugene! I love the parallel between your protagonist and antagonist. Most intriguing.
Thanks for the post, Don. I’m at the very beginning of a new book, and these are questions I need to answer. I could see in the book I just finished how the wound and the weight are different sides of the same coin and interconnected.
Do you think the wound and the weight must always come from the same experience? It seems as if they must. Or is it possible that there times when the wound comes from one experience and the weight from another.
Another excellent column. My teen thief, Angela, bears the Wound of her mother dying while giving birth to her. The guilt she hides from herself is that SHE killed her mother. If she didn’t exist, she her mother would still be here. And the weight of anger she bears is for her father. If they were not a family of thieves, would her mother have given birth in a hospital instead of at home? Would she have lived? Her dad is dead, now, and she cannot lash out at him. She alone bears the burden of the debt to the loan shark, and if she misses a payment, she knows it’s her grandmama who bears the punishment.
I feel like sitting my characters down in a classroom and putting them through these tests. Thank you!
(Typos alert, however, which isn’t like you. No less than four.)