Confessions of a Conflict-Avoidant Writer
By Kelsey Allagood | February 20, 2021 |
Please welcome WU’s newest contributor, Kelsey Allagood, whose powerhouse guest post–What Gandhi Taught Me About Telling Stories that Mean Something–you may recall! Kelsey’s background as a political analyst specializing in the genesis of war and oppression informs her writing, which is part of the reason today’s post is so interesting: What does a writer who focuses on war and oppression in some parts of her life do when she can’t seem to bring conflict to the page? Welcome, Kelsey! We’re so glad to have you join the team.
I have a confession: I have been a writer for more than two decades, but it was not until the last year that I understood conflict.
“But Kelsey,” you may say, “how can you write a story without conflict?” And I would respond, “This is why so little of my fiction has been published.”
It’s vulnerable to admit that I’ve spent so much time not understanding this basic tenet of my craft. I am not new to writing. I am not new to workshops or critique groups or craft books. But something about the idea of conflict in a story was not clicking, and I knew it. I knew it because as soon as I would read an essay or chapter in a craft book about “conflict” or its close cousin, “stakes,” something in my brain would just…turn off. Like it was trying to protect me from something.
I knew it because, in my first fiction workshop at the tender age of sixteen, my writing teacher—a self-professed grouchy old man who I thank for my thick skin in workshops today—turned to me and asked, “Where’s the conflict?”
I didn’t know. The story I’d turned in didn’t have one. It was about a teenager riding in the backseat of her parents’ car while they argued, and some vague insinuations about her father’s failing health that never came to any conclusion. In other workshops, I turned in similar stories, and was always met with the same question: “Where’s the conflict?”
Until about four years ago, I had never finished a complete novel manuscript, despite countless faltering attempts. The storylines would begin strong and then peter out as I ran out of ideas, or didn’t know how to get my characters logically from plot point A to plot point B. The unfinished drafts piled up. I began to wonder if I was really cut out for this writing thing.
But I kept coming back to the words. Reading had been my haven during a difficult and isolated childhood, and I wanted more than anything to bring that same sense of safety and escape to people through my own words.
And last year, finally, I had not only a complete manuscript draft, but a revised draft at that–one that told a full story.
And yet something was still wrong.
The plot meandered. Things happened because I needed them to, not due to choices my protagonist made.
So, I did what every committed artisan would do: I took advantage of a once-in-a-century global pandemic lockdown to teach myself something.
“Explain it to me like I’m five.” – Michael Scott
I began by scouring every writing blog I could find for someone who would just explain to me how to implement conflict in a scene. Many of those blogs talked about conflict as though it was something one should already understand. But now that I had enough experience and self-awareness to know what I needed, I was able to move on and continue my search.
Conflict seems to be one of those writing-related things, like characterization or rhythm, that either comes easily to you, or doesn’t. I see a lot of writing advice about how not to info-dump character backgrounds, or how to vary the structure of sentences, but less about how the nuts and bolts of a scene-level conflict can work. And I needed conflict explained to me. But it was either presented as this thing you simply should already understand, such as how to breathe, or in lofty terms like “a clash or two opposing forces” or “character versus society.”
But how do you break down your story’s capital-C Conflict into actual moments in prose? For example, your protagonist must choose between taking over her parents’ restaurant or following her passion for cave diving. I could never make that connection between “my protagonist wants to belong” and “what physically happens.” Sure, I could write scene upon scene from her daily life, where she feels torn about her decision in one setting or another, but they read as just that: scene upon scene. Not a story. Not a narrative.
I spent a huge chunk of 2020 breaking down my novel into disparate parts and moving things around, like a clockmaker laying out every gear and spring. I tried on different story structures like outfits, fitting the story into a Hero’s Journey, into character arcs, into Save the Cat! style beat sheets. I dropped my protagonist into a different geography and outlined what the story would look like from that angle. For our first anniversary, my husband bought me a gigantic double-sided whiteboard so I could write out the whole story in a grid, with an X-axis full of characters and a Y-axis of numbered scenes.
These were good exercises for building my story structure muscles, but did nothing for my main problem: that the plot felt dull, like a spark was missing. When revising, I felt like I was dragging my protagonist along by the ankles, not letting her loose to wreak havoc upon the world.
I was, I realized, being the overprotective parent to my characters that my own parents were to me.
In which Kelsey realizes, “Oh no, I’ve become my mother.”
There was not one “Aha!” moment that I can point to where everything clicked into place. Even now, I don’t have everything figured out, and I doubt I ever will. I will say that I was deep into Lisa Cron’s Story Genius and K.M. Weiland’s How to Write Character Arcs series when I began to pay attention to the show my husband and I were binge-watching at the time: Bob’s Burgers.
If you’re not familiar with Bob’s Burgers, please remedy that immediately. But in the meantime, I’ll tell you that the show follows a cartoon family—parents and three tweenagers—that owns a moderately unsuccessful burger joint. When you watch an animated show with ten seasons one right after the other, you begin to notice patterns in storytelling. The stories weren’t formulaic; each episode was different, even as the seasons passed and the characters never aged. But I did notice one thing, and it made the idea of conflict make sense in a way no number of craft books had:
Every time a character wanted something, something else got in the way.
But these weren’t lofty desires like “Tina wants to find true love” or “Teddy wants a normal family.” These were low-level, practical conflicts that added up to the loftier ones. These were “Louise dropped a necklace down a storm drain right when she needed it” and “Linda gets on the wrong bus on her way to something important.” It was those little conflicts that I couldn’t make myself write, and that was what was holding back the plot from moving forward. Which led me to my actual (and only) “Aha!” moment:
Every time your character wants something, make it harder to get.
This is the only thing that has ever made sense to me, and it worked wonders in my novel rewrite. Character heading to the bathroom? Out of order. Character wants to go get water? Somebody interrupts and asks her for something.
Put. Things. In. The. Way.
But why was this so difficult?
Conflict as a requirement for a good story is a Western concept. Other methods, like kishōtenketsu or robleto, do not prioritize confrontation and domination like the Western three- or five-act dramatic structures. I could have tried to adopt a non-Western approach to my storytelling, but that felt like cheating: Not only would I be appropriating a structure from a culture to which I did not belong, but it felt like I was writing a grammatically incorrect sentence and claiming I was doing it on purpose, rather than out of ignorance of the rules of grammar. I do still hold to the adage that you should know the rules of your craft before you break them.
I knew I needed to interrogate my own relationship to conflict. And it turned out that, as with so many things—thanks, therapy!—I needed to look inward.
I am a white woman from a middle-class background. My parents are from working-class backgrounds, both Southern Baptist and Irish Catholic. For me, in childhood as well as adult life, everyday conflict was something to be avoided, to be smoothed over as quickly as possible, even at great inconvenience to me. I was raised in a culture where women bear the responsibility for managing the emotions of others–particularly those of men.
And so, for a long time, I was doing this same thing in my stories. Oh no, I put my protagonist in a difficult situation? I need to alleviate it as quickly as possible. Does she need a horse to escape this castle? Here’s a full conversation where she convinces someone to lend her one, instead of stealing one and—gasp!—angering somebody. Things happened far too easily, and then all the tension left the story like wind leaving sails.
Of course, I didn’t realize I was doing this. I’ve always prided myself on not being precious with my words, with killing my darlings (as soon as I realized that “kill your darlings” did not literally mean “kill your characters”). I have no problem tossing out paragraphs, storylines, characters, entire manuscripts, if they’re not working. I am not averse to making my characters suffer, and there were times in my stories when characters did not get what they wanted.
But I would become so uncomfortable by putting my characters in difficult situations that I avoided doing so—even at the cost of a story.
I’m still early in this discovery, but I can tell it’s been transformational in my writing journey. So here are a couple of practical items that have helped me, in case you find yourself as the frustrated owner of countless unfinished drafts, drafts with sagging middles, or just want to strengthen your craft:
- I’ve been conducting, essentially, “conflict drills” by drafting microfiction (<1,000 word stories) for the first time. Micros force me to focus on one conflict. There’s no room to dance around it.
- Take a break from your story for a bit, then come back and comb through it with an eye toward making everyday actions more difficult for your character. Make a note on the side: “What if he can’t find A? What if B happens instead?” Explore which complications can push your character to act or grow.
- Go through each scene in your draft and summarize them in a couple of bullet points, as though you’re reminding someone what happened. This has helped me boil down the key points of the plot, which I can often lose in the details of scenes.
What about you, WU community? How do you strengthen conflict, tension, and stakes in your writing? Is there an aspect of writing that everyone else seems to get, but you don’t? Who is your favorite Bob’s Burgers character and why is it Louise?
[coffee]
Kelsey Allagood (she/her) is a writer, occasional photographer, and trained political analyst specializing in the causes of war and systemic oppression. This background led her to begin writing fantasy fiction steeped in the anthropology of conflict.
Her writing can be found in literary magazines such as Barrelhouse, GRIFFEL, Menacing Hedge, and Wanderlust. Her photography has been featured in RESURRECTION mag. She has also written on peaceful resistance movements, art as a form of political resistance, and countering violent extremist ideology.
Kelsey has a Bachelor’s Degree in international and cultural studies from the University of Tampa and a Master’s Degree in conflict resolution from Georgetown University.
She lives in Maryland with her husband, mother, and a rescue dog named Henry.
Thanks Kelsey for this post. I’m completely with you on this. I have researched and read most of the craft books on conflict yet I still find it difficult to put into my writing. My self criticism is that I’m too nice and my characters are too nice. Nice does not make a story.
Thanks, Bob! I don’t know about you, but I like reading about nice characters who are just trying to do their best in a harsh world. But I totally hear you. Some of the kindest folks I know can also write absolute monsters with scary believability, but that doesn’t come naturally to me, either. I’m always having to go back and ask myself, “Is this antagonist doing enough to get in my protagonist’s way?” And usually I find I can add another layer or two of obstruction in that I just didn’t think of at the time.
Personally, some of the most compelling drama to me comes when both protagonist and antagonist are acting in an earnest effort to make the world better, but their actions and goals are at odds. But that’s also, I think, more complex and nuanced to write–hence why I haven’t done it yet! xD
Thank you for reading!
Absolutely, “things in the way.”
Whatever those things are.
I’m a fan of the “speed bump” theory: any goal or plan (and characters need to “want something right away, even if it’s only a glass of water” –Kurt Vonnegut) has its easy parts and its hard parts, and drama is recognizing that the hard parts are the ones that need most of the attention.
Yes! I love that description, “speed bump” theory. Wish someone had described it to me like that earlier! This is such a good way to explain how conflict (speed bumps) and stakes (wanting something) are intertwined, and how one strengthens the other. In my early writing, my characters usually wanted something in the bigger, metaphysical sense (like “belonging” or “love”). Which is great, but doesn’t make for much of a story. It’s those speed bumps along the way toward getting the big-W Want that make for compelling narrative.
Thanks for reading and commenting, Ken!
Welcome Kelsey to WU. It’s a great community to be part of and great writers. Thank you for your vulnerability especially in view of your work with racism and other tough topics. I found your article and suggestions helpful and as one who feared conflict in life for a long time, important for me as a writer. Thank you
Thank you, Becky! I’m so delighted to be part of this awesome community. I’m glad you found the article helpful, and glad to know I’m not the only one who’s had this struggle.
Keep writing!
First, I’m delighted to officially welcome you to WU as a regular, Kelsey. We’re lucky to have you!
As for this fun essay, I’d like to congratulate you for your thorough self-examination and striving to resolve a weakness many simply would not confront (too conflicted? Too soon?). I’m not sure I’ve experienced this problem, not exactly. I did, however spend many years writing meandering scenes that lacked urgency. Worse, these meandering scenes did a poor job of advancing plot.
For me, a grasp of the very building block was a part of the solution: the scene. I can see that you’re very familiar with scene-level work, so you have a jump on me. One of my first hired story-coaches had me do a scene chart (on a *gulp* spreadsheet). She had me identify the GMC–O for each scene. In other words, the POV character’s Goal, Motivation, Conflict, and Obstacle to resolution to end the scene. You can do a separate internal and external GMC’s, but I never went so far. Much as it felt like a slog, I ended up really appreciating the exercise, and I began a routine of jotting my GMC–O for each scene before I began it (either composing or revising).
I don’t physically do this anymore, but I’m realizing as I write this comment that it’s part of my prior-planning for every scene. It’s become like a muscle-memory for my storytelling.
But I will also admit that, looking back on the manuscript for which I did the chart (book one to my first trilogy), I ended up making it a stilted mess. You could almost hear the structural mechanisms creaking and grinding as you read. I shutter to think of it (seriously, just physically shook off the memory).
I’m not a musician, but I imagine it’s much like learning to write music. I guess I’d make conflict the percussion in the analogy. Presuming which, in your case, you’d be a natural when it came to melody. And you’ve really got to practice to get the rhythm-thing down. And those practice sessions would really sound awful to you once you’d progressed past the basics of adding your lovely melody to the rudimentary rhythm (or vice-versa, depending). But eventually those newly acquired elements become… well, almost second nature to us… (Please, please, writing gods, let there be SOME solid progress for this damned-difficult thing over which we struggle and yearn to gain some semblance of mastery.)
I guess that’s the blessing/curse. Although we all have some set of skills and instincts, very few have all that is required to do this well. And I’m sensing that managing to do it even fairly well once guarantees us nothing for our second try.
Great to have you here to share gems like this as we all share the climb. (And, yes, I will start binging Bob’s Burgers.)
Thanks, Vaughn! I’m so glad to be a part of this community.
I’m totally with you on having an issue with scenes lacking urgency. Scene structure was one of the hardest things to learn (and I still don’t think I’ve got it 100% down). If I seem familiar with it it’s because I spent a LOT of time agonizing over it! My scenes were interesting from a character perspective, but yes, did not carry their weight in plot advancement. For me, it went back to the conflict/stakes relationship–without conflict, there can be no stakes (hence why “stakes” never made sense), but without stakes, conflict is just kinda…blah. Once I started being more purposeful about *why* things mattered as well as *what* obstacles got in the way, connecting those two concepts became a bit easier.
I love the concept of the GMC-O for each scene, and may start working something like that into my scene planning. And honestly, I too gulp when I hear the word “spreadsheet,” but I’m a total convert to spreadsheet-based plotting, because my mind absolutely does not work in a linear fashion. Having a spreadsheet doesn’t mean my work will be formulaic, because as I’m writing I’ll still meander off a bit. But it’s helpful to have a road map to return to, so that we don’t get lost in the woods.
So glad to have gotten to spread the Bob’s Burgers love, as well. Pro-tip: the first season really struggles to find itself, to the point where I think you could skip it without missing anything important. It’s not a show where continuity matters. Hope you enjoy!
This is wonderful, and I applaud your self-awareness, your insights, and your commitment to craft!
And here is where I make the gentle suggestion that, perhaps, everyone else is wrong. :)
I love your insight that conflict-driven stories are very much a Western creation, and that non-conflict-driven stories (like My Neighbor Totoro) are entirely valid, just a different creative choice. And it’s good to understand both the reason for and the mechanics of how you create conflict-driven stories, even if you might choose not to write them (especially in that case, actually).
And I like your insight about how women in our culture are expected to manage the emotions of men and essentially ELIMINATE CONFLICT. *This is actually key, hold onto that thought for a moment, I’ll get back to it.* This is a great insight as to why you probably were avoiding those micro-conflicts (something standing in the way of what the character wants) and those are absolutely necessary for tension in your stories and probably accounts for all those people whose feedback was “where’s the conflict?” So brava for tackling that like a pro and figuring out how to add it to your toolkit.
BUT. And here’s where I again make the bold statement that everyone is wrong. :) The BASIS, I believe, for that Western concept of conflict being essential to storytelling is embedded in this patriarchal notion that all stories are Hero’s stories. By which I don’t mean stories with male character leads, but rather stories that follow the Hero’s journey–a story arc that is literally defined by conflict. The entire goal is for that Hero to get out and battle/conquer something, all by themselves. And you know what? THAT IS NOT THE ONLY STORY WORTH TELLING.
I would like to gently suggest you check out Heroine’s Journey by Gail Carriger (if you haven’t heard of it already). She explores in depth how the Heroine’s Journey is a different sort altogether. It’s focused on healing and bringing people together. The Heroine is not out to battle or conquer anything–she’s had her connection with family/friends/world severed and her quest is reconnection. Conflict is certainly there, but conflict is the VILLAIN. Not necessarily a thing to avoid, but a thing to heal. TO FIX.
Just as you, the woman who was taught to minimize conflict and do the emotional labor to make that happen.
Heroine’s Journey is a different kind of storytelling, but far from being foreign, it’s everywhere we look. Just as women’s emotional labor is ever-present but minimized, so is this kind of storytelling.
It was a revolution to me when I read Heroine’s Journey and finally had a name for what I’ve been instinctively doing in a lot of my writing. I hope it has a similarly helpful impact for you!
Susan, thank you for such a thoughtful, insightful comment. I’ll never turn down an opportunity to be right! xD I am somewhat familiar with the Heroine’s Journey (the concept, not the book), but when I first came across it years ago I was resistant to the idea of equating “healing” with “feminine.” I felt like heroines in the books I read could be either “badass” (aka coded with traditionally male traits) or healers/doctors. I was looking for something with more nuance–which, now that I’m looking at the heroine’s journey again, it looks like it can actually provide. To me today, it sounds like I was probably still struggling with some internalized patriarchal ideas. So it sounds like the journey is definitely worth revisiting!
I always find myself much more invested in media–whether it’s books, games, movies, etc.–where the end goal is a reconciliation, or the creation of something new, rather than domination or a victory/defeat binary. In fact, just this past week I’ve been playing the second in a series of video games where the only way to win is to make peace with your ancestral enemies.
Thanks again for this important reminder that there are many modes of storytelling beyond just the one that gets the most attention.
I had heard about the Heroine’s Journey, as a counterpoint to Hero’s Journey, a few times over the years but all the discussion left me dissatisfied. Like they were missing something, and I didn’t like the idea that somehow women couldn’t be “heros” too. The breakthrough for me came in Gail’s book (which is truly just terrific) in understanding that while the two types of stories have been gender coded historically, that we had already begun to break away from that. Wonder Woman is a Hero’s Journey. Harry Potter is a Heroine’s Journey. That liberation from gender really allowed me to go all-in on exploring what I’d been instinctively writing for my romance penname for years, and bring it to my very science-heavy hopepunk–which is relentlessly healing , hopeful, and Heroine’s Journey.
I’m so glad it intrigues you as well! :)
Susan, Wow! Although I’ve heard of the Feminine Genius from Pope St. John Paul II, I’d never heard of the Heroine’s Journey. Much food for thought. Thank you.
I enjoyed this post very much, thank you.
A favourite memory from teaching conflict analysis was getting university students to define conflict. They gave synonyms, reasons, or explanations, and struggled to pin down a definition. Conflict is not just one thing and one approach. Story Conflict is not as simple as we think.
Just as there are so many definitions, there are so many different relationships with conflict. One of my stock teaching phrases was, Conflict is not a spectator sport, we are all participants, even as spectators, to which I add now, even as avoiders.
The novel I’m now trying to get published has this challenge. My protagonist is, like me, a Conflict Manager. I’ve been told so often that a story about someone doing conflict well is, yawn here, boring. In the thousands of conflict cases I’ve conducted for clients in deep distress over their situation, not one was boring. How to make this a story, however, has been an almost twenty year project. I’m still not sure I have solved my dilemma of writing someone whose job is jumping without (obvious) fear into conflict and smoothing over the obstacles.
So, like Susan, I’m on a different track than the traditional heroic journey. I’m very interested in your work in conflict resolution, Kelsey, and fondly recall my conflict avoidant graduate students who were so brave in their studies.
Thanks so much for reading and for sharing your experiences, Deborah! I’m all for more books where characters do conflict well because, as you rightly pointed out, the mechanics of each conflict are different and interesting, and its resolution is not the end of the story. I read a popular novel a few years ago that ended an epic war with the statement that “the hard part [reconciliation of the two warring sides] was only beginning,” and I nearly threw the book across the room (I would never harm a book, of course). If the hard part was only beginning, why didn’t we get to see that part?! But just like actual conflict, it is harder to write a messy mutual resolution as opposed to a clear victory. I think, in part, that’s why we see fewer stories where conflicts are resolved not through domination: it’s HARD.
Best of luck on your publishing journey–I’m rooting for you!
What Susan and L. Deborah said. Though I also took much from your writing journey and saw my own struggles echoing yours. Thanks for the post.
I’m so glad this resonated with you, Beth! Many thanks for reading.
You are not alone in struggling to understand conflict, for instance:
https://staging-writerunboxed.kinsta.cloud/2014/10/20/deconstructing-micro-tension/
There’s plenty of help out there, and on your own shelves. And Bob’s Burgers? Diane Gabaldon once told me that she learned everything she needed to know about storytelling from writing scripts for Scrooge McDuck comic books. So there!
Welcome to. WU!
That would be Diana, of course, not Diane.
Thanks so much, Don! I love that micro-tension is something you’ve not only named as an essential part of compelling writing, but defined in detail (as Jan did in her article). One of my favorite things as I grow as a writer is learning that there’s actually a name for X, Y, or Z thing that I see other writers doing, which means that there’s a way that I can improve the way I do the thing instead of just rewriting and rewriting and hoping I get it right (been there, done that, no thank you. Still do a lot of rewriting, but there’s a purpose to it now).
And the next time I pick up an Outlander book I’m going to pay attention for story beats that are similar to Scrooge McDuck!
Many thanks for reading!
Welcome, Kelsey! I wonder if the maturity of writing blogs is partly behind why you didn’t find helpful articles when you went explicitly looking. I’m thinking of WU, as many faces in the comment section today were also here when I arrived. Most of our material is pitched to the intermediate stage of writer, I would hazard. Perhaps we could do with setting out some kind of an evergreen/beginner path on the basics?
Anyway, Donald Maass and Robert McKee workshops have helped me greatly in this realm. Don’s, because he often has you write down the character’s goal, what get’s in the way, then exhorts you to “make it worse.” (He says it so often, this could be his tagline, and I literally hear his voice in my head when I’m sitting down to plot, to the extent this quilter is able.)
McKee is big on externalizing internal conflicts, and something about how he presented it in one of his fantastic workshops made sense to me. As he teaches film, he’s big on visual manifestations of change–that a scene must start and stop with something visibly altered in service to that conflict. We can use the other senses, of course, but the principle remains, and I think that’s helped my writing.
PS: Just realized that might sound like I was implying that you were a beginner, when that wasn’t my intent! It’s really about addressing blind spots, isn’t it? And we all have them. Would be handy to be able to click a tab if you/I wanted to work on dialogue, for instance, and find the groundwork here at WU. The tags help but they aren’t quite the same.
No Jan, it’s all good! I *do* have a beginner’s understanding of conflict, which could have also been my downfall–thinking no, I won’t read writing guides geared toward beginners because I’m not a beginner in character development, word choice, grammar, description, etc. And then I may have missed out on some building blocks as a result. After all, writers need a good dose of humility as well as self-awareness ;)
And this was not a statement on the level or quality of WU’s resources, which I didn’t even discover until I had already begun to grasp the concept. Though I’m sure if WU ever decided to do a beginners/evergreen series, people would love it! Or even some kind of build-your-own curriculum, so people who are comfortable with, for example, dialogue can choose an “advanced” course in addition to a “beginner” course in tension. Ok, enough, I’m going to get back in my lane now :)
I love that you mentioned externalizing internal conflicts, because that was one of the things that helped me finally “get” it, too. A simple exhortation to “raise the stakes” would just have me shrugging like, “How? Have a meteor hurtling toward earth?” My focus was always on how to introduce more external conflict, rather than how to go right for the character’s jugular, or even better, have her get in her own way (ironic, as I get in my own way all. the. time).
Thank you so much for reading!
Wow, thanks Kelsey – this blog post came just when I needed it most! I’m doing something like what you did, deconstructing a successful story in terms of its character arcs and goals and conflict points, and trying to see how a ‘practice’ story I make up myself could fit over that frame. Like an etude. But I still felt something was missing from my relationship to the plot, and you’ve identified it perfectly: I don’t want to ‘hurt’ my characters for all the same reasons you outlined! I, too, rush to soothe their hurts and find solutions to their problems!
Thanks for making me look at this blind spot with more understanding. And thanks for sparking this discussion.
Erica, I’m so glad this resonated with you! I mean, I’m not glad that you struggle with conflict, too, but you get it :) Doing an etude-type exercise (I hadn’t referred to it as such but I love it, it’s the perfect word for this) is one of my favorite things to do to build up my structuring and pacing muscles. Hope you’re having a great writing week!
Thank you, Kelsey, How wonderful to read about someone with the same affliction.
I struggle with something similar. For reasons far less valid than those your culture gave you, I struggle with avoidance of conflict at any level short of violence.
My AHA! moment came when I watched an improv group. The exercise that awakened me was: Each of two characters is given an objective, something they want, by a different person, one who does not know what the other objective giver is charging his or her improv-er with. Example: she wants his help with her math. He wants an introduction to her friend. Or she wants his approval either generally or for something in particular, he wants to know who is and isn’t invited to her party.
The result was instant drama! Dramatic action! Based on the conflict between the two wants. When I have flaccid scene, I go back to who wants what, and turn up the heat a bit.
This is so great! Going back to what characters want is truly such an important part of drama and conflict–and the more in opposition they are, the better. This reminds me that I’ve seen other writers cite the “Yes, and” improv rule of thumb as a way of pushing themselves to continue to pile on their characters instead of backing off (which I’m also guilty of doing). Might need to add both of these to my toolkit. Thanks for reading, Bob!
Hehe. I loved your confession. I’m always trying to avoid conflict too (in real life) so even on the page, I wanted to give my character a break until a wise mentor told me to cut it out. Pile on more, he said. So I did.
I write for kids of all ages and I started writing when I had a couple of kids of my own. Those first stories were all incidents; they were little vignettes and this type of story is really only for the youngest. But even little ones have conflicts–they don’t want to go to bed, don’t want to eat broccoli, don’t want their siblings to take a favorite toy–so I went from incidents to stories with conflicts easily. My children taught me so much!
Don’s lectures on microtension on every page was a huge help when writing novels. It gave urgency. Right now, I’m daydreaming a very peaceful and beautiful story; all the conflict is in the past. And so I’m wondering, how in the world will I move it along. Flashbacks will play a role, for sure, but can there ever be such a thing as no conflict? This pandemic has taught me that I have trouble even getting along with myself at times.
Kelsey:
You had me at “conflict avoidant” — that’s me! And every few paragraphs — that’s me! And your and Vaughn’s points on meandering scenes that fail to advance the plot — you get the idea. Thanks to you and all the WU community for a most excellent post and discussion.
Just out of curiosity, did your degrees and career in political extremism and conflict resolution have anything to do with your literary awakening?
Kelsey,
Thank you so much for writing this excellent post! I am as conflict avoidant on the page as I am in person, hate hurting my characters and have never been able to grasp all the writing advice I have gotten on conflict. So I am going to go over my WIP with “Put. Things. In. The. Way.” in mind. (I’m also fascinated by your professional background :)
Oh, wow, did this statement ever resonate with me: “I was raised in a culture where women bear the responsibility for managing the emotions of others–particularly those of men.”
Honestly, I think a lot of female characters are deemed “unlikeable” because they don’t follow the received script about making sure everyone else is happy first.
I am conflict-avoidant in real life. I never saw my parents in conflict until I was an adult (though I heard a lot of passive-aggressive sidelong comments when the other one was out of earshot). I think they just decided one day it was okay to be real in front of me. But even then, they don’t actually deal with the conflict.
I always worry about other people (including total strangers) and how my actions or even my presence affects them (Am I blocking anyone’s view? Am I standing too close? Am I not moving fast enough? Is my kid annoying anyone?). There’s a great exchange on New Girl about this sort of thing:
Schmidt: “You just walk around all day thinking about other people’s feelings?”
Jess: “Yeah, don’t you?”
Schmidt: “No! How do you get anything done?”
Jess: “It’s hard.”
Yes, Jess. Yes it is. :)
Oh, also, this:
https://introvertdear.com/news/youre-not-responsible-for-other-peoples-feelings/
This is a great essay — I love how honest and concrete you are in unpacking this problem in your own work and explaining your approaches to remedy it.
Hi Kelsey! Thanks for such a great and insightful post. Yes, we’re probably all pretty conflict-avoidant in real life, and it can be so hard to put our characters into the conflict vortex rather than just have things ‘work out’ for them instead. Many years ago a teacher gave me the one sentence I needed to ask myself when I had a draft or idea or bunch of notes about a character and wanted to turn it into a story: WHO WANTS WHAT, AND WHY CAN’T THEY GET IT? Years later I still ask my own students or workshop participants to apply the same litmus test – if you can articulate to yourself what it is your character wants, and what’s in their way or stopping them from achieving it, you’re on your way, and can start crystallising it into small scenes or moments. And needless to say, eventually you reach a tipping point where your character’s hidden internal conflict erupts to the surface – that’s still the most compelling moment in a story for a reader, in my opinion. Thanks again for this thoughtful piece. (Oh, and of course it’s Louise…)