Tears on the Page—On Writing and Crying
By Vaughn Roycroft | February 19, 2018 |
Yesterday morning I cried over a book’s ending. I’m talking wet cheeks, sobs that were more like gasps for breath, and needing to blow my nose. Crying ugly, as it’s aptly called.
While that sinks in, let me assert that I consider myself fairly open online, particularly in this forum. Here among my fellow WU writers, I’m fairly confident that most of you are unsurprised by my admission. And I consider myself pretty comfortable with my masculinity. And yet…
Boys Don’t Cry
I almost chickened out on this post. I started it yesterday, and then set it aside. But as such things often go for me, once the idea bored its way into my brain, it could only be purged by writing. As I explored my discomfort, it started to seem silly. I mean, we talk about crying all of the time. Heck, you can hardly find an online thread about This Is Us without someone mentioning all of the tissues that show is selling. And yet talking about my own tears over a story is unsettling. Why is that?
I guess it’s partly the whole macho thing. I saw one study that concluded that women cry a bit over twice as often as men (around 4 occurrences per month for females versus 1.5/month for males). And there seems to be some debate about how much the disparity can be attributed to nature versus nurture. Is it physiological (since the mere presence of female tears has been shown to correlate with a measured reduction in male aggression and sexual arousal)? Or is it our upbringing (I clearly recall a junior high gym teacher who routinely told any male who shed a tear to, “Suck it up, Sally”)?
I suspect it’s a combination, but if there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that the older I get, the more often I cry. I’m also certain that when I first met my wife, we would’ve compared fairly well with the stats I cite above (her being moved to tears about twice as often as I was). I actually used to tease her that a good commercial could make her cry.
These days I give her a real run for the money.
Maybe it’s simply that I spend less time in the company of men. Maybe I just don’t give a damn if anyone calls me Sally anymore (after all, I’ve come to know as many or more admirable women as men). But I think there’s something else at work, as well.
Since I started writing, I actually seek out the kinds of experiences that move me to tears.
The Tears of Writerly Success
It’s a not-so-hidden secret that many (if not most) of us count hearing that a reader was moved to tears as a success. I know I do. Although it’s not something we go around high-fiving over or bragging about, my recent experience made me wonder. Do I really seek to make people cry?
It’s sort of a weird question to have to ask oneself, isn’t it? I mean, why would anyone set out to evoke tears? And yet, comedians openly seek to evoke laughter. No one thinks that’s weird. Isn’t laughter a similar human response to stimulus, if perhaps at the other end of the spectrum? But maybe that’s the problem. Laughter is usually associated not just with amusement, but with happiness, joy, celebration. Though there are tears of joy, crying is obviously more closely associated with heartache, sadness, and even grief. Hardly the sort of emotions to high-five each other for evoking, right?
Are you curious which book I’m referring to at the top of the page? Answer: The Nightingale, by Kristin Hannah. If you haven’t read it, move it to the top of your TBR pile, stat. If you have, you almost certainly understand where I’m coming from. I don’t want to give too much away, but it’s about French sisters during the Nazi occupation in WW2.
The book delves some almost unspeakable horror. There is resentment and suffering, shame and regret, loss and grief. But there’s also heroism—both of the type some people reflexively jump into, and the more quite type, from people who are pushed to find their courage. Most importantly, it’s about the power of hope and love.
And yes, I suppose some of the tears I shed were due to the loss and grief. But mostly they were shed during the overwhelmingly uplifting final twenty or so pages. They were more for the triumph than the loss.
For me, it was the sort of book that I didn’t want to say goodbye to. It was midmorning when I finished it, and I’m not sure how long I sat there in my armchair—sorting my feelings, finding my own personal associations, thinking about the story’s relevance to my life and to today’s world. Only my wife’s arrival for lunch forced me to move on with my day.
Heavy stuff. And I’m grateful for it. Though I doubt I’ll high-five Hannah if we ever meet. Well, maybe… (This story is really masterfully told.)
No Tears in the Writer…
Having admitted to my increasing tendency to shed tears, it probably won’t surprise you to hear that I also often make myself cry while writing. So after I finished Nightingale, and was pondering the topic, I was interested in Hannah’s take on tears. When this interviewer from Book Circle asked her if she cried while writing, she said, “You know, it’s interesting, I get asked that a lot. And I’ve written a lot of books that have sad elements in them, and generally I don’t. But this particular book, no matter how many times I read it, the last fifty or seventy-five pages were really difficult. Even after I’d reread it a dozen times, it always really affected me. And that’s how I knew that readers were going to respond to it.”
So just to be clear: The Nightingale was the first one that affected her in that way, and it also happened to become a #1 New York Times bestseller, a Wall Street Journal Best Book of the Year, and it’s soon to be a major motion picture.
Though I haven’t had Hannah’s level of success, and likely never will, I suppose I hope I can continue to move myself to tears while I write.
Reaction/Release/Relief
catharsis /kəˈTHärsəs/ noun 1. the process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.
As I said, I did a lot of thinking as I sat in my arm chair after finishing the book, and then during my first attempt at this post. I thought about why I seek out such experiences, and perhaps more interestingly, why I would want to seek to provide them for others. The word catharsis came to mind. When I am moved by a story, it leaves me not just thinking but feeling. And I would definitely include the word relief in describing those feelings.
Research suggests that crying does indeed make us feel better afterwards (though it can take time, up to 90 minutes from the onset according to one study). But what I’m talking about seems bigger than that. Even the phrase, “it moved me,” is telling. When such emotions are evoked, we are moved—to a new perspective, a new level of empathy, perhaps even to a new, and deeper, understanding.
I also like the word process in the definition above. It feels like a process, doesn’t it? A cathartic cry can feel like processing the very essence of the human experience. And we humans tend to share experiences, don’t we? Indeed, the impulse to share is part of what makes us human. Even a funeral is a sort of shared catharsis. Sharing tears is one of the most profound ways we humans have to say, “I understand; I am with you; I share your deepest emotions.”
And think about this: humans are the only animal known to shed tears in response to emotion. Tear-shedding is one of the things that defines us as human.
So, getting back to my question, do I actually seek to evoke tears? My answer is no—not technically. But I do seek to explore deep emotions, and to move readers to a new perspective, and to leave them thinking and feeling, and applying my work to their own circumstance. I do seek to evoke a reaction. And if I’m able to evoke a reaction that requires a release, I hope that the result provides relief.
Tears are just a byproduct. But they are the most human sort of evidence that I’ve connected.
What about you? Major Weeper here wants to know. Do you meet the national average for crying? Do you make yourself cry while you work? Do you seek to make your readers cry? Let’s share a catharsis in the comments.
[Image is: Don’t Cry, My Love, by Axel Naud @ Flickr]
Vaughn Roycroft’s (he/him) teacher gave him a copy of The Hobbit in the 6th grade, sparking a lifelong passion for reading and history. After college, life intervened, and Vaughn spent twenty years building a successful business. During those years, he and his wife built a getaway cottage near their favorite shoreline, in a fashion that would make the elves of Rivendell proud. After many milestone achievements, and with the mantra ‘life’s too short,’ they left their hectic lives in the business world, moved to their little cottage, and Vaughn finally returned to writing. Now he spends his days striving to finish his epic fantasy series.
Yes, absolutely! My goal is to make readers cry. I still cry through the last 1/4 of my manuscript even though I’ve been over it countless times now.
Sounds like you’ve already found your way through the central question here, Theresa, and come up with a definitive. Good for you. Keep it up! Thanks for weighing in.
I admit…nothing! Actually, I’ve long been an emotional guy who gets moved by books, movies, TV shows, etc. I do admit, though, that I tend to keep it quiet, cover it up, poke at my eye as if it’s itchy, because society, right? One of the benefits of aging is that it becomes easier to say “I don’t give a f***!” but maybe I’m not quite there with public crying.
And I have choked up while writing, and I’m glad.
Good addition to the conversation, JeffO. I didn’t touch it, but I’m still a chicken when it comes to public crying. Thank the story gods for dark theaters, right?
Here’s to forging toward not giving a f***. Thanks for the enhancement!
I come from a long line of weepers on my mother’s side (the Scots-Irish), so I’m right there with your wife, Vaughn, shedding tears for Irish Spring soap. That said, though, I’ve always trusted men who cry over men who say they never do. Crying is an honest response to joy and pain, and as you say, cathartic. But crying also makes you vulnerable, which, for me, is where the power of story comes in. I was crying this morning over Juliet Marillier’s gorgeous ‘Tower of Thorns’, along with one of her characters who had just gotten in touch with painful memories. His brought up my own, which was why I was really crying. I identified. And I felt comforted by the company of another in pain. So I don’t know if I set out to make my readers cry, but I do make a conscious effort to find emotionally honesty. I haven’t read ‘the Nightingale[ (on my list now!) but I’ve read other books by Hannah, and I think she’s a master at this. So thank you for ‘manning up, Mike!” and letting us see your vulnerable side. Real men do cry, and thank the stars for that!.
Hey cool, there’s additional trust for us weepy guys? Awesome.
Oh my, don’t get me started about Juliet! One of the first few fan letters to writers that I ever wrote went to Juliet, in which I admitted to blubbering like a baby over Daughter of the Forest. I remember wondering if she’d think I was wackadoo, but she wrote me back, and seemed pleased by the admission. She’s done it to me several times since.
You’re in for some tough emotional sledding with The Nightingale, Susan. But I predict that the catharsis will be worth it. Thanks, as always, for being such a great enhancement to the conversation here, my friend.
Oh, Lord help me, Vaughn. I am SUCH a crier and the thing is, I’m an optimistic and upbeat person. I suppose I’m just sensitive. If this makes you feel any better, I cried at the first track meet I coached a very talented but difficult athlete to a record time. I cried at many meets after that. All of that hard work and passion and force of will out there on the track, and day after day of practice–it touches my heart. There is something about human struggle and the driving need we have to do something meaningful in our short stint in this world that affects me profoundly. Following a passion, artistic pursuits, bettering the human condition, etc, etc. It doesn’t even have to be about loss. It all strikes a very deep chord inside me. (And God, I love an underdog. I’m tearing up just thinking about it.)
In terms of craft, if a book I’m working on doesn’t elicit tears from me at some point, I feel I haven’t gone deep enough. I do very much enjoy hearing a reader has cried, too. Oddly, I don’t set out to do that intentionally, but I can feel where those points come in the story as I write them. I assume, that if that scene affects me, it’s pretty likely readers will feel the same. Now, that’s in general, of course. What makes some cry, doesn’t affect others. This has everything to do with the baggage, experience, and emotional state the reader brings to the table as they begin the book.
(One caveat about my statement above. I think it depends on the aim of the book, as to whether I or the reader should be in tears. If we’re talking suspense and ambiance and an immersive world like The Phantom’s Apprentice, there shouldn’t be tears. It’s not that kind of book, and crying is not a goal. If there are tears, I’d worry. Ha.)
Great post. And hey, for the record, my husband is a crier, too, and he’s said the same thing you did–as he gets older, he cares a lot less about being free with his emotion.
Ah, how appropriate. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce a commenter who’s actually made me cry. :-)
I’m right there with you on the human struggle, and being moved to tears by athletic triumph. Even those Olympic background pieces, which can be hokey as all get out, “get me” more often than not.
I’m with you on using tears as a gauge while working, too. (And you’re right about the caveat – it’s all about emotional intent, I suppose). I remember lamenting to my wife during a walk that the next day I would be editing a character’s death. She sort of raised an eyebrow. “But you’ve known for years that she dies.” I told her it didn’t matter, and that it “got me” every. Damn. Time. I also realized in the moment that I’d have been worried if it didn’t. I mean, who cares more than I do?
*Raises fist of solidarity with Heather’s husband* Pass along my thanks and admiration for caring less and less about putting it all out there as we age. I’m looking forward to meeting him someday. Thanks for the awesome addition to the conversation, Heather. Here’s to us optimistic and upbeat yet sensitive types. Cry on!
Great post, Vaughn. I was raised not to cry and I still have a hard time summoning tears, even when I’m sad. Your essay brings to mind Meg Rosoff’s excellent presentation at the 2014 UnCon, in which she urged writers to open up that vein and go to that deep, dark place. Writing about pain and suffering is so hard, but is a necessary prelude to a character’s transformation and growth. Well done, Vaughn!
Hey Chris, Lordy, wasn’t Meg’s session at UnCon unforgettable? I still think about it and refer to it often.
You’ve got me wondering if being the youngest has something to do with my sensitivity. My dad was definitely a “boys don’t cry” type guy when my brother was growing up. But as he got older, I think he softened his view, so to speak. Hmm. Food for thought.
Here’s to tacking the tough stuff, and to taking our characters there. Thanks for weighing in, my friend!
I’m glad I’m not the only one that cries when they write. But I also cry when my baseball team wins, or watching the Olympics.
Hi James, You’re not alone, if you look at at Heather’s comment and my reply. Yes, there’s just so much passion in athletic effort and triumph. It definitely requires catharsis. Thanks for letting me know. It’s heartening to hear from others on this.
Honest, amazing post, Vaughn. Occasionally, my husband will cry during a film, but loves to say I’m the crier. That’s okay. I admit to that. But to admit the evocation of tears with my own work? Yes. There is one scene in my current WIP that always brings tears. Why, I’m not sure. But the page delves into my own deep feelings about motherhood, so I guess that is the source. I don’t remember crying while reading the NIGHTINGALE, but I do remember my eagerness to pick up the book as I read it–the characters were real and I cared for them. And as far as THIS IS US is concerned, yes I cry.
Wow, you’re tough, Beth. I was floored by the final scenes in Nightingale. Glad to hear This Is Us gets you, or I’d really be feeling silly, lol.
Isn’t it cool when we ambush ourselves? If there’s one thing I’m grateful for about my writing journey, it’s the self-knowledge that it’s offered again and again. I can only imagine adding parenthood to the mix.
Thanks for sharing! Best to you with the WIP.
What a fascinating blog. You are brave. I agree with Susan’s comment on the “emotionally honesty” element in the writing process. When growing up, my mother used to say ‘stop crying, don’t cry, don’t let them see you cry.’ So I grew up thinking crying was a bad thing and revealed my weakness. Writing stories was a safe place to cry. So, yes, I do cry while writing and while reading too if the scene or subject hits one of my own buttons for sadness. I don’t set out to write a scene to make my readers cry; that would be manipulation. At the end of one of my novels a mom has to give up her little boy and I cried bitterly while writing it, and even when I reread that scene, I choke up again and again. I don’t think deep pain ever goes away completely. Being separated from a child you love is the deepest pain ever.
That’s really cool, Paula, that writing became a sort of shelter for you. You’ve made me see how reading preformed that function for me, as well. As a teen I read a lot of my mom’s hand-me-down books, and they explored a lot of emotions I could’ve never discussed with my guy friends. So I very rarely talked about my reading life with my friends in those days.
Thanks for the angle of manipulation. It’s a fine line, isn’t it? And that’s what I was exploring in writing the essay. Thanks, too, for sharing so honestly. Excellent addition to the conversation!
Vaughan, I love WWII stories so thank you for reminding me about Nightingale and of course, grown men cry. I used to work in a VA hospital and noticed how tough the young men can be, but the older men know who they are and aren’t afraid to let the tears fall. My husband too got misty eyed when he dropped off our first-born at college.
I love a story that can make me both laugh and cry. Music moves me so deeply I can’t get through some psalms without choking and Bach’s Passion chorale gets me every time. My son, when he was two, cried during a recording of Air in G. For a couple of years, he wouldn’t let me play Bach :)
I cry when I write an emotional scene. Usually in a first draft, my characters also cry. But during revision, I make them hold it back so that my reader will cry for them. So yes, I aim to evoke tears, and laughter too. This is why we read–to feel.
Hey Vijaya, Wonderful anecdotal evidence I’m not alone on being moved more as I age. I can only imagine how moved your husband was on college drop-off day!
Yes, music! Some songs and pieces get me again and again. There’s even a music/writing tie-in that gets me. A sad song that reminds me perfectly of my heroine makes me misty without fail.
Here’s to the laughter and the tears, both for us and for our readers. Thanks for weighing in!
I love this post, Vaughn. For one thing, I felt the same way at the end of The Nightingale. I sobbed my way through that last 50 pages and just couldn’t move on with a normal day when I finished. I was different when I finished. It’s a masterful work by a masterful writer. It also challenged me to think more deeply about my own work and voice, but that’s a story for another day.
As for crying, I’m with my twin Heather up there. I cry over everything. Books, movies, sports, news stories, perfect ice skating, snowboarders sliding into gold, kittens, everything.
I definitely cry over my own work, too. With No Place Like Home, I had to get a towel for the last 100 pages, every single time I went through it, and I always cry at the end of every book. I want readers to be that moved, happy/sad because that’s what I do–I want poignance and resolution as much as the tragic cry.
One of the reasons I adore GoT so much is because it makes me cry so much.
Cool – another commenter who’s made me cry. You nailed it on Nightingale – “…and just couldn’t move on with a normal day when I finished. I was different when I finished.” Amen. As I say, I’m grateful for the experience.
Lol on the towel, but I feel you! Re: GoT, I get the feeling some folks don’t get that epic fantasy can be moving. For me it’s the dividing line between good epic fantasy and great epic fantasy.
Thanks for being such a powerfully moving writer, Barbara, and for the solidarity today!
Weeper, let’s fill a bucket together. Yesterday, I finished A Man Called Ove, and was taken aback by my teary response to the conclusion. Perhaps that feeling was strengthened by the premise of the protagonist being a curmudgeon of tremendous skill: he is harshly judgemental, finds fault in nearly every act of his fellow humans and “bah humbugs” it nearly to the end. The wheel tilts the other direction at story’s finish, and it tilted me with it.
There is a catharsis in literary sorrows, which can seem as real as other sorrows in our lives (and thus their power). I have tried to write sad scenes in some of my work, not trying to manipulate, but to invite a reader to feel loss, or regret, or grief, because we all feel these things.
But then again, as you suggest, getting older does seem to loosen the ducts. I start to snuffle during tv ads now, so I’m worthless. Just remember though: there’s no crying in baseball.
Good post, maestro.
Hey Tom – I totally get being moved by Ove, but I also get being taken aback by it. It’s about transformation – for the characters, yes. But I think the thing that surprises us is our own transformation.
I’m glad you’re exploring deep emotions, though I’m not even slightly surprised by it.
Good reminder about baseball. And as you’ll no doubt recall, when Coach Jimmy Dugan gave his rant about crying in baseball, the ump came over and kindly suggested that: “Perhaps you chastised her too vehemently.” I suppose if we writers want deep emotions, we ought to take the opposite of the umps advice, and embrace vehemence.
Thanks much for your insight and additions, Tom!
I’m not a big crier and I kept it together during the book but the movie got me with a final added scene. Ove wakes on a train as a young man and his wife is there she smiles, fade to black, roll credits, cue the waterworks.
I am more interested in Science Fiction and Fantasy these days but I always take time to read something Fredrick Backman, who’s the same age as I am.
I thought that was a powerful addition to the movie, too, David. Thanks for reminding me. Of course it got Maj. Weeper.
Funny, I couldn’t sleep last night and began reading The Nightingale, which has been on my list for a long time. I’ve always had a bit of trouble with crying because an “ugly cry” always gives me a bad headache, so I just sort of learned not to do it, to a point where it has become difficult to partake in what should be cathartic. That said, there are parts of my novels that summon tears, though not necessarily the parts I would expect, and I find I can’t read them aloud on book tour for that reason. The one thing that consistently brings tears to my eyes is kindness. It gets me every time. Especially where it is unexpected. Wonderful post, Vaughn!
Oh no, Brunonia! Sorry to hear about the headaches. Any sort of repression of an emotional outlet can’t be a good thing.
Don’t you love when the tears are summoned when we’re not expecting it? Now you’ve got me worried about public readings (which I’ve yet to be called upon to do). I sometimes get verklempt just telling my wife about a book or a scene of my own.
Good observation about kindness. I love tears inspired by a warm heart. They’re the best sort. Thanks for weighing in! I’m honored. :-)
Dear Maj. Weeper:
Wonderful post, as always. I have been very gratified to learn I have left readers teary-eyed or choked up. I don’t believe I have left one sobbing. But what hearing that from readers has taught me is that I have led them on a journey and that the characters have been genuine enough to move them. Even more so, I have finished the book with a character who arouses empathy and is facing some great loss or terrible choice with dignity. And I think that the more you honor what you yourself find admirable and worthy of compassion — for me it’s bravery in the face of heartbreak, defeat, or sacrifice — the more your readers will respond in kind.
Wonderful post. Thank you.
Hey David, I love this addition to the conversation. It is about leading someone on a journey, isn’t it? And it certainly requires being genuine. I mean, we can all sniff out insincerity from a mile away. And dignity in loss or handling a terrible choice – spot on!
You’ve summed up so much, and enhanced what I was trying to say. It’s an honor to have a reader allow us to lead them on such a journey. Just as it’s an honor to have a respected mentor’s keen insight on an essay. Thank you!
I loved this post, Vaughn. And, yes, I’m a crier too. I cry at cheesy stories and profound ones. I cry when I witness unkindness, whether it’s directed at me or not. I even cry at the DMV when I get an especially frustrating and obnoxiously bureaucratic clerk! Women are made to feel they shouldn’t cry almost as often as men are–we tend to view tears as shameful weakness, as you yourself said. But that’s a very odd thing when you reflect that many of the problems in the world are caused by people who lack sensitivity and empathy (or full humanity, in my view).
As far as my work goes, I can get too caught up in the intellectual puzzle part of writing mysteries, so I need to remind myself about that human element when I’m building plots.
I’m glad you point out the societal pressure is there for women as well as men, S.K. My wife said the same. Excellent observation on the irony of that, since the world needs empathetic people, our sensitivity for one another, now more than ever.
I can only imagine the level of focus required by the assembly of the puzzle of writing a good mystery. That would put a damper on the emotional side of it. Glad to hear you seek it out anyway. Thanks for the excellent additions to the conversation!
I’m at work on the sequel to Acre’s Bastard, and I wrote a scene that nearly made me cry just thinking it up, then laugh at how I know people will react. I then set out very intentionally to make people cry when they read it. Given that it’s historical fiction, and an adventure story, I hope it will catch people off guard and get them in the tear ducts. Yes i’m manipulative… I’m a writer!
Hey Wayne, Good for you for being direct in your goals. Seeking to catch your readers off guard is certainly a good ingredient in the recipe for success. Wishing you a heaping helping of it! Thanks for weighing in.
The book that made me ugly cry repeatedly was “The Fault in Our Stars.” I mean, It’s. Children. Dying. I would read a few pages, begin to sob, put it down, come back, read a few pages, repeat. In my WIP someone is going to die. I haven’t gotten to that point in the story yet, but man, you hit the mark. If it doesn’t make you cry when you’re writing it, you might as well hit “delete” and start over. Understated grief is probably one of the most difficult emotions to convey on paper. Thanks for this.
Hey Densie, I’m with you – Fault in Our Stars just floored me, again and again. Green is a master.
Yeah, for me I’ve got to feel it as I write it, or I’d best start over. And you’re certainly right about understated grief. It’s definitely got to be shown not told, and it takes a deft touch to pull off. Wishing you the best with your WIP! Here’s to needing tissues as we forge ahead.
I’m in an odd position re crying: I have deliberately damped the physical response.
The reason? My body can’t handle the physical aftermath of adrenaline.
Normal people get catharsis: after a ‘good cry,’ they’ve washed emotions out of their system and actually feel better for ‘letting it all out.’ Those of us with CFS can’t do that: it leads to a crash far disproportionate to any amount of relief.
So I have learned to acknowledge the emotions – I am human, after all – and then damp the physical response immediately. I think many people find it far easier to cry than to acknowledge their emotions. Quick, they’re done. On to the next thing.
After reflection, if possible, comes acceptance of that which cannot be changed. I have given this odd trait to one of my main characters, along with the self-knowledge that it makes her seem cold when she most cares.
I found the adage that if your character cries, your readers doesn’t have to. Works beautifully.
And, for the record, it hurts like hell not to be able to cry when your parents die, but it will not help them, and it would have damaged me for longer than I can afford.
Wow, Alicia. That sounds so challenging. And it makes any sort of embarrassment over crying seem frivolous in comparison.
I’m happy to hear that you’ve learned such useful things for your characters from it. Thanks for passing along a bit of that insight.
Hugs to you. I’m grateful for your very unique perspective on this issue, and for your contribution here on WU.
That’s nice of you, Vaughn. Sometimes I feel, not like the loyal opposition, but like the voice crying (hehe) in the wilderness, wondering if everyone else thinks I’m crazy. Oh, well.
But part of my mission is to diversify writing in the directions I can, and most people in my condition don’t write.
The online camaraderie is life-saving.
I wrote a scene, the final scene of the final book of my 3-or-4 book long WIP (currently at about 380K words), and it made me cry to revise it, made me cry to remember it as a I drifted off to sleep.
And it’s not a sad scene, or a horrific one. The MC’s adoptive mother dies peacefully and content in the arms of her husband, head resting on his chest, listening to the beat of the heart she loves. She knew she was dying, and used her death to heal the soul of the MC’s daughter, which no one else could do.
It’s a quiet and gentle death, and I’m choking up a little remembering it. And I don’t even know why.
Oh, I’ve been there, misty as I recall a moving scene as I go to sleep. I love imagery. We should all be so lucky as to die peacefully in the arms of the love of our life, right? But to have our death somehow convey the gift of healing as well? Whoa. That sounds like a keeper, almost sure to move us readers. Hurry up and get ‘er done, will ya? ;-)
Thanks for sharing it with us!
Oh, Vaughn, such a fantastic post. I cry happy tears at well-crafted happy endings (some of those are Barbara O’Neal’s fault). Finishing a draft last year a part of me was lamenting the story’s lack of a strong ending and, out of nowhere, I literally gasped and tears shot over my cheeks. My protagonist had a revelation I hadn’t planned and it brought the entire novel together. I’ll just say it spoke of a love so strong it could transcend death. It was like writing underwater. After, I sat and cried it out, but was numb the rest of the night. It still elicits the same response when I read it. To me, if you can’t summon it from within how can you put it on the page? You should be proud.
Cool! I love when you stop and question something you’ve done, then your muse goes, “Oh yeah? Well then try this on for size.” Those kinds of epiphany are almost always super-charged with emotion. And how perfectly described: “like writing underwater.”
Here’s to love so strong it can transcend death! Thanks much for sharing, my friend.
Awesome post, Vaughn. Or shall I say, cry baby. LOL.
Bring on the tears, my friend! Crying is good for you. It’s therapeutic. I always feel better after a nice bawl. Tired, but relaxed.
I cried writing A Keeper’s Truth. I even cried at the end of GOT, although they were strange, overwhelmed happy tears. And now I’m writing No Apology For Being, which is deep, and I find my eyes welling often. I think it’s a hazard of our craft, my friend. Embrace it. LOL.
Hugs
Dee
Having read some of your work, this comes as no surprise, Dee. You couldn’t convey such emotional truth without feeling it as you write.
Ooo, I love the title of your WIP, and can’t wait to read it. Here’s to embracing this necessary hazard of our craft, my friend.
Signed, Cry Baby :-)
Hi V!
I replied earlier, but got some sort of error message and I guess my comment got lost in the universe somewhere. Imagine that, lost thoughts about tears floating around the universe waiting for someone maybe light years away or in a different galaxy or dimension to find them and attest to the fact that we do (or did exist) the proof, our tears.
Tears seem to be a part of the human condition. And there seem to be as many kinds of tears as there are human emotions. Tears of sorrow, tears of joy, tears of laughter… It’s why I seem to skirt around the bottomless lake of the new WIP, dipping a toe in here, reflecting by it there, and always knowing there ain’t no way to save myself from crying, when I finally gather my courage and decide to go in, because it’s a never-ending cycle. It’s enough to make you want to cry.
And sometimes… that’s a good thing.
Hey B! I love that thought, and I’ve never heard such a serene response to a lost comment, lol.
It can be daunting, knowing what’s in store for us upon our willing immersion. We have to be willing to dive deep, and to face the consequences. Including almost sure tears to come. But I agree – sometimes it’s a good thing. The rewards outweigh the costs.
Happy diving, my friend. Thanks for your lovely thoughts.
Excellent post. When I first started writing a wise author said to me, don’t make your characters cry, make your readers cry.
Hey Anne, That is wise advice. Thanks much for sharing it.
With books, I have to admit it has been a long while since I cried. Last one I remember real tears with was Lindsey O’Connor’s memoir The Long Awakening. Maybe I’m just not reading the right books!
I get choked up more at movies: Atonement, Toy Story 3, Becoming Jane, Wonder Woman…Finding Dory just wrecked me.
With books I am more often left in a state of mild disbelief or I feel a little breathless. And it’s not usually the last scene but one of the last scenes. I won’t spoil anything for anyone, but I had that reading The Dog Stars and All the Light We Cannot See. I also had that feeling watching Dunkirk.
I’d like it very much if I could leave a reader breathless.
Crying would be the icing on the cake. :)
I think I’ve been moved by every item on your list, except The Long Awakening, which I haven’t read, and Finding Dory, which I’ve yet to see. Guess I’ll keep the tissues handy for those two.
Btw, Dunkirk left me thinking, for quite some time. But I was surprisingly non-emotional about it. Maybe it was the historian in me (with particular interest in WW2). I was paying much more attention to issues pertaining to historical accuracy. I think I’d better re-watch it.
Thanks, Erin! I always love your thoughtful contributions to the conversation here on WU. :-)
I can relate. I have found myself weeping over a chapter that came from a deep place, though I was not intending it to be a tear jerker.
And so far, none of my beta readers have reported breaking down, so maybe the catharsis was just for me.
Hey Darren, Don’t presume! I’ve found that readers are pretty shy about reporting tears. Surprisingly, I’ve found readers much more willing to admit to tears in person. I think for some, when it’s in writing, a critique feels much more like a formal report. I only recently had my first beta-reader report (in writing) all of the things that made her laugh (and cry). A first!
Also, I think you touched on something important for all of us to keep in mind. Our work is for us, first and foremost. Thanks for the reminder!