I can still remember watching Titanic shortly after it came out (late ‘90s). It was the climax, after the iceberg has done its damage and the unsinkable ship is sinking. Rose is lying on the floating debris, and Jack is about to succumb to hypothermia. In the sea of people surrounding me and a friend in the movie theater, we were the only two not sobbing. We looked at each other as the credits rolled, baffled at the teary response we were witnessing.
It was a powerful lesson in storytelling to realize that not everyone reacts to an emotional scene in a way the author (or director) hopes they will.
That varied reaction is one that plays out again and again in discussions with other readers—in my book group, in my movie group, and in my various writers’ groups. We each bring to the books we read and movies we watch a unique set of experiences that influence how we respond to the material.
When the emotional pull is deep, the power of the story can remain long after I finish the book or the movie ends. For me, a book that stayed with me long afterward was Atonement by Ian McEwan. The ending (spoiler alert!), when the reader discovers that Cecilia and Robbie, the young couple they’ve become invested in, actually died because of what another character did that put them in harm’s way, devasted me. I put off starting a new book for days because that story kept haunting me.
Another example is Mongrels by Stephen Graham Jones, about a teen boy who may or may not have inherited his family’s ability to become a werewolf. By the time the climax arrives, the reader is beginning to think the potential transformation will not happen. (Spoiler alert!) So when it does happen, the reader feels the relief viscerally, just as the main character does. I returned to that scene to reread it again and again, marveling at how it affected me.
Neither of these books may have affected you, but it was alchemy magic for me. Or, not really magic, but the skill of the author to build a story so that the emotional stakes for the protagonist feel so real and true that the reader can’t help but experience it along with that main character.
As a book coach, I can be impressed with and enjoy a story for a number of craft reasons—but the reader in me will fall in love with a book because of how it moves me.
According to Donald Maass inhis superb nonfiction book The Emotional Craft of Fiction, the key to moving the reader is making the emotional stakes clear—letting the reader see/understand why what happens is meaningful to the main character. When the important thing does happen (or doesn’t), we feel the impact deeply and it remains with us. “Focus on the emotional world of your characters,” Maass writes, “and you will not only make a better tale, but you will build a better world for us all.”
Let’s return to the movie Titanic. Rewatching that film recently, more than twenty years after my first viewing, my reaction to the climactic scene in the water was much different. I ran for the tissues. The movie hadn’t changed (Jack still died), but so it had to be me. Those intervening years provided enough love and loss to connect emotionally with the scene that played out.
Emotionally Connecting with Your Readers
Kidd Wadsworth
I have three go to books on my writing shelf: Story Genius by Lisa Cron featured in my first blog post, Your First 1000 Copies by Tim Grahl and Save The Cat! Writes a Novel: The Last Book on Novel Writing You’ll Ever Need by Jessica Brody. Yes, I’ve got other writing books, hundreds, but these three are the superheroes, the Avengers, of writing books.
Save The Cat! is about pacing. An expectation, of what will happen when, has been created in readers by television and movies: the sidekick should be introduced in the first quarter of the novel; at the midpoint someone will die; etc. Yes, you can break these rules, if you’re good, very good, but if you follow them, your novel will tend to be more readily accepted by agents and readers alike. The Save the Cat! formula begins with a single scene, an opening image, which should establish an emotional connection between the reader and your protagonist. Below is the opening image to my novel The Dream Seer. Your comments are earnestly solicited. If I don’t get this right, I’ll lose the reader on the first page.
*
I woke with a Cottonmouth hissing and coiling in my gut. The California sun shone all bright through my window—right into my eyes. Outside, in a tree, a little yellow bird decided to serenade me, chirping out happiness. I pulled the covers over my head.
Dad hadn’t called, not for three days. He always called. We had a standing breakfast Skype appointment. Grandfather would even set place for Dad at the table. If he fixed banana pancakes—Dad’s favorite—he’d make an extra stack and sit them right in front of the computer screen where Dad could see them, just to let Dad know that we were thinking about him.
Dad would look oh-so-longingly at those pancakes and say, “Thanks.”
Grandfather said Dad’s mission had probably gone long or the base was on a communications blackout. Guess that had to be it. I mean, everyone knows that its practically impossible to kill a Navy SEAL. SEALs are the most highly trained soldiers in the whole world.
Big feet moseyed down the hallway and into my room. Grandfather gave my hammock a swing. “Time to get up, sailor.”
Underneath the blanket my hands curled into fists.
“Hmmm…, Grandfather said. “I see.”
I didn’t know what he was seeing, but a lump of covers.
“Would you like to talk?” he asked.
“About what?”
“I’m here for you, son.”
“Don’t you need to be fixing breakfast?”
Through the covers he kissed my forehead. Then his footsteps headed for the kitchen. Soon enough came the sound of whistling and a spoon hitting the side of a mixing bowl.
Ding. Must have been heating syrup in the microwave.
I reckoned it was no use. I had to get up, and I had to go to school. That’s what it’s like when all the men in your family are in the Navy. You grow up knowing you’ve got to follow orders, even if nothing about the world makes you want to be living in it.
*
Tell me, do you want to read more?
Death is the absence of life. It is the white space on a painting, an empty hospital bed, a silent room, a closet of clothes. Death is the extinction of a species of only one. I closed my eyes. I woke, and he was gone. They took his body in the night. They came for the bed and the wheelchair by noon. We reduced his life to a photo and two columns in the newspaper. We sang his favorite songs. We spoke, “he was good friend, a wonderful father and an average golfer.”
Emotion is the currency of all good writers. But what if there is no emotion? What if death brings not regret, or anger, or longing, or even peace, but rather echoes? Did he call my name? I turned my head. Was that him, walking into his office?
Where is the salty taste of my tears? I become white space.
Can someone please tell me how to feel?
6 0 Read moreHOSTILE WITNESS
Introduction of my characters’ relationship
Josie got out of bed and searched for her clothes. She found her muscle shirt and panties but the sweats and sports bra were missing in action. (Sure I could have said ‘naked’, but I liked that the action implied that. This passage felt sexy to me) She shimmied into what she had, glanced at the picture of Lexi, Archer’s dead wife, and then went looking for the man they shared. (This note creates an instant characterization of Archer as unafraid of commitment and Josie as a woman who honors his first love). She found him on the rooftop balcony, a perk of owning the building.
“Morning,†Josie walked up behind him and wound her arms around his waist. He was a big man; made her feel downright dainty. She loved the smell of his shirt. Starched and pressed by the man who wore it. (Archer is a guy who can fend for himself, something an independent woman would love. Josie’s note about his size making her feel dainty, tells us that she is not a small woman and that she doesn’t mind feeling feminine.)
“Don’t move,†he commanded.
Josie didn’t but only because she didn’t want to. (Josie chooses to do what her lover asks.) She held her breath, loving the feel of him when he was excited by what he saw through his lens. His gut tightened beneath her hands. A solitary muscle rippled. Quick like a snake. A click. He sighed with satisfaction and stood up slowly, surveying the beach once more before turning around to kiss Josie. (To me, a detail is very telling. Her notice of the one muscle rippling speaks to how familiar Josie is with her lover’s body.) She kissed him back just long enough for them both to be happy. (She cares about his needs). When she slipped out of his arms, he let her go. (He understands her.) No nonsense. No jealousy. No neediness. Respect. Affection. Comfort. Chemistry. It was the kind of relationship people who could take care of themselves did well. (Deep love in a nutshell).
Writing love scenes is as challenging as writing sex scenes. Sometimes they are one and the same, sometimes they aren’t. The way to create successful, believable relationships between characters is to ‘show’ their reality and shade a your character’s lives with the extra notes that provide a background to the more prominent melody.
The end result of communicating a fabulous fictional relationship should seem effortless despite all your hand work – just like real life love.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
*Josie and Archer’s love has lived on for 4 books, the fifth is being written. I love lasting relationships!
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We hope you enjoy these holiday gifts.
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More info →A Slice of Orange is an affiliate with some of the booksellers listed on this website, including Barnes & Nobel, Books A Million, iBooks, Kobo, and Smashwords. This means A Slice of Orange may earn a small advertising fee from sales made through the links used on this website. There are reminders of these affiliate links on the pages for individual books.
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