In the past we’ve discussed the three levels of emotion. The first level is the straightforward, superficial, or familiar emotion, often the initial and routine reaction a character feels in a given situation. These emotions are the easy, common ones, the low-hanging fruit. Because these emotions are so familiar, no matter how you emphasize or trick them up, the reader has seen them so many times they carry little impact.
Below that first level of emotions lays the secondary emotions, the true feelings frequently underlying common reactions. Look below anger, for example, and you’ll often find pain—or fear—or shame. It’s these secondary, too-frequently-unexplored feelings which are the fresh, genuine emotions that bring subtlety and nuance to a scene, and reinvigorate your reader’s emotional investment.
The emotion(s) contrary or opposite to that first familiar feeling can enliven your scene, as well. The third level, surprise feelings, may be the best of all. No better way to surprise the reader than a character surprising his/herself. How many times in your own life did you think you would feel a certain way, and when the event came your reaction was one you never expected?
Surprising emotions brings us to, as Frank Zappa once sang about, “The crux of the biscuit.” Where do your characters’ emotions come from? They come from you! To get past those first level emotions common to everyone, and into the deeper, second and third level emotions, you must open yourself up and regurgitate your own deep emotions on the page. That’s what makes them genuine.
And it’s not easy. It’s hard enough to confide your feelings into those close to you, much less nameless strangers who pay a few bucks to see (or, rather, read) into your soul. But, essentially, that’s what writers do; they lay out their innermost feelings for all to read. When you do, readers will respect you. More than that, they will feel the emotions themselves, and become enmeshed with you and your characters.
Robert Frost put it this way, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.”
Laying out your innermost feelings can be greatly cathartic, too, in much the same way as Catholic Confession. But instead of words spoken to a priest, they’re written for the public.
As Ernest Hemingway once said, “Write hard and clear about what hurts.”
What feeling are you most afraid to explore? Is that the feeling your protagonist—we’ll call her “Prot”—struggles with? Why not? If that feeling is so impactful for you, don’t you think it would be a great source of conflict for Prot, too?
But feelings are fleeting things, and have only a momentary effect. To make them more permanent—to escalate them into full-blown inner conflict—feelings have to build and grow until they cannot be ignored, but instead demand to be dealt with. It’s wrestling with her inner conflict that makes Prot a fascinating character. Make the needs or desires that fuel her inner conflict mutually exclusive, and Prot becomes a character readers can’t resist.
And don’t let Prot off the hook. How can her inner conflict be made worse? What steps can paint her into a corner? How can her conflict become unavoidable? What can make it impossible to endure?
Does Prot suffer defeats, costs, crises, and change from this inner conflict, or within her own inner struggle? Inner conflict is a big part of character arc. Not all characters grow in a positive way, some descend into darkness. How about Prot? Which way does she go? Can she sink to the lowest level of darkness? If she hits rock bottom, one meaningful turn—an epiphany, a reversal, an emotional or spiritual turnaround—can skyrocket her to the highest of highs.
Please don’t confuse inner conflict—an unavoidable choice between two equally coveted or dreaded outcomes—with inner turmoil, which is merely confused, weak indecision that usually turns a reader’s stomach.
These are merely a few thoughts on producing deeper emotions in your story, and in your characters. First and foremost, YOU, as a writer, need to develop your own instinct for emotional originality.
As Hemingway also said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
