Category Archives: how to show emotion

Gawking Characters

by
Jessica Murphy

A “gawking character” is a narrator who tells the reader what happens in a scene instead of letting the reader experience it directly. This is called narrator intrusion, and it robs the reader of the full experience, thus distancing him from the story. A gawking character looks like this:

Gawking: Adam saw the orange glow and the rolling black smoke in the sky from where he stood on the corner of the block. As he jogged down the sidewalk toward it, he felt a cool breeze and smelled burning wood. He ducked under the branch of a tree and saw the burning house. From where he stood, he felt the intense heat and heard the flames roar and pop. Adam stepped forward toward the open front door but felt the searing heat from the sidewalk that drove him back.

The bold words show you where the narrator steps between the reader and the action and tells the reader what happens. This detracts from the reader’s experience. A scene must allow the reader to experience the action directly in order to grab him. Would you prefer to watch a friend eat a hot fudge sundae and tell you how sweet it tastes, or would you want to eat it yourself?

A gawking character is also redundant. If the scene is told from the character’s perspective, we already know that he experiences what we read. We don’t need to say the same thing twice. Here is the same sentence without the gawking character:

Direct: Adam glanced up from the corner of Kingwood and Beechurst. The starlit sky glowed orange, and thick smoke rolled across it. He spun on one heel, crunching grit on the sidewalk beneath his shoes, and ran down the street. The cool autumn breeze carried sparks and the smell the burning wood. As Adam brushed the branches of a tree out of his face, the burning house appeared.

A rushing roar filled Adam’s ears, and a wave of heat lifted the hairs on his tan arms. Shading his blue eyes with his right hand, he squinted against the blinding light. Flames engulfed every inch of the house and licked at the cloudless sky. Pops and crackles from inside the house echoed down the empty street. Adam rushed toward the front porch, but the heat seared his face and drove him back.

This time, the narrator does not water down the scene. We see no “Adam felt,” “Adam saw,” “Adam heard.” Instead, the reader is the one standing on the sidewalk, the one who sees the flames, feels their heat, hears their roar. This kind of direct experience captivates the reader and keeps him interested.

Nonphysical Gawking

A gawking character can also filter internal experiences, such as thoughts or emotions. Again, if the scene is being told from the character’s perspective, we can assume that any thoughts belong to that character (unless he or she can read thoughts or sense emotions).

Gawking: Blood soaked through the fabric, and Preston realized he had plunged the blade into Jack’s side.
This scene is told from Preston’s point of view, so he must be the one realizing something. We don’t need to state the obvious.

Direct: A red stain spread across Jack’s gut, matting the shirt to his skin. The silver blade glinted from where Preston had plunged it in Jack’s side.

The same holds true for emotions:

Gawking: I felt worried, but a breeze made me feel a little better.

This is told in first person point of view, so the narrator must be the one who felt worried. After all, he cannot feel another character’s emotions. So, stating what the narrator felt is redundant.

Direct: My stomach churned, but the crisp air cooled my feverish skin and the nausea settled for the moment.

If you take out the gawking character, the reader can experience every scene directly. Any less cheats him out of the story and, in the end, loses him.

Be a Cinematic Novelist

by
Charlotte Firbank-King

As a break from my study of the novel, I’m studying scriptwriting. In the process, I realized that perhaps we novelists should follow the scriptwriter’s methods—meaning we should write more concisely and keep the action moving at a fast pace. Most movies are just under two hours long, some less. Can you read your novel in that amount of time and pack in as much action and drama as a scriptwriter does? Scriptwriting is all about economy of words.

When explaining what makes a good story, Alfred Hitchcock said, “Life, with the dull parts taken out.” We need to visualize the movie and write with that vision in our brains. The story needs to be all about action—showing, not telling. For example, we can eliminate internal monologues and allow our reader to reach his own conclusion about what our character was thinking by the way we’ve described a look or an action.  

Scriptwriters can argue that writing is easier for a novelist. They can switch heads at will and go into any character’s head, whereas a scriptwriter has to show all this. So, take a break from all the tools you have available and try writing like a scriptwriter by showing your reader. When you’re about to switch heads to tell the reader how the other character feels, pretend you’re making a movie. How would you make the audience see what you want them to see?

When we first learn to write fiction, we may think that writing dialogue is all about making it sound like real life. More experienced writers know it’s basically smoke and mirrors. You make the reader feel as though they’re reading real dialogue, but it can’t be, because real-life conversations are mundane. Listen to people talk. Most talk is repetitive and downright boring, even if the dialogue is a heated argument. I would go so far as to say record an argument on your mobile phone and then edit it—you’ll take out most of what is said.

Dialogue is a tool used to illustrate a character’s personality or even the character of the person being addressed or discussed. It’s a way to reflect a character’s mood and emotions, or it can convey the relationship the characters have with each other. Dialogue can expose a motive or hide it. Dialogue must always have a root in what was said or what happened before and must lead smoothly into what happens next. It must convey meaning pertinent to the story, and it can be a portent of what might happen next. Above all, dialogue must be concise and easy to understand, not convoluted like real life. Again, see dialogue as if it is in a movie. Make your characters act it out rather than telling the reader what happened.

Scriptwriters have what they call subtext. It’s the understated scene. For example: 

A single mother comes back from a double shift at work. She worked the extra shift to help a friend who needed to attend her little girl’s school play. Dark rings underscore the mother’s eyes and she drags her feet as she walks into the sitting room. Her teenage son sits hunched over, glaring at the TV.

The mother drops her bag on the floor. “How was your day?”

He transfers his glare to her. “Just great!” He jerks up and stomps from the room, punching the wall on his way out. 

The mother sighs heavily. But as she’s about to walk to the kitchen, she stops and stares at her shattered glass-top coffee table. An MVP Trophy lies in the center of the ruin. Tears fill her eyes and she bites her lip.

 

He said his day was “just great.” Obviously, it wasn’t. He feels rejected and angry that his big day was forgotten by the only parent he has. We can see she feels guilt and regret. She sacrificed her son’s big day of getting this prestigious award so a small child’s mother could see one of perhaps many plays.

This is the under text. It isn’t served to the audience on a plate. They must figure it out on their own. On a subliminal level, this makes the reader/viewer feel clever for having figured it out. Although the writer could have done the work for them and written the scene out with a lot of dialogue and argument, it would still be showing. Many times, the understated is best.

Leonardo da Vinci said: Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.

As a novelist, we need to kick it up a notch and describe the scene because it isn’t a movie and the reader cannot literally see the characters in action. But if we can start off by doing what a scriptwriter does by just describing the action, then later we can add the bits between. With clever writing, our characters’ actions, emotions and dialogue should have filled in most of the blanks—the things a reader can’t see like a movie-goer can—and we should have a tighter story that is much more powerful.

Writing Emotions

by Sandy Tritt

Emotions. We all have them. Good, bad, or aggravating, if we’re alive, we move from one emotion to another throughout the day. Yet, emotion is one of the most difficult things to show in a story. We want to either overstate or understate it. You know the melodrama—Joe fell over the casket, sobbing. “Why, God?” he shouted. “Why?”

Yeah.

And I think you know the understatement. Joe left the funeral home. Well, that was that. His entire family—his parents, his wife, his children—had been killed in the explosion. Now it was time to hit the road and follow his dream of being a street musician.

Ouch. Not much feeling in this guy, is there? I’m starting to think he may have caused the explosion.

Some writers try to sidestep this problem by using the show-and-tell method: Joe was outraged. He slammed his fist onto the table. “I’m so angry!”  

Yikes. We can discuss all the ways this is wrong, wrong, wrong in another blog.

None of these examples, of course, show us how to capture emotion and present it in a way that sucker-punches our reader and leaves him breathless. How do we do that?

First and most importantly, do not name an emotion. Not ever. When you write “he was sad” or “she was angry,” you are telling your reader what your words should be showing your reader. Additionally, if you do not provide backup that proves the character is feeling the emotion named, your reader won’t believe you and may even distrust you. Instead, you must take the time to describe the emotional response, and then you must trust your reader to “get it” without explanation. Readers are smart. If you do your job, they will do theirs.

So, how do you show emotion in a fresh way without being melodramatic, without telling, and without ignoring the feelings? I’ve been teaching the “continual improvement” method, which, simply stated, means you need to work harder than you’ve ever worked before to make your writing innovative and juicy and the best it’s ever been. So, get out a fresh sheet of paper or open a new document. At the top of the page, write the name of the emotion you want to convey (we will use “anger” as our example). Under that, write a sentence using this emotion: Joe pounded his fist on the table and glared at Cathy. Then, number from one to five along the left side of the page. Next to each number, write a way your character can express this emotion. For example, we could make a list like this:  

  1. Shout 
  2. Shake fist 
  3. Hit table or wall  
  4. Kick something or someone 
  5. Storm out of the room and slam the door after him
Okay, those are all valid ways to show anger. But they are also somewhat cliché—we’ve seen these same reactions used zillions of times. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination or effort to list them. So, after we’ve listed our five items (or more—if you have additional examples clamoring to escape your brain, write them down), we need to list one more. Hmmm. This is when we have to actually think. How else can we express anger? What if our character is so angry he destroys something that belongs to the object of his anger?

Create a sentence using that vision:
Joe grabbed Cathy’s doll—the one that had comforted her throughout her childhood—and snapped off the head.

Okay, that’s better than glaring and pounding. But we’re not done. We can still do better. We need to improve that sentence, using the most active verbs we can and the most unique visuals we can imagine.

     Cathy’s doll sat on the mantle, pristine and elegant.
     White flashes obscured Joe’s vision. He seized the doll and threw it into the fireplace. Flames lapped at the virginal gown, now tarnished by soot.

Better. A bit disjointed. So, once more, we go back and improve. As we improve, we must smooth out the rough spots and we must be sure the emotion builds, that the reader can see the emotion coming and expect it, yet are still surprised by the rawness and power of it. And, perhaps, by the way the emotion changes, sometimes presenting multiple emotions in just a few moments, if it is logical to do so (most highly emotional situations do facilitate multiple emotions).

So, our third (and fourth and fifth and sixth and . . . ) try:
    
     In that instant, Joe knew. Those late night “wrong numbers” and those “working late” excuses were nothing but lies.
     He fell against the fireplace, the weight of his discovery heavy on his shoulders. Why would she betray him? They had made love just this morning. How could she pretend?
    Heat roiled in his gut, churning with the acidic taste of vomit. As he lifted his hand to his mouth—the hand that hours ago had caressed his wife—he inadvertently touched Cathy’s childhood doll. Always untouchable, until recently it sat in a glass case, protected from dust and dirt. Protected from Cathy’s lies.
     Flashing white light grew at the periphery of Joe’s vision. He shook his head to clear his sight, but the light consumed him. He snatched the doll and heaved it into the fire. Orange and red flames teased the virginal gown, lapping closer and closer until they captured it, consuming first the clothes, thread by thread. The fire danced across the cloth body until a hole opened in its center. For one second, two seconds, three seconds, the fire burned yellow. Then the stuffing fragmented, breaking into pieces. White flames consumed it.
     Joe’s hands trembled, but it was too late now. The greedy fire seized the doll’s rubber head. For a second, the head rebelled, holding its shape, until it too surrendered. The skin blistered and cracked, then melted into a smelly, gummy mass that dripped off the log and onto the ashes below.
     Black smoke curled up the chimney, its acrid odor stinging Joe’s eyes. He blinked back tears. 
     It was over.

And so on. This last incarnation was actually reworked several times, with details added each time.  You’ll likely do the same, finding more descriptive and unique ways to describe the same old emotions. You’ll also find yourself wanting to use setting to enrich emotion—which is another leap in the quality of our writing. Try to find ways in which the description of setting can emulate the emotion.

It takes time and effort to make your writing fresh and enticing, but it’s worth it—it’s what separates ho-hum writing from really good writing.      

If you get stuck and want some help with creating vivid descriptions, pick up a good book on body language or study one of these references:

  • Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglis, The Emotion Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide To Character Expression (Create Space)
  •  Linda Edelstein, The Writer’s Guide to Character Traits (Writer Digest Books)
  • Ann Hood, Creating Character Emotions(Story Press)
        And, of course, our editors are always standing by, ready to assist you when you get stuck or need some help. Just shoot us off an email and we’ll get started right away.