(Immutable Moments: The Load-Bearing Beats of a Story.)

Readers fall in love with characters, not plot charts. And while a well-structured plot might be the bones of your story, it’s the emotional arc that encourages readers to tattoo your protagonist’s words on their forearm or draw fan art of the entire ensemble of your novel. Readers remember characters who feel alive, and that life comes from the emotional arc.

I love a good plot twist as much as anyone. Give me a moment of “That was the murderer???” or “Oh no, the evil goats were the true villains all along,” and I will happily drop my tea in shock.

But readers don’t stay for the twist. They stay for the people it happens to.

You can build a plot so intricate it deserves its own wall of Post-It notes, but if the reader doesn’t care about your protagonist, it won’t land. If your character doesn’t struggle, fail, or crack open some part of themselves by the end, readers simply won’t care.

But how do you make your characters feel flawed, real, and unforgettable? And how do you craft an emotional arc that matters?

Writing an Emotional Arc That Matters

A well-crafted emotional arc gives shape to your character’s transformation. It asks:

• Who were they at the start?
• What did they believe about the world?
• What challenged that belief?
• What did they choose to do in response?

The emotional arc generally has three phases:

The Things They Believe

Your character starts the story believing something untrue about themselves or the world. They don’t need other humans, they’re unworthy of love, they aren’t strong enough to save the world. This belief drives their early choices, for better or worse.

The Struggle

In Act Two, the plot tries to kill your character—emotionally or literally and your character struggles, fights, and fails. Internal conflict brews. The events of the plot poke at long-held beliefs. Shift happens.

The Shift

At some point, your character does something that reflects a change in belief. They change not because the plot needed it, but because they did. They’ve been transformed by the story.

In other words, plot is what happens. Emotion is why it matters.

An Example of an Emotional Arc

A high-powered lawyer with an espresso addiction and the emotional availability of a granite countertop believes she needs no one. That’s the initial lie.

The events of the plot? Her grandma has died and left her a homemade marmalade and candle shop called, “Orange You Glad It’s Jam.”

She returns home, intending to sell the shop and get out fast because she believes she needs no one—until she meets the woodchopper widow next door. Strong forearms. Kind eyes. A tragic backstory. Probably also has a dog.

Enter act 2 where the plot does everything it can to attack the original belief. The lawyer tries to juggle legal briefs by day and candle-making by night. She does not need help! She meets with potential buyers. Then things break down and the widow next door comes over to help fix them. The community begins to endear themselves to your character. The widow next door wears very soft flannel shirts.

Eventually, the protagonist reaches the shift—maybe when she lets herself grieve for her grandmother, or when she misses a big city client call because she’s hosting the town’s jam festival. Whatever the climatic moment, it’s clear the protagonist is a new person. And she and the widow next door adopt a second dog.

Why the Emotional Arc Matters

Internal conflict is the tension between who your character is and who they could become. It’s not about what’s happening to them—it’s about what’s happening inside them.

Maybe your protagonist is torn between loyalty and truth. Maybe he thinks vulnerability equals weakness. Maybe they’re trying to be the hero but secretly believe they’re the villain. Whatever it is, internal conflict keeps readers turning pages because they see the stakes even when nothing explodes. It’s that ache of watching someone continue to make mistakes which readers recognize because real humans have also made so many.

It’s imperative. You can have aliens and explosions in your climax, but if your character hasn’t wrestled with what they believe, the moment falls flat. The high-powered lawyer finally kisses the hot, flannel-wearing widow, but if there hasn’t been an emotional journey to it, who cares? A good emotional arc makes quiet stories resonate, but it’s also there to give a human element to your epic action-adventure stories.

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Pairing the Emotional Arc With Plot Beats

Every major plot beat should do double duty—not just moving the story forward but deepening or challenging the emotional arc.

The Inciting Incident: Something changes in the character’s world. It’s also the first time your main character starts to question the worldview that’s gotten them to where they are now.

First Plot Point: They commit to a new path, but they’re not always ready. Things begin to change. They’re learning how to navigate this new world, making new allies and enemies, and all of this causes emotional reactions.

Midpoint: The external plot twist should intersect with a shift in emotional understanding. Maybe they see a reflection of who they used to be. Maybe they feel something they haven’t allowed themselves to feel in years. Maybe they start to believe they’ll be able to do this thing, whatever this thing is.

Dark Night of the Soul: A loss. A failure. Everything falls apart and it’s probably your character’s fault. This is where they realize everything they thought they wanted has ruined everything they really want.

Climax: Whether they are beating the villain, closing the case, or saving the town’s jam festival, the emotional choice matters most. Your character is able to save the day because they’re changed.

Ultimately, emotional arcs give plot beats a human factor. They make the stakes feel personal. And when you sync them up, readers will not only go along on your character’s journey, but they’ll also feel it.

And it isn’t always a full, perfect arc. Real emotional growth is jagged. It happens in fits and starts. It backslides.

Write From the Heart First, Brain Later

It’s okay to let your character resist the truth for longer than feels comfortable. It’s realistic for them to have moments where they start to change, then backslide. Or maybe they make the wrong decisions, even after they’ve supposedly learned better.

If you let your characters reach their moment of self-growth through awkward attempts at doing better, the moment they finally reach their ah-ha moment will feel earned.

At the end of the day, plot gives your story structure. But emotional arcs give it soul.

Readers will remember how your book made them feel. The ache of longing. The sigh of relief. The moment of transformation that gave them hope.

So yes, build your plot. Tighten your beats. But don’t forget to ask:

• What does this mean to my character?
• How are they changing—and why now?
• What truth are they terrified to admit?

Write from the heart first. The brain can catch up in revisions. Because the stories that stay with us aren’t the most logical.

They’re the most felt.

The post Heart First, Brain Later: Why Your Character’s Emotional Arc Matters More Than Your Perfect Plot appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(6 Tips for Writing a Compelling First Sentence.)

Writing can be emotionally taxing, whether it’s the frustration of not finding enough paid projects or the stress of juggling too many at once. But don’t worry—you’re not alone, and there are simple ways to manage the ups and downs of the creative process.

How to Make the Most of Writing Highs

Writing can be exhilarating when everything clicks and you’re in the zone. The ideas flow, the words come easily, and you feel unstoppable. You might land a big assignment or finish a piece you’re incredibly proud of. It’s quite a rush!

Ride the Wave

When you feel inspired, embrace it, don’t hold back. To take advantage of that creative energy, try to write as much as possible during these moments.

Celebrate Every Win

Take a moment to enjoy your achievements, whether you’ve completed a challenging project, hit a word count goal, or landed a new assignment. Celebrating keeps you motivated.

Store Some Inspiration

Keep a notebook or digital file of ideas that come to you during these times. These can be useful when you’re not feeling as inspired; they will pick you up.

Typical Lows Writers Face

On the flip side, there are those not-so-glamorous days. The ideas won’t come, deadlines feel overwhelming, or worse—you’re not finding enough paying assignments. It’s easy to feel stuck, discouraged, or even question your decision to write in the first place.

Dry Spells

Finding paid assignments or freelance gigs can be disheartening, especially if the struggle lasts for weeks or months.

Creative Block

Feeling like you can’t write a single sentence that makes sense or is worth keeping.

Overwhelm

Too many projects and insufficient time to finish them lead to stress and burnout.

Tips for Managing the Emotional Lows

Like the highs, the lows are part of a writer’s journey. The key is to find ways to manage these tough moments without letting them derail your progress.

Take Breaks

It’s okay to step away from the keyboard. Whether it’s a walk, a hobby, or just a breather, sometimes you need space to refresh your mind.

Set Realistic Goals

Don’t try to do everything at once. Break projects into smaller tasks so you can feel a sense of accomplishment as you complete them.

Reach Out for Support (Find your tribe)

Connect with other writers who understand what you’re going through. Whether it’s an online writing group or a local in-person group, talking to others can help you feel less alone.

Remember Why You Started

Reflect on why you love writing. Keep a list of reasons or past successes to remind yourself of your passion on the tough days.

How to Manage the Balancing Act

Sometimes, the emotional toll comes from having too much on your plate (I speak from experience). You land a bunch of assignments, and suddenly, you’re racing to meet deadlines with little time to breathe. On the other hand, not having enough work can leave you feeling anxious about money or your career progress.

Time Management

Create a writing schedule that works for you. Break your day into chunks, and allocate specific writing, editing, and break times.

Learn to Say No

If you’re juggling several projects, turning down new work is okay. Saying no now means you can do better on what’s already in front of you.

Be Proactive

During slow periods, use the extra time to pitch new ideas, network with potential clients, or work on personal projects. Staying proactive can help combat the anxiety of waiting for the next job.

Embrace the Journey

Writing is a journey with many twists and turns—you’re not alone. Take a deep breath, keep writing, keep dreaming, and take it one word and breath at a time.

The post The Emotional Toll of Writing: How to Cope with the Ups and Downs of the Creative Process appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Once upon a time, I’d run back to my manuscript and sprinkle in sentences like:

Tom looked away from his son (whom he loved so dearly), as his eyes filled with heavy tears, regret and terrible sorrow growing within him.

Yikes.

Next time my pages come up, everyone’s slashing out this sentence describing poor Tom’s emotional state. But I’m just doing what you asked me to do!

So often in writing, if we’re picking the right material—a story that renders life’s more intense and important moments—the character (or ourselves if this is a personal essay or memoir) is overwhelmed by emotion. Someone has died or abandoned them, or they’ve abandoned someone, or maybe you just lost the career you’ve always wanted. It can even be good—the cranky old grandmother who raised you finally admitted she’s proud of you, or the villagers at last killed that pesky dragon. Ultimately, most stories are about some form of hardship, so I’ll focus mostly on writing big negative feelings here.

In these moments, we as writers need to do two jobs, which are often misunderstood to be one job. They are:

• Evoke emotion within the reader … help the reader feel something.
• Describe the emotion that the character (or author in memoir) herself is/was feeling.

But simply describing feelings can land you directly in a mess of abstraction, or it can feel maudlin. Feelings are hard to describe without resorting to cliché (his heart broke, you say?) or the kind of haziness seen above with Tom.

Fortunately, many great writers have been through this before, and we can look to them for some key lessons on how to proceed.

TIP #1: Give It Time

Tim O’Brien’s Vietnam War masterpiece The Things They Carried came out in 1990, a full 15 years after the end of that war. J. D. Salinger waited five years to write about his harrowing experiences as a soldier in WWII, and he still avoided the war itself—his 1950 short story “For Esmé—with Love and Squalor,” is comprised of two scenes: one shortly before the narrator heads to fight in D-Day, and one a year later when the war has just ended.

If the pain is too fresh, we—and I very much include myself here—are likely to end up doing what I call “pushing emotions,” where we just can’t manage to do the old show-don’t-tell thing. We find ourselves trying to convince the reader that someone who died was amazing and that our loss was very, very painful. We describe ourselves as crying and crying.

This writing can feel like therapy for the author—unloading on whoever will listen—instead of an enriching literary experience for the reader. Ultimately, the whole point of “show don’t tell” advice is that you must trust the reader. Show them the situation in a fairly straightforward way and let them take it from there.

TIP #2: Use Figurative Language (Carefully!)

Figurative language—metaphors and similes, mainly—are wonderful tools for writers when used well, but they can easily misfire. These challenges are particularly clear when you try using these phrases to describe an emotion itself. It’s often either not apt or borderline cliché—his heart swelled like an … um … a tire?

Figurative language applied to emotion is particularly hazardous because it takes an abstract thing (an emotion) and amplifies the abstraction by using figurative language, which is itself abstract.

It’s crucial to avoid cliché—maybe just steer clear of the word heart, itself, which has a lot of cliché baggage gathered around it.

In her devastating short story “Brokeback Mountain,” Annie Proulx describes Ennis’s heartbreak more viscerally. After their summer working together (and falling in love), Jack and Ennis part ways with a gruff handshake. As Ennis drives away, Proulx writes: “Within a mile Ennis felt like someone was pulling his guts out hand over hand a yard at a time.”

Gross, yes. But also appropriate to this taciturn cowboy, and surprising, and it sounds genuinely agonizing.

TIP #3: Let Objects and Motifs Activate Painful Themes

It’s one thing to get your reader to cry at the end of an epic novel, but Amy Hempel’s “In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried,” gets me every time in just a few thousand words. The story famously concludes with a passage about the first chimp to learn sign language. This anecdote was alluded to on page one, but the narrator told her friend she wouldn’t share it because it was too heartbreaking.

Now, at the end of the story, after her friend has died, the narrator shares it with the reader. We’re told that the chimp was a mother who communicated with her newborn via sign language. The story’s final sentence goes: “And when the baby died, the mother stood over the body, her wrinkled hands moving with animal grace, forming again and again the words, Baby, come hug, Baby, come hug, fluent now in the language of grief.”

The crucial thing is that this anecdote was alluded to on the first page, and then we were made to care about the characters, and their relationship, then the narrator abandoned her friend at her friend’s greatest moment of need—on her deathbed, by which point we’ve almost forgotten about the chimp. The situation is, itself, inherently agonizing. So, when the chimp story returns at the very end, and we’re already primed with big feelings, seeing this chimp’s grief lights up all the emotions that have built up within us.

TIP #4: Describe Feelings That Are Surprising or Askew

Current thinking in psychology indicates that there are about 10 basic human emotions—sadness, happiness, fear, anger, surprise, disgust, pride, shame, embarrassment, and excitement—and everything else is a blend of these basic ingredients. At our most acutely painful moments in life, we are not experiencing just one feeling, but are flooded with lots of surprising emotions, and a writer’s job is to be attentive to that.

A lot of time, the major emotion a character is experiencing is somewhat obvious given the context. In these situations, often the best approach is to focus on the surprising emotion or a complex feeling.

In Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Notes on Grief, she writes:

Why are my sides so sore and achy? It’s from crying, I’m told. I did not know that we cry with our muscles. The pain is not surprising, but its physicality is, my tongue unbearably bitter, as though I ate a loathed meal and forgot to clean my teeth.

She focuses on a physical feeling, and it’s a surprising one. Also, the use of “I’m told,” after her admission that she’s been crying, puts a disorienting spin on the whole passage.

Early in Wild, Cheryl Strayed, who often writes of her powerful emotions, recalls being at the Mayo Clinic with her exhausted mother. Cheryl’s stepfather offers to get a wheelchair, but young Cheryl—still in denial about her mother’s cancer—blurts that her mother doesn’t need one. Although it’s not stated, the implied feeling is, if anything, indignation.

And then her mother says she’ll have one, “Just for a minute,” and Cheryl watches as her mother almost collapses into it, “her eyes meeting mine before Eddie wheeled her toward the elevator.” There’s a lot of anger in that opening passage, but again it’s never identified as anger.

Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking is almost entirely about the surprising qualities of grief. “We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes.”

Tip #5: Let Everyone Be Complicated

Villains and saints are rare in this world and, for better or worse, they tend to be less interesting in stories. I’ve encountered this with clients’ books before.

The author’s father was cruel brutal and horrendous in every possible way. This sounds terrible, but also it makes him incapable of surprising the reader. Or, conversely, their father was always kind and loving and thoughtful—same problem, just inverted, but it’s worse because now there’s no friction either, no conflict.

Often, clients of mine want to write a kind of “eulogy” style piece or even a book. A person loses someone they loved dearly, and they want to write about the person who died, but for the piece to be interesting, especially if it’s long, it must explore a difficult and complex relationship. It’s a shame, but the people who make great companions in life do not necessarily make great characters in a story.

Great characters in literature are rife with contradictions. Even Cheryl Strayed’s mother in Wild, who is presented as a very lovable person, is also incredibly quixotic and unique—she moves the kids into a house in the wilderness, “built out of trees and scrap wood. It didn’t have electricity or running water or a phone or an indoor toilet or even a single room with a door.” When Cheryl heads off to college, her mother joins her, and they’re both slated to graduate from the University of Minnesota at the same time. Without these peculiarities, it’d be hard to get the reader to grasp how much Strayed lost when her mother died not long after they graduated from college.

Tip #6: Keep the Actual Crying to a Minimum

It’s safe to assume Joan Didion wept a lot after her husband died, but she rarely describes herself as crying. The man who helps around her house cries as he cleans up Didion’s husband’s blood from where the EMTs worked on him—that’s the first crying that happens in the book. Of that blood, Didion says she “couldn’t face it” although she did clean up the syringes and other debris on the floor of their living room where he died.

Watching a character cry does not tend to evoke much feeling within the reader.

At the end of his devastating essay about the loss of his wife, Francisco Goldman describes the moment he was finally allowed to see her body in the hospital:

I pressed my lips to Aura’s ear and thanked her for the happiest years of my life. I told her that I would never stop loving her. Then the assistant surgeon brusquely ordered me out.

Ten or fifteen minutes later, stepping back through the white curtain, I instantly sensed a vacuumed-out stillness around Aura’s bed, and the assistant surgeon told me that Aura had died minutes before. I went to her. Her lightless eyes. I kissed her cheeks, which were already like cool clay.

My sobs must have been heard throughout the hospital.

One sentence of actual crying—and it’s enough.

Bringing It All Together

A lot of these examples seem to occupy overlapping terrain—and the takeaways seem to be around the importance of surprise. As soon as the language or situation becomes familiar, the emotion slackens.

In The Guardians—a mesmerizing book about the suicide death of her dear friend Harris—Sarah Manguso uses all of these tools. The short book is constantly surprising; every page is surprising in some significant way, from the scenes to the images to digressions. Again, Manguso doesn’t describe herself as crying until you’re almost a quarter of the way through the book, and even then, she’s crying over the drowning death of a writer she had admired, which she connects to her own depression: “I remember wondering when I’d arisen and walked to the threshold. With the writer’s drowning I’d advanced one lurid death closer to my own.”

There’s so much value in writing about painful emotions, even if it is uniquely challenging. In Lauren Slater’s essay “One Nation, Under the Weather,” a defense of the illness memoir genre, she writes of how her books exist to keep people company in times of distress. “I can,” she writes, “if you are hurting, keep you company.”

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(Benjamin Perry: On Dismantling the Shame Around Crying)

But tears, like any action, can feel authentic or forced. When crying is handled poorly it can feel incidental at best and, at worst, a disingenuous attempt to make the reader feel something that the writer has not earned. However, when tears are artfully woven into the narrative, they can provide unparalleled emotional complexity and catharsis for the reader.

In the two years I spent writing Cry, Baby: Why Our Tears Matter—a nonfiction book about the science and social ethics of crying—I was particularly attuned to how authors portrayed weeping in the fictional books I read. The book devotes an entire chapter to the way tears function in novels, myths, and sacred texts, but here I’ll condense a few of the bigger lessons I learned about how to effectively portray sobbing in a story.

1. Crying Isn’t Just About Sadness

A common pitfall I see is writers only linking tears to sorrow. Obviously, sadness is a significant reason why people cry, but—even when it’s a principal cause—real emotions are usually more layered and multivalent. Often, it’s not just the sadness that makes our eyes well up, it’s frustration with our situation, anger at unjust circumstances, our longing for something different.

There’s a scene in Torrey Peters’ wonderful novel Detransition, Baby where one of the main characters sits weeping on the floor of her ex-partner’s closet. Certainly, loss from the breakup is part of why she’s crying. But what truly gives the scene its power is how that loss mingles with her fragile hope about the possibility of becoming a mother—and the anger she feels about receiving what she longs for from someone she feels betrayed her. If crying is used as lazy shorthand for “sad,” we lose that emotional richness.

2. Weeping Helps to Cross a Threshold

Crying is startlingly effective as an action to bring a character into a new place—either physically or in their heart. One of the most famous examples of this are the tears that Alice weeps when entering wonderland. Growing giant, she weeps a sea into which she later becomes literally awash. She must travel through that soggy morass to enter the door to a different world, a striking metaphor for the character’s emotional journey.

In a less literal depiction, Octavia Butler’s protagonist in Parable of the Talents cries profusely when she decides to turn away from the lure of security and safety to accept her calling as a prophet. Whether your character is embarking on a literal voyage or an emotional one, tears can help embody the conflict of that choice.

3. Link Tears to Transformation

While tears are often connected to a particular emotion (anger, pride, joy, etc.), they’re also extremely effective to show how a character is changing or has changed. The archetypal example of this, for me, is Ebenezer Scrooge. Throughout A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens punctuates Scrooge’s ghostly visions with frequent tears, to show how the experience is changing him. This all culminates on Christmas morning when Scrooge leaps from his bed, “laughing and crying in the same breath,” upon learning that there is still time for him to choose a different future.

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4. Crying Shouldn’t Only Happen Where You Expect

Because of social forces that shape who is more comfortable crying openly, there are many cultural misconceptions about crying. Men, for example, are far less frequently depicted crying in our stories. (And the absence of those portrayals is likely part of why so many men only feel comfortable crying in private.) There is so much power in subverting these expectations!

It’s not a book, but one of my favorite recent depictions of masculinity is the titular character in Ted Lasso. The show follows an ebullient soccer coach who motivates his characters through praise and kindness. Part of what makes the character so vibrant, however, is the way he’s shown weeping in private moments—often literally in the dark. It’s the tension between the public joy and quiet sorrow that gives Ted so much pathos.

5. There Are Many Types of Tears

We cry for so many reasons: Awe at the majesty of a forest; pride at accomplishing something long-awaited; confusion when something happens that we don’t expect; even cunning tears wielded to deceive. Part of the beauty and mystery of tears comes from the way that they refract the fullness of our humanity. So, embrace that complexity!

The more you’re able to use tears in multifaceted ways, the nearer they will strike reality—and the more your reader will resonate with what’s on the page. Similarly, there are lots of ways we cry: a single glimmering tear, a silent stream, or the howling sorrow of full, body wracking sobs. Matching physical embodiment to the narrative event will cultivate realism, helping your characters come alive.

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The post 5 Thoughts on How Crying Shapes a Story—and Characters appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(5 Tips for Evoking Emotion in Writing)

Think about your favorite novels and how they made you feel. Something stirred and lingered, right? You felt—and likely still do—the uncertainty, rage, joy, and love that the characters felt. Perhaps your perspective even shifted as a result.

14 Techniques to Write Emotional Truth to Engage Readers

Defining emotional truth

Emotional truth is elusive and difficult to capture. No standard definition exists. Here’s my crack at it: Emotional truth allows readers to feel a certain way about the experiences of people who may live different lives from them. It’s the lens that allows us to see ourselves in a story that results in a heartfelt connection in a fictional narrative. Emotional truth transcends facts.

The lie is the invented narrative. The truth is an emotional experience not rooted in facts, but through a combination of visual details, actions, settings, inner monologue, and dialogue. What I value most is that emotional truth engenders empathy.

Empathy Empowers

Fostering empathy is the main reason I infuse emotional truth in my work. In these increasingly polarized times, it’s clear empathy is in short supply. Several years ago a report found 40 percent of college freshmen lacked empathy. Reading that left me deeply disturbed. Future leaders need empathy to understand the needs of others. Without it, well… take a look around. Empathetic leaders can build a sense of trust, strengthening their relationships, which can lead to greater collaboration. I’ll leave that here.

I learned the techniques to capture emotional truth during my first fellowship through the Education Writers Association more than twenty years ago. Jon Franklin, author of “Writing for Story,” served as an advisor to my narrative nonfiction project examining survival tactics of gifted black students at troubled schools, where being smart carried a stigma. I was intimidated to work with the two-time Pulitzer Winner whose book included storytelling tips for journalistic articles. Imagine my surprise when Franklin read my three-day series and said, “You got it right.”

Techniques to Use

So how do you tap into such truth as a fiction writer? Here are 14 techniques I use to write with emotional truth:

Be vulnerable. My debut novel, Malcolm and Me, follows a reluctant rebel with the heart of a poet as she navigates a school year fraught with adult hypocrisy. While my protagonist is wounded by a traumatic event involving her Catholic school teacher, I knew she couldn’t wallow in pain and self-pity for 272 pages. She doesn’t. She’s funny, often in “good trouble” and a ball of confusion. Whatever Roberta feels so must my readers. Roberta’s vulnerability was rooted in my teen years. Nothing beats authentic angst.

Mine your secrets. Personal truth feeds the character’s truth. There’s nothing fictitious about that. In writing my debut novel, I borrowed the emotional truth about my struggle to forgive, including those I love deeply, and gave it to my protagonist. I could not write that story with authenticity until I dug deep and understood why I had been stuck and what led to a breakthrough. My clarity informed and honed the behavior of my character.

Listen to the “page people.” Just because you created your characters doesn’t mean you know their every move. Sometimes they will surprise you. Let them. Yield to their whims. When they want to be quiet, don’t force them to speak up. Silence can say a lot, too.

Create challenges. Understand what the protagonist and other characters want then remove it or make it a struggle to obtain. We root for characters we believe in, identify with, and want to succeed. In other words, characters we feel. I heard a speaker say that a novel is akin to taking a ride on an amusement park. Readers have purchased tickets and will feel cheated if a ride fails to carry them up and down and make their hearts pound.

Balance action. Life is messy and so are people’s reactions to it. But not everything happens at a level 10. Mix big, dramatic moments and scenes with quieter ones, which can also amplify emotional truth.

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Cultivate growth. Know the emotional state of your character on page 1 and be clear about the various emotional stages he or she will experience to make it to the end of the story. This growth may not be linear and could include setbacks, but the person must experience changes that feel authentic.

Use your senses. Do you have a song that transports you to your first dance? A perfume or cologne that reminds you of someone no longer alive? Sound, smell, taste, and touch evoke powerful emotions to inspire you.

Pick from an “emotional garden.” Collect bits of dialogue, favorite lyrics, phrases, discarded scenes, observations, and reactions, anything that provokes strong feelings and may feed your current or future story. Visit often.

Learn from other writers. Read often. Reading expands your vocabulary and imagination, shows you what works and what doesn’t, and exposes you to diverse worlds. Reading other authors may also inspire you to take risks with your own work.

Revise, rinse and repeat. Emotional truth is an indistinct quality that works when the characters stay with you long after you’ve turned the last page. Weaving it into your work requires patience and practice. Writing is rewriting.

Techniques

I’m big on takeaways. So, keep this acrostic handy for how to elevate the emotional tenor of your work:

Embrace the fear of vulnerability

Mine complexity

Organize narrative arcs. Be clear about all stages.

Tap into your memories with music and smells—often-emotional anchors

Include powerful emotions with ordinary ones

Optimize opportunities for a character to accept or reject growth

Nurture an emotional “garden” of evocative material to inspire you

Avoid “one-note” characters; vary responses.

Listen to the unsaid as much as what’s spoken

Trust yourself to go deep and transfer what you find to the page.

Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read. Read.

Unearth feelings. Great stories reveal how people feel.

Try harder. Get frustrated. Revise. Rinse and repeat.

Have a sense of humor when appropriate.

Defining the emotional truth in stories can be elusive. But the heart of a reader understands it. As a writer, that’s the test we must strive to ace.

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The post 14 Techniques to Write Emotional Truth to Engage Readers: Why It Works and How in Successful Storytelling appeared first on Writer's Digest.

After several years in Manhattan, he moved to Vermont and earned his family’s living writing extensively about vegetable gardening and homesteading. His simultaneous career as an exhibiting painter included gallery representation and one-person shows in Montreal, London, Los Angeles, Boston, Dallas, and Florida.

Follow Richard’s blogs and essays on Medium: richardalther.medium.com. 

In this post, Alther explains how his latest book, Bedside Matters, opened his eyes to the writer’s evolving relationship with their work, the benefit of adding uncertainty to a plot, and more!

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Name: Richard Alther
Literary agent: Wildbound PR & Literary Management
Title: Bedside Matters
Publisher: Rare Bird Books
Release date: March 9, 2021
Genre: Literary Fiction
Elevator pitch for the book: A cinematic non-linear take and frank examination of the promise of life, even at its end, Bedside Matters concern us all at one time or another as we ask the ultimate question: What matters most?
Previous titles by the author: The Decade of Blind Dates (2008), Siegfried Follies (2010), The Scar Letters (2013), and Roxie & Fred (2017)

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What prompted you to write this book?

Losing two of my closest friends in their 40s left an indelible scar on my soul. In a lifetime of reading serious fiction, especially contemporaries for me like Roth and Updike, mortality was evident as an underpinning of their characters’ feverish grasp onto life while they could. In writing my five published novels, each was triggered by immersion in a particular issue, usually contentious, about which I wanted to explore multiple viewpoints: to raise questions without necessarily settling on an answer. We typically have nonfiction for that. For Beside Matters, I addressed one possible scenario to how life could end, looking back without regrets and on a note of grace. I wanted to see inside my protagonist’s head and heart to imagine how one might approach death with forgiveness, dignity, and peace.

(When You Outgrow Your Genre: Tips From a Romance-Turned-Literary Novelist)

How long did it take to go from idea to publication? 

This novel, like my others, took two to three years from start to final draft. Much of this process for me is saturation in other books, especially nonfiction tangent to my central theme, in this case, of one person’s dying. It gestated through filling notebooks with ideas. Bedside Matters started with what impending death might mean not only for my protagonist, Walter, but also for his adult children, the ex-wife who left him, former business associates, and new characters entering the last year of his life. The story ended, however, with an exclusive focus on Walter’s journey. Yes, his reactions to others but the singular choices he made for navigating each twist in the path.

Were there any surprises or learning moments in the publishing process for this title?

With the benefit of an editor, I confronted the challenge of adding measures of uncertainty to better encourage the reader to advance. For example, in one exchange of Walter’s offering a financial gift to his former wife (he’d already taken good care of her), she kindly declines what she sees as another bid for her forgiveness at ending their marriage. I had only written another notch in his belt of belated generosity. Now, it’s more complicated and engaging for the reader, myself included.

(Why Literary Fiction Isn’t Boring)

Were there any surprises in the writing process for this book? 

Whereas I thought I was crafting a story about a man as a fictional medium for investigating my fixation with dying, it became “a dress rehearsal” for me personally. I wasn’t anticipating that. To quote Joan Didion on the creative process, “Every choice one makes alone—every word was chosen or rejected, every brushstroke laid or not laid down (I’m a painter as well) betrayed one’s character—on the canvas or the page … How you make those choices reveal everything about the person that you are.” So, a novel, like a painting, is a self-absorbed Rorschach test. I already knew I write about what compels me. I learned, particularly with this book, that I was digging much deeper at a look into my psyche and true self.

What do you hope readers will get out of your book?

I would hope a reader of Bedside Matters would gain insight into the thought that dying can open to an expanded view of the leaving of life. It can involve forgiving oneself, or not; forgiving others, or not; appreciating joys experienced, or not; acknowledging the gifts of love, or not. For a rich man, it could be seeing one’s privilege in the context of all humanity, a world of increasing haves and have-nots, and his providing for many people beyond his immediate family of heirs. Above all, I would hope a reader might come away, if applicable, with the usual, iron-clad self-construct in our Western culture of rugged individualism shifting to one more modest, as an ordinary person inextricably woven into a much, much grander whole.

If you could share one piece of advice with other authors, what would it be?

I regard the education of a writer is to read, and never stop. Clearly, we are drawn to masters of the craft, but also to wholly new chapters of innovation, possibilities for ourselves beyond the writers we most admire as well as learn and take inspiration from. A final item of advice: The process is the payoff. If you love to write, the rest can follow.

The post Richard Alther: How Literary Fiction Is Like a Rorschach Test appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(Emotion vs. Feeling: How to Evoke More From Readers)

Here are my top five tips for evoking emotion in readers.

5 Tips for Evoking Emotion in Writing

1. Give them someone to root for

It all starts with our protagonists. We need our readers to feel connected—to care. Struggling with a difficult hero or heroine? Don’t despair. Even the most unlikeable character can be relatable with a quick “save the cat,” moment early in the plot. Think about who they are as they’re waiting for the coaster to begin and why they’re there. A little backstory can work wonders.

2. Use deep POV

By using visceral emotions, we can bring our readers right into our character’s head. Does their heart quicken as the coaster clicks up the first hill? Does their stomach rise into their throats as the coaster drops? Giving physical cues to the reader takes them out of the spectator position and into the seat with your character.

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3. Up the ante

Where are your stakes? What is your protagonist going to lose if they don’t succeed? Is this your character’s only chance to overcome their fear of roller coasters? The bigger the stakes, the more your reader will be invested in the outcome.

4. Go along for the ride

If you’re strapped in with your character on that roller coaster, then it’s far easier to nail those same emotions in your writing. Ride with your characters, instead of watching them ride. The golden rule is golden for a reason—show, don’t tell.

5. Twist the plot

Drop the bottom out of your roller coaster, throw in a loop no one saw coming, and your readers will never forget the journey.

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Order a copy of Rebecca Faye Smith Galli’s Rethinking Possible: A Memoir of Resilience.

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1. Remember your purpose.

Why are you writing about an experience that is sure to bring you sadness? Take some time to determine your motivation. Write. It. Down. Make a list and keep it handy. There will be times you need to remind yourself why you are putting yourself through the pain. Remembering the purpose of your writing can be an inspiring force. For eample, here’s my list of reasons I chose to write my memoir:

• To honor my brother who died at age seventeen
• To tell my story of love, loss, and healing, my way, for my children
• To share what I learned along the way about accepting and dealing with life-changing loss in hopes to connect and help others who may have experienced the same thing

2. Prepare to welcome a returning companion.

As I say in my book, “Grief is a strange companion.” In writing about any life-changing loss, you will poke grief hard and bring it back to life. Prepare to adjust to its constant presence. Remember though, we grieve for what matters to us. Whether untimely death, divorce, or disability, when we probe our losses, insight awaits. Look forward to what you will learn from the process.

3. Lighten up.

Do you have flexibility in your timeline? Clarify your options. As you move through the writing process, you may find there are times it may be too difficult to continue. You may need to take a break. After my father’s death, I felt an urgency to keep writing my book but could not find the words. The pressure, although self-imposed, began to affect my outlook and my family life. A writer friend suggested that I “let it rest.” So, when well-meaning friends would ask me, “How’s the book coming along?” I began answering, “It’s resting.” It was an honest answer that gave me permission to regroup, relax a bit, and lighten up.

4. Reward yourself.

Know what lifts your spirits and keep that arsenal ready for use. Music, coffee, scented candles, flowers, working out, inspirational books, time with pets, nature, or even decluttering a corner may refresh you. Take time to celebrate a word count or a page count or a chapter completion.

5. Keep a calendar.

Some writers work best with a daily writing schedule. Others prefer to “binge write” for days. When I am writing about deep loss in the early stages, I binge write. I block off two to three days on my calendar and hunker down. I prepare meals ahead, stock up on my favorite snacks (including dark chocolate and peanut butter) and make sure a friend is available for a Starbuck’s run if I need a power-boost. When I am editing, however, I do best with scheduled morning writing times. Having a writing plan will minimize distractions and help you stay on task, always a positive feeling.

6. Pick a partner.

Writing about loss can pull you into lonely places. Find a friend or family member to become your anchor person as your write through the loss. Share your writing plan with them. Tell them what you are writing about in the morning and ask them to check in with you at the end of the day. That check-in, however brief, will remind you that you are not alone in the process.

7. Set the stage, and then close the curtain.

Find “artifacts” that can pull you back into the loss experience. Photos, mementos, special letters, or keepsakes can propel you back in time quickly, efficiently. Keep those in your writing area as you write about the experience, but make sure to tuck them away when you are finished with that section. They are props, not ever-present reminders. Keep history in its place, freeing up your mental space.

8. Avoid over-sharing. It can slow you down.

Don’t talk about the details of what you are writing when your memories are still tender. Save the emotion you feel and make sure it lands on the page and not in someone else’s ear. It is often hard to re-create the energy or recall the exact phrasing after you have talked about an experience. Capturing those angry, sad, awkward, conflicted, or confused feelings on the page first will help keep your pace consistent.

9. Keep moving, despite memory lapses.

If you can’t remember important details, be honest and acknowledge it. Instead of getting frustrated, state the reality. Stanford instructor Faith Adiele suggests this exercise. Begin with, “I remember this. . .” and then move to, “I don’t remember that. . .” Those honest assessments can be a place holder for more memories, or, if used as is, can become a powerful way to put the reader in your moment. Everyone understands that memory fails us, especially during fresh grief. That emotional fog that settles in often cloaks the details of what we are experiencing. Recall what you can (and can’t) and keep moving. Progress will help keep your spirits up.

10. Be patient with yourself.

As I say in the book, “Grief is as unique as your fingerprint.” So, too, will be your writing process and progress. Avoid comparing yourself with other writers. Choose your own milestones. You alone know the difficulty of the subject matter. You are choosing to revisit a painful experience, write about it, and learn from it. Forget impressing others; impress yourself.

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