Story Conflicts 1 - Characters Argue

You’re at a restaurant and an argument erupts at the next table. Something about going down to work on Mabel’s house. Again. 

You lean in, hoping to figure out what’s driving the disagreement. Why it matters to both parties. Any context that allows you to take a side. Mabel can hire someone. She has plenty of money. Mabel carved the best pumpkins. She takes you away from your own family. She’s lonely. Is that wrong? She pissed off half the town when she fenced off the pond. Etc. Etc.

Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Who’s playing fair?

Who’s winning? Who’s losing? Maybe they’ll say more about the pumpkins.

Conflict is central to storytelling. It’s dramatic. And family arguments are both familiar territory and wonderfully disorganized (from a writer’s point of view).

Organized arguments, like courtroom scenes, have their place. But they tend to be reserved and predictable. They usually turn on evidence. They are as much puzzles as dramas. The emotion often comes from the stakes (which is why criminal cases far outnumber civil cases in storytelling).

But family fights? They are pure gold when it comes to emotion. Those involved know each other. They have a relationship. So whatever the issue is, the bond between the characters is being tested.

This is true beyond families, of course. Friends, business partners, clubs, neighbors, and church groups often argue without rules, facing off against people they have to live with. For any conflict that is within a group, the stakes can rise to the value of the interpersonal connection… even as the content of the fight is in contention.

Why do people argue?

• To persuade. Hasten or compel a decision or action. Prevent or delay a decision or action. Convince.
• To shift or express power.
• To negotiate.
• To win.
• To explain themselves.
• To impress, charm, or gain confidence.
• To inflict pain.
• To play (e.g., play devil’s advocate).
• To explore a subject with someone who is intelligent or has a different point of view.

I’ve listed these as they came to mind, but they don’t all have the same dramatic potential. Since your ranking is likely to be different from mine, I recommended organizing this list in your own way. Chances are, as you do so, you’ll start to imagine examples, and these might be valuable in a current or future fight.
 
And how do they fight?

• Some people use evidence and build a case. They fight fairly.
• Others use stories, examples, and anecdotes.
• Some make claims they feel are probably right or they sort of remember, maybe from a Web page.
• Some exaggerate, tell half truths, or lie.
• Some listen to and weigh every point from the opposition, others never listen.
• Some jump from topic to topic.
• Some spew out talking points they can’t defend or explain.
• Some ask questions to understand or clarify.
• Some ask questions to mislead or entrap.
• Some watch for and attack any weakness, whether in a flawed point or in the opponent’s certainty or strength.
• Some win by using raw power or threatening.
• Some distract or charm.
• Some are impromptu, while others argue systematically.
• Some need to win at any cost, while others look for compromise or concede when the stakes rise too high.
• Some erupt with words and interrupt.
• Some invade space, use silence, make faces, glare, or cross their arms.

This is not a comprehensive list. One of the most interesting things to do is to mix it up, with fair and unfair techniques from both sides. There are good examples of argument ploys and useful articles online. I like (for story) The 8 Worst Things You Can Do During An Argument With Your Partner. Here’s another one that might provide some more ideas.  For story (and I hope not real life), some good practices can be reversed as well as included.

So, your palette of colors to mix and compare — a dab of relationship (sibling rivalry) , a touch of contention (whose turn it is to drive the car), and a smidgen of technique (shaming)  — can lead to an infinite number of variations.

But not necessarily interesting. A productive argument, one which leads to a resolution, is interesting if it has stakes we care about. Bickering has to work at being interesting in drama (although it can be wonderful in humor) because it doesn’t go anywhere. There are also what couples therapist Sue Johnson calls “Demon Dialogues” (which are not limited to couples) that need to be handled with care in stories. They may be revealing once, but, when they are repeated, tend not to be fresh.  

Some ways to keep arguments interesting.

• Surprise. Unexpected points, revelations, and secrets told can all defy expectations.
• Reactions. How people respond emotionally and physically move arguments beyond words.
• Distractions. These may occur as a ploy, but also can come from something outside, like a phone call. They can reset and shift power.
• Beats. Both characters want something. Unless the idea is to crush one character, taking turns in holding the power position (for the relationship or the point of contention) adds drama.
• Humor. This can be a ploy, comic relief (before something crushing), or an expression of character. Truths may be state in jest. And, of course, the whole argument can be funny. Like this. 
  
• Escalation. Make things more intense and more interesting with each exchange. The stakes can crank up, the chances of someone losing can increase, the emotions can become more extreme, or the relationship can be closer to the breaking point.
• Place, moments, and witnesses. There are some horrible times to get into an argument. Before appearing together in public. During a moment of danger. When one person has already suffered a great loss. When someone is exhausted. When there are witnesses (from strangers to vulnerable children). Of course, these are horrible from the points of view of the characters, not the audience.

Sometimes a winning isn't winning because it's only a battle in the war. Sometimes the loss leads to the other participant falling into a trap. Sometimes there is an intentional loss that the gambit. That may be used later as a chit.

In stories, there may be must win arguments that are worth destroying the relationship. A good argument will include beats (power shifts) and escalation in stakes and intensity. There may be moments for emotion, including diffusing the worst circumstances with humor. The strategies the different characters use may tell you about what they value and just how far they'll go to win. Deceit may be part of it. Place for sympathy maybe part of it. Threats, unrelated to the topic at hand, may pop up. Many people also use distraction or change the subject.

Who's on first? Is an argument. As are many humorous exchanges. Arguments are aimed at someone. There is no ambiguity about who the words are for (although there may be confusion about the true identity of one of the characters). As opposed to formal arguments, people tend to argue in their own voices, with few references to quotes or attempts to use an unfamiliar idiom.

An argument in a story almost always touches upon its theme. And it immediately becomes an emotional moment. And emotional moments drive great stories.

Some Thoughts about Banter in Storytelling

In real life, banter probably peaks in high school. Often, it shows up as a combination of needling and borrowed catch phrases (and even memorized exchanges) from movies and TV shows. The expectations of the audience (fellow adolescents) with regard to intelligence and wit feel within range, and I suspect soaring hormone levels make everything funnier (especially if if provides escape from the tensions and anxieties of growing up). But crank up the anxiety and even a pair of unremarkable 15-year-olds can hit their stride and create an unforgettable moment.

As we get older, with the exception of flirting, banter requires wit. Improvising intelligent, fast-paced conversation in the moment — and having a partner in that enterprise — is fairly rare. Being smart and funny in the moment isn't easy, and, at the same time, listening intently adds to the challenge. Hearing two people do this for an extended period of time is a little like watching a volley between tennis masters, with each unable to put away the other.

Luckily, written banter can be composed over a long period of time, reworked, tested, and polished. In a screenplay, it can become a collaborative effort, with bits added by the director or improvised by the actors. Movies and television provide a lot of good examples of banter. It's actually an expected element for most romantic comedies and action films.

Banter generally takes place between equal characters: lovers, buddies, and protagonists and villains. Like a good boxing match, it's best when there are power shifts and the outcome is uncertain. I've been alternating between watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and Gilmore Girls. By the same creators, they both have a lot of smart humor, but Mrs. Maisel has more banter because she faces other characters of equal intelligence. Gilmore Girls has a lot of witty mother/daughter exchanges, but the two "Girls" are almost identical in their approaches. Banter really requires differentiation between the characters. And often they need to be in conflict with very different strategies toward winning.

Romances, the differences in the banter are intrinsically interwoven with the differences (and concerns and goals) that keep the lovers apart and make the movie last for more than five minutes. Similarly, there are intrinsic differences between protagonists and villains that are reflected in their banter. In romances, the banter usually leads to a victory for one or the other lover and that has consequences. Very often, banter between a protagonist and a villain ends when the villain feels uncertain about victory, and moves to (often brutal) action or threats. The moment for protagonist/villain banter is often just after the tension has been built about danger, providing some relief before the danger gets real.

What about the buddies? Their banter sometimes harkens back to high school banter, raised to a higher level. There's usually needling and some care is taken to make sure their relationship isn't jeopardized. At the same time, a writer needs to actively work to distinguish the two characters. There is no intrinsic reason why they can't reflect each other (the way the Gilmore Girls do), so it becomes a deliberate storytelling choice. Part of the fun becomes anticipating how their different viewpoints and ways of speaking will show up in their responses.

In most cases, neither buddy wins the banter. The most that happens is an insult lands, and, rather than leading to a break in the connection, becomes something to appreciate about the friend.

Banter needs to be quick, usually a line or two for each character so there is a back-and-forth volley. It needs to surprise at times. And needs to be smart — impressive in its wordplay, strategy, and knowledge. It needs to be between equals without an obvious winner. Both characters need to be consciously involved and committed to the exchange (except with the villain, who usually opts out at the end). If possible, it needs to escalate, with the verbal challenges rising with its exchange like an entertaining insult argument (where each "your mother" remark becomes more absurd and risky over time). As much as possible, the exchanges should shift power back and forth each time. (An exception to that is, if the story goal is to move away from banter to crushing humiliation, which may happen to some especially loathsome antagonists.)

Above all, banter needs to be funny, and funny from two different points of view. I'm of two minds on this. On the one hand, I suspect those who haven't been able to master writing a scene with two characters being funny in different ways probably shouldn't try and do something as distilled as banter. On the other hand, I’ve seen dialogue open up people and break through their inhibitions. Just as in high school, nerves and anxiety can sometimes force a moderate person into a moment of verbal genius.

Thoughts on Standout Characters

It’s an odd thing. For many of us, fictional characters become guiding influences in our real lives. We follow their adventures. We worry about them. We quote them. We remember how they face their toughest challenges.

Conan Doyle famously killed off Sherlock Holmes. Then had to bring him back to life due to popular demand. (And he continues to live on in the stories of new generations of writers.) Dracula persists. So does Batman. Real people like Tesla have edged their ways into fiction as well. (Following a human pattern of legend making that has wonderful examples like Robin Hood, St. Nicholas, Wyatt Earp, St. Joan, and many others.)

Great characters often outlive the stories that created them. They become larger than life. And, in many cases, personal. For legends, writers have starting points. They refine history to give precedence to generosity, courage, suffering, horror, and many other traits. Some facts get in the way and disappear. Some truths get amplified beyond fact.

Writers can do something in between. They can create characters based on real people, including people they know.. Dr. Joseph Bell, who was a master diagnostician and Doyle’s teacher, inspired Sherlock Holmes. (And Dr. Gregory House was inspired by Holmes.) Many popular fictional characters were modeled after real people. 

Sometimes characters are more Frankenstein monsters, assembled from the parts of real people to create something new. Truman Capote’s Holly Golightly may have been such a character.

Most of my characters rise up from nowhere and audition for a role. Once they start talking, I may consult them about adding a trait from someone I’ve met, but I never force it.

Standout characters may draw on archetypes, but they are never cliches. I remember when cowboys ruled TV, NBC introduced a (very short-lived series) Destry. He was tall in the saddle and a sure shot, but “when trouble came this way, he went that-ta way.” He was a reluctant hero, and I was thrilled. Here it is, over 50 years later, and I still remember a show I only saw a handful of times. The reverence for biographies of geniuses is thrown out the window with Amadeus, where Mozart is childish and vulgar (but still lovable and dedicated to his work).

Comedy, of course, lives by creating characters who reverse expectations. Lucy and today’s Mrs. Mazel both reach past the dutiful wife and mother of the 50s because they dream of becoming performers. Unlike Lucy, Mrs. Mazel can, in a heartbeat, go from zany to serious, which makes it more subversive.

Tricksters, from Bugs Bunny to Ferris Bueller seem to become reference points for every generation. Often, they are funny, but I think there is more. First, for your trickster character to be memorable, he/she/it can’t be malicious (though they are not necessarily benign). Second, the antics usually need to present a kind of freedom that current audiences long for. Wish fulfillment both makes cultural restraints visible and provides vicarious fun. Third, their stories usually provide a benefit. In Ferris Bueller, the sportscar is beautiful and valuable, but it represents everything that is destroying Bueller’s friend, Cameron. Wrecking the car saves Cameron’s life.

Mercury, a trickster, was the portal god who allowed the taboo to be rescued from society’s junk heap when its true value could be embraced. The best trickster do that for their times. We are so grateful, we cherish them.

Sacrifice also makes a character special. Among many wonderful characters in A Tale of Two Cities, Sydney Carton is the one who sticks in my mind because of his unselfish act. (The act also provides redemption, a notable Dickens’ theme.)

Note that unexpected betrayal can also make a character unforgettable. Judas, Benedict Arnold and Quisling have all become synonyms for traitors.

Individual actions and decisions can define remarkable characters, but these all occur in context. Timing, relationships, culture, consequences, and power dynamics are all part of the equation that helps to make the action and decision resonate with readers and audiences.And I think there is one more thing: possibility.

So often, especially when the character is hurt or hurts others, turning points occur along the way in the story. When the high impact scene plays out, we are invited to wonder “what if” and to consider alternate paths. Returning to the experience and reflecting on what might have been can bring characters permanently into our lives.

Thoughts On Plot Twists

Last week, I was reading an old interview with Philip K Dick. In it, he mentioned that a lot of the choices that shaped the plot of The Man in the High Castle came from his use of the I Ching.

It got me thinking about plot twists and where they come from. My preference is for the work to be as organic as possible. Often, some of the more interesting turns in my stories occur to me as I'm writing and surprise me. I can trace back where they came from, but they are far from deliberate. Since many of my stories come from intuitive (not systematic) collisions of apparently unrelated ideas, sometimes the odd story developments emerge from the natural consequences of those combinations.

Because the muse doesn't always show up, I have techniques that lead to twists. Sometimes, these fit right in. Sometimes, they necessitate a lot of rewriting to smooth them out enough so that they feel organic. And sometimes they lead me into lots of pages that never make it into the final manuscript. My first "go to" approach is to list 10 to 20 options. Often I write these out in full sentences so that I know I'm being absolutely clear about each. It's very rare that one of these doesn't feel both right for the story and unpredictable.

Another thing I do is imagine how some of my favorite authors would move the story forward. Oddly enough, even though these are really coming out of my brain, no two authors ever make the same choices. More often than not, I'm stuck with more than one option that intrigues me — not a bad situation to find myself in.

On occasion, I've also written the scene over again from a different character's point of view. This is less successful, but always worthwhile in terms of insights. In fact, it's worth mentioning that many of my favorite story terms seem to been whispered into my ear by one of the characters. Or they've resulted from the reaction of another character in the scene that was stronger than I expected. One more character piece that has worked is including a wildcard character (often a trickster) in the story and introducing them into the problematic scene.

Context can play an invaluable role as well. Getting out of the character's head and exploring the larger meaning of the scene, in terms of the story world, often causes me to include forces (such as cultural) that make a modest decision epic. More rarely, I focus more tightly on the character's interests, even breaking down each beat and working to experience deeper emotions that come into play.

The easiest way to flip expectations in ways that engage rather than lose readers is to refer to models. I’ll often look to similar stories or history to explore possibilities. These come with their own authenticity, which helps me to be convinced as I use what I’ve learned to work on my own story. The one caution here is that the excuse “this really happened” may work its charms on the author, but may mean nothing to a reader. The improbable doesn’t work in fiction. And that goes double if it benefits the protagonist.

One more thing. Every plot twist needs to be challenged in revision. This can be a pain if you’ve fallen in love with it and other elements of the story depend on it, but a bad plot twist can shatter the story logic and drive readers away. Luckily, it’s almost always the case that any concerns that arise can be fixed by making changes to scenes that come before the twist. In my experience, these are not just simple fixes, but opportunities to make large chunks of the story more interesting.

——————————
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Five Exercises to Create More Intense Conflict

Conflict grabs attention. It draws crowds. And, in real life, we can pick it up with a slight change in tone or from a raised eyebrow.

In fiction, it's good to be able to make it bigger than life. I'm naturally somewhat conflict avoidant, so I need to work hard at getting way out of my comfort zone and finding approaches that intensify conflict. I try to push past what's reasonable in terms of stakes, concern from the characters, and the possibility of failure. I can always dial it back if I need to.

Often, I'm too gentle of my characters in early drafts (meaning I'm less demanding of myself), so I need to use exercises — many of which never end up in the story — to exaggerate things as far as I can. Here are five that I find useful.

Appalling injuries. I try and force myself to imagine, without getting too far away from the story, a physical outcome that would be upsetting. If physical is impossible, psychological trauma almost always is. I imagine creating a loss that could impede or even end I character’s quest. Anything less than this tells me that I have not been daring enough. And, emotionally, I look for an internal reaction that mirrors my most difficult readings of Stephen King.

So character consequences and emotion become my criteria. Assuming it's just an exercise opens the door for me, and it's surprising how often I create a scene that is close to what ends up in the story.

Horrible choices. You know how in horror movies you beg characters not to go into the basement or otherwise take an action that could be fatal? My inner voice constantly warning my favorite characters away from bad choices. But bad choices make good stories. I'm usually pushed by flaws I've provided the characters and consoled by the growth I know they'll achieve, but my first drafts often miss opportunities for mistakes that could make the story better. (This does not mean advancement of the plot by stupidity. That's a horrible sin for a writer and should be avoided.)

When I come across a "good" choice that needs fixing and I find I'm reluctant to press very hard, I ask myself, “What choice could the character make here that would end the story?” This could be ending the story in a way that's positive for the protagonists — a cheap, unearned solution that is dramatically flat — or in a disaster — where the character might even be killed, but certainly would have no chance of achieving his or her goal. The positive choice often reveals an answer that would occur to some people in the audience, and that involves real rewriting and opens up some wonderfully painful choices. Those that lead to complete failure almost always hint at a slightly less disastrous choice that adds power to the story.

Constricting communities. Sometimes the conflict is not between individuals, but between the protagonists and a culture or friends or even family. Those who set aside the rules to make an unpopular but important choice are often punished. I used to think in terms of what would make them want to kill the character, but the answers seemed a little ridiculous in most cases and too obvious. There is a much better question to ask: what could my protagonist do that would lead to exile or shunning? In many ways, living with an isolating choice is more emotionally wrenching than simply dying.

Small, but deadly. There are some people who grab attention by shouting, but often those who whisper have the most impact. I'm reading a book right now where the disruption caused by whom a boy chooses to take to the prom is startling and painful. No one is murdered. Families are not broken apart. Everything that happens happens within the two friends involved. Why? Because it changes, for each of them, how they understand themselves. The experience — which one imagines would be important to his reputation — only really matters in terms of what it reveals about selfishness and a distorted identity. One of the things deep characters hold onto most tightly is a sense of themselves. So I always ask the question, how could I violate that stable, unquestioned concept?

Worst moments. Often, it's less about what action is demanded by the circumstance as by when it happens. In Die Hard, John McClane spends most of the movie in his bare feet. Something small, that becomes important when the floor is covered with broken glass. Not being ready, not having time to think, the presence of witnesses, being in the midst of difficult natural circumstances (like a snowstorm) — these are things that can make a less-than-perfect action or decision go awry. So how can this be used?

In a story I'm writing right now, a woman in assisted living wants to proposition a man who is also elderly. There are enough strikes against her. He's rather traditional and prudish. He has a standing in the community, with authority derived from his honor. Also, he's hard of hearing. So I force her to proposition him in the facility's cafeteria, when other people are present and the ambient sound would make it difficult for anyone to hear. Speaking loudly about a delicate subject in the presence of many witnesses who matter — that's a puzzle to solve.

This is not a comprehensive list of ways to intensify conflict. I've found that how things are designed around the premise and the theme lead to story moments that are organic and flow during the draft. These are more useful to me in revision. And during that process, fixing one mistake often leads to natural ways to crank up conflict elsewhere. Still, these provide a solid fall back position for improving storytelling, and sometimes the results are magical.