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.