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Taylor Hunter
a book bubble about
NeverSeen
Science Fiction & Fantasy
Author Insight
The Art of Writing Distress
Writing drama for drama’s sake is an activity I specifically avoid. The same goes for writing distress. Certain authors choose to employ distress to get the audience to care about the character. Unfortunately, this frequently applies to paranormal-romance-type stories: girl hears of hot boy, girl wants to date hot boy, girl is distressed that he has not taken notice of her, hot boy is distressed when he does notice her…blah, blah, blah! Distress can become the calling card of a character, the only thing people remember when they walk away. A person in constant distress without a reasonable source is, frankly, just a pain to be around! If you’re going to write distress, it has to come from a place of importance: a major relational hurdle, a decisive final, an impending medical report. All of these are worthy of causing distress, to the degree that makes sense for the character’s goals and their methods of handling stress. But a meaningless comment that was not even directed at them? That does not make sense. First, put yourself in their shoes…then decide if distress is a viable response, and how much. Enough with shouting for the sake of volume; let’s write shouting for the sake of venting fear, of recognizing anger, of crying out for help. #amwriting #distress #properwriting #respectcharacters #nervoussystems
Book Excerpt
NeverSeen
“PLEASE, HONEY, JUST TELL ME what’s the matter,” Mom pleaded softly with concerned eyes. She sat in front of me on a chair with the door shut and everyone else outside it, waiting to see if I was okay. I wasn’t.
Some creature that had taken me hostage was shaking me like doll from the inside out. I was, once again, freezing in the heat of the night from sweat coating me like I’d just taken a bath. All I could do was stare unblinking into the space in front of me, my hands iron fists gripping the edge of the mattress, like I might tumble into oblivion if I let go. My hair was plastered to my face and the back of my also-soaking shirt, and I couldn’t breathe right. It felt like someone had shoved a rolled-up sock down my throat and I was gasping uncontrollably. My heart was doing jumping jacks and somersaults. I was sure I’d drop down dead from a heart attack any second now.
“Please, Honey, it’s okay to tell me, you don’t have to hold back—”
“I CAN’T!”
I’d finally lost it and exploded, slamming my hands hard on the bed. Mom jumped back in fear. I’d scared myself too. Running my trembling fingers through my wet, cold hair, the choking hold on my throat finally released enough that I could sob, and once it did, I didn’t stop for a long time. It took me a while to realize that she was holding me in her arms, like a child frightened by the monsters under the bed. I needed it. I had needed it for a long time, so long I had nearly forgotten that there was a time I didn’t have horrible nightmares.
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