During the past year (2017) I published on this blog two entries about tension and conflict in writing. If you’re a writer at almost any phase of your career, you’ve certainly heard of the dictum—in fact, almost a rule of law—that you have to have tension and/or conflict on every page of your creative writing story. Nothing less will do. It’s a rule I subscribe to, though I’ve also said that one or two pages without tension or conflict probably wouldn’t hurt. But I’ve begun to realize in the past few months that that piece of advice is based on flawed logic, and I would like to correct that error here. Or at least try to.
The reason I say that advice was in error is that I’ve come to realize that there are really two types of tension/conflict, and both are important in writing fiction or creative non-fiction. I’m not talking about the difference between tension on the one hand, and conflict on the other (see my blog entry of 7/16/2017 where I describe the difference), but about two different forms that the combined tension/conflict duo can take. The first form is the general background tension/conflict that pervades a story all the way through (or at least most of the way). This is the kind of tension that simmers away almost unnoticed, that the characters are always certainly aware of, but only if they stop to think about it and acknowledge it. An example might be a story about life in a submarine during World War II. (Or perhaps in a spaceship cruising the galaxy looking for “bad guy” spaceships to destroy with photon torpedoes.) Going down to three or four or five hundred feet below the surface of the ocean in a submarine is bad enough, but with the constant threat of depth charges raining down on the sub just elevates the tension level to a point where everybody is constantly aware of it. It’s in the background, it affects everyday life on board that sub, though the crew may not always be aware of it. Every crew member has his/her duty and carries it out. This is the type of tension that must be present on every page; it’s a constant reminder of the basic plot line of the story. Once the submarine returns to its home port, Pearl Harbor say, and every one relaxes on Waikiki Beach, the background tension is gone, and the story collapses. There’s nothing to hold it together. A story about sailors relaxing on a beach doesn’t hold much interest unless there’s some other background conflict.
But superimposed over that background tension/conflict is the more prominent one. This is a more immediate one. This is the tension of now, the tension of events taking place over and above the background. In that submarine, this might be the tension of a fight between two members of the crew, a fight that boils over from conflict between them that’s been simmering for days or weeks or months, dating back to well before they boarded the sub for their latest tour of duty. Or, it might be the tension of getting ready to fire torpedoes, with the ultimate realization that could bring down those dreaded depth charges and blow their nice warm submarine out of the water. This is the kind of tension/conflict that comes and goes, and isn’t necessarily present on every page. It rises and falls; it ebbs and flows, and an author can’t expect his/her characters to live under this type of stress and strain for a long time. They have to have some respite. But it is essential for the story, it provides a series of events that carry the reader along and allows him or her to see the inner workings of the main characters. It provides a look—maybe not much more than a glimpse—into their minds, into how they handle themselves in difficult situations, into what makes them tick. It gives the reader a look at the real person your character is, not the veneer they show to the world. Tap into this tension, but don’t overdo it—your writing will be better for it.