Conflict: The Heart of the Problem

Last time we spoke, we had a conversation–though, admittedly, it was rather one-sided–about what made a great opening, and in case you may have forgot (or didn’t read it: you can right here), it was about characters having a problem. But what constitutes a problem?

Let’s start with what a problem is not.

Over the years, I’ve had, not exactly the opportunity, let’s call it the profitable displeasure, of serving as a reader for a couple novel contests. I was tasked as the first line of defense to insulate those sanctimonious judges at the top from bad literature. Invariably, I didn’t need to read past the first few pages to know that something was wrong–and not in a good way. And though I did manage to find a few gems, the best parts came from comparing a novel’s synopsis against the final product. Of all the one to two page summaries, there was one that made me so excited to read it that I had to put off the stack of student papers I had to grade to spend an hour with this anonymous genius. The novel was set to tell the story of a superhero but not just any hero. While Spider-Man may have been bitten by a radioactive spider and Daredevil may have gained his from toxic waste and the Hulk from gamma radiation, this novel’s hero gained his from a goldfish eating contest. Now if that isn’t enough, his powers were even more amazing: He ate toxic waste. Concept-wise, this sounded brilliant, in that gonzo, mescaline-infused, fairy-dust, surrealist sense. I thought if this dude can come up with such an insane premise, he must be able to deliver in some way. Then I started reading it. And then, after ten pages, I stopped. Why? What happened?

For a little less than four-thousand words, the author had his hero walk around his wannabe batcave, doing nothing.

To be fair, that book was unpublished, and if there is any justice in the world, it most likely still isn’t. But what about things out there already? Surely, they can offer us a better answer.

I guess, before I get into this next point, I should probably preface that I know how unoriginal this is. It’s one thing to beat a dead horse: It’s another to fuck it. But I’m still unbuckling my belt regardless.

E. L. James has taken her fair share of shit. Most people point to her unbelievably bad prose. Others point to her awful dialogue (“You beguile me”). Some say the fault lies in her inability to create real people or her fan-fiction roots or fondness for kink and lack of subtlety. Needless to say, these are valid criticisms. However, I haven’t heard too much about her (lack of an) ability to create problems and conflict.

In the first of her Grey Trilogy, she begins, “I look with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair–it just won’t behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal.” Here, unlike the previous example, there is a problem. I will give her that. And it does actually relate to the overall problem of the novel. But here’s the bigger question: Who gives a fuck? Why should we care? Yes, your hair won’t do what you want. That is too bad. But does that at all tell us your actual fucking problems? As I said before, through the words of Hitchcock, fiction is life with the boring bits snipped out. I would file hair problems under the boring part.

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I know a guy. He loves his kids, works three jobs to support his family, has three cats, would give his left nut to help you out, but he fucking hates his wife. She doesn’t work, doesn’t cook, doesn’t go out with the kids for their birthdays, just says, “Hey, bring me back something.” And the kids aren’t too fond of her either. But this guy, he stays. He stays because if he goes, it means that they’ll have to sell the house. It means that the kids will have to leave, and he doesn’t want that to happen. That’s his life, and he’s stuck. That’s a problem. That’s conflict. But it’s not a story, not a plot. This is an anecdote about his status quo. It’s the life he wakes up to and the one that’s waiting for him when he gets home. It’s never changing, never evolving. It’s having things you love but being incapable to change the things you hate because you have too much to lose. It’s being comfortable being uncomfortable.

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My girlfriend and I go to the movies every so often, and we usually talk about them for a while after. She likes to pick my brain about this kind of stuff as if being a writer gives me anymore insight, but often I find, she’s thinking the same things: She just doesn’t know how to articulate them. And whenever we talk about this stuff, I often use the first Star Wars as an example that demonstrates how a story is supposed to work.

Somewhere, she’s reading this and rolling her eyes.

Luke Skywalker follows the archetypical Hero’s Journey in A New Hope, and it’s part of what makes it such a great film to watch. Both he and Ana Steele have their problems at the start of their quests. Ana is upset that her hair won’t do what she wants, but nothing is really missing from her life that she knows of. She is content to spend the rest of her days sexless and satisfied. But Luke doesn’t like his situation, just like my buddy. He is unhappy. He doesn’t want to be a farmer–on a desert planet. (To be fair, they are, apparently, moisture farmers.) He wants to be a pilot. He wants to live an exciting life of adventure. But what’s holding him back? Family. He’s bound to his aunt and uncle. Yeah, he loves them, and sure, they’re nice people, for the most part. But he’s still stuck. He’s comfortable being uncomfortable.

So how does he get out of this jam? Is he proactive about it? No. He goes to see old Ben and is like, I’d love to come with you and do all that stuff I want to, but I got this farm, bra. The only reason his situation changes: His aunt and uncle are murdered, and the farm is burned down. This essentially frees him of his debt to his family but changes the direction of his short-term goals. He still wants that life of adventure, but rather than being pissed at his uncle, he is now pissed at the empire. Ironically, of course, this process of revenge allows him to attain all those things that he thought were missing.

This is conflict. This is what moves the story forward. Characters are real people who want things but like so many of us, can’t attain them. There is something that is holding us back. That is their problem, but when the status quo is disrupted and they might lose those things they love (along with that bad baggage), that’s when things get interesting. It’s a question of do I accept this opportunity to change, even though it might cost me? Conflict isn’t just two things in opposition. Nobody goes to a football game because they want to know what’s going to happen next. There will be an outcome one way or the other. They go because, if they enjoy watching football, they have a stake in it, and that’s what makes it interesting. Conflict is two things in opposition where a loss means something bad for the guy we’re rooting for.

 


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