I've had to explain to people that the events of the movie Apollo 13 really happened. They couldn't believe such a string of disasters could strike one space mission, or that the astronauts could have actually survived.
But the unrealistic part was the personal conflict. The astronauts yelled at each other, the ground crew yelled at each other, the astronauts yelled at the administrators ... it was a yell fest. Front and center was when Fred Haise blamed newbie Jack Swigert for not checking pressure levels before stirring the oxygen tanks, which led to the initial explosion.
Never happened. These people trained and practiced constantly, and were notorious cool under pressure. They didn't lose their tempers to the extent shown in the movie: they were rational, level headed, and team oriented. Why were they scripted differently?
Because a story needs conflict.
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| Conflict! |
There was plenty of excitement in that story, but by adding conflict between the characters, the writers upped the tension and made the audience care more about the story. Go listen to the audio from the real Apollo 13 accident. They don't sound like they're in a life or death situation: They sound like a minor inconvenience broke out.
"Uh, Houston, Apollo 13 ... we've had a problem. A TP problem."
"Say again?"
"Houston, we've run out of toilet paper up here, and Fred has to take a big one. Well, leave a big one."
"Roger, Apollo 13, copy he's venting."
A problem with many writers is that they don't put in enough conflict. That includes me. I like my characters--I want them to get along. Sure, my good guys fight bad guys, but they got along with each other no matter how bad things were going. In real life, that's desirable; in fiction, it's boring. After all, a lot of what makes the reader happy are things you wouldn't want to have happen in real life. The Apollo 13 crew wanted a nice, uneventful walk on the Moon.
I still struggle with that, especially with my romance stories. I won't let my lovers be torn apart by something they could fix just by talking to each other. I poke fun at that in Radio Red: There's a scene where Kirsten gets mad at Aaron over something easily explained--until he easily explains it. Within minutes it's cleared up, leaving her embarrassed ... and leaving me to find other ways to keep them apart. (I don't think anyone caught on that I was poking at the trope.) If you're a writer, remember that conflict is important, but it can't be artificial. Don't have your characters fight over something ridiculous.
Conflict in Apollo 13 would have been understandable--those guys were literally in a life or death situation. So make sure your characters don't always get along--if it makes sense with them and the story.
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| Even in the future, stories must have conflict. |
Here's an example of how I added conflict to my romantic comedy, The Notorious Ian Grant. It's kind of an easy example, though. It's Ian's first meeting in several years with his sister, Allie (the star of Storm Chaser), and to say the two haven't gotten along is putting it mildly:
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By the time everyone took a full plate to the dining area downstairs, and Ian headed for the sink to rinse out cans for recycling, he figured he had some karmic points that might come in handy later.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Or maybe I need those karmic points right now.
He turned slowly. He’d been watching for his family, but didn’t realize there was another entrance from outside, at the back of the kitchen. Behind him everyone who’d helped with the food had stayed upstairs, and now paused in the middle of getting themselves a meal from the leftovers. Ian glimpsed one already full plate in front of an empty chair, and figured it must be for the latecomer – and building owner.
“Hey, Al. So … you still mad about me blowing up your Malibu Barbie?”
Allison Craine stood in the
doorway, hands on hips and rage on face. “Who let you in? I thought I
had this place sprayed for pests.” Her chocolate hair was braided tight
against her head, and everything else was covered with mud: work boots,
jeans, oversized flannel shirt, right up to the fine features of her face. She could easily pass for someone Beth’s age, if that someone had been playing in a mud pit.
“I missed you, too.” Looks like I’m sleeping in the car tonight. Moving cautiously forward, he gestured toward the empty spot at the table. Look, we made a plate for you.”
“It’s actually for you,” Heather whispered. Beth shushed her.
“If
you were involved, I’d check it for alcohol.” Allie stalked forward,
fists clenched, until she came face to face with her brother. “What are
you doing here? We have enough trouble.”
“I came here to help.” He dropped the last can into her recycling bin. “See? Also, I gave up drinking over a year ago.”
“You –" She rolled her eyes. “You did not.”
“I was there –"
“Just last month you were seen dirty dancing with that Bethani girl.”
Heather gasped.
“Al, that wasn’t –"
“In the middle of Hollywood Boulevard!”
“She was drunk, not me – I was trying to keep her from getting run over, and you of all people know how the scandal sheets love to change the facts. If you’d picked up the phone, I could have told you.”
“What possible reason would I have to speak with you?”
“So I can apologize!” He heard his voice rising, and knew it was the wrong reaction, but couldn’t stop himself. For the
last year he’d tried to clean up his act, and nobody believed him.
“It’s all well and good that you’re everybody’s Pulitzer Prize winning
darling, but some of us have to atone for what we did in our youth. I
can’t make things right if nobody will let me try.”
“Do you have any idea what you did to me over the years?”
“Of course I do.” Ian looked over his shoulder at the silent table, mostly women and teenagers, with Fran the closest. Two men wearing blue fire department t-shirts stood frozen in the other doorway, and he realized it was Chance and the firefighter from earlier, Rich. So … an audience.
“I
showed up drunk at Allie’s coming out party. I wrote a book about our
dad – for money. I posed for a skin magazine, smoked and drank and
partied my way through my twenties, fought with bouncers, and drag raced
my way across California. I blew all my money in Vegas and then
took jobs in bad B movies to make more. I ruined her childhood and mine
by fighting with dad, throwing things, running away, and giving drunken
interviews, and I slept with her best friend.”
Ian paused to catch his breath. Total silence reigned until he turned back to his sister.
“Who needs to make up for what they’ve done more than I do?”
But Allie shook her head. “How can I trust you now? Wherever you go, trouble follows.”
The kitchen window exploded inward.
Someone shrieked as glass shot across the room between the dining table and the kitchen. Ian felt shards dig at his bare arm and saw others spatter across Fran, in the seat closest to him.
For an instant afterward Ian heard nothing but the tinkling of falling glass. His gaze went from the shattered window across the room to the wall, where a small hole showed at head height. “Hey … that’s a bullet hole.”
Before he finished speaking Fran launched herself from her chair. Behind her Chance shoved Rich into the hallway with one hand and pointed with the other: “Everybody get down!” Ian saw no more because Fran slammed into him, driving him into Allie, and all of them into the sheltered space behind the kitchen island.
“Get off me!”
Ian rolled away, slammed into the island, then
yelped when silverware showered over him. He scooped up a butter knife
and started to get to his knees, but Fran waved him down. She had her
pistol out, and crouched at the end of the island while speaking urgently into her portable radio. Of the others Ian could hear only rustling and panicked whispers.
“Sis, you okay?” He looked over at Allie, who’d scooted to sit with her back to the stove and grabbed up a spoon. “I think we’d be better off with silver bullets, instead of silverware.”
“This is your fault!” She brandished the spoon at him.
“My fault? This is your place, how is it my fault?”
Fran glanced back at them, looking disgusted. “Excuse me, we just got shot at.”
“But seriously, my fault?”
“Because you’re here!” Suddenly realizing what she held, Allie threw the spoon down and reached for a fork. “How often has this place been shot at before? Never, until you arrived.”
“Oh, come on. Who’d want to kill me?” Even as he said it, faces and names flashed by.
“Ex-girlfriends, husbands of ex-girlfriend –“
“I’d never –“
“Property owners, judges, cops, producers, directors, creditors, bookies –“
“Don’t forget music moguls.”
“And all your relatives! And my best friend from high school.”
“She still likes me.”
“She has a voodoo doll of you.”
“That explains my chronic neck pain ...”
“That’s not where she stabs it.”
Suddenly Ian realized Fran had disappeared around the island. “Fran?”
“Fran?” Allie repeated. She crept toward the end of the island. “Chance?”
“Be careful.”
“Get stuffed. Chance!”
They both jumped when Fran appeared around the corner again, at a crouch but holstering her weapon. “Help’s right around the corner. We just need to sit tight until they’ve cleared us.”
“Oh, good.” Allie turned to glare at her brother. “Until next time.”
“Hey … maybe it was debris from the tornado.” Even as he spoke, Ian knew how ridiculous that sounded.
“The tornado three days ago?”
“Maybe Dorothy’s house just landed,” murmured Fran, as she tried to peek out the nearest window.
“Look …” Ian put the knife down and held his hands out toward Allie. “If this turns out to be my fault in any way, I’ll gladly pay the damages.”
“And get out of my life?”
“Yes, but in the meantime I’ve got something very important to ask you.”
Eyes narrowed, Allie gestured with the fork. Not a friendly gesture. “What?”
“Can I spend the night here?”
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