Critiquing Conflict

By Jessica Darago

Okay, breathe, this post isn’t about conflict with critiques or critiquers. It’s about two of my partners, each of whom is struggling with conflict in her story.

I attended the Washington Romance Writers annual retreat this weekend (and, on a side note, free copy of Beyond Heaving Bosoms in the goodie bag: *SQUEE!!!*). It was my first time attending, and it was everything I was assured it was — pitching, drinking, and impromptu songfests. Good times. But it was also one of those all-too-rare opportunities to really talk craft in person with people who get it.

One of my critique partners was talking about a breakthrough she had recently. She’s got a great voice and fantastic characters, but she always feels like she struggles with plot. “And then I realized,” she said, “I’ve been confusing conflict with action.” She writes romantic suspense, and she had things blowing up and the world in peril, but she hadn’t given the hero and heroine an interpersonal conflict to overcome.

She gets it now. Awesome! I’m so psyched to see her next draft.

But that also reminded me of a situation in a manuscript from my non-romance, online critique group. This author friend has had some success with poetry and short stories, but she has yet to break out with a novel, and she’s struggling in particular with an epic high fantasy that is truly her “baby.”

(Keep in mind, even though it’s not a romance, the same principles of conflict will apply. Bear with me here.)

Two of the book’s most important secondary characters are the heroine’s best friend (let’s pick a romance-friendly name here and call her Ashley) and the bad guy’s dragon. (No, not a literal dragon; a second-in-command-in-disguise — we’ll call him Tom.) Ashley and Tom and the rest have been thrown together by the main plot. Ashley and Tom have been bickering almost nonstop since they met — and not in a cute sexual tension way. Ashley knows Tom’s up to no good, but the gang needs him to get the job done. And Tom? He’s just a giant douche.

So, bicker bicker bicker, quest quest quest, bicker bicker quest quest bicker … and then, suddenly, the heroine’s life is hanging by a thread, and only a wizard-type can save her.

As it happens, Ashley and Tom are both wizards.

Now, gentle reader, put yourself in the gentle writer’s hands. What happens next?

a) Ashley saves the heroine’s life — all is well.
b) Tom saves the heroine’s life — but now he’s got power over her.
c) Ashley and Tom finally have that gigantic throwdown you’ve been waiting for over who gets to save her. Fists and fireballs fly, but Tom wins, saves the heroine’s life, and how has power over her.

I think we can agree (a) is too lame to even speak of. And I’m obviously leading you a bit, because (c) has fireballs, people. Fireballs. But in her original draft, my writer friend chose option (b).

Now, option (b) is okay. Option (b) may even be the most realistic choice. But what (aside from fireballs!!!) is (c) giving you that’s so much better? The way I see it, the answer is twofold:

1) With option (c), Ashley loses power, rather than simply being powerless.
2) With option (c), the bad guy encounters a barrier to his will, and he gets to prove he’s stronger than the good guys — a worthy foe.

In a sense, this second writer made the opposite misstep from the first. The first was all action, no conflict; the second had plenty of conflict, but she forgot about action.

The best option is always using both.

But there’s a second lesson here for romance writers, something I often see editors and critics complain about. In our genre, in its myriad forms, we writers tend to focus on developing the conflict between the hero and heroine (and, if we’re clever, between the villian and the hero or heroine). And we are very, very good at it. But sometimes we forget about everyone else. Secondary characters need GMCs just as much as the main characters do. It gives the plot depth and texture … and if you’re lucky, it gives you an idea for another novel. This weekend, when an editor put me on the spot about sequels, I was able to give her quick-n-dirty pitches for two more novels (one about Gladys, the other about Sophie) that I haven’t fully plotted yet, simply because I gave them GMCs (a desire to better herself socially and a desire to have a purpose beyond marriagability) when writing The Serpent’s Tooth.

And now I’ve got a request to submit the full with two more proposals. And a case of the hives. All thanks to conflict.