Acting Out the Dark Night: How I Vicariously Experience Heartache
When it comes to characters experiencing the Dark Night of the Soul, an author has to understand the depth of conflict that led them there. Conflict, as Angela Ackerman writes, “is the crucible that tests and shapes them over the course of the story in ways that are needed if they are to succeed at achieving their goal.”
I often experiment with scenes long before they end up on the page. I don’t know if it’s the soap operas I watched as a preteen, or the many romance books I read as I spent hours in the library. Perhaps I watched way too much professional wrestling for too long. Regardless of the reason, though, I relish the ability to act out these vital scenes.
For that reason, during the high-level plotting phase, I brainstorm what kind of events and decisions my characters might make to lead to that moment. I ask myself how I can get them to the point where they have no choice but to face their inner demons. That means understanding three things:
- The purpose of the scene
- Which POV character is trying to convince who of what
- How the scene fits into the story as a whole
It’s vital that I establish these basic principles. Only then can I focus on acting out the POV character’s emotional fears and how they experience physical isolation. Lastly, I try to imagine the glimmer of hope that will get them into the last twenty to twenty-five percent of the story. I discuss my tactics below.
Photo by Arun Anoop on Unsplash
Acting Out Emotional Fear
Fear in fiction doesn’t just come from physical threats. Granted, romantic suspense occasionally puts a character or two at risk. Unlike thriller or suspense novels, however, the danger is not the true fear those characters face to finally grow internally and overcome whatever obstacle you’ve put in their path. In fact, a character’s internal wounds should cause the most pain, especially with how they show themselves through physical reactions.
I accept that I’m not my protagonist. Yet when it comes to acting out scenes, I have to be to gauge his reactions. I dig deep to understand the cause of those reactions.
As humans, we all have fears created by some sort of trauma, small-t or big-T. In fact, early adverse childhood events have both psychosocial and physiological impact. (Check out Dr. Gabor Maté’s The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture for a deep dive into the science behind these impacts.)
Thus, my stories are character-centered for a reason. My characters’ greatest fears influence the decisions they make on every page. Not surprisingly, it’s the critical decisions they screw up thanks to these fears. Ackerman adds this advice,
Understanding what a character fears [. . .] helps you narrow down the types of plot events to use, guiding your brainstorming sessions. Having a direction to go in makes it easier to find the right problems to throw at your protagonist.
Physical movement, settings, sensory details, thought processes, and the like derive from my primary protagonist’s backstory. And even if these events never get shown on the page, that backstory helps me act out the protagonist’s knee-jerk reactions to emotionally painful story events.
Acting Out Physical Isolation
My depressive cycles sometimes get so bad, I seem to fall off the face of the planet. In those times, the only people I can find the strength to talk to are my mom and sister. Problems stack up until I freeze up, unable to decide which way to move, which problem to address. This is the reality of living with Bipolar 2 and Major Depression, among other neurodivergent diagnoses.
Under these circumstances, it’s no wonder that avoidance is one of my protagonist’s primary personality traits. He’s authentic in his presentation, primarily because of traumatic events he experienced. Becca Puglisi writes, “The act of avoidance itself can generate conflict as the character goes to great lengths to keep from facing the issue.”
Often, a character recognizes that they’re isolating themselves, that all they have to do is reach out for help. The inner darkness is so all-encompassing, though, that character becomes an emotional black hole. Little events add up, small hits shock their system, and they retreat into themselves. No one gets in, and nothing they feel gets out.
As you can see, acting out physical isolation isn’t something that’s too hard for me. I visualize my character in hopeless situations. I force him to make mistakes, to refuse to listen to anyone, or even to trust the wrong people. Worse yet, after all that, then I put myself in his metaphorical shoes. This lets me see how he processes his actions and the reactions of those around him.
- What does he do or say or think when his world gets shattered?
- When nothing is what he thought it was?
- When he has no one to blame but himself?
Finding A Glimmer of Hope
In fiction and reality, experiencing a Dark Night of the Soul event (or several events) is unavoidable. Life changes at the drop of a hat, often in horrible ways. However long they last, you’re forced to examine pieces of your life you have been avoiding. You reflect on the choices and decisions that got you to that point.
Coming out of this period isn’t easy, and it isn’t meant to be easy. In acting out his heartache, my character learns to give himself the grace I give myself. He accepts and gives himself permission to take the time needed to work through those choices and decisions. Better yet, I give him time to reveal what growth will come from this analysis.
Like my protagonist, I allow myself the time it takes to process devastating events, even if by no direct fault of my own. I tell my mom that sometimes I just have to “sit in it” to push through it. Tiffany Yates Martin teaches,
Learning to pay deliberate, meticulous attention to how you react to and handle your own challenges and triumphs, obstacles and demons can be rich turf for growing characters readers deeply relate to and conveying them vividly on the page.
Photographs, trinkets, and framed posters adorn my office walls. They remind me regularly to check in with myself, physically and mentally, when something throws me off. As an AuDHD’r, it doesn’t take much overstimulation to throw off my whole day. Experiencing these events, then immediately writing or meditating on them, provides an endless reference list of original, realistic, and relatable reactions I can then test by acting out the same event from my protagonist’s point of view.
Photo by Damir Samatkulov on Unsplash
To Sum It All Up
I’m stuck at 60,564 words in my WIP. One reason is that I’m an entrepreneur and full-time story coach and editor. It’s not easy to set aside time for acting out the various scene ideas my brain throws at me throughout the day. The primary reason, though, is that I have to basically have a scene fully formed in my head before I can write it.
In order to fully form that scene, I have to understand my protagonist from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. Rochelle Jewel Shapiro says, “Writing, at its best, is a kind of acting. You have to inhabit the character to be able to write about him. You have to have a sense of scene, pacing [. . .] how to let the drama rise and fall.”
I have a TV in my living room that I haven’t turned on in at least two years. No movie or TV show creates more visceral imagery than what my brain can think up as I read. Acting out scenes reminds me why I started writing the story to begin with.
Even at just over 60,000 words, I’m still only forty percent through my outline. Yet, I’m already acting out both protagonists’ Dark Nights. I experiment with their reactions to each other, how they add fuel to each other’s emotional conflagration.
As hard as it is to directly experience these kinds of moments, somehow, it’s even harder to vicariously do so. Yet I know their heartache—and my own—is the only way to grow into the person each is meant to be. In fiction, as in life, it’s not going to easy, but it will be worth it.
Reflecting On Your Story One Word At A Time!
