tries to undermine it. Uh-huh.
Turns out, as neuroscience writer Jonah Lehrer says, “If it weren’t for our emotions, reason wouldn’t exist at all.” 1 Take that, Plato! This is illustrated by a sad story that, even sadder, its real-life protagonist doesn’t see as sad at all. Because he can’t—literally. Elliot, a patient of Antonio Damasio, had lost a small section of his prefrontal cortices during surgery for a benign brain tumor. Before his illness, Elliot held a high-level corporate job and had a happy, thriving family. By the time he saw Damasio, Elliot was in the process of losing everything. He still tested in the 97th percentile in IQ, had a high-functioning memory, and had no trouble enumerating each and every possible solution to a problem. Trouble was, he couldn’t make a decision—from what color pen to use to whether it was more important to do the work his boss expected or spend the day alphabetizing all the folders in his office. 2
Why? Because, as Damasio discovered, the damage to his brain left him unable to experience emotion. As a result, he was utterly detached and approached life as if everything in it was neutral. But wait, shouldn’t that be a good thing? Now that emotion couldn’t butt in and cloud Elliot’s judgment, he’d be free to make rational decisions, right? I think you know where this is going. Without emotion, eachoption carried the exact same weight—everything really was six of one, half a dozen of the other.
Turns out, as cognitive scientist Steven Pinker notes, “Emotions are mechanisms that set the brain’s highest-level goals.” 3 Along with, apparently, every other goal, down to what to have for breakfast. Without emotions, Elliot had no way to gauge what was important and what wasn’t, what mattered and what didn’t.
It is exactly the same when it comes to story. If the reader can’t
feel
what matters and what doesn’t, then nothing matters, including finishing the story. The question for writers, then, is where do these feelings come from? The answer’s very simple: the protagonist.
In this chapter we’ll explore how to deftly weave in the most important, yet often overlooked, element of story—letting the reader know how your protagonist is reacting internally to everything that happens, as it happens. We’ll decode the secret of conveying thoughts when writing in first or third person; expose the sins of editorializing; take a good look at how body language never lies; and rethink that bossy old saw, “Write what you know.”
The Protagonist: You Feel Me?
When we’re fully engaged in a story, our own boundaries dissolve. We become the protagonist, feeling what she feels, wanting what she wants, fearing what she fears—as we’ll see in the next chapter, we literally mirror her every thought. It’s true of books and it’s true of movies, too. I remember in college walking home after seeing an old Katharine Hepburn movie. It didn’t occur to me how deeply I’d been affected until I caught my own reflection mirrored in a darkened store window. Until that moment, I’d been Katharine Hepburn. Or, more precisely, Linda Seton in
Holiday
. Then all of a sudden I was me again, which definitely meant that Cary Grant was not waiting for me on board a ship about to set sail into a glorious future.
But at least for a few splendid minutes walking down Shattuck Avenue, I saw the world through Linda Seton’s eyes. It was visceral, and it felt like a gift—because my worldview had shifted. Linda was the black sheep of her family, and so was I. She’d fought tradition, regardless of the consequences, and even though she spent years in the proverbial attic, in the end, she triumphed. Maybe I could too. My step was lighter walking home than when I left for the theater.
This is a gift that so many of the manuscripts I’ve since read didn’t quite bestow, because the author had fallen prey to a very common pitfall, one that in essence rendered their
Turns out, as neuroscience writer Jonah Lehrer says, “If it weren’t for our emotions, reason wouldn’t exist at all.” 1 Take that, Plato! This is illustrated by a sad story that, even sadder, its real-life protagonist doesn’t see as sad at all. Because he can’t—literally. Elliot, a patient of Antonio Damasio, had lost a small section of his prefrontal cortices during surgery for a benign brain tumor. Before his illness, Elliot held a high-level corporate job and had a happy, thriving family. By the time he saw Damasio, Elliot was in the process of losing everything. He still tested in the 97th percentile in IQ, had a high-functioning memory, and had no trouble enumerating each and every possible solution to a problem. Trouble was, he couldn’t make a decision—from what color pen to use to whether it was more important to do the work his boss expected or spend the day alphabetizing all the folders in his office. 2
Why? Because, as Damasio discovered, the damage to his brain left him unable to experience emotion. As a result, he was utterly detached and approached life as if everything in it was neutral. But wait, shouldn’t that be a good thing? Now that emotion couldn’t butt in and cloud Elliot’s judgment, he’d be free to make rational decisions, right? I think you know where this is going. Without emotion, eachoption carried the exact same weight—everything really was six of one, half a dozen of the other.
Turns out, as cognitive scientist Steven Pinker notes, “Emotions are mechanisms that set the brain’s highest-level goals.” 3 Along with, apparently, every other goal, down to what to have for breakfast. Without emotions, Elliot had no way to gauge what was important and what wasn’t, what mattered and what didn’t.
It is exactly the same when it comes to story. If the reader can’t
feel
what matters and what doesn’t, then nothing matters, including finishing the story. The question for writers, then, is where do these feelings come from? The answer’s very simple: the protagonist.
In this chapter we’ll explore how to deftly weave in the most important, yet often overlooked, element of story—letting the reader know how your protagonist is reacting internally to everything that happens, as it happens. We’ll decode the secret of conveying thoughts when writing in first or third person; expose the sins of editorializing; take a good look at how body language never lies; and rethink that bossy old saw, “Write what you know.”
The Protagonist: You Feel Me?
When we’re fully engaged in a story, our own boundaries dissolve. We become the protagonist, feeling what she feels, wanting what she wants, fearing what she fears—as we’ll see in the next chapter, we literally mirror her every thought. It’s true of books and it’s true of movies, too. I remember in college walking home after seeing an old Katharine Hepburn movie. It didn’t occur to me how deeply I’d been affected until I caught my own reflection mirrored in a darkened store window. Until that moment, I’d been Katharine Hepburn. Or, more precisely, Linda Seton in
Holiday
. Then all of a sudden I was me again, which definitely meant that Cary Grant was not waiting for me on board a ship about to set sail into a glorious future.
But at least for a few splendid minutes walking down Shattuck Avenue, I saw the world through Linda Seton’s eyes. It was visceral, and it felt like a gift—because my worldview had shifted. Linda was the black sheep of her family, and so was I. She’d fought tradition, regardless of the consequences, and even though she spent years in the proverbial attic, in the end, she triumphed. Maybe I could too. My step was lighter walking home than when I left for the theater.
This is a gift that so many of the manuscripts I’ve since read didn’t quite bestow, because the author had fallen prey to a very common pitfall, one that in essence rendered their
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