Conflicted Interests

What is it about conflict that readers find so engaging? Every writing class, book, or instructor emphasizes the need for writers to introduce conflict in their stories. The sooner the better. Page one, paragraph one, if you can manage it. It should accompany the introduction of a sympathetic character. We need to care about the character first, then anxiously observe him or her deal with a sticky situation. I don’t write fiction, but the same fundamental elements serve memoir, which I do write. Fortunately (or not), there’s no lack of discord to write about.

Personally, I hate conflict. It causes such anxiety that I go out of my way to dodge it. I tend to quietly suck up a cruel comment or insult just to avoid having to confront the fact that I’ve been hurt. I avoid contentious situations so I don’t have to take sides. Can’t everyone just please get along?

A character we love—or hate—whose life is calm and predictable is a character we have no interest in.

In stories, though, all characters getting along makes for a boring read. Readers simply will not read beyond a few pages without a relatable character and an appropriate amount of tension. A character we love—or hate—whose life is calm and predictable is a character we have no interest in.

I’m currently struggling with a source of conflict that drains my emotions, involving a person with a toxic Jekyll-and-Hyde personality. I’ve avoided this individual, in the interest of maintaining adjacent relationships, but that may soon be impossible. Unfortunately, breaking ties with this person means breaking ties with a community of people I admire and enjoy spending time with, a place I felt I belonged.

Some in the group are blissfully unaware of misconduct and are happy with things as they see them. I can’t defend against the drama-inducer’s claim of victimhood at others’ expense without sounding petty or whiny. While it feels deceptive not to offer an honest explanation for disappearing, the truth would create division. It seems best to slip away quietly.

If every story necessarily involves strife, I wonder how my favorite fictional characters would respond in my situation. Books have provided comfort or suggested remedies to me throughout my life, so it’s no surprise I’d rely on them now.

One of my favorite characters from younger years is Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice. She faced the prejudices of a social system. She didn’t defeat it or overcome it so much as sidestep it by winning Mr. Darcy’s affection, but there was plenty of disagreement between the two of them in the meantime. As a woman of that era, she had little choice but to acquiesce to the man and the injustice both. Sentimental readers (like me) swoon in relief at her rescue from the certain poverty a poor marriage would have led to. Unfortunately, Ms. Bennett presents a poor example for my current dilemma.

Some story conflicts are more difficult to parse out than others because they’re complicated or just too numerous. There’s tension galore in the Harry Potter series. In the age-old clash of good versus evil, Harry Potter battles Lord Voldemort, the evil wizard who killed Harry’s father. The Hogwarts houses clash as well, which drives a good bit of the story through seven iterations. But there is also internal conflict within Harry that changes him. Character growth is the most appreciated result of overcoming difficult circumstances in modern literature, I think. Will I someday look back on this episode of my life with the assurance it led to personal growth? I hope so.

In another popular story, the Grinch is conflicted about the community that ostracized him. He withdraws and spends years plotting against the Whoville residents who spurned him. The Grinch is also bedeviled by internal strife: he wants to belong but doesn’t want to expose himself to more hurt. He licks his wounds while resentment grows. When he destroys the town’s Christmas festivities, he’s amazed to realize they will accept him, despite his green appearance (symbolic of jealousy, I assume). I hope to avoid the Grinch’s level of resentment, but I’d like to think my heart can grow three sizes in a day. Feeling accepted can do that for you.

Stewing over conflict in recent months is interfering with my sleep and dominating conversations in our household. I’m tired. Cutting ties is the best remedy, but it breaks my heart to realize it. Like the Grinch, I want to belong but am hesitant to expose myself to more harm. Tension is an inevitable component of life, and learning how to resolve it or make peace with it drives every real or imagined story forward. The uncertainty about where it will drive mine is scary, but if it leads to inner growth and a renewed sense of belonging, I’ll hang on for the ride.