Writing the Big Dramatic Moment? Show Me

Writing those big dramatic moments is perhaps the greatest challenge any fiction writer will face. Example:

A man returns home after work to discover his house ringed by police and fire vehicles, and a crowd of onlookers.

He tries to break through the police line but is stopped. He struggles desperately, then stops cold at the sight of two stretchers, rolled out of the house, bearing two covered bodies. Behind him, he hears a hushed voice: “The wife and kid. Both dead.”

A terrible moment. How would you write it?

Here’s one way:

“No. No…couldn’t be. The wife and kid? HIS wife and kid. Dave’s mind reeled at the thought. Disbelief flooded him like poisoned sap. He struggled to regain his composure, but denial gave way to desperation, then hysteria, causing him to renew his struggle to break through. “Yeah, it’s both of em,” said a voice behind him. “Poor guy.”

What do you think? Did that attempt render the horror vividly enough? Well, I don’t know about you, but it certainly wouldn’t do it for me. Why not?

Notice the kind of terms the action is described with:

His mind reeled. A cliche. What specific mental or emotional experience does this convey you? None. It conveys a type of experience that applies to anyone in a state of profound disorientation.

Disbelief flooded his mind. “Disbelief” is a category word, and “flooded his mind” is another cliche. Together they are an informational, but say nothing about this particular man’s mental experience in this particular moment. Nor do they convey a sense of how it feels to be going through it all.

“Desperation…hysteria.” Generic words. Again, they tell me what general type of experience he’s going through, but fail to address his specific experience, the thoughts and feelings particular this this man in this moment.

Struggles… Another generic word, another general class of action, but it doesn’t convey an image. Yes, he struggles, but does that mean he claws at the officers? Do his arms push and shove to rip his way through? Who knows? Generic words don’t deliver particularities because, they’re designed to be broadly informational,. it’s not their job. [Yes, I'm aware I used it myself in the set-up, but my job there is to quickly inform you. I'm not writing fiction.]

Renewed his struggle… Does that describe an action? Would you say, “Look at that man renewing his struggle.” Not likely, and it’s because those words are normally intended only to inform a reader that certain thing is happening, but not what that certain thing is, looks like, feels like, and means.

So let’s do it again, this time right. But how? Here are a couple of helpful principles that, if you can hang onto them as you write a moment like this, will transform the result:

• Simpler is better. The more you reach for a suite of modifying words and phrases to encompass the experience, the less impact you’re likely to have. Why is this? Because more words mean more linguistic mediation, more refinement. When the experience is one like this–the most devastating emotional punch this man will ever receive–the refined and complex takes a back seat to the blunt and bone simple.

• Explanation pales before the power of the raw image. I can explain what Dave is going through until I’m blue in the face, and you’ll understand it, but you won’t feel it. Have you ever watched a TV news report in which suddenly there are 30 seconds of gut wrenching visuals? What was the announcer saying while you watched, transfixed? You can’t remember, can you? That’s because the power of that visual dwarfed the expository drone of the announcer’s voice, blanked it out.

So then, let’s visualize: what does Dave do, physically, when he sees the bodies rolled out and hears, “the wife and kid. Both dead.” What do we see him do?

First, look to the most obviously expressive part of his anatomy–his face. How would you objectively describe the facial changes of a man in sudden and intense shock?

Then don’t forget his body–does it contort, slump, go into spasm, go rigid? The unusual postures people assume at moments like this are richly expressive.

Screenwriters face the challenge of the visual all the time, because every piece of narrative they write must be a potential screen image. What would you write, for example, if the director said, “I don’t want any dialogue for this moment. Do it all visually.”

So let’s try: “Dave’s mouth fell half open. No. No…couldn’t be. His eyes drifted, then snapped back into focus at the sound of the stretchers rumbling by. The wife and kid? HIS wife and kid? He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He clawed at his lips with both hands, then with a wail, propelled himself forward into the restraining arms of the cops. ‘Yeah, it’s both of ‘em,’ said a voice behind him. ‘Poor guy.’”

Not too awful––except that after some powerful visuals comes the purely explanatory phrase, “he couldn’t believe what he was hearing,” an informational buzz killer. What do do? This one’s easy: get rid of it. Drop it out, and you then have the full power of Dave’s desperation in a single mini-sequence of images, and there’s no narrative interpretation to get in the way.

“Dave’s mouth sagged open. No. No…couldn’t be. His eyes drifted, then snapped back into focus at the sound of the stretchers rumbling by. The wife and kid? HIS wife and kid? He clawed at his lips, then with a moan, propelled himself forward into the restraining arms of the cops. ‘Yeah, it’s both of ‘em,’ said a voice behind him. ‘Poor guy.’”

You don’t need more–raw images will do all the explaining by engaging the immediate emotional comprehension of the reader. When that happens you’ve got involvement, and in fiction writing, that’s gold.