CONFLICT WITHOUT COMBAT
Part Two Copyright l995 by Alicia Rasley

Characters can't have real conflicts without first having real characters. Sound too obvious to require explanation? Maybe not. Think of what passes for conflict in so many romances-- "I hate you; let's go to bed." No matter what sort of people they were before this confrontation, the hero usually becomes arrogant and abusive and the heroine becomes shrill and shrewish, and their every encounter requires a UN peacekeeping force.

It just doesn't work. The message from the character is: "This conflict makes me stop being myself and become someone else, someone,moreover, that the real me wouldn't like. If this is what love does, I think I'm allergic." In fact, the scene's aftermath often betrays the contradiction of character and conflict. After all the dust settles, one or both of the characters will think, "I don't know what came over me. That wasn't like me at all." Precisely! They've been foreed into conflicts that don't fit them, and so their behavior in response is out of character.

The message to writers should be: Know your characters. Accept them, not as stock figures in stock roles, but as real people who just happened to be conceived inside your head. Explore what they-- not some other hero and heroine-- need and fear and value, and how they interact, and what sort of outside forces act on each of them and on their relationship. You might find their conflicts don't fall neatly into a pattern set by other writers, and that their reactions are in character and consistent, and that the resolution evolves naturally from the combination of character and conflict.

Real conflict is far more complex than a confrontation between two people. In fact, long before the heroine can confront the hero, she will have developed eonflicts within herself and with her world; ditto the hero.

There you find the three levels of conflict: Internal (inside the character), external (between the character and something outside), and interactional (within a relationship of characters). Often all three will work together within one story. Hamlet, for example, struggles with his own eonseienee (internal conflict) to unmask his father's murderer (external), but these conflicts together damage his relationships with his mother and Ophelia (interactional).

Of course, even intermingling the three levels of conflict is not enough to make a plot. There's no more suspense in watching a hero trip again and again over the same obstacle than in watching him waltz through life without a care. Conflict should force the character to make a choice between two or more alternative futures. The story has to pose the questions, whieh will he choose? Then what will happen to him? And it must provide some answers. The process of conflict creation and resolution gives the structure to the story and identification to the reader, who will ask, which would I ehoose? How would I deal with this?

Creating reader identifieation is a delicate balancing act. On the one hand, the conflict must be universal enough that the reader can enter into it. On the other hand, it must be unusual enough that the reader has to puzzle alo~g with the character to find the resolution. The most elegant conflict is derived from something unique in this person's character or circumstance, but is still recognizably human. Oedipus is (I hope) the only person fated to kill his father and marry his mother, a fate he understandably resists. But we have all faced his essential debate, whether to insist on the need to eontrol our own life or accept the religious concept of fate. Since Oedipus is a man who reveres truth, his resolution of the conflict is both unique and understandable: By accepting the fact of his fate, Oedipus is able to transcend it and choose another fate for the rest of his life. (His wife/mother, who has always chosen to hide from the truth, chooses suicide as her resolution.)

Somewhere within the conflict should be the seed of its resolution. Something in her character will give the heroine the strength to triumph, or she will seek and find a compromise, or someone involved with her as a result of the conflict will help her find a way out. Or, perhaps, merely through outlasting this conflict, she will become stronger and more likely to resolve the next conflict that comes along. Even if the central conflict will not be resolved, there must be the possibility of resolution, or there will be no suspense. No one would watch breathlessly as two teams engaged in an athletic competition designed to end in a tie, after all.

That's the purpose of conflict within a story, to provide something to resolve. Fiction is primarily about change: Conflict creates the need for change, and change creates more conflict. If the hero's life is going along swimmingly, why change it? And why write a book about it? Nothing would happen. Toss a conflict in the middle of that terrific life, though, and watch the fireworks-and watch him grow to meet the challenge.

As Aristotle noted two thousand years ago, it's the peripety or reversal of fortune that causes dramatic tension. As he was writing about tragedy, his examples all show a fortunate hero coming smack up against misfortune. But Aristotle also suggested that conflict can be generated when an unfortunate protagonist receives some great boon, as in a Cinderella story.

That's because change can force a choice between deeply held values, needs, or attitudes. This is at the root of most internal conflicts. Think of poor Cinderella, granted her life's wish-- but only for an evening. Two needs, for security and for hope, clash here. Okay, Cinderella hasn't had much of a life, but she's made the most of it, making friends with the birds, taking pride in her housework. It's familiar, even a little comfortable, as long as she accepts that it's all she's going to have. Whenever she starts hoping-- that her mother will come back to life, that her father will protect her, that her stepmom won't be wicked, that her stepsisters really mean it this time-- reality crashes down and almost crushes her. And along comes this fairy godmother with her magic wand and her promises-- a gown, a coach, an enchanted evening. Can Cinderella trust her? What if this is some sort of trick her wicked stepsisters are playing on her? Even if it's for real, what happens when the clock strikes midnight and she's back in rags again? Is the momentary pleasure worth the loss of it? If it makes her hope tonight, won't she despair tomorrow, to find herself back in the kitchen scrubbing floors? But what sort of life is it, without hope? Is she really living if she chooses drudgery and dreariness as her lot? You can hardly blame Cinderella if she longs for the days before that meddling fairy godmother appeared, when she didn't have any choices.

Voila, the external conflict. An outside force is often needed to bring the internal conflict to the surface, by blocking the familiar life path and forcing the character to choose a new one. This new complication enhances the reader's identification with the character, because while internal conflicts can be individual, external sources of conflict are universal. Complications will always arise when our values or needs collide with the reality or expectations of the world outside. We will all lose loved ones, face illness, search for success or the holy grail or a comfortable place in an uncomfortable world. We all have grouchy bosses or disobedient children or unbalanced checking accounts.

How we choose to handle these problems, however, will vary depending on our personalities. Mom's obsessed with order, so she stays up three nights in a row forcing that goldurned checkbook to balance. Dad's an optimist and a mathphobe? so he just hides the statements away and figure the bank is probably right and some nice person must have deposited $2000 in his account. Son's a delegator, so he dumps the statement and the checks on the desk of the bank officer and says, "You figure it out.,' There are as many different ways of developing these common conflicts as there are people suffering from them. But you have to know your people very well to know how they are likely to react when they collide with the rest of the world.

The traditional genres of novels usually confront the protagonist with some external problem-- mysteries have a murder, thrillers have some international conspiracy, Gothics a hidden danger, adventures some kind of quest. In this way, traditional forms give structure to what might otherwise be a sprawling study of a character agonizing endlessly about internal conflicts.

But remember that, however generic the complication, the protagonist is unique, thus the collision with this external obstacle will result from and/or aggravate some internal conflict (especially in a romance, where the emotional content is so important). In a mystery, the protagonist usually encounters an unsolved murder and solves it. Strictly formulaic, right? Except -- well, explore that premise. If I encountered an unsolved murder, I'd call the police and let them handle it. If there were a murderer on the loose, I wouldn't want to be on his tail. Let's face it: the detective-protagonist is kind of an oddball. Why does she choose to go after this bad guy, against all common sense? Is she just obsessively curious like Miss Jane Marple, the village meddler? Was the murder victim a friend of hers, one perhaps she had failed in some way, so this investigation is an expiation of her own guilt? Or does the murder evoke dark memories of a childhood full of violence, and the need to punish the murderer grow out of a need to punish her abusive father? There's an internal conflict in there somewhere, or she'd never encounter that external conflict.

The most satisfying novels of any genre mingle external and internal conflicts. For example, in Patricia Veryan's romantic adventure story The Dedicated Villain, the protagonist's quest for Bonnie Prince Charlie's gold provides the defining structure. But Roland's obsession has to be more than an external complication, because, well, he's so obsessive about it. Why is he going for the gold? He doesn't need the money; he's the grandson of a duke. There must be an internal motivation here: Trying to steal the gold lets him identify himself as a villain, as a selfish rogue who needs no one's approval. It gives him a way to live down to the expectations of his relatives and the world, and resolves for the moment his aching need for an identity. But then he meets Fiona, who thinks he's a hero and expects him to live up to her expectations and give the gold back. The resulting dilemma is not just what should I do, but what am I? The villain who doesn't need people, or the hero who does? And Fiona faces her own dilemma, this one the conflict found in many Gothic novels-- Is this man I love a villain? The resolution of this kind of internal-external conflict cannot be merely external (such as someone else stealing the gold from him) because only emotional growth can resolve the internal questions. So Fiona does not let herself be blinded by love; rather she is "en-sightened"-- love lets her trust him, not for some inexplicable chemical reason, but because she knows herself, and knows him, and knows she has judged him correctly. And Roland decides his real treasure will be earned by being the sort of man that Fiona can love, and he abandons the quest that has given him purpose for so long.

This is real romantic conflict. When you put together two people, each with real internal and external conflicts, their interaction will naturally develop complications. They are not generic characters, so their problems won't be generic, but individual to this relationship between these two people. They are your creations, so you'll have to explore the past, the future, their values, needs, and goals, and discover how well or how badly they fit into this world, and how and why they fit each other.

The resulting interactional conflict need not be destructive. In fact, in a romance, it should be constructive. Working through their problems should help the lovers fall in love, or accept that love, or fulfill that love. They must decide that they cherish each other enough to trust and cooperate. The resolution provides a sense of accomplishment for them and of closure for the book.

The most satisfying resolution will come from what keeps them together despite the conflict, the element that makes them love. And by defining this element you can devise a climax based on the interaction of their connection and their conflict.

The focus on character interaction will also help writers move beyond standard confrontation model of conflict. People don't have to be opposites or enemies to experience relationship problems. Often people who are most alike have the most difficulty relating to each other. How often have you heard, "My mother and I love each other, but we don't get along. We're too much alike"? Fortunately similarity can aid lovers in solving the very conflict it creates.

Joan Wolf's Lord Richard's Daughter examines the delicate interplay of kindred spirits. Julianne and John are both loners who have long lived outside society, she as a missionary's daughter and he as a soldier of fortune. They are drawn together because no one else in the world shares their experiences. They are similar, but not identical, so they have different responses to their common alienation. She craves the secure home she has never known, and he craves the freedom he has always known. Thus their internal conflicts cause trouble between them, because giving into love would mean giving up what they each need. Julianne tries to break free of the dilemma by becoming engaged to another man (who promptly becomes John's external conflict), one who can give her the home and family she needs. But John understands a competing need within her, for individuality and expression, and shows that he will accept all of her, not just that part of her that conforms to social dictates.

His acceptance and admiration of her strengths are highlighted in two parallel scenes: In the first, she confesses that her book of observations on life in Africa is to be published. Her nice respectable fiance hopes the book will come out anonymously, because ladies don't bandy their names about. John, however, believes she deserves to become famous for writing such a fine book. In the second scene, John expects her to shoot a mad dog, because he knows that she is a fine shot. Her fiance sulkily says that she should have let him do it; ladies, of course, don't shoot mad dogs, no matter how urgent the situation. John's acceptance gives her some of the security she needs, enough to let her give up the dream of an England home and join him in a life that combines adventure with love, in an ambassadorial post. Their conflict, derived from real needs within each of them, is resolved not by one's surrender, but by a gradual decision to make their intimacy worth the change and sacrifice it will require. They can embark on their life together confident that they can surmount other challenges, because they have faced this one and triumphed-- not over each other, but over the problems that kept them apart.

What is particularly poignant is that John and Julianne never hate, never assign blame, even when their actions hurt each other. In fact, their commonality makes them feel each other's pain-- but it also doubles their joy when they achieve their hard-earned love. They know this is not a contest which one must lose and one must win; they know, in fact, that sort of outcome would be a defeat for them both. They are kindred spirits, equals, comrades, and that gives them the strength to love.

In Georgette Heyer's Venetia, the protagonists are not so well-matched, but again, their ability to share resolves their conflict. Damerel has all the usual heroic weapons-- he is stronger, older, more experienced, and less scrupulous. But Venetia disarms him with her intelligence, her appreciation of the absurd, and her insistence on being treated as an equal. They become friends, and that creates conflict for Damerel. He knows himself and his faults, and knows he is the wrong man for an innocent girl. His conscience (rusty as it is) struggles with his love for her. Adding to his conflict is his realization that she is his last chance to live a worthy life. So in giving her up to keep from hurting her, he is also giving up his possible redemption. The conflict here has nothing to do with anger or opposition. He gives her up out of love. She resists his decision out of love. And love, rooted in their friendship, leads them out of the conflict. They know each other, and while that provides much of the conflict (she's aware of his disreputable history, he of her essential innocence) it also means that they do not give up easily on each other. At one point, when Damerel, set on renouncing her, suggests that her broken heart will soon mend, she asks, "Why do you say that? It is as if you wished to hurt me, but that can't be so. I don't feel that it can be!" She knows him, and knows he would not deliberately give her pain. She must consider why he would behave so harshly, and through identification of his motivation, determine what she can do to cause a resolution. She creates for herself a future even more scandalous than marriage to him, and the same chivalry that led him to forsake her drives him to save her. So the conflict of his chivalry getting the better of his love is resolved by that very chivalry.

These examples show that conflict should be more than a way to add some sex and violence to a story. Rather, it can provide the motivation for two people to choose a new life's path, one that leads to a fulfilling love.

Now some writers will complain, ''But editors don't want that kind of conflict! They want the cliche! That's how it became a cliche, because it's all they'll buy."

Well, I'll be the first to admit that to me an editor's reasoning is as mysterious as an Agatha Christie plot. But if it were ever true that editors buy only romance novels that include combat scenes, my experience shows that it's mostly a myth now, one particularly dangerous for aspiring writers. Last year I judged two contests, one of conflict scenes by six unpublished writers, and one of six published romances. Every one of the unpublished manuscripts centered on a combat-model conflict; not one of the published novels did. In fact, each published novel had its own unique combination of internal, external, and interactional conflicts.

Still not convinced? Look back over the books you've loved, that you keep and re-read. Analyze their central conflicts. Oh, you might encounter an occasional combat scene. But I'll bet the problems the lovers spend the book overcoming are more wrenching than "I hate you," and the solutions more fulfilling than "Let's go to bed."

(Sidebar) Deeply felt, thoughtfully drawn conflicts must start with a thorough exploration of the characters. And that kind of exploration starts with the mental trick of imagining your characters as real people waiting to be introduced and interviewed and understood.

To that end, I offer a few questions to help identify the conflicts your characters will be likely to develop: