Embracing Darker Themes and Complex Characters
I’m not drawn to warm and fuzzy, feel-good stories. I prefer darker themes in fiction—plot lines with morally conflicted characters or those who are forced to confront violence or abuse. Sometimes these characters face terror and despair, and sometimes they inflict it.
Writing dark, graphic scenes can be challenging because I love my characters. Every single one of them. Even the bad guys. (Sometimes especially the bad guys!)
That emotional investment makes putting them in peril particularly hard. Without a thoughtful approach, it’s easy for the narrative to become overwhelmingly grim, and for me—or you—to feel personally dragged down by it all.
Emotional Investment in Characters
I spend every day with the characters I’ve created. Beyond just the hours I’m typing at my desk. They’re always there, hovering in my mind, even when I’m not actively writing.
So when they hurt, I hurt. For a scene to be vivid and immersive, I must feel it fully myself. If I don’t believe in their pain, fear, or rage, the writing will fall flat, and my readers won’t connect with it.
Yet this emotional authenticity also leaves me vulnerable to the weight of their trauma or sorrow. Recognizing that strain is precisely why hope becomes so crucial.
By understanding my own emotional investment, I see the importance of balancing this with moments of levity and hope. These deliberate choices ensure that, even amid darkness and despair, the story—and I as the writer—never lose sight of a path forward.
Authenticity Through Personal Connection
I have wept while writing scenes. Some passages, even after countless read-throughs, still bring tears to my eyes. That’s because each moment on the page is personal. Every character I create is tethered to my own life, even if only by the thinnest thread.
This intimate connection ensures they feel real, fully dimensional, and capable of inspiring genuine empathy.
Though I’ve never lived Johnny Alvarez’s story, I’ve experienced emotions parallel to his. I take those memories, nurture them, and let them grow into something more expansive on the page.
This process didn’t happen consciously at first. It wasn’t until I was in a Novel in Progress class, run by Grub Street and led by Henriette Lazaridis, that I realized how deeply I’d been drawing on my own past.
When I read a particularly disturbing scene aloud—one involving child abuse—the stunned silence from my classmates revealed the intensity of what I’d tapped into.
Such authenticity demands careful handling. While it can heighten the scene’s emotional impact, it also risks leaving readers, and myself, overwhelmed.
Recognizing that I’m channeling personal truths helps me see why I have to temper the darkness with hope. That I can honor my characters’ pain without letting it consume the entire narrative.
Finding the Right Balance in Graphic Scenes
This need for balance became much clearer after that class. The writing had felt almost too real. Raw enough to leave everyone stunned. Together, we determined I could ease off some of the graphic detail without losing the scene’s power. That realization only fully emerged after Henriette asked, “Why the specificity of the violence?”
At the time, I didn’t have an answer. But the question lingered. Why indeed? For weeks, I combed through my own childhood memories for clues. Although I hadn’t experienced anything like Johnny’s ordeal, I could recall periods of time that echoed his suffering.
Uncovering that link wasn’t easy. Learning I’d been pulling threads from my own life was disconcerting, but also cathartic. It taught me that evoking genuine emotion doesn’t require overwhelming readers with explicit brutality. I can rely on shared human feelings—pain, fear, hope—to convey depth.
By doing so, I maintain the intensity without crushing the spirit. And because I understand where these emotions come from, I’m better equipped to guide the reader through dark territory while still leaving room for them, and me, to breathe.
Facing the Emotional Aftermath as a Writer
When I’m working on a difficult scene, I can sometimes find myself procrastinating—folding laundry, petting the cats, doing anything to delay facing the page. I used to resent this avoidance, but I’ve learned to honor it instead. Giving myself time to ease into the emotional space ensures that I fully connect with the scene’s intensity.
If I rush, the writing might feel forced, leaving no room for the nuanced hope I’m trying to preserve. By respecting my own emotional boundaries, I can return to the keyboard with honesty and integrity, ultimately creating a more resonant and compelling narrative.
Creating Levity and Balancing Pacing
To prevent being dragged down by darkness, I rely on creating characters who offer moments of levity. Just as real-life friends will lift you up in times of hardship, these lighter characters provide relief and perspective.
Pacing is crucial as well. Staggering heavy scenes with action, dialogue, or humor can soften the impact of difficult subject matter. This approach doesn’t diminish the gravity of the material; it ensures that neither I nor my readers remain trapped in despair.
Instead, we move through the story with a sense of possibility, finding space between the shadows.
Maintaining Hope in Dark Narratives
By understanding my personal connection to the material, allowing myself time when writing difficult scenes, and balancing darkness with moments of humor, I’ve discovered that it’s possible to explore graphic, challenging content without losing hope.
The aim is not to dwell in despair, but to acknowledge it, engage with it, and still find a path forward.
In the end, writing about pain and suffering can be a form of empathy. An honest conversation that admits life’s harshness while insisting that hope, resilience, and humanity persist. It’s this insistence on hope that transforms grim stories into deeply meaningful ones, leaving both writer and reader enriched rather than diminished.