While we can certainly be forgiven for not seeing our personal wounds as jewels, our most powerful wounds often have as many facets and hidden depths as an exquisitely cut gemstone. They are sharp, with hard edges that not only reflect back light but distort it somewhat.
As writers, we know that our character’s wounds are some of the most fertile ground for creating a rich, fully realized protagonist. But before we can explore this with our characters, we have to understand it ourselves. And because we have all been wounded in some way—and those places are always tender—it can be uncomfortable to look too closely.
In order to use our characters’ wounds to full effect, we need to understand that wounds aren’t simply an attribute to be filled in on a worksheet. They are the rocket fuel for our character’s backstory, the backstory that drives their motivation and colors their world. It must be deeply organic to that character and so intricately woven into their emotional DNA that it distorts the way the see the world and themselves.
While everyone’s wounds are uniquely theirs, they are also universal in that they’re something we all share. What differs is their nature, how we carry them, and the many—often unexpected—ways they shape us and our behavior.
Because of course the impact of any given wound isn’t limited to that initial injury. I was reminded of that last week when I was out walking and twisted my ankle. It was nothing serious, but by the time I’d limped around favoring it for a day or two, everything else was out of whack as I contorted my body to accommodate the injury.
Emotional wounds are just like that, only worse by orders of magnitude.
Even when we know our character’s painful past, we often don’t use it to full effect. We don’t manage to weave into the very essence of who our character is—because make no mistake, wounds fundamentally shape us, especially those incurred in childhood when we are so defenseless. With wounds of the heart or soul—the ones that violate some deep fundamental part—it is the repercussions of that initial wound that create the most scarring. The blame, the self-doubt, the suffocating shame, all serve as a way to cut us off from our core self.
Emotional neglect, a betrayal, a rejection, a lie, are all painful enough, but often become the lens through which we see ourselves. We accept that rejection. Believe that lie. Justify the betrayal due to something fundamentally flawed within us rather than the betrayer. Or worse, we don’t see it as a betrayal at all, but simple evidence of how flawed and unlovable we really are.
The emotionally abandoned child believes they are undeserving of love.
The abused believes they deserve the abuse, that love will always hurt and often comes coated in shame.
The child of addicts learns to fundamentally mistrust the safety and stability of the world around them.
The child raised in a religion that vilifies all human behavior will inevitably see themselves as sinful and unworthy.
Any kind of abuse—emotional, physical, sexual—is often the starting point for a long, twisted, distorted journey from our true selves. And our worldview takes shape around that bad information we’ve deduced because of it.
One of the biggest challenges we face as writers is how to hook our reader emotionally and forge a connection in those first few pages without becoming the literary equivalent of the stranger in the checking line, blurting out every gory detail of the drama of their lives without even having been asked.
The secret, I think, is to show or hint at the character’s contortions and defense mechanisms that have sprung up around that deeper wound. As readers, we’re trained to look for clues and hints, so we’ll spot those coping mechanisms and be intrigued—we’ll want to know why.
So as writers, we need to ask ourselves: In what ways does our character limp through the world? How do they favor that wounded place inside? What distorted belief do they cling to with both hands? What ways do they disassociate from parts of themselves that brush too closely to that wound? In what ways do they wear their wound like a chip on their shoulder, insisting to the world it has made them tough, impervious to future wounding?
And why are these characters indelibly scarred by these events, when others might brush them off or take them in stride?
I believe the answer to that last question is that because for some, the psychic soil has been well prepared and cultivated—their soil broken down and covered in so much manure before the wound even shows up—that the individual is supremely susceptible to the final blow.
But what about characters who don’t have a tragic or traumatic event in their past? What about lesser, garden variety wounds? The kind we acquire from the simple life lessons of growing older or growing up? Because the majority of the time, these shaping wounds are incurred early in life—either in our childhood, teen, or early adult years.
These less traumatic experiences still shape us, although to what degree will vary widely from character to character and will depend on things like the psychic equivalent of adrenaline, momentum, individual pain thresholds, and how cultivated the soil was.
We all have memories from our childhood, of playing with other kids, either on the playground or in the neighborhood, then taking a fall, skinning our knee or scraping an elbow. Chances are we bounced right up and kept on going, utterly impervious to any pain. At least until it was time to come inside and wash up for dinner. THEN we could feel that sucker throbbing and stinging.
Science has also shown that pain thresholds within the same person vary depending on how stressed our systems are. When we are under chronic stress, our body produces a lot more of some chemicals and fewer of others. The reformulation of our brain chemistry intensifies pain response—both physical and emotional.
So even if the story you’re writing does not involve characters with large traumatic wounds in their past, common everyday wounds can be equally fertile ground for deepening character.
- Why does a character have a gambling problem?
- A shopping addiction?
- Why are they terrified of clowns? Cats? Blimps?
- Why do they feel the need to be perfect?
- So competitive?
Each of those behaviors could be fueled by either a traumatic wound or a common every day one. It is the tone and theme of your story that will decide which it should be. Or rather I should say, it is the nature of your character’s wounds that will determine the tone and theme of your story.
We are often our own worst enemy—there is no denying that. Many writers feel that their character is his own antagonist, and that is likely true. Our desperation to avoid acknowledging our wounds, to avoid awakened that old pain and our deeply held beliefs about the nature of that pain are often an enormous component of getting in the way of our own happiness. It is hard and scary to look that deeply inside and reorient our world view, even it if ultimately frees us. It is scary to be thrust back into the same powerlessness and vulnerability we had in that moment. That is why we need stories to show us how.
Some of our character’s most transformative moments will come from facing those wounds, freeing themselves from the weight of them, and beginning the healing process. And of course, the stories we write aren’t about the wounds—but how we can overcome them.
We need stories to show us that being wounded or broken doesn’t lessen our character’s—or our own—humanity in any way. It is, in fact, what make us deeply human. The best stories show us that having been wounded doesn’t mean we are less than, or broken beyond repair, or unworthy. Instead, they illuminate all the different shapes wounds can take and the many different paths to healing that await us, if only we have the courage to look.
Do you know your character’s defining wounds? Can you brainstorm three to four ways these wounds create behaviors that readers can see on the page?
About Robin LaFevers
Robin LaFevers is the author of seventeen books for young readers, including the HIS FAIR ASSASSIN trilogy about teen assassin nuns in medieval France and the upcoming COURTING DARKNESS. A lifelong introvert, she currently lives on a blissfully quiet hill in Southern California.
(Oooooh another treasure trove article by Robin Lafevers! Okay, now, write something pertinent and super professional so you don’t come off as some crazed fan-niac.)
I am sooooo excited for the 4th installment of the His Fair Assassin series! All three currently published books are excellent examples of how the heroines’ wounds shape their story. How their misbeliefs dictate their decision-making to avoid reopening these wounds. And how they learn that pushing through the darkness, the hurt, and testing new waters prove these “truths” weren’t truths at all.
Thank you for your incredible contribution to WU, your posts are always such gems. It’s a gift having you back!
( Well, I think that went well. See what I did there with that gem reference at the end? Yeah, totally nailed the aspiring writer thing.)
Perfect reply, Veronic! :-)
And I totally saw what you did there.
In sterquiliniis invenitur
Or “in filth it will be found.”
It’s a quote by Jung of the old alchemical textbooks where the alchemists said that the thing you most want to find will be found in the place you least want to look.
As a Lancelot, I tend to prefer the holy grail mythos:
The knights of the round table sought the grail in a deep dark woods but they had to enter the woods in the place that looked darkest to them. To the greedy or formerly kidnapped or robbed, they entered a den of thieves seeking ultimate generosity. To the raped or those otherwise hurt sexually, they entered through a harem seeking true and faithful and nurturing love. To the oppressed, they entered through a tyrant’s hall
seeking equality. To the fatherless, they entered through an orphanage seeking home.
In sterquiliniis invenitur.
In filth it will be found.
“the thing you most want to find will be found in the place you least want to look.”
This has ended up being so very true–in all aspects of life. And more times than I would have preferred, actually.
I wonder if those ancient alchemists realized that, in addition to searching for ways to turn lead into gold, they were creating maxims that would hold true for centuries.
Actually that’s precisely what they were looking for: few people realize that they weren’t interested in chemistry but were rather using chemistry as a symbol system for meditation.
Robin, wonderful essay! One of my characters is an adopted girl from India; she imagines what it must’ve been like for the woman who gave her birth. She knows nothing about her except that she left her baby in a cardboard box on the steps of a church. She was abandoned, yes, and by her own mother, her flesh. It’s a terrible thing to know; it’s her deepest wound. But even so, she knows she was loved enough to be left not in the garbage or in the forest or killed outright, but on the steps of a church. This knowledge spurs her onward to fulfil her own vocation and she finds it, as Lancelot so brilliantly put, in the filth.
It’s good to have you back at WU. I’ve missed you.
Vijaya, that is SUCH a terrific example of not only a wound, but the secret coding in that wound that allowed her to find hope and know that love exists.
And thank you! It’s fun to be back. I’ll try not to stay gone quite so long. :-)
Excellent post, Robin!
Identifying a character’s emotional pain is the quickest and surest way to understanding that character, in my opinion, so this essay resonates with me. (In fact, one of the notes that has long sat beside my desk reads ‘greatest pain!’) One character in particular–Hobbs from my second book, The Moon Sisters–came to me very quickly, and when I stopped to think about why he was so easily drawn, it rooted right into this idea. I knew he had been abused, and had tattooed his skin to hide evidence of that abuse. Everything fell into place from there.
Wounded animals lick at their wounds, and I don’t think human animals are any different, but writers can create nuanced responses to their characters’ pain. One tip: Consider *how* the wound was created, and not just what the wound is. Was the instrument that formed the wound powered by jealousy, paranoia, greed, or something else? That instrument left not just a wound but likely changed the color of that character’s glasses. In the case of Hobbs, his abuse arose from another’s paranoia and need to dominate. Hobbs was quickly defined for me by the opposite, a need for freedom (he’s a train hopper), and the desire to maintain personal walls. Not only that, when he sees vulnerable people lacking walls, he schools them to get busy building. He means well, but in his world, lowering defenses is not a good thing. You can see where his arc might lead.
Considering ‘greatest pain’ is now the first step for me when forging a new character.
Thanks again for a great post, Robin. It’s great to see you back here at WU. :-)
What a great example, Therese, of this compelling, propelling wound. And I love how you’ve taken his wound and show how he uses that warped worldview to HELP others, meaning so well, but still unable to see beyond his deep distortions.
And yes, determining a character’s greatest pain is one of the earliest and most important steps for me as well when creating a new character.
Awesome post, Robin. Makes me think deep this morning.
I am a planner. My characters have intricate backgrounds before I write word one. Since all this thought is put into each character’s childhood, environment, genetics, etc, their scars are prominent in my notes. I daresay, these scars are what make each character who they are, driving motivation, and ultimately explaining their thought process.
In addition to your spot-on suggestions, I might add one tidbit. Never underestimate the power of the previous generation. I tend to go beyond the character himself / herself, to parents, grandparents, and so on. While lineage might not have a place in the story, and many times parents aren’t even characters that exist in the plot line, rest assured, their scars have a huge impact on their next of kin.
My father lost his mother when he was twelve. He found her dead in their family home. Although this is my father’s scar to bare, you can be sure the experience clouded every step he took raising me and my brother. My mother, as a child, was abused in ways that change a person forever. Her history not only affects her, but the way she raised me, the way I raise my daughters, and so on….
Wonderful, thought provoking post, Robin. Thank you!
Dee Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT (Gift of Travel)
This is absolutely true, in my experience, and a bit like what I said above about changing the color of the character’s glasses/the way they view the world. If that character is a caregiver, or advises others in any way, their lessons will filter down through those glasses, and so others will receive–and may adopt–a colored perspective.
Deep thinking is my middle name, Denise. (And not always a great thing.)
And a resounding YES to going back to the previous generation. Parental scars have a HUGE implication on their children. Knowing that previous generations’ scarring also helps make our character’s wounds more organic–they came from other, specific behaviors.
Such an excellent, important point!
Awesome post. Every day we read about the struggles of real people. Many days we meet people who we know are struggling. It saddens me. And of course, I, we–all have our own “things” to deal with. But those things are exactly what must go on the page when we write. Sometimes it’s right there, so easy to access, and sometimes it takes that digging in the soil. But it’s there. And readers will be moved, will feel the connection. We are all human, after all. Thank you.
HI Beth,
One of my favorite quotes is from Rumi: ‘The wound is the place where the light enters you”
I think that can be profoundly true of us humans–although it is not at all easy.
This is quoted in the movie “A Wrinkle in Time.”
Well, let’s get the gushing punch-list out of the way first.
1- I was giddy just in seeing the byline of today’s WU essay.
2- The giddiness was reinforced by an essay that lived up to expectations.
3- Within the first third, I could. Not. Resist. the compulsion to get out a pad and start writing.
I could go on… In fact, I was going to add something about how perfect the timing is for me. But then I realized there could be no bad time for the undeniable wisdom you’re sharing here. Anyone who wants to go deeper with their fiction will be taken there today.
But for me, the timing works because I’m wrapping up a draft, and gearing up for revision. These final scenes have been all “here’s what happens,” rather than, “here’s why it’s happening and what it all means.” It’s typical for me. It’s nice that the words are gushing out. But it means I’ll have to go back in to make it worthy.
It’s different work, and at times I resent the duplication of effort. But I understand the reason for it (beyond my limited brain power). I knew it was coming, and I didn’t yet see my pathway in. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that paths will be revealed as they’re needed. I’m all the giddier because it’s so fitting that you’re the one to reveal it.
Thanks, Robin!
Vaughn, it makes *me* giddy knowing that the post inspired you to go pick up a pen and begin making some notes! :-)
SO glad it gave you some ideas on how to approach the revision!
Another story-altering way to reveal a wound is through the character’s unmet needs: the iconic drivers of human behavior universal to us all. (Maslow’s Hierarchy really is a writer’s best friend for planning the character’s motivation.)
A wound will cause the character to avoid certain things out of a fear of being hurt again, even good things. They may discard certain goals that could have led to fulfillment, limit relationships and interactions that would have brought them connection and happiness, and basically choose to “settle” in different areas of their lives all from a belief that fire always burns: what caused that psychological pain in the past will happen again if they let it. They become risk-adverse, unwilling to do anything that could lead to re-experiencing those soul-gutting emotions again.
The problem with avoidance when it comes to things that lead to deep satisfaction and fulfillment is if it goes on too long and grows too deep, it creates a hole. The character feels like something important is missing, that something is preventing them from living life in full. This is the unmet need clamoring for attention.
Once it grows strong enough, like a wound, it too begins to hurt. That instinctive self-protection mechanism kicks in and the character will feel compelled to dig at what’s causing this feeling, and how to fix it. The unmet need becomes the trigger that pushes the character to start a journey of growth and change so they may heal and move forward as someone stronger and able to achieve goals that will reverse the unmet need.
This is all great stuff, Angela! Thank you so much for adding to the conversation. Because yeah, those unmet needs that are at the source of our wounds are incredibly powerful.
Robin is a fount of wisdom. I have known this for years, so this is no surprise at all.
The funny thing about all this — Robin’s essay and everyone’s responses — is I can see how they all apply to me, and the wounds I’m working to heal right now. The upside to that is it means applying it to characters isn’t an intellectual thing. I need to know my characters intuitively; for want of a better word, I need to feel their vibes, the way I feel the vibes of flesh and blood people. By feeling my wounds and the way they’ve bent me over time, I can feel how wounds might bend my characters (and I can feel one character’s wound easily, though I can’t tell what it is or how it was inflicted).
You are too kind, Miss Katy!
And wise! “The upside to that is it means applying it to characters isn’t an intellectual thing. I need to know my characters intuitively; for want of a better word, I need to feel their vibes, the way I feel the vibes of flesh and blood people. By feeling my wounds and the way they’ve bent me over time, I can feel how wounds might bend my characters”
I think this is so true. I think the strongest writing comes from writers who are willing to understand their wounds and how they bent them over time. (And bent over time is such a perfect description.)
I tend to read the articles here and very much appreciate the wisdom I’ve gleaned, but don’t believe I’ve ever responded to one before. That’s how powerful your ideas were for me this morning, just as I was doubting my character and her dilemma once again. Thank you for helping me see someone I created intuitively, but have struggled with in so many ways. I have renewed motivation.
I am so glad the article was helpful, Kelly! I think most writers do grasp this stuff intuitively, but as we try to deepen our craft, we find that intuitive doesn’t quite do it and we need Real Tools. Or that’s how it’s been for me, anyway. Good luck with your renewed motivation! (And sorry for the delayed response–I was out of town for the weekend with little internet access.)
I needed this! You’ve sparked a whole new slew of reactions for my mc along with a few accompanying scenes. Thanks!
You’re so welcome!
Hooray, you’re back! We missed you around here, o wise one!
Great post. Thank you for the inspiration. It’s so challenging to create a whole person from a tiny idea. And it’s not only main characters. Secondary characters also need to be fully fledged.