A month ago, we took an hour and wrote about pain as a literary theme. Today's theme is CONTROL. At times painful, at times rewarding, control is one of those elusive, dynamic, yet ever-present forces in human life. It shifts colors the way chameleons walk across the street. It mesmerizes deeper, faster, scarier than you can bungee jump. It prickles the skin and it haunts the psyche.
But control also gives you unimaginable freedom and possibility. Will you embrace it?
Photo by Kevin Eddy
Let's explore some of the ways Control winds its way into our hearts and souls… and our writing.
Control of Self
If we didn't have that wondrous organ called skin to hold all our drama in, and a skeleton to carry our infinite and sundry burdens, we'd probably explode. No wonder the meditation industry is doing so well.
Seriously though: controlling the self tends to be a life-long occupation. Whether it's lustful impulses (oh go on! I'm talking about dark chocolate!), negative thoughts (I can't do this, I'm too this I'm too that, “s/he” will never love me etc etc), violent tendencies (who's never hurt an innocent inanimate object in a fit of fury?), assumptions, gossip, intrigue, revenge, and a cornucopia of other… er, “interests” that boil human blood, walking that silken tightrope of self-control is a pipe dream for most of us—and a cash cow for the self-help authors.
And so it is for our characters. Enter: limitless internal conflict!!
Control of Others
Infinitely more interesting (replace with your adjective of choice: frustrating, exasperating, dramatic, lethal, etc), of course, is that psychological tug-of-war so many real-time humans and literary characters alike get caught up in one time or another. If you're above and beyond that, fantastic, you've evolved, congratulations here's your Enlightened Being 2.0 diploma now go away and let the rest of us worms sock it out.
Just think of it: the struggle, the strategy, the agony, the ecstasy when you've finally won and your opponent crumbles like a sack of spring potatoes at your steel-toed feet! Hopefully you're not the sack of potatoes.
Anyway. The concept of control over others accounts for 97.4% of the dramatic tension in world literature.*
*I got that figure from a source who is now in my power and is allowed to eat only roasted potatoes with garlic and parsley.
Control of Circumstance
We've covered the inner me and the outer you. What about all the stuff that “just happens” to a perfectly balanced, calm individual? Let's review the endless possibilities:
- natural disaster
- stock market meltdown
- losing a contract to the CEO's nephew
- guy in the sports car cutting us off (third time today)
- the ‘black hole time warp' effect: post office / doctor's office / grocery checkout / comments from your editor
- spouse/sig other changing their mind about how attractive/desirable we are
- children changing their mind about how worthy of their respect we are
- alien abduction (related to the point above)
How do you control the world around you? How do your characters control their worlds? Lots of great literary mulch here, especially if you're writing an action thriller or a film script. (I swoon for Jason Bourne…)
Control of Nature
Mankind has been struggling to conquer his environment since Cave Drawing of Mammoth Hunt One. We've done too good a job over the centuries, I'd say, in some respects. But Mother Nature is more fierce and more furious than anything we can throw at her. I still don't understand why we're trying to subdue or monetize her. Besides, the Sun's going to go postal in a few billion years so it's really pointless to fight.
In the meantime, however, we can stir up a few more million iterations of dramatic tension between man or woman and nature. But please please please no more angry birds knock-offs (as in, Hitchcock not Rovio) and above all no more zombie-supertornado-storms-Manhattan plot lines…
Control as Creative Freedom
These are just four expressions of the concept of control that typically play one role or another in life and in literature (and many other kinds of writing, including business). Best part is, you get to play with the controls! You can focus on one type of control in your work as the main narrative (a Kafkaesque tortured first-person POV) , or play one off against another (man against himself and Nature… can you say “Moby Dick”…), or go all out and throw them all into the mix (Desperate Housewives? oh sorry wrong genre).
In dance or martial arts, you cannot achieve your best moves until you master control of the tool of that expression: your body. Only then can you experience full freedom of expression. And so it is in literature. Master your understanding of the profound currents that tug and pull at the human psyche, and you'll master the art of dramatic tension.
Control gives you freedom. What will you write today?
PRACTICE
Take firm, unequivocal control of sixty minutes of your day and flesh out the tendrils of conflict and tension of today's theme in a WIP or a random scene. Or, if you prefer, relinquish all control and go where your imagination takes you!
Post your highly (un)controlled writings here, and be sure to critique your fellow writers. You know the drill: praise is fine, critique is better.
Birgitte, thanks once again for a beautifully presented blog on another look at the art of writing. There is so much to consider I am printing this information to rethink at leisure. I can only imagine how much depth control (or lack of) can add to the portrait of our characters or the projected storyline. Thanks for what you offer the writing world.
You are most welcome Ruth. I always feel like I’m barely scratching the surface of the depth of human experience. That’s where you and everyone else participating in these blogs comes in. 🙂
Very intriguing: If we didn’t have that wondrous organ called skin to hold all our drama in, and a skeleton to carry our infinite and sundry burdens, we’d probably explode.
Sometimes I think I’m the only one. I go around praying, “Lord, set a guard over my mouth, and a watch over my lips.” When I think of this, I’m good. When I don’t, oh, Lord, lookout. I’m not taking responsibility. (Tongue in cheek). Two things happened to me today, or rather, I was there, so therefore, 2 events happened because I was there.
1) I ran this morning. I took the puppy, the 9 month old Australian Shepherd. I noticed a beautiful dog in a neighbor’s yard on his owner’s leash. He was some type of winter white grand snow dog. My dog ran into the large lot, and I shouted, “NO!” Fortunately he ran back to me. Jogging, I waved to the wary owner calling, “Sorry!” My playful ‘Shep’ ran beeline right into me from the side, my body slipping into air, like slow motion, landing hard on my hip and elbow. I’m thinking, oh no, what is going to happen? Will I shatter an elbow? It was 30 degrees, so my 3 layers of jogging attire were a good cushion, but still I lay there for about 15 seconds, yelling, “Stupid dog!” I got up, walked a few yards, and jogged on. Talk about a lack of control, like a car accident.
2) I went to a high school track meet. A certain team that has a reputation for a lack of manners staked their camp in a section of bleachers. They didn’t move their feet to let people walk by. They hulled millions of sunflower seeds, spitting them on the clean metal floor. I couldn’t help it. I walked by and remarked, “Ya’ll need to clean up your seeds.” No biting my tongue, I just said it.
Control is a vagary. Sometimes you have no idea what you’ll face, and you will have no way to prevent it. Other times, you are very much aware of parameters, boundaries, and the implication of your expression.
Susan, you’re the second person to actively notice that sentence. How interesting. I didn’t give it a second thought when I wrote it.
Curious, too, because I ran today as well — but in the afternoon, and in 60+ degrees (I’m in California). Lots of dogs about, but no accidents thank heaven. Hope you’re ok! Huge kudos to you for continuing on.
And bigger kudos to you for calling out those sunflower hullers. I would have done the same thing. This wasn’t about control on your part — I would hope most of us would speak up in a case like that — this was about the lack of control (care, respect, dignity) on THEIRS. Since when did manners and courtesy get sacrificed on the altar of self-control and public politeness? Heaven forbid we hurt the feelings of those making the lives of those around unpleasant.
You did the right thing.
p.s. How did they respond to you?
Thanks for the P.S. Birgitte. This group is also known for laziness. A couple just sat and looked at me dully. There was no response. Maybe that’s hypo-self control? They lack the energy to be either indignant or conciliatory.
The heat was merciless this July day in Virginia with a temperature of 90 degrees and the humidity at the same level or above as I climbed switch back after switch back from 1000
feet at the level of the James River to Thunder Ridge at 2000 feet above; fifty
feet at a time. On my back was a 50 pound backpack that grew heavier as I
took each step, my glasses were becoming increasingly opaque from the sweat
dripping down my forehead, soaking my banana, then dripping further to my
glasses; I was on my third banana with the other two pinned to my pack straps
in hopes that they would dry enough to reuse. I began to question if I could
accomplish this climb.
Hikers chose different strategies in the mental games they play when hiking a difficult trail. When hiking with a group, on a level path, it is possible to be social and carry on a conversation at times, but conversation becomes virtually impossible when hiking in
difficult terrain. Some people go internal and make small goals like “ I will
hike to that tree up ahead and then rest.” Other people go external and try to
identify different trees, flowers and other plants, but most everyone has to do
one or the other. I tend to go internal and solve the problems of the world or
just the problems of “me” to maintain some control of my sanity and forget my
pain.
I only had another 500 feet to climb, as my goal was the Thunder Ridge Shelter that had a spring with replenishing cool water, wonderful views of the James River Face Wilderness Area and promising, level tent pads that would allow restful and wonderful sleep.
Keep walking! Keep Walking! That Pine tree is only 50 feet ahead. I can make
that!
Luther, you mean ‘bandana,’ not ‘banana,’ correct? Also check your tenses, the second paragraph uses two different tenses.
Lovely scene though. I can relate…
I quite enjoyed the ideas of three wet bananas….like they were some sort of hikers special carbohydrate power. 🙂
Funny! I do need to be more careful. A proof reader, I will never be. A grammatical error or spelling error or whatever, can stair (stare, just kidding!) me in the face and I will miss it. Thanks for the feedback.
Thanks for the feed back. I did mean bandana and I will check my tenses.
I really liked what you said about people either going internal or external during a tough hike. From the little hiking I did I notice I would eventually go internal when I got to the point where I wasn’t sure if I could keep going or not but somehow did and was not sure how.
Here’s part of mine. I’d post more, but don’t know if this subject matter is appropriate on here (it’s an erotica). This isn’t too racy, so it should be good (I hope).
###
He took her hands in both of his, then caressed her knuckles with his thumbs. A few seconds later, he brought her hands up, and kissed her fingers. Next, he raised her hands above her head, and pinned them to the wall behind her. He then brought his head close to hers. His lips were close enough to brush hers, but he had something else in mind. He whispered, “I’m going to set your world on fire.” His lips graze hers with every syllable.
He transferred her left hand to his left, so that both of her hands were trapped by it. The next instant, his fingertips trailed over her forehead, down over her cheekbone, and along her jaw. He used the ball of his thumb to trace the outline of her lips. He slanted his mouth over hers and beckoned her tongue inside his own. He delighted in the sensations of her tongue gliding over his teeth, swirling around his tongue, then gently sucking on it.
This gave me a chill because of your choice of two words: pinned and trapped. I have a feeling that this scene could get very tense and hurtful for the women.
Good writing.
Adelaide
No, no. Not hurtful. Never that. With my writing, I draw on my own experiences as much as possible. My characters, just like my partners, know the trapping, pinning, and binding are all illusory. The ladies are always in control in reality. All they have to do is say, “No,” or the safe word, and everything comes to a complete and total halt.
The next move is to assess why they felt uncomfortable, and find out how to make them comfortable and happy again.
If you’d like, I can share the rest with you privately, or if Joe allows it, here.
Control.
This has to stop. After all I’m the grown up right? I’m the parent. I’m the one with the responsibility; the one who pays the bills, does the washing, shopping, cooking, caring. He can’t keep on treating me like this.
I pace the kitchen floor, glance at the clock. It’s past midnight. My phone lays silent on the bench; no message, no missed calls. I text again. ‘You better reply to me or I’m cutting off your credit tomorrow. What is your problem?’
My heart pounds. Is he ok? Perhaps something’s happened. Is that a siren I can hear?
School rang he hasn’t been for three days. His car’s not here. He must have slipped in when I was at work. The biscuit tin is empty and the milk is nearly out. There’s a wet towel on the bathroom floor, shaving cream around the bathroom taps, dirty washing in the laundry sink.
(‘Stuff you, I’m not doing your washing anymore you …’. A momentary win slices through the quiet.)
I roll a cigarette. I’m smoking too much. It’s got to stop. Headlights ripple up through the trees along the driveway, then disappear into the distance.
So much for being a liberal parent. So much for fair discipline. Where’s the text book for this bit? The last frayed and worn thread of umbilical dangles in metaphysic silence from my ageing maternal belly, teasing time. Heart yells into a silent chasm, wasting away it’s cherished beats into frowns and despair.
Perhaps a chamomile tea will help me gain perspective. This wine isn’t working. Let go. I can’t. He’s my baby.
Am I that bad? Seriously. Have I asked for this stoney retreat? This blatant disrespect gorges on my power and gnaws deep into the leathery reins I have pulled and jerked and released for 17 years. I hold out my hands and see the blisters, scars and welts of mother etched into their thinning skin and dish-wash calloused palms.
At a loss. At sea in a squall of hissing indignance. How dare he? Where is he? Love becomes hate becomes love becomes anger becomes ….
Chamomile softens the edges. I pull the alpaca throw rug from the edge of the couch and plump up the velvet cushions. I’ll wait here, on the couch in the dark and see if he slinks in. I’ll catch him by surprise. Confront him, let him know I will not be treated like this.
I glance at the clock. I roll another cigarette. I’m smoking too much. It’s got to stop. Headlights ripple up through the trees along the driveway, then disappear into the distance. Life repeats. I’ve been here before. My eyelids droop.
Plush velvet kisses me. I succumb. Heart glides gently into sheltered port. I smile and remember he is the last one. The youngest. This too will pass and I will be free. A final glance at the clock. Tick tock. And I gallop into the thickness of a martyrs slumber.
This is very well executed. I have to say though, that the ending came as a surprise and doesn’t fit with what precedes it, in my opinion. All that strong emotion she has and then in the end she just kind of shrugs her shoulders and says, “Eh, whatevs.”
Especially if she’s been drinking, I think, it is more unbelievable, because a drunk person will not change their mind that easily.
Having said that, I also found it very gripping. Well done. 🙂
Sometimes deciding to let go is the ultimate control… 😉
Thanks for the feedback.
To see him, his back turned to me (always facing the other way! as if I don’t deserve to be addressed) painting, drawing, tweeking, sweating in his boxer shorts and a chaste-white wife-beater (fascinating though, how he keeps it so clean around all that paint) all hours of the night, was a fiery outrage. I never voiced my anger at the time, because love turns you into wet dough and you become a shape-shifter—this is not me I think; I’m doing this for him. But no more.
I sat at the bar, brooding in a stew of hatred (for the both of us). People avoided me; I know they did; I didn’t look up but in my peripherals I saw the whites of their eyes scared of me—why? I was alone, it was a (somewhat) well-lit bar and I thought my murmuring was under control. Besides, I had my hand covering my mouth the whole time, anyway, so how would they know? I washed my jacket that day, so they couldn’t smell me.
“Orson!” A heavy hand slapped the bar top three, four times.
“Jesus,” I said, my heart convulsing.
“You gotta go.” Farren, the hot bartender (he’s not too much older than me) stood before me at the end of a blurry tunnel—and then he split in half.
“Who said? I’m allowed to be here, just like all these people.” There I gestured to
what I then realized was an empty bar. Two ladies were on their way out the door, and it clicked shut, leaving only myself, Farren, and the jukebox playing a sad song. Coincidentally, the song was ending, too, and then it was quiet.
“Two o’clock, Orson. You’re walking tonight?”
“How do you do that?” He looked so frustrated that I felt guilt. Or whatever the feeling is that makes you want to help somebody.
“Split in half, I mean.”
So I stumbled around downtown, probably (don’t remember), because I made it home. Could be I walked around the block too many times again, but the neighbor didn’t say anything so maybe not. When I came to I was at the front of the building.
“Here I come, you son of a bitch.” Because I was going to kick him out. As soon as I
opened 3F and he was in there, in yellowed, foggy light, I’d throw my keys at him. Possibly the can-opener on my key-ring would penetrate his skin and that pretty little wife-beater wouldn’t be white anymore. “It must be nice to play colors all day while daddy goes to work.”
The elevator stopped at 2 and the doors slid open and that old man who always looks
at the floor when he walks looked up to see me in the elevator and he stopped
dead in his tracks, turned around, and walked the other way. I know what it’s like to be alone. Anyway the doors slid shut and there was my reflection—a smudged painting kind of reflection, on those dirty metal doors.
“Pavlo,” I said, looking at myself. “Hey, Pavlo. You don’t control me anymore.” I held my arms out to my sides and threatened to punch him. “What’s up? What’s up?
I’m not a meat puppet.”
(Thanks for the practice, Birgitte. I have to go to work now.)
CONTROL
Jason was a distraction. Whether he was in the same room with her or miles away, Connie felt his presence. He drew her into his orbit, pulling her closer, closer. She wanted to touch him, have him touch her. She wanted that feeling of being desired with a wild passion, the way it was once.
It would be easy to have an affair. Harry at work. The two boys at school The day
her own. After painting class she would follow Jason to his studio. She would
do it today. When he was at her easel , his hand resting on her shoulder as he
examined her still life, she would say yes. Yes, she would take private lessons. “I’m available today after class,” she would say.
A short word yes, meaning agreement, acceptance. It was all she had said when Harry proposed seven years earlier and yes again four months later in church.
Jason was slowly making his way from student to student, saying a few words, dabbing a few strokes on a canvas, one hand on the back of the student’s chair, the other pointing with a brush. From the first day of class, when Jason came to her easel, one hand would rest on her shoulder, the other hand placed over hers, guiding her brush. His face would be close to hers, sometimes brushing against her hair or her cheek. No one else received such close personal attention, not even the younger, well endowed red head in the front row. Connie waited for that touch. Just a hand on her shoulder squeezing gently as he spoke. Could she really do it?
As Jason wove his way through the easels, Connie felt a flush rise throughout her body. Her imagination was on fire. Jason’s studio would be cluttered, but functional. A sleeping alcove most likely with a lumpy bed. Jason, stretched out naked in it. The brush in her hand remained motionless as the form in the bed morphed into Harry wearing flannel pajamas, reading in their queen sized bed. Oh, Harry! The man she loved, father of their sons, the man to whom she had said yes. “Yes I will,” and “Yes, I do.”
“Morning, Connie.”
He was there, his face near hers. His breath held the lingering fragrance of the cappuccino he always brought to class. He put his hand over Connie’s and
guided it to the palette. “A little more purple here,” he said, going from palette to painting. His other hand traveled to her shoulder, massaging it. “Now add a touch of violet to create intensity.”
Like a puppet her hand under his moved without resistance. Now was the time. Now, to smile and say yes, drawing out the S. Or no. Short, quick and emphatic. No! No! No! She shook off Jason’s hand and squirmed in the chair, dislodging his hand from her
shoulder.
“What? What did you say?” Jason straightened up with a look of surprise and puzzlement.
Connie hadn’t realized she had shouted aloud. “No,” she said again. She picked up a clean brush and dabbed it in yellow, then white. “I’m changing emphasis. I know what I want now. What I want is gentle harmony. “No more intense colors. There’s too much turmoil in this painting with all those violets and purples.” As she spoke she dabbed a clean brush in yellow paint, then white. With a couple of quick strokes she reworked the still life.
Adelaide
Hello I have written a book on monsters, such as dinosaurs and the Loch Ness Monster playing football. Would you guys be interested in working with me on this book to bring it to a larger readership? The book is designed to appeal to kids and adults, and to attract bookish children to football and sporty kids to reading. I hope the book can educate, entertain.
Please tell me if you would be a interested in giving publicity to this book.
Kindle amazon books;
Monster footballers Book url
https://kindle.amazon.com/work/monster-footballers-stonehill-rockets-lochanger-ebook/B00J5NBUZM/B00J5NBUZM
Rory, this isn’t the place for publicizing books already written. This is meant to be a practice/discussion/critique area. You might want to check out the StoryCartel.com to launch your book.
Hi Birgitte
Great post, thanks. The notion of control is at the heart of so many great stories. Either the attempt to get it, or the loss of it and the subsequent struggles.
i like the way you’ve split it into the different types. I’m going to create a prompt based on each one and see which takes my fancy 🙂
cheers
Mike
You’re most welcome Michael. I look forward to seeing which one you choose!
Birgitte
I see a person on top of a cliff on a hang glider. That person is staring down the cliff to a height that could easily be their death. But sometimes that is where we let go of control. All of our lives has been about building up this control for these moments where we let it all go. Or sometimes in a less pleasant situation we are standing in front of that person we see there and they don’t look right, not quite, all waxy and gray in that glass box. Plastic eyes glaring open and at nothing. And in this moment control is taken away, and here we just have to swim to the nearest shore where we can feel in control again soon. Life is like that. Sometimes we are in control and sometimes we are not. It is good when we choose to give up control. Or when we have been controlled by our caffeine addictions and it is calling us again and this time we refuse it. We say no. We are getting our control back at these moments. Even though the drive to do something becomes so strong and urging over and over again to just let go for a second and have one little cup of coffee. But then not giving in and making it till the urge passes, and it does eventually, creates more options. And to enjoy fully one small moment without having the coffee, that is great.
Whether it was pure laziness or simple procrastination, or
something else, it was hard to figure. The desk was piles of papers, books,
pens, pencils and more items hidden and perhaps woven in together in ways that
can only be imagined. It was only a week before that the glass top over the
small mementos and pretty collections of pictures cut from calendars was
clearly visible on her desk. There by the window, looking over the open field
that raised up on the other side of the creek to become the steep hill beyond,
the desk sat as occasional work space, but more often clutter collector.
There were so many other things to do, more important—well more
enjoyable—things to do. Who wanted to stay home to pay bills and shred useless
papers? Liza didn’t.
Liza was a ‘free spirit’ so everyone said. Robert G. always
said, “Liza, if anyone got into your mind, they wouldn’t wonder why all the
clutter is in your house! There’s no place for it in your mind. You’re as free
as a bird, girl. Always flying off to something new!”
“That’s okay,” she would say, “There’s better things to do
than chase papers. I got a life to live doin’ what I like. I’d be ashamed to
miss what really matters.”
What really mattered was running off to help her friends.
Troubled souls, really. The sad, the lonely, the old who sat in nursing homes, or
their own lonely homes, all by themselves. They were not able to reach out, so
Liza reached in. They always welcomed Liza’s visits. Not a one of them knew
that Liza’s home was a hodgepodge of last year’s sales papers, and bills (that
somehow got paid mostly on time), and dozens of half-way done projects. And
surely, they wouldn’t have cared. Promises to herself of, “I’m going to do this
and really get it done to a finish this time,” were never fulfilled.
Anyone who knew Liza well enough to be welcomed into her home
knew never to criticize the various piles of things, or the dust on the
shelves, or other mysterious clutter. That was just Liza. You either accepted
her and her home as they were, or you were out the door. She could put together
as delightful a meal as any woman in the county and it would be a fine
testimony to satisfaction. You would have not one complaint. All the clutter
hid the extraordinary neatness and cleanness of what sat behind those cupboard
doors and kitchen drawers. It was what mattered, after all. Liza wasn’t one for
the appearances of things. It was the heart of things that truly mattered.