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Tension Styles in Fiction
Tension isn’t always discussed as an element of fiction, but it’s always appreciated when done well. It’s a broad subject that applies to all genres. Tension, when balanced and created effectively, can make any story pop, if only for just a moment. Sometimes one moment is all you need.
But I’ve noticed lately that there are distinctive styles to tension- various approaches. And once you’ve begun a project- be it a novel or a script or even an image, that style needs to remain consistent. Every story needs conflict to make it interesting, but it doesn’t stop there. There are scenes, sometimes wordless scenes, that build and destroy tension and in half a second, can make or break a story. This is the difference between awkward and perfect, predictable and surprising. If you adopt a certain technique for incorporating tension and then you don’t follow your own formula, you might think you’re being unpredictable when in reality, you’re creating awkwardness with inconsistencies.
Last Sunday, the season 2 finale of AMC’s The Walking Dead aired. It was epic. I could write at least a dozen articles on why, but that’s for another venue, another time. One scene, however, sparked this revelation about tension, and it was this one:
(Tiny spoiler alert)
A main character goes into a Freud-like state when his farm is overrun by a zombie horde. He’s shooting at them, one by one, with a serene and unshakable focus. Chaos has erupted around him, but he is in the zombie-killing zone. It’s dark, but in the shadows behind him, we see a lone zombie approach slowly. Of course the character doesn’t see this hidden threat; he’s not looking behind him and why would he? His barn is on fire. His family is fleeing for their lives. It doesn’t look good, but he sees all of it played out before him. Or so he thinks. Seconds pass. The light from the fire illuminates the zombie in flashes. The character stops to reload his shotgun, and the zombie closes in. At this point, I’m thinking, This probably isn’t be the way he dies; something must save him. I’m accustomed to TWD’s style, and it’s not this. It’s all about shock value. True to that style, at the pivotal moment the zombie is blown away. The character turns around, revealing a pretty awesome blood splatter on the back of his head but no wound. Only the zombie is down, and in her place stands the man who shot her, saving this character from the inevitable death and resurrection in Robert Kirkman‘s incredible apocalyptic world.
The scene could have gone a few different ways, and I caught myself thinking about the effect it would have had if it were done differently. His death would have been monumental regardless; he’s a key character. In a way, a monumental death might deserve a twist, but in this case, because TWD is full of twists, the real twist would have been not having a twist. And yet, despite understanding the style and expecting a twist, a total lack of one would have left something to be desired. If the character had just died by being bitten by this random zombie, it would have been that predictable kind of shock, which would have veered off from viewers’ expectations. The point is that although I knew the unlikeness of this character being taken down at that moment, I still had no idea how he would be saved.
Based on this example, it’s obvious that tension can be worked into a style without changing it. If the formula is working, staying consistent to it allows readers and audiences to develop expectations. Allowing people to familiarize themselves with a style and rewarding them for it creates fans. That reward shouldn’t be predictability but tension and shock that plays into the style. Breaking the style won’t always make sense, and if it’s done too often, people are more likely to lose interest.
If your writing tends to lead the reader by the hand up until that critical moment and then lets it play out, allowing your character to be suddenly saved in the last moment will cause readers to think, “Oh, come on, really?” The reaction depends on what you’ve done up until that point.
I think, for the most part, writers aren’t prone to switching styles by themselves. We all think in a certain style, so we already have a writing style before we attempt to develop a successful one. The risk of breaking styles and allowing inconsistencies is higher when we collaborate: author partnerships, collaborative serial fiction writers, writing groups and teams involved in larger productions, such as television and film adaptation.
Back in November, I wrote a guest post about tension in serial fiction for Anthony Lee Collins. Mostly, I talk about the role of tension in writing serial fiction, specifically in regard to emotobooks, but this concept applies to all kinds of serial goodness: screenwriting and production, web fiction, flash fiction, microfiction, even serial art.








