emotional scenes (Page 1 of 3)

That happens to me  often, Janet. I couldn't tell you why, though.

~Tom

You're reliving your original inventions of person, place or thing. The remembrance of a past creation still resides in the neural net and you're pulling it up again to reactivate and reinforce short term memory centers. However, I found that the first time is still the best, gives me the best cry.

This is what great stories are made of. The hard part is ensuring that what is in your head actually makes it to the paper, otherwise, the moment will be wasted on the reader. Writing what you actually think and reading what you actually wrote, not what you think you wrote (the mind loves to play tricks on us all). That's one of the great things about TNBW is that you get the reader effect.

Very nice. Yes, we as writers must touch emotion.

I thought I'd share the chapter with y'all. Just remember that in Broken, Raif adopted Lydia when she was 5. Nobody wanted her, only her two younger sisters. Raif put together a floor puzzle of a castle with the girls, and told Lydia she was his princess. He has called her that for nearly 20 years. He adopted all three girls, and Lydia became a world-class ballerina.

Tell me if you think her reaction is normal under the circumstances.

37
Always and Forever a Princess

The Julliard Troubadours boarded their Trans-Euro charter flight the next morning for Helsinki, Finland. The weather was threatening, but the flight took off on time. The jaunt was only a hop, skip, and jump across the Gulf of Finland, but somewhere over the water they hit turbulence. The pilot announced that they would be turning back. As the plane banked, there was a blinding light, a deafening explosion, total darkness.
Sometime later, Lydia opened her eyes. Her head throbbed, and she felt a sticky ooze on her face. Slowly it dawned on her that the goo was blood. As she focused in the dim light, she realized that rain pounded the plane windows and her feet were in water.
Lydia roused completely and came to her senses. The plane crashed into the gulf, and we're taking on water. The aircraft will sink. We have to get out.
Petrov sat beside her. With a shaking hand, she reached out and touched his neck. He had a pulse. "Petrov," she said as she lightly shook him. "Wake up."
Petrov moaned, "Oh," as he placed his hand on his head. "Что случилось?"
"English, please," said Lydia gently.
"Vhat happened?"
"We must've been struck by lightning. We have to get out, Petrov. The plane is taking on water. The seats are designed to float. We need to get as many as we can and make a raft or something. Help me check on everyone."
"Lydia, vhat if zey are dead?"
"Then we'll survive—whatever it takes. Help me now."
They stood in the aisle. Lydia instructed, "You go to the back. I'll go forward. Check for a pulse here." She touched his neck.
He nodded his understanding. He came back several minutes later with three others. All had wounds and injuries of some kind. Lydia got back deathly pale. "They're all dead," she choked. "Even the pilot. I tried the radio. It doesn't seem to be sending, but surely they will be tracking us with the GPS."
Petrov nodded. "I find zree only, Lydia. Vhat now to do?"
God, help me. Lydia realized these people were looking to her to keep them alive until rescue came. She rapped the back of a seat several times. "Okay. We need to get as many seats and seatbelts as we can. Matilda and Santina, go to the galley. Get as much fresh water and food as you can find—juice, nabs, chips, whatever. We might have to subsist on it for a while. Mario, round up plastic such as garbage bags for flooring and a roof. Also get all the blankets you can find. Petrov and I will get the floatation seats. Then, some of us will have to go into the water and put these things together, but we all have to get out quickly before we take on too much water to force the door open. So, hurry."
Petrov asked with a squeamish grimace on his face, "Lydia, must ve to move corpses?"
"Yes, Petrov. They would want us to live."
Petrov nodded again. He was still in shock. "Get busy," commanded Lydia.
Petrov and Lydia laid bodies on the floor and popped seats loose. Matilda found two first aid kits, and Lydia used the scissors from them to cut seatbelts loose.
Matilda and Santina used a few trash bags and loaded them with food and water while Mario stuffed two bags with blankets and pillows. He found a few items he thought might make sturdy poles to hold up some of the bags as a shelter.
Lydia looked over the supplies. "Okay. This will sound awful, but look in the carry-on luggage and purses for aspirin, antibiotics, any kind of medication. Matilda and Santina, do that. Petrov, find flashlights and all the liquor. Mario, help me get the door open."
The water that had only been on their feet was now to their ankles. After much pushing and kicking, the door finally gave way with a groan. It would not open all the way, but it was enough that they could squeeze through.
Lydia looked at her four colleagues and asked, "Who's going in first?"
"Lydia," Petrov said, "show me how for to connect zee seats."
Lydia showed Petrov how to hook the seatbelts together to form a flimsy floor. "We'll cover it with trash bags when we all get down there. Make it at least six by six. Who's going with him? He can't do it alone."
Mario said, "I'll go. We're the men. We should do this."
"All right." Lydia placed one of the seats on Petrov to serve as a life preserver and indicated for Mario to do the same. "Use them as life vests for now. We'll send the things down to you. When you have the raft six by six, we'll send the other stuff and join you."
Lydia squeezed Petrov's hand. "Be careful, my friend."
"Ve vill survive, most beautiful Lydia." With that, Petrov squeezed through the door and plunged into the churning icy water.
Lydia handed Mario a flashlight. "Blink it three times when you have the raft ready."
By the time three blinks came from two brave men, the water had risen to the ladies' knees. However, they began tying floating seats to each bag of supplies and dropped them carefully to the waiting men. As they dropped the last bag, there was a creaking and groaning, and the plane shifted.
"Get out of here, now!" ordered Lydia. Matilda and Santina wasted no time jumping from the plane. Lydia followed on their heels but without a life vest.
As she slipped through the cracked door, the plane shifted again, and the door closed on her left leg. Lydia screamed in anguish but pushed with all the upper body strength she possessed and fell to the water below.
"Lydia!" Petrov called in terror. He dove into the waves as Lydia bobbed near unconsciousness. He reached her as she began to sink. Petrov grabbed her. "Stay vif me, Lydia."
"My leg, Petrov," she mumbled as she held tightly to the man's neck.
The survivors hoisted Lydia onto the makeshift raft. Even as Lydia screamed from the pain of a compound fracture to her left tibia, the plane cried in agony as it cracked and its fracture became a complete break. The aircraft sank rapidly into the sea.
Petrov gasped, "Oh, God, Lydia!" as he saw her leg and lapsed into his native tongue.
Lydia grabbed Petrov's arm. "Set it."
"No, Lydia. Zis is bad."
"I know." She ground her teeth. "Set it. Bandage it. Don't let me lose my leg. Please." A deep groan escaped her lips. "Use the vodka to sterilize it and give my three of the Vicodin we found. Then, stretch bags across the seats to form a floor and keep water out." She fought to stay conscious. "After that, rig the roof to keep the rain and sun off. Get out of the wet clothes and wrap in a blanket. Avoid hypothermia. Now, set my damned leg. I'll probably pass out, so do all I've said."
"As zhou vish, most beautiful Lydia." Petrov looked at the others. "I vill need help. Ladies, please to hold her down. Mario, hold top of leg near knee."
Petrov gave Lydia three Vicodin and poured vodka over the wound. Lydia cried and ground her teeth. Mario held the top of Lydia's leg as Petrov jerked quickly. Lydia screamed and lost consciousness.
Petrov ordered the other three to begin with the plans Lydia had given. Then, he bandaged her leg with gauze from the first aid kit. Petrov dragged Lydia to the other side of the raft where bags covered the seats. Then, he helped to put up a makeshift roof that at least cut the rain.
Petrov looked around. "Put supplies at center. Remove vet clothes. Zey vill dry. Wrap in blankets and stay near center. Huddle togezer. Body heat vill keep varm."
Petrov turned his attention to Lydia. "What about you?" asked Matilda. "You must be freezing."
"First, I attend Lydia. Zen, self."
Matilda Gilbert removed her wet clothes quickly and grabbed a blanket before she came to Petrov's side. "I'll help you," she said.
"Zank zhou." Petrov and Matilda removed Lydia's clothes and wrapped her snuggly in a blanket.
"Now, you," urged Matilda gently. "Lydia will sleep for a while. She took three Vicodin."
Petrov nodded and doffed his wet clothes. He shivered.
"Body heat," reminded Matilda.
"Do zhou volunteer?" asked Petrov.
"Snuggle with Lydia. You know Santina is my girlfriend."
"Yes, but it appears zhou have company."
"Survival. Lydia said whatever it takes to survive. She needs to stay warm, too."
"Yes, but I do not zink she vants me to keep her varm."
"Well, her Darren isn't here, and this is survival."
"Yes. Pray ve are found soon."
Petrov slipped under Lydia's blanket and lay close to her with his arm over her. He pulled both blankets tightly about them and fell asleep from exhaustion. Matilda returned to her group and snuggled close as they, too, slept.

Hours later they awoke. The rain had stopped. Petrov had dressed and sat beside Lydia. The other three knew something must be amiss.
"What's wrong, Petrov?" asked Matilda.
"She has fever."
"Antibiotics," said Santina. "We packed some. I don't know what kind, but she has to have something before we're rescued."
Matilda looked through the bottles. "Cefalexin is broad spectrum. I don't know what these other things are. Petrov, we have to get her to swallow these. We have aspirin, too. She needs to reduce the fever."
They got Lydia to swallow an antibiotic, three aspirin, and some water. She mumbled, "Darren."
Petrov stroked her hair and whispered, "Soon, most beautiful Lydia. Soon zhou vill be vif zhour Darren."
Matilda put her hand on Petrov's shoulder. "You love her."
Petrov shrugged. "Some zings are not meant to be. She is my friend. For zis I am zankful. Now, ve vait—all of us. Help me to put her clothes back on."

In Eau Boueuse, Raiford Gautier's phone rang. As he sank to the floor, Neely panicked. She thought he must be having a heart attack. She snatched the phone and demanded, "This is Mrs. Gautier. Talk to me."
The voice on the other end of the phone told her that Lydia's plane had crashed and the search for survivors had just begun. It had been delayed by inclement weather.
Neely hung up and took Raif in her arms. "She's going to be fine," Neely assured Raif. "I know it. I just know."
"I can't lose my princess, Neely. I just can't."
They cried together for a time before Raif finally said, "We have to call Darren." Neely nodded.
Darren answered cheerfully. "Papa Raif, are you calling because Lydia told you we might be getting married sooner than agreed?"
"I wish that was it, Darren," said Raif solemnly.
"What's wrong?"
"Lydia's plane''—He gulped—"crashed. They're searching for survivors."
"No. No," stammered Darren. "Where?"
"The Gulf of Finland."
"When are we flying there?"
"Not yet. If they find her, we'd be in the air. We have to wait to hear."
"I'm alone." Darren started to cry.
"You'll never be alone, Darren. Now is the time to pray. I'll call Derrick. I'm sure he'll be there in a few hours. As soon as we know, we'll call."
Raif called Derrick who flew his Cessna immediately to Miami where Darren had recently found an apartment. For the first time since he was very small, Darren McAlpin burrowed into his father's arms and cried, and Derrick let him like the father he had always wanted to be. "She's a fighter. She'll be fine," Derrick assured his son.
The waiting began on the other side of the world. Before Derrick had filed a flight plan to join Darren, Raif's family was at his side. They waited throughout the night and into the next morning and kept abreast of all news bulletins. Still, there was nothing.
Darren and Derrick waited apprehensively in Miami. Raif called Darren a couple of times just to see if Derrick had made it and to see how he was holding up. Derrick confided that Darren was worried sick and had literally been throwing up all night. Derrick confessed, "I gave him three bars of my Xanex and knocked him out. I haven't needed it in a long time, but I kept it filled. I'm glad I had it tonight. He's asleep, but I'm right by the phone. Call as soon as you know anything, Raif."
Derrick sat on his son's sofa and prayed for Darren and Lydia and anyone else involved.

Darkness fell on the little raft. The few survivors ate the small amount of food they had sparingly and drank enough water to stay hydrated. Petrov forced more antibiotics, aspirin and water into Lydia. She began to be delirious and called for Darren repeatedly. As much as Petrov loved Lydia, he knew she belonged with Darren for if she had felt about him the way he felt about her, she would have called his name in her delirium, not Darren's. He resigned himself to keeping his friend alive.
The night was clear and the moon full. To have been listing in a sailboat would have been relaxing and romantic. However, to be struggling for survival made the four conscious people edgy and irritable. Finally, after bickering all day and fighting over peanuts and potato chips, everyone except Petrov slept. He continued to care for Lydia as her fever climbed despite forcing antibiotics and aspirin down her.
Petrov dozed with his head on his knee. A rumbling sound roused him. He suddenly realized the reverberating was a helicopter.
"Vake up!" Petrov ordered. "Flashlights. Vave zee flashlights."
The four who were able waved the lights with renewed energy. An hour later a Finish navy rescue ship loaded the five survivors and transported them to a Helsinki hospital.

In between nods as his head drooped, Derrick McAlpin started awake as a news bulletin came on. "Darren!" he yelled. "Get in here! It's Lydia!"
He dialed Raif and said excitedly, "Turn on CNN. It's Lydia. They're transporting her to the hospital. We'll be on the next flight to Helsinki and meet you there."
Raiford and Neely Gautier met Darren and Derrick McAlpin at the hospital in Helsinki. "Papa Raif!" Darren grabbed Raif as he walked in. "They're talking about amputating her leg. She's too sick to make any decisions. They won't let me. You have to do it. Don't let them take her leg. You know she won't want that."
"Calm down, Darren," said Raif. "Let me talk to the doctors and get her to the States. If there's any other choice, I won't let that happen."
"Please, do not let zat for to happen to Lydia," said Petrov with a bandaged around his head. "She save all of us. She make sure ozers get to raft first. Zee door crush her leg. Zee bone vas zrough zee skin. I try to set leg. Please, do not for to cut off leg. Do not to cause me to fail Lydia."
Lydia's doctor had joined the group to hear Petrov's plea. He said in faltering English as well, "I have very leetle choice. Lydia's fever ees out of control. She has a severe eenfection. Doctors een United States vill say same. I have her on strongest antibiotics. Geeve her forty-eight hours. If no change, vill have no choice. You may transport to New York. I vill arrange eemmediately and accompany to United States."
"Dr. Jorgensen?" asked Raif.
"Kyllä." ("Yes.")
"We're not questioning your wisdom, but Lydia's a ballerina. To lose her leg would be as good as killing her."
"I understand. Hopefully, zee drugs vill vork."
"Yes," said Raif. "We'll pray, and we'll take her to the States, not because of you, but because we want her home."
"Of course. I make arrangements now."

In New York, the team of doctors Raif hired first suggested amputation. "Isn't there any other way?" asked Raif.
Dr. MacLeish, the orthopedic surgeon, said, "There is one procedure we can try. It entails removing a portion of the damaged bone and replacing it with a titanium pin. Lydia's left leg will be noticeably shorter than her right. She'll be in pain for the rest of her life. She won't dance again. No, she'll even have great difficulty walking."
"You don't know Lydia," said Darren. "Yes, she will dance. You just wait and see."
The doctor looked at the men in Lydia's life. Her mother stood beside her in unity.  Dr. MacLeish nodded. "She'll have outside pins and be in traction for a time, but it's the only option short of amputation."
Raif nodded. "Do it. It'll work."
A few days later, Lydia's temperature was down as was her white blood count. She opened her eyes as Darren stroked her brow. "Hey," he said.
Lydia groaned. Darren placed a medicine pump in her hand. "This is morphine, baby. If you hurt, push the button."
Lydia pressed the button and mumbled, "Petrov? The others?"
"They're fine."
"What happened?"
"It appears lightning struck the engine."
"Where am I?"
"New York."
"My leg?"
Darren soothed her brow. "You still have it. Papa Raif, Petrov, and I fought for that. You have a titanium pin and you might have pain and have to overcome some stuff, but you can do it."
"How bad is it really?"
"You need time to heal. Talk to your doctor. Rest for now and get stronger."
"Where's Daddy?"
"He went to get something to eat. He'll be back in a few minutes."
"Is Momma here?"
"Yes. She's with Papa Raif."
"I'm tired."
"I'm sure you are. Sleep." He kissed her forehead. "The morphine will keep you drowsy."
"Uh-hum," Lydia acknowledged as she drifted off to sleep.

Several more days passed before Lydia became fully aware of her situation. Petrov came to visit her, and she fell apart.
"What am I to do, Petrov? They say I can't dance."
"Most beautiful Lydia can do vhatever she vants. Doctors do not know Lydia."
"Look at this!" she whined as she showed Petrov her leg, pointing a sharp finger in the direction of the elevated limb.
"Vill heal."
Darren came in with a strawberry milkshake, Lydia's favorite, and set it on the bed stand. "Hey, Petrov," he greeted the man who would have been his competition. "Hey, Legs. How's my girl?"
Lydia glared at Darren. "Legs? I don't think I'm 'Legs' anymore, Darren," she snarled. "Look at this hideous, bride-of-Frankenstein monstrosity. Legs? It's ugly and useless. You should've let 'em take it off. Or you"—She glowered at Petrov—"you should've let me drown." Lydia picked up the milkshake and threw it at Darren. "Get out!" she shrieked. "Both of you, just get out! I don't ever want to see either of you again! How could you think this repulsive thing could ever wrap around you? Why would you want it to? I won't be dancing in the dark or any other way. Now, get out and leave me alone!"
"Lydia," said Darren, feeling as if a stake had been driven through his heart.
"I said to get out!" Lydia screamed as her water pitcher flew at Darren's head, followed by the flowers on her bed tray.
Both Petrov and Darren ducked out the door as Raif came up. Darren looked as if he would cry, his lip trembling. Petrov looked stunned, eyes wide, mouth agape. Raif said, "I heard her down the hall. Go for now. I'll take care of it. Darren, go to training camp. Just be ready when I call you to come home. Petrov, you're welcome to visit as Lydia's friend. I'll be calling."
He pushed her door open. She screamed in rage. "Hush, Princess," said Raif gently.
"Princess?" Tears gushed down her face.
"Always and forever a princess."

I'd have to say the writer has written on level to elicit an emotional response--in this case, grief. At other times, I would hope to tug other emotions to the surface--joy, anger. If your writing doesn't get some sort of response from your reader, you need to go back to the first word and start over.

Fixed

Hey Dill, lay off. It's only natural to get so involved in your work it makes you emotional. You have to care about your characters to make them believable.  Then you put the whole thing away for a year or so, until you can be objective about cutting, changing and deleting stuff you once thought was golden. If you're still crying, put it away again.  JP

Well, it is only my personal opinion (that's why I opened with 'my theory'). I never said that my view upon matter is considered a law of the universe, or is a fact or even a consensus of opinion.  Hell, I never even claimed that any other person in the world sees it the way I do. I just said what I think.
The question was:

What does it mean as a writer when you're proofing and start to cry over a scene you wrote?

It didn’t include an instruction that if you reply with your own opinion that it must strictly conform with other peoples preconceptions and fervently held beliefs upon the subject  or you’ll  be told to ‘lay off.’

I once saw a guy get his foot blown off by a landmine. He sat with the boot containing his severed foot in his lap waiting patiently for a medivac chopper that took 35 minutes to arrive.

He didn’t cry.

What does that mean? Or more to the point, what do you think that is allowed to mean?

I think I see the point Dill is trying to make--but he could have framed it a bit less abrasively. I think Dill is trying to make the point that non-fiction is more authentically emotional because it has firm roots in reality. However, I also think he's woefully missing the point that fiction has roots in reality too. One of the first basic principles of successful fictional storytelling is to give the reader something they can relate to, sympathize with, or champion. You can't do that without drawing from reality. And just because those facets are framed in a fictional telling, doesn't make them any less authentic. If you succeed in immersing the reader to the point of investing, their emotional response (whatever it is) is genuine.

Janet, I too have had emotional reactions to things I've written. It happens most when I return to re-read a difficult passage after having stepped away for a while. But it has also occurred during the writing. Usually because whatever I've just written hits a little too close to home. It's natural. We're human.

I feel sorry for those who cannot enjoy having their emotions moved by words, music, beauty etc.  To say it's crazy to be moved to tears by words is akin to saying that because the beauty of my great grandchildren can bring me to tears I am somehow deranged.  To command the art of wordsmithing to the degree that it makes one laugh or cry, is the reason people have spent their lives in poetry and prose. Simply to elicit a feeling from the partaker is the essence of why I write.  Am I also deranged when I make myself laugh with my writing because I do that often. Emotion or lack of it is the essence of life itself.  Hide it, suppress it, don't allow it to be shown, and you are the loser.  Lord, please let me write books that make people feel something and I will be forever grateful.  If I cry at my own writing, I'll pay for the kleenex.  Now back to your regular programming.
Mike

Far too deep Linda   (And true, I'm strictly talking about fiction not memoir here)

It is just that I've never cried when I've written something. Never felt the urge or need and I can't imagine any circumstance when I would. It doesn’t mean that I don’t have emotions.

Because I don’t feel the crying coming on it means I can’t relate to those who do. I think they must be mad. Just as a ‘crier’ can’t relate to me.

I like being abrasive because it identifies the over sensitive and that helps when choosing who to review