Recently I’ve been thinking about my grandma’s bathtub. It was solid green, with a smooth surface that I loved sliding across to play tidal wave. I know I splashed water over the side often, but I don’t remember my grandma ever getting upset about it. There was a small window in the wall above the bathtub that I could just barely peer out of if I carefully balanced on the side. I often stayed at my grandma’s house for a week or more, and I’d play in the bathtub until the bubbles were gone and my fingers were more wrinkled than hers. When I’d finally get out, my grandma would wrap me up in one of her huge fluffy towels, give me a squeeze, and brush the tangles out of my hair.
Then one day I arrived at my grandma’s to find that the bathtub was gone, replaced with a shiny walk-in shower that had a seat and a handheld nozzle. The window had been covered up, and soft cream had replaced every speck of green. I started crying.
I’ve thought about this memory a lot, but this week was the first time that I tried to pinpoint what exactly made me so upset. And this is where this story intersects with writing emotions: if you’d asked me before, I probably would have just said I was sad, or maybe made a joke about being type A. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized how many complex emotions I felt in this one seemingly small moment. Labeling all of those feelings as being sad flattens the moment, like a painting in which the sky is a single shade of blue. (This also happens to be the only lesson I remember from childhood art classes: nothing in nature is a single color. Artists must train themselves to pay attention to all of the colors that exist, not just the colors that they expect to see.)
To unpack this further, some of the emotions and thoughts I had at that moment included:
1. Confused—why did Grandma think I’d be excited about this shower?
2. Angry—why didn’t anyone tell me about this before it happened?
3. Insignificant—no one told me because my opinion doesn’t matter.
4. Lonely—no one understands how I feel or what’s important to me.
5. Anxious—what else is going to change when I don’t expect it?
6. Afraid—why does Grandma need a special shower anyway?
7. Embarrassed—why am I so upset about something no one else thinks is important?
If I were writing about this in a story, I might choose to emphasize one or two of those emotions and thoughts in order to tie into the story’s overarching themes and the main character’s development. For instance, if this were a picture book about an aging grandparent, I might emphasize the feelings of being anxious and afraid. If this were a middle grade novel about a kid staying with his grandma because his parents are divorcing, I might tease out the feelings of being insignificant or lonely. If I were writing a young adult or adult novel, I might apply the feelings of anger and embarrassment to a scene in which the main character feels betrayed by a close friend. In short, I would look for a way to show the scene’s complex feelings, while still highlighting the emotions that are most meaningful to the specific story and that could build to a satisfying resolution.
Consider trying this as a writing exercise yourself. Think about an emotion-filled moment from your past and try writing out as many of your emotions and thoughts in that moment as possible. Maybe you’ll start to see some colors you’ve never noticed before.
Your Editor Friend,
Julie