Didn’t your mother always tell you to “think before you speak?” Or perhaps, “think before you act?” If she did, it was for a good reason: speaking or acting on our initial impulses can get us into trouble. That’s because when we’re overwhelmed, signals to the amygdala – the part of the brain that  controls the emotions – bypass the rational, thinking part of the brain, called the cortex. And there’s a good chance we might say something we regret,  or act out in embarrassing ways. We might even become aggressive.

A college class I once took on writing the short story brought home how writers can use the same sequence to help readers understand the characters’ behaviors. One of our course textbooks was a thin but meaty volume titled, Scene and Structure, by the late author and screen writer, Jack Bickham. In addition to writing dialogue in stimulus-response style, Bickham emphasizes that characters’ responses should be written in a particular sequence: emotion, thought, action, and dialogue. It would seem Bickham was up on his neuroscience as well as fiction writing.

Here’s a paragraph I put together to exemplify Bickham’s suggested sequence: Juliana felt like crying. After years of hearing only rumors, the evidence was finally staring her in the face. She’d learned from a trusted staff member that Roland Jeffries had been skimming money from the orphanage’s operating funds. He’d cut the children’s food budget without notifying the board and allowed the dormitory beds to become infested with insects. She had only one message for the doddering old fool, and she couldn’t wait to deliver it. Dodging puddles along the dirt driveway, Juliana barged into the director’s office. She was met by chorus of dissonant pings as leaking rain water struck the strategically positioned pots and pans.

Jeffries had his feet on the desk, tie hanging loosely around his neck. He raised a finger. “Watch this,” he said. And he tossed a foam ball into a toy basketball net attached to a rusting file cabinet. “Three points!” he declared.

Juliana’s chest filled with rage. Firming her jaw, she crossed the floor, picked up the foam ball, and hurled it at him. Then at the top of her lungs, she yelled across his desk, “These children deserve better!”

Jeffries’s response would follow, then Juliana’s, etc.

The end of a scene is often followed by a “sequel,” an opportunity for the protagonist to review, reflect on, and analyze the situation. She needs to think about what just happened and weigh her options. (This often happens while the main character is talking to a side-kick, driving home alone, doing some task,  etc.) Finally, she must make a decision and choose a course of action, which then becomes the next scene goal.

Here’s a possible sequel to the previous scene: Lying in her hotel bed that night, Juliana wept. The orphanage that her grandparents had founded all those years ago was near collapse. Something had to be done about Jeffries, and soon. When she closed her eyes, she pictured the wedding dress hanging from the back of her bedroom door, all beads and lace. Once again, the tears came. Yes, she could get on the plane the next morning, go home and have a happy life. Her visit to the orphanage was supposed to be just a quick stop on her tour of Southeast Asia. A few hours spent honoring her grandparents’ legacy, nothing more. Yet she’d been touched in a way she never expected. She tried to sleep, but it was no use. Thirty-five adorable children came into focus, waving at her as she drove away. “I can’t let this happen,” she said aloud. Convinced now that she alone must somehow save the orphanage, she pulled the chain on the table lamp, opened her laptop, and began to type. “My Darling David, Please try to understand. I know you need me, but the children here need me more. For the time being, I will be staying in Thailand.”

Maybe it’s a stretch, but I think if it works in fiction, employing the same sequence could help us better understand our kids.

The first thing I try to do when responding to an emotional situation is understand my own feelings. If the situation my teenager is dealing with brings up some old hurt stuck in my psyche, I need to identify what ‘s making me emotional. Then I can get my feelings out of the way and offer empathy.

Let’s play out a scene. Remember, it’s emotion, thought, action, and dialogue. Any one of these elements may be eliminated, my professor said, but they must be presented in that order nonetheless. The “reviewing” component is allowed to recur at any time before the end of the sequel. In this example of real life imitating fiction-writing, I won’t leave any out.

Here goes: My teenage daughter comes home from school upset. “I can’t stand Brianna,” she wails. “She is such a jerk!  Emotion.

She runs into the bathroom and shuts the door. I hear her crying.

If I were to say, “But Brianna is a such a nice girl,” I would be denying her feelings. My kid would clam up, go to her room and slam the door.  So I say nothing. I realize I cannot allow my teenager’s emotional response to flip my switch. I am able to stay calm.

I also realize her emotions are painful. I have been there myself. But I can only help her by staying present while allowing her to process her feelings. This freeing up of emotional energy allows me to empathize.

She comes out of the bathroom and throws herself on the couch. As she calms down, she begins talking.

“You won’t believe what she did today, Mom. I mean, it was just – sick! One minute we’re eating lunch, right? And then she’s gossiping about me, telling all these people untrue things about me.” Thoughts.

OK. Now we’re getting somewhere. Someone has hurt my daughter, but I have gotten my own feelings out of the way.

I reach out and brush a tear from her cheek. I wish I could protect her. “That sounds pretty serious,” I say.

“She uses people all the time, just so she can be popular.” More thoughts.

“Mmm hmm,” I say, in acknowledgement.

“I’m not hanging out with her anymore,” she says. “We’re definitely not double dating for prom.”  Planning a course of action.

I want to help my daughter formulate a response, express her thoughts and feelings. Again I am empathetic, but careful not to intrude. “It isn’t easy telling someone that you’re disappointed in them. Have you thought about what you’d like to say?”

“I want to tell her she can’t treat people that way and expect to stay friends. If she wants to be that way, that’s her business.” Role playing dialogue.

I remind myself that this isn’t about me. “That sounds about right,” I say.

“I thought she was my friend,” she says. More emotion. (She’s really sad.)

“I know,” I say. Then I hug her. I want to empower my kid. I am on her side. “You know, I think you are very good at resolving problems. This stuff isn’t easy.”

“Thanks for being my mom,” she says, and then she’s off, doing whatever teenagers do. (Or maybe dialing her two-faced friend.)

The parallel between scene-writing and real-life communication is pretty interesting. Except family-life isn’t fiction. It’s important to be real. And particularly important to listen and be caring.

Allowing a person to tell their story helps them store the memory in a healthy way. They can then take their processing to the cognitive level, as in fiction, and plan a course of action.

Our kids want to be the protagonists in the story of their lives. Our job is to play a supporting role and then step back. We want them – not us – to be the heroes.  FFG