How do you make the Reader Care?
A question often brushed aside, a question lacking a simple answer but instead wrapped in a deceptive bundle of words that may or may not work at any given point. It’s the elusive magic bullet that can transform a seemingly silly story with a ridiculous setting and clown characters into not just a functioning narrative but a successful one.
Hello, Timmy! As you exchange notes with Neophyte, the topics, as always, are interconnected. So, you’ve done much of your prewriting homework. How are you going to ensure that the reader will care for your characters? Is it a story about a young boy with a limp, an alcoholic father, and a neglectful mother? Just that? No agency? No particular skill for the boy? And I don’t mean giving him a condition that you translate into a superpower—medical conditions are not superpowers, Timmy. Why are you hiding your paper? Don’t answer; just listen.
What you described was, well, corporate nonsense—a concoction of cheap sentimentalism packaged with a box of clichés and repeated patterns that have been done a million times before, and much more clumsily, believe it or not. No, Timmy, the only way to make the reader care is not to depend on cheap tricks. Unfortunately, you are not capable of making the reader care.
I’m not saying that there isn’t a market for that kind of story—quite the contrary. It might be the curse of the knowledgeable that we become blind to things outside our perspective. However, I am of the opinion that if it exists, there is a reason. If there weren’t a market for that kind of story, then they wouldn’t exist. So, well done—very basic, but well done. But it isn’t a surefire way of ensuring anything.
Why? Well, Timmy, because you can never be sure of what the reader will care about. Take “Atlas Shrugged” as an example (no, I won’t delve into politics; I promise this is relevant). It’s my humble opinion that most protagonists, outside of John Galt, are unappealing and uninteresting. While reading it, I found myself skipping scenes where they are; they felt dead and faint. But the villains? Oh boy, they were so damn human that I couldn’t help but read fascinated by what they were doing, much more than the “good guys.” That might have been unintended, but that’s part of the randomness of the craft.
Another example is the indie game “Undertale,” which has such a massively compelling story and characters that draw people in. It spiraled far outside the control of the creator, and now you have fans creating other stories that go beyond the original. I’m not talking about just fan fiction; no sir, I’m talking about full-blown artwork, music scores, everything. I mean, there is at least a dozen of those fan works that generate their own works. The love for Undertale was, and probably still is, out of control. Something that the author could not have predicted or controlled.
No, the corporate types? They think they can. They live in a world of assets, brands, and ledgers—an unlived world. The reason why so many clichés and repeated patterns are related to corporate nonsense is that, because they are clichés and repeated patterns, the suits think that they encompass the entirety of the craft of creativity. They don’t take into account the human elements because they have no human elements within themselves.
Back to the topic, how do you make the reader care? By crafting a good story—a refined story with as little unnecessary fat as possible. It’s an unforced undertaking, Timmy. You can’t just grab a brand and asset and ensure reader loyalty. You’ll have to take a gamble, infuse as much humanity into the story as you can, and trust in your instincts and skills. Don’t trust in yourself? Then why are you writing? Sorry, that is too harsh. What I meant is that you have to learn to trust in yourself, and you will only achieve it by acting. But that is a story for another day.
I’m afraid that the question has no direct answer, but a more frustrating “it’s complicated.” The only way is to apply the knowledge you have of every aspect of writing, of stories, and of your life with as much grace as you can and with all the trappings of your chosen genre.
Until next time.
