“Amanda stepped off the elevator on the lower level of the parking garage. At ten o’clock on a Saturday night, the level was empty except for her car . . . and one other she didn’t recognize. A sound of dripping water and the soft scurrying of animal feet – rats? – made her throat close.
She swiveled her head in search of anything or anyone nearby then took a tentative step toward her car. Then another step and faster, faster, until she was almost at a sprint. Her high heels clicked on the concrete floor and echoed in the cavernous space. Finally, she reached her car. Damn, why didn’t she have her keys ready?
Amanda fumbled through her bag, her heart now ratcheted up, pumping blood through her ears. All she could hear was the furious whooshing sound of her own fear.
There, her keys, at the bottom, now in her hand. She clicked the fob and the latches opened. She reached for the handle, but before her fingers closed around it, she detected a breathy squeak of rubber soled shoes behind her. She dropped her bag, swung around with a gasp, hands clenched into fists, ready to defend herself and . . .”
So, what do you think? Tension? I always love the late-at-night parking garage scene. Scares the heck out of me, even now.
What is tension, really, and why is it so important in writing? Even if you’re not writing a mystery. Even if you’re writing non-fiction.
The noun tension has its Latin roots in “tendere,” which means to stretch, and tension occurs when something is stretched either physically or emotionally to its limits. Strained relations between countries can cause political tensions to rise. Tension can be added to a rubber band by stretching it to its limits. By the way, you can release nervous tension by shooting that rubber band at the local bully.
Tension is the means to get your reader to turn the page, particularly if it’s used at the end of a chapter as a cliffhanger. People, for the most part, don’t like to leave things unresolved. They want to find the solution, even if it’s an unsatisfactory one (that’s another story.) 
While you cannot (or should not) distort facts when writing non-fiction, tension around real events can ramp up the readers’ pulse just as thrillers can. Take “The Monuments Men,” for instance. How tense can a situation be when you have a group of men and women trying to save the art and monuments of a Europe at war? When, finally the fighting ends, and they discover, in a dark, damp mine in Austria, a cache of hidden loot that would make King Midas gasp? When, they manage to “derail” an art train bound for Germany with stolen paintings of Masters like Leonardo.
Now that’s tension. That’s real life. Whew.
I welcome your feedback and samples of tension in your writing.
Always a pleasure to read your blogs, Lynne. I am less enthusiastic this time, unfortunately.
Tension is a difficult subject, however. I appreciate the sticking out of your neck with this example, which, frankly, doesn’t bring tension in me as reader. Maybe it’s a language thing (I am non-native in English), but imho It’s quite telly. The writer TELLs me it’s scary; I don’t feel it. It’s an action scene that is, imo, better shown. As a side note, I don’t think – from a perspective viewpoint – that the woman, in her anxious state of mind, will notice her clicking stiletto’s.
Tension not only arises by the contents of the text, but also by its delivery: its rhythm, its wording. Take for instance the last three sentences: they all start with “She + verb”. It suggests a kind of list, which feeds boreness (=anto-tension).
Brief, staccato sentences increase tension. That has to do with the correlation with the reader’s breathing; short sentences make one’s heart go faster. Contrarily, long sentences give a mellow, peaceful feeling.
Another trick to increase tension is by adopting the principle of napalm: a term I picked up that implies something that sticks to the skin of the reader and burns its way to his/her bones. It’s impossible to overlook, ignore or forget. It colors the scenes that are coming. For example, you have a scene in a leisure park of an old man and a 4 year old girl. They have fun, the man in a grandpa-grand-daughter setting, knows how to entertain the girl with magical tricks, etc. Well, you get the picture. In itself it’s a sweet scene, nothing to do with tension, right? It depends on the context, though. Imagine the reader knows that on the man’s PC a large collection of child pornography has been found (the napalm)…
Thanks, Leonardo. I always appreciate your thoughts!
Sample of tension – would love to get your take on this:
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“Mick, for Christ’s sake, get off it!” Marcus came down the steps.
“No, Boss, you’re crappin’ on a solid partnership, here. You’re disrespecting ten years of friendship thinkin’ I can’t be trusted to do my job no more for this sicko.”
“After how shit went down…and you’re getting in my face about respect? Telling me I’m being disrespectful? What would Louise say about the piece in your pocket?” The big guy’s face blanched and his eyes bugged out. Marcus barely saw Slade come over from his tailgate, so focused was he on driving his point home to Mickey.
“You take dat back! Right NOW!” He yelled.
“No, while we’re airing the dirty laundry, let’s get it all on the table about respect!”
“Apologize for bringin’ her name inta dis!” Mickey’s voice echoed off of the side of the pawn shop. Marcus knew mentioning his late wife had crossed a line, but he felt it necessary to communicate the gravity of the fit Mickey was trying to throw over one shipment.
“You have the nerve to call me disrespectful about takin’ care of my family’s wishes when you couldn’t honor her wishes? How does that work?”
“I swear to God!!”
“Alright ladies…” Slade tried to insert himself between them, a freshly opened bottle of beer in his hand. “That’s enough.”
“How many times did you break that promise by now?” Marcus taunted his friend. Both of them knew all too well the invisible notches on Mickey’s gun.
“YOU SONOFABITCH!” Mickey screamed, clocking Marcus square in the temple with a lunchbox of a fist, Marcus went sprawling across the pavement ten feet away, out cold.
With a shove, Mickey one armed Slade off balance so hard he flipped back over his head and landed hard on his back. The beer bottle went crashing all over in a foamy mess. Through the ringing in Slade’s ears, he watched the sky a moment and listened to the big guy fuming.
“I went against her…for YOU…and THIS IS WHAT I GET?!?!?” Mickey bellowed at Marcus’ lifeless body. Sitting up, Slade saw Mickey breathing hard, his face red with fury. He looked like he was about to keep up the punishment on the still lifeless Statler. Getting to his feet, Slade noticed the smashed beer bottle and hesitated in picking up the jagged neck.
“That was a fresh beer.” Slade calmly said to Mickey as he turned away from Marcus. In one stride, Mickey had a fistful of Slade’s shirt and was pushing him up against the brick wall of the pawn shop. His strength was impressive to Slade, who was a scrappy fighter. As the other massive hand came up around his neck, he couldn’t help but smile.
“You remind me of Haystacks Calhoun, minus the beard.” Slade whispered as Mickey’s massive fingers tightened around his neck. The guy had a grip any mobster would be jealous of. The broken bottle slipped from his hand.
“You…mess anyting up around here…” Mickey managed through clenched teeth, his face going from red to purple. Slade watched spots cross his vision as he tried to claw and pull the merciless hand away from his windpipe. Hearing nothing else, day turned to night.
———————-
Thanks for the opportunity to share!
How do you spell don, don, don? You know the old musical announcement that surrounded tension in a movie. Well, that is just how I felt when reading your first few lines. Great showing of tension.
Thanks.
“Rob, do not go, there is no need, you can write your book without confronting the darkness. There is no need to see it, just stay with me and leave the foul thing alone and set to its own purposes. I have no idea what you are thinking of here, I have no idea whether you have gone crazy and I should be calling an asylum who have strait-jackets and restraints or if the faerie exists and you intend to confront one of the darkest, most dangerous of possessionists in its lair? I shook my head from side to side trying to clear the fog of thoughts that swirled between his perceived madness and possible lucidity. I do not know what to think.
I meant every word I said, I knew not whither he was psychotic or imagining a new story to bring to life, I wondered if all writers grew so enamoured of their own tales that they began to live them, or if they actually believed all the things they told. Faeries?
“Do not worry” he said, with a smile “my bait is still in the water, I have not yet “gone Fishing” My attic is not yet filled with bats, my picnic is not short a sandwich, and, if I am lucky I will meet the wraith tomorrow.
That was when I lost It. “for fuck sake Rob, are you stupid or are you so caught up in your writing that you are trying to drag me down into your madness” He had the audacity to look hurt and surprised. “Why would you enter the burial mound of a creature that could destroy you easily for the sake of a silly book. Why would you take so many chances? You have me now, you are no longer alone. He was quiet for a while, his smile gone, his levity departed. “I have to know”.