[I received the most curious email this morning. It purports to be a log of inspired babblings between rounds of electroshock therapy. For your enjoyment, here is the (rather heavily edited) final draft.]

It's finally time for another installment of Ask Mr. Writing Person, the supposed weekly column that is much more like the lurching undead than the Energizer Bunny! Today we hear from Corlene Benzene Whales from Monkey's Eyebrow, Arizona, who feels conflicted over how to make her characters feel conflicted.

Q. I've got a work-in-progress that seems lifeless, and it occurred to me that it might need more conflict. I was hoping we could work out some conflict together.

A. Why don't you just watch me do it instead?

Q. I am the Philistine, after all.

A. Quite. Now, a workable conflict can always be summed up by a bipartite conjecture: that is, two parallel phrases separated by "vs". In general, they tend to take forms such as man vs. man, man vs. woman, and man vs. self-appointed elite literary conspiracy, like that in which I am currently embroiled. Can you sum up your novel's conflicts like this?

Q. Um... not really. I've really only got people standing around feeling conflicted.

A. It worked for Dan Brown, but only after the money shots.

Q. Money shots?

A. The term comes from film. There, it's a difficult shot that establishes a fantastic premise that thereafter does not require great emphasis. Bilbo and Gandalf standing together in Bag End establishes their height difference, for example. Sometimes just a furtive look between two main characters is enough to establish that each has a hankering to tie up the other and force-feed him live scorpions.

Q. I still don't get it.

A. Of course you don't, so I'll spell it out. At least once, you need to show the conflict in sharp relief (think "face of Abraham Lincoln on Mount Rushmore at sunset"). After that you can simply state that your characters "feel conflicted" to your heart's content, and the reader will believe you.

Q. Ah.

A. But sometimes you can get enough punch for less effort using simile and metaphor. For example:

He felt as conflicted as an escaped python in a pet store after hours.

Even better, using metaphor:

He was an escaped python in a pet store after hours.

Q. Interesting.

A. You might even allude to past events:

He didn't want to choose between his wife and his new job. It was like that time when he had to decide between popcorn and a hot dog at the movie theater. He hoped he wouldn't end up scraping off the gum under his seat again, metaphorically speaking.

Q. Brilliant. You didn't even use the word "conflict"!

A. Quite. Before we get to the meaty techniques, I have one last trick: amnesia!

Q. Ooh, I underwent amnesia once before a hysterectomy.

A. Ironically, I have already forgotten that ghastly pun. Amnesia is particularly convenient because you can pile up conflict into a great stinking pile of literary greatness, and you don't even have to explain it! I once wrote a novel in which every character had amnesia, and it was bursting its boiler with conflict. Behold this tiny gem:

Susan struck Ned, but she had no idea why! Was it habit, pent-up anger, or something more sinister? Was his name even Ned?

Note the juicy bit of mystery thrown in at the end.

Q. Did Ned know why she hit him?

A. Of course not--he had amnesia. Be careful with this trick, as it can only go so far before your readers start suspecting you're an untalented hack rather than wicked literate.

Q. Did Susan ever find out?

A. No. Now onto the meaty material. One great way to generate conflict is to give your main characters a conflicted or contradictory past. This will also make your characters more interesting to boot.

Q. Did Ned ever find out?

A. Mercy, there goes my amnesia again. Here's an example from one of my recent published works:

Asheroff, burly arms rippling beneath his heavy overcoat, screeched to a halt in front of the beggar.

"Please, sir, a fiver?" actioned Stinky.

Asheroff reached a well-muscled hand toward his back pocket but stopped, heaving a weary sigh. His orphan origins demanded that he help give this man a fair chance at a life of quality, yet his aristocratic upbringing strongly protested against giving anybody anything he didn't earn. Besides, the beggar probably just wanted to buy some booze.

"I know exactly how you feel, sir," commented the Member of the World's Collective Armpit, his filthy eyes flashing. "I have an aristocratic upbringing myself. I give you my solemn oath as a gentleman that I'll make a proper investment out of your fiver."

Asheroff felt conflicted. "Why don't you come with me?" he queried.

Q. Was his name Ned?

A. Grasshopper, you are unwittingly demonstrating the effectiveness of amnesia as a literary device for producing conflict. Can you catch up, please?

Q. Sure. Um... got it. So why have the beggar trail Asheroff everywhere?

A. It's a literary device called late-onset suturing. Conflict can't resolve just as it starts. It must endure, preferably until the very last page of the novel, when all the threads of conflict will be sewn together like a breathtaking Gordian Knot. In this case, it also gives me the opportunity to have Asheroff feel conflicted every time he regards his beggarly companion.

Q. Genius. I guess it also provides a contrast to Asheroff's way of understanding his world, rather like a dramatic--rather than comedic--foil.

A. Sure, whatever. It's also helpful to apply this technique to secondary characters. To your main character, the conflicted pasts of secondaries will cause them to act in contradictory and even mysterious ways, furthering the conflict your main character feels.

Let's continue. Before this next scene takes place, Asheroff has applied to join the army. He hates the war, but wants to help finish it because he's tired of listening to whiny anti-war pundits. He explains his situation to the recruiter, who lets him "try out" the army before he decides whether he wants to stay.

Q. That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

A. It doesn't have to make sense! Remember the two K's: Konflict is King! Still, it's up to you to make these calls of realism over drama. Here's the scene my choices enabled in this best-selling novel:

Asheroff held the electric razor akimbo in a massive hand. Drill Sergeant Larue Cruft regarded it with consternation.

"Look," expressed Asheroff, his eyes flashing. "If I'm going to try out the army, I've got to try it all the way. I can always grow more hair."

Lara Croft's Uncanny Lookalike felt conflicted. On one hand, she had sworn to uphold the Constitution of the United States, which required every soldier to have a clean-shaven head. On the other, her years of work as a hairdresser--a closely held secret that only her immediate supervisor knew of--recoiled at the thought of truncating Asheroff's golden locks. But if she didn't go through with it, she risked losing the respect of her platoon, about half of whom glared at her, while the other half cast longing gazes at Asheroff's hair. She heaved a heavy sigh.

"Can I have a fiver?" asked the beggar.

Asheroff felt conflicted.

Q. Okay, I think I see it. Sergeant Cruft's actions won't make any sense to Asheroff because he doesn't know her history.

A. Thus paving the way for further conflict. Excellent. You're beginning to claw your way out of illiterate Philistinehood by degrees. Here's the last lesson: tie up all these threads of conflict at the end. Behold my last few tear-jerking paragraphs:

In general, Sergeant Cruft despised funerals, preferring to stay home and watch soaps.

But not this time. She heaved a colossal sigh as she cradled Asheroff's well-muscled head in her arms for the last time, her head swimming with if-onlys. If only she had pleaded his case more forcefully! He could have avoided extra latrine duty, and then... and then...

It was too ghastly to think about. Instead, she produced an electric razor and, still feeling conflicted, began to shave his golden locks. At least in death he would look like a soldier.

The beggar appeared. "Pray tell, missus, what are you doing?"

"Making a wig," she sniffed, her eyes flashing.

The beggar grinned toothlessly and held up a five-dollar bill. "Lookie what I found in his pocket."

Persistence, she shrugged, is an admirable trait. The beggar seemed to take this as permission, and ran off to buy some booze.

THE END.

Q. The ending wouldn't have packed the same punch without terminating all those conflicts right at the end, would it?

A. I am so pleased with your progress. You'll be wicked literate someday, mark my words.

Q. Do you always terminate conflicts by terminating characters?

A. Nearly. It's a time-honored literary tradition. All of the characters in my amnesia novel died at the end except a one-legged cat. This brings up another point: it's not necessary to tie up all the conflicts. For example, this cat never discovered what happened to its other three legs.

Q. I have one more question.

A. Yes, grasshopper?

Q. What's with the flashing eyes and heaving sighs?

A. I'm following in the footsteps of the card-carrying genius Dan Brown.