Thinking About Feelings – Narrative Intention in Storytelling
Ich! Feelings.
I’m terrible at feelings.
I learned the word Alexithymia in 9th grade after a school counselor pinned that label to my chest and returned me to my homeroom.
Today, I’d probably be diagnosed with some form of autism, landing somewhere on the spectrum, but I’ve chronically had problems interpreting people’s feelings. It’s an issue that still plagues me today, in work and recreation, and translates into my writing.
“She’s not a Vulcan — she has feelings, right?” wrote an editor after receiving Diaspora for publication. “Rewrite it. Have the character feel something.”
But I’m like, what? I show her panicking. I show the character’s shock at seeing corpses littered with flowers … what do you want from me, man?!
Pshsh, I thought. I don’t care what my readers feel. They should just read my cool sci-fi story and enjoy it. Yeah, that’s a cool feeling that’ll get me nowhere.
Ultimately, the editor was right (pro tip: editors are always right): I wasn’t showing my protagonist’s feelings; I was telling the reader how she reacted. I concentrated on writing a good sci-fi, not necessarily how my reader should feel when reading my story. I didn’t think about how my protagonist's feelings directly translate into what my reader feels.
Maybe you’ve been there. Ever finish a story and feel... nothing? It might’ve had a great plot, sharp dialogue, and a killer twist — but if it didn’t make you feel something, it didn’t stick. That’s the power of narrative intention: knowing how you want your readers to feel and shaping the story to get them there.
Because of my emotional blindness, I struggle with this. I get caught up in the mechanics of writing a story — who does what, where, and when, how to write a story, its nuts and bolts — but I’ve learned the emotional core of a story matters just as much as the unfolding events or mechanical underpinnings. Whether you want readers to feel tension, sorrow, hope, or dread, you have to think about feelings from the start and portray them in your characters.
Tone and Atmosphere
A story's tone and atmosphere are closely related yet distinct elements that shape how readers emotionally experience the narrative.
Tone. The tone is the author’s attitude toward the subject matter, characters, or audience. It’s conveyed through word choice, sentence structure, dialogue, and description. Tone can be:
Humorous – lighthearted, playful, or sarcastic
Serious – solemn, thoughtful, or intense
Dark – grim, unsettling, or ominous
Hopeful – optimistic, inspiring, or warm
Ironic – detached, wry, or contradictory
The tone is how the story “sounds” when read — like hearing a storyteller's voice in your head. Do you hear Bridget Jones reading to you from her diary? Or a whispy, feminine voice like at the beginning of the Lord of the Rings movies?
Atmosphere. The atmosphere is the emotional environment or mood of the story. Sensory details, setting, and pacing shape it. Think of it as the feeling the story evokes in the reader.
Mysterious – foggy streets, dim lighting, whispers in the dark
Romantic – candlelight, soft music, a warm summer breeze
Tense – fast pacing, sharp dialogue, sudden noises
Eerie – abandoned houses, unnatural silence, flickering lights
A story’s tone can influence its atmosphere, but they aren’t the same. For example:
A horror story may have a serious tone but an eerie atmosphere.
A romantic comedy may have a playful tone but a warm atmosphere.
Both tone and atmosphere combine to immerse the reader and shape their emotional response to the story. But how do you plan it, shooting for Edgar Allen Poe’s “unity of effect?”
What’s the Emotional Target?
Before I draft my outline, I’ve learned to ask myself: What do I want my reader to feel by the end? Some stories are meant to haunt, some to inspire, and some to entertain, but I think understanding this intention will shape everything — your tone, pacing, and even your word choices. These choices lend to a story’s atmosphere.
Are you shooting for Horror? Create dread with slower pacing, ominous descriptions, and uncertain outcomes.
Are you capitalizing on Sadness? Use small, intimate moments to show loss rather than outright stating it.
Are you giving Hope? Give your characters struggles, but let them find a path forward.
Are you crafting Suspense? Keep the stakes high, layer in unanswered questions, and use short, punchy sentences to build tension.
Are you aiming for Whimsy? Play with language, exaggerate details, and invite the reader into a world where the unexpected feels natural.
Are you evoking Nostalgia? Use rich sensory details, familiar settings, and a reflective tone to transport readers to a meaningful past.
Make Emotions Organic
Nobody likes being told how to feel.
“She was heartbroken” doesn’t hit as hard as “She traced the last text he sent her, the words already fading from the screen.”
Show, don’t tell. Let emotions reveal themselves in actions and subtext.
Leverage description. Use setting and sensory details to enhance mood (a sunlit café feels different from a cold, empty diner).
Express emotion. (My failing in Diaspora) … Let characters naturally express emotions — through dialogue, body language, silence, or avoidance — to illustrate their changing emotional states. Don’t just tell the reader, “She screamed,” as I did. Instead, let her voice crack, her breath hitch, or her hands tremble as she clutches her chest — let fear ripple through her entire being.
Match Structure to Emotion
A story’s structure is a powerful way to shape the reader’s emotional experience. How you arrange sentences, paragraphs, and scenes can enhance tension, deepen sadness, or create a sense of inevitability.
Fast, choppy structures. Creates urgency, anxiety, or excitement. Short sentences. Quick scene changes. Rapid dialogue exchanges. This is great for thrillers, action-packed moments, or high-stakes decision-making.
Example: “He ran. The door slammed. A shadow moved — closer, then up against the wall. His pulse hammered.”
Slow, flowing structures. It feels contemplative, dreamy, or sorrowful, written with longer sentences and rich imagery in a rhythm miming deep thought or nostalgia.
Example: “The sky stretched endlessly, a watercolor of pastels bleeding into the horizon. She stood barefoot in the sand, tracing patterns with her toes, remembering.”
Linear progressions (with a clear beginning, middle, and end) build momentum and resolution, which is ideal for growth, redemption, or triumph.
Circular structures (ending where it began) reinforce loops like fate, nostalgia, or tragic inevitability. Perfect for stories about cycles, lessons unlearned, or deep reflection.
Fragmented or nonlinear storytelling creates a sense of disorientation, loss, or mystery. Works well for stories about trauma, memory, or unreliable narrators.
Let Emotional Moments Breathe
Successful emotional storytelling isn’t just about conveying a character’s reaction. How long you let the moment linger is just as important.
If you’re writing a heartbreaking scene, don’t rush through it. Let the character pause, hesitate, reflect, use silence, use subtext. Let the reader sit in the moment's weight and stew in its juices.
Example:
Instead of: ”She read the letter and started crying."
How about: "Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the letter, the paper worn at the creases. She read each line twice and again as if the words might change. Her throat tightened. The ink blurred. She pressed the letter to her chest and closed her eyes."
Feel that? That hanging on, that waiting, that dramatic pause? By aligning structure with emotion, you guide the reader through the story and the experience of feeling it.
Finally, Trust the Reader
You don’t have to spell out everything. Trust that readers will fill in the gaps and bring their own emotions to the table. Sometimes, what’s left unsaid is more powerful than what’s on the page.
When done right, a story isn’t just words on a page but an experience. So next time you write, don’t just explain, “What happened?” Ask, “How will this make the reader feel?”
R
