FIGHT, FLIGHT, FAWN, OR FREEZE: the highly specific ways in which authors' stress responses weaken their books--and how to mop up yours on the page
Hand me a draft manuscript: within minutes, I can generally tell you exactly how the author responds to acute stress. The signs manifest on the page in consistent, predictable, unfortunate ways.
As all of us have lived through the past six years, I’m going to go ahead and assume we’re all familiar with the felt experience of acute stress.
But just in case, let’s review.
When stress and trauma trigger the human nervous system, adrenaline and cortisol flood the body. Pupils dilate; muscles tense; cheeks flush or drain; heart rates increase. As blood vacates the extremities, an awful pricking sensation starts in the hands and feet. Then at last comes the stress response, otherwise known as Fight or Flight.
(NB before I go further that my advanced degree is in English literature, not psychology, and unlike Dr. Laura, I will actually admit that this makes me unqualified to dispense psychological advice. I very well might get some scientific facts wrong in this post; its point is not to teach you about the nervous system but to get you thinking about how yours might be present in your writing.
If you want to explore the biological part of this in more detail, ASK AN EXPERT, PLEASE—NOT ME.)
Like individual pieces of music, individual stress responses are unique in their particulars but composed from common notes: fight, flight, fawn, and freeze.
This will not be news to you if you’ve been in therapy, entered recovery, or ever waded through the #therapy content on Tiktok or Instagram.
Just in case this is all new information, though, let’s go over what the different archetypal stress responses look like in practice:
Fight: rebutting; yelling; projecting; hurling accusations; kicking and screaming; mentally or physically hurting whatever person or animal triggered the response
Flight: jumping out of the way; defenestrating from the building; quitting the job; ghosting; throwing the phone across the room; swiftly abandoning a difficult conversation or relationship
Fawn: needlessly apologizing; reacting to conflict with humor, often self-deprecating; validating, flattering, nurturing, empathizing with, obsessing over, and/or clinging to the person who triggered the response; telling people who stress you out whatever you think they want to hear
Freeze: forgetting your lines; forgetting how to read a teleprompter; forgetting how human language is supposed to work; stammering; dissociating; procrastinating; hiding
Every human being experiences some combination of these stress responses at least occasionally.
Which we experience is beyond our control, and none is inherently “better” than the others.1
If extreme and unchecked, each could lead to unfortunate life developments. On the other hand, when they are managed with self-awareness and self-compassion, each becomes a useful tool for self-understanding and improvement.
Our stress responses protect us from legitimate danger; they also alert us to the presence and location of unhealed wounds. If triggered all the time, they might do significant damage to the body, but even that has an upside: the resulting chronic fatigue, pain, and immunosuppression can and often do force one’s hand in the matter of making difficult, systemic, badly-needed life changes where possible.
It’s never a good idea to suppress our fight-or-flight impulses entirely.
This is more of a nutmeg scenario. Nutmeg is deliciously life-enhancing when savored sparingly and with self-awareness. When horked mindlessly in quantity, however, it's seizure-inducing and might kill you.2 Ditto your fight or flight instinct.
If you suspect that obeying this instinct in a given scenario will make you safer or more serene—hell, even if you’re reasonably sure that in a worst-case scenario it will do nothing—by all means do so. At the same time, be vigilant and candid with yourself when you suspect it will tempt you toward self-abuse—or abusing other people.
How do I avoid abusing others when I’m activated?
This is simple. Don’t shame or blame other adults when a mature, collaborative conversation would do. Don’t be an asshole. Don’t hit or hurt people. Don’t throw tantrums in a terroristic attempt to receive soothing attention—you are not a baby.
How do I avoid abusing myself?
This one’s harder. Stress responses can erode the strongest personal boundaries and obliterate shaky ones, resulting in self-abuse and abandonment. And it can be very hard for the self-abuser to know what is going on.
People in fight-or-flight mode often pass or ghost on opportunities they very much want; agree to demands they don’t like; ignore their own feelings and needs; and—oh yeah—write book manuscripts far less brilliant or affecting than they would be if only their authors practiced self-awareness and self-compassion.
This last thing is my focus today. Writing can be a stressful undertaking, even when it’s one’s lifelong dream. Things get especially stressful when one feels vulnerable — worried what others might think of their work, for instance, or tender about the disclosures contained therein.
If you’d like to learn more about the other ways self-abandonment might be interfering with your life, then—::jazz hands:: it’s therapy time, baby. Because you’re only going to hear about writing craft from me.
When authors’ nervous systems get activated during the writing process, the quality of their writing suffers in specific and predictable ways.
Hand me a draft manuscript, and I bet I could tell you within minutes whether the author’s stress response was fight, flight, fawn, freeze, or some combination. This would be my signature party trick if it were not so hideously inappropriate and invasive. The ways these things show up in writing are just that consistent and predictable.
Lest I sound like a judgmental ass here, my own stress responses absolutely weaken my writing. I’m a fawner and a freezer, both of which can be ridiculously obvious in the manner and timing of my communications. More on how in a moment.
This is an “all of our problem” thing. And it’s a “we can only help each other” thing, too. Stupid human nature only being capable of growth in relationship stupid stupid mumble grumble.
This problem might be mortifying to work on, but when it comes to our writing, it’s so important that we do. No matter where and how our stress responses show up in what we write, they make our writing so much worse. They emanate emotional stink vibes. They drain readers’ energy and dull their curiosity. They make our readers feel manipulated vs. engaged. They fuck up the pacing of our plots and flatten our three-dimensional characters.
So what do we do? First: we learn to recognize the difference between fight-or-flight writing and calm writing. Then we learn to mop up the barf.
Fight, flight, fawn, freeze: here’s how each one shows up in distinctive ways on the page.
Below is a list of specific, common stress-response manifestations in creative writing. I’ve observed each one many times over the years. Many times. From many many different people.
This is by no means a comprehensive list, but all are common enough that I hope you will feel subtweeted by at least one. I sure do.
Fight
the “novel” starring an “imaginary” male teacher, pastor, leader, etc. whose affair with a vulnerable student or parishoner was terribly misunderstood by the meanies who fired him. (Spoiler alert—this man is the author.)
the memoir presented as addressing a pressing matter of public interest or injustice when in fact it’s just a catechism of one person’s obsessive axe-grinding interpersonal grudge(s)
the ripped-from-life “novel” that could be much improved by fictionalization, but its author doesn’t want to deviate one bit from what really happened, because if they do, their readers’ reactions will no longer validate or retraumatize them in the precise, inappropriately personal manner of their dreams
the work of first-person nonfiction in which the author figures as the only unimpeachable, moral, intelligent character in any scene
the innocuous-enough manuscript that the agent in question just didn’t have the bandwidth to take on, and they admitted this to the author, after which the author sent back a furious and insulting “rebuttal”
I know I’m using a lot of sarcastic air quotes here, but that’s precisely because fight responses in writing tend to conjure feelings of resentment, distrust, and punk rebellion in readers—including yours truly.
FAMOUS EXAMPLES: Robert Frost (also had a Flight problem), Norman Mailer, Roald Dahl
Flight
The book of personal essays by a humorist who stuffs each page with puns and anodyne chucklers up the wazoo but addresses interludes of profound past struggle and pain with a “yadda yadda yadda” at best
The go-go-go author who turns in a draft full of problems, nods enthusiastically as their editor points out the problems, says “great notes can do no problem”…then returns like .5 days later with a totally rewritten (!!) draft exhibiting all the same problems
The novel whose plot moves way way way too quickly and/or is full of inconsistencies and/or elides crucial scenes that would have been emotionally or technically difficult to write…often despite also being 100,000 words long
The writer who responds to edits more extensive, challenging, or drawn-out than anticipated by quitting, ending the working relationship, canceling the agreement, or otherwise flouncing off
FAMOUS EXAMPLES: Dave Barry, EL James, Mervyn Peake, Charles Dickens
Fawn
The writer who knows the phrase “show don’t tell” but can’t for the life of them execute on it because if I don’t spell out for my readers exactly what every gesture and development in this book “means,” I’m not sure they’ll recognize it, and I want to
make sure they see and validate my brilliancebe helpful!!The one who incorporates every single granular suggestion from their editor thoroughly and to the extreme—so much so that the end product might as well have been written by the editor
The one so terrified of being canceled or criticized that they stick to rarely-criticized subjects—even if doing so bores them—and sand the sharp insights they come up with down to nubbins
The novelist who never permits their author-stand-in narrator to do anything gross, unhygienic, gassy, or unhinged in ways that aren’t “complex” and inherently lovable
The author who chases trends and praise, imitates popular styles, and parrots various memes instead of forging their own voice and viewpoint
The writer who—in meetings and at parties—compulsively tries to finish their coworkers’ sentences
The writer whose publicly-expressed politics or worldview changes dramatically depending on who is and isn’t nice to them
FAMOUS EXAMPLES: JK Rowling (also has a Fight problem), Ezra Pound, Sally Rooney, Jeanine Cummins, Sylvia Plath
Freeze
The writer who disappears for months between drafts, sometimes disappearing forever and never finishing the project at all
The writer who writes and rewrites the first chapter of their planned novel instead of making further progress, eventually editing said chapter all the way back down to a blank page
The author who barely ekes out one novel over the course of a lifetime, although to be fair that one novel is typically quite good
The author under contract who never turns in or even attempts to write their book
When combined with a secondary fawn impulse: the author who repeatedly promises their fans, agent, and editor that they will deliver the book by a certain deadline, then doesn’t follow through
FAMOUS EXAMPLES: George R. R. Martin, Harper Lee, Fran Lebowitz, Shirley Hazzard
Recognize yourself in one or more of these categories? Here’s what you can do to level up.
First: Listen to the following preliminary reassurances from yours truly.
If you feel called out by one or more of the bullet points above, you are not alone. Please—it’s all of us.
Everyone who attempts to write anything at all will have to contend with at least one of the above, provided something at some point stresses them out. If you’re under deadline pressure or struggle with your self-esteem, it’s inevitable.
Another way of putting this is that this is what we’re actually talking about when we talk about “editorial development” in this field. Commercial book publishing is not a writing boot camp; it’s an institution in which pretty much everyone has sophisticated literary talent and expertise.
That means we’re generally not working on diction, syntax, or punctuation when we edit. We’re working on issues like this:“there’s insufficient value for the reader in these pages.” “I just don’t connect with this material.” “I feel my energy draining as I try to get through this scene.” Such emotional and energetic problems on the page tend to be caused by emotional and energetic dysregulation within the writer.
Second: Learn to recognize what dysregulation feels like in your body, then walk away and re-regulate yourself before resuming your work.
No matter what kind(s) of stress response you have, your writing will benefit immeasurably if you learn how to recognize the signs that you’re activated and take a break to un-activate.
Nervous system activation looks dramatically different for everyone. If you’re not sure how yours looks and feels, best to consult a therapist or doctor. In the mean time, I can only tell you what it’s like for me:
When triggered, I get monomaniacally focused on fixing or placating the source of my stress—finishing and sending the overdue manuscript read; dropping everything to answer the nasty email, etc. I’m told I look zoned out and haunted while I’m doing this. If someone interrupts, distracts, or tries to get my attention when I’m in this state, it’s hard for me to resist snapping at them like a grouchmaster.
Paradoxically, I also hyperfixate on things that fascinate me—things that get me into a pleasurable flow state. From the outside, these two states look the same. But there’s a crucial difference between the two inside me: I do not find stress REMOTELY pleasurable. On the contrary: when I’m obsessing over something that triggers me, my fixation feels like clamping down on a live electrical wire.
Some of the time, I people-please when I’m triggered. I try to break the tension with jokes, particularly self-deprecating ones; I overpromise; I fuss over people and worry they’re mad at me when it’s more accurate than I’m mad at them. When I’m people-pleasing, my throat and upper chest feel full of helium.
If I experience chronic or REALLY acute stress, my executive function crumbles. This looks like a freeze response from the outside, and I suppose it is?, but what’s actually going on within is more complicated than simple avoidance. My ability to process spoken language deteriorates; my working memory jets off to Cancun; my time glaucoma becomes blackout time blindness. I work insanely hard and generally for the normal number of hours in this state, but tasks that usually take me 5 minutes take an hour. It’s all profoundly exhausting, so in addition to feeling temporarily stupid and incompetent, I also feel very, very sleepy.
Years of self-work have led me to be able to recognize all of the above. They’ve also taught me some strategies for neutralizing stress. Here are some of my tried and trues:
Breaks, breaks, breaks. One of the greatest lies a triggered brain will tell you is that if you just clamp down and obsess until you’ve Solved the Problem, you’ll do great and feel better as well as make everyone happy. This is alas not true. If you do this, you’ll likely end up with crabbed, strained, inferior work product; sciatica; neglected children to whom you have forgotten to serve dinner; and probably also scurvy or something.
Physical exercise, especially walking and yin yoga. (YIN YOGA HAS TRANSFORMED MY LIFE.)
Making art—especially anything that involves the compulsive smoothing of non-smooth surfaces and getting up close and personal with bright colors.
In lieu of less-healthy shopping and gambling addictions, doing similar stuff for free in the woods: foraging, metal detecting, rockhounding, lithics hunting.
Not keeping my phone anywhere near where I sleep.
Structuring my day with rituals so that nothing rote or routine taxes my frail-ass prefrontal cortex.
YMMV. Lots of people benefit from sitting meditation, for instance, although it drives me crazy.
Third: as you write, check yourself with tough love—plus compassion and humor on the side.
Here are some stress response-specific mantras you can recite to yourself to thumb ye olde creative scales away from self-sabotage.
Fight
“Books are not an appropriate venue for ego self-defense, preening self-justification, or any permutation on ‘winning the narrative.’ It has been at minimum several decades since any author could look anything but buffoonish while attempting to use books for narcissistic supply. Back in the day, a certain kind of white male author could get away with that, but now? No one.
“Today, I will embrace my own vulnerability and accept my tenderness. I will do this because it’s the brave and dignified thing to do. If I give into the temptation to do otherwise, my writing will undulate ‘cluster-B personality disorder and cheap toupee’ vibes.”
Flight
“The essence of great writing is depth of feeling. But feelings cannot achieve any kind of depth without the presence of their opposite: silliness with sincerity; joy with sorrow; love with grief; courage with fear.
By running from or ignoring any of these in my heart or on the page, I negate the possibility of fully experiencing or capturing the opposite. Today, I refuse to be an avoidant weenie.”
Fawn
“People-pleasing might feel easy and comfortable in the moment, but it is not kind, intelligent, attentive, or evolved. On the contrary, it’s the mirror image of narcissism—a lame attempt to gather validation and toss it into the void where my self-esteem should be. This is a pointless waste of good praise. Best not to seek more praise at all until I’m in a position to actually hold and cherish it.
“Today, I’m going to give my readers the thing I never got, the unmet need that caused me to become a people pleaser in the first place. That gift is trust. I refuse to micromanage and nag them in the way I was once micromanaged and nagged. I refuse to discount their expertise, intelligence, and depth the way mine was discounted. And oh yeah—they can react to me and my book however the hell they want, because they’re not my fucking children, and I’m not their parent.”
Freeze
“I am not a turtle. I do not have a shell. I am for the most part a soft meats creature, and today’s land predators can generally see me whether or not I am moving.
“As T. Rexes ave left the planet, freezing in the face of danger is no longer wise in most circumstances. Doing so might have helped me survive a narrow cluster of past traumas or adverse childhood experiences, but it is really, really going to fuck with my wellbeing if I allow it to unfurl in my daily life now.
“Today, I will embrace that I am a verb, not a noun—an entity of constant evolution, dynamism, and change. This is true even when I’m attempting to make myself static by not moving at all. Even then, I am still moving: as a human being, I am nothing but motion. All I’m doing in a freeze response is refusing to move in interesting ways because I find it less scary to be a bore.
“If I ever survive a plane crash, I would prefer not to die screaming in flames in my seat while everyone else evacuates. If Godzilla ever shows up on my street, I would prefer not to be pancaked by his foot.
“That’s why I’m going to start chipping away at my inner emotional iceblocks right now. Here I go. Here I go. Today is the day that I thaw.”
Well…except in a plane crash or natural disaster, I guess, when the “flight” people do tend to be the ones who survive if survival is possible. So, you know, that’s good.
Did you know nutmeg is poisonous in quantities as small as 1 teaspoon? I DIDN’T.
I loved this and I LOVED the author examples.
busted.