A few weeks ago, Benjaminpmoore let us know that sometimes, everything is not okay. Ben's reminder that relentless cheerfulness is not always the order of the day set me to thinking about our writing. How do we realistically represent the idea that sometimes, our characters are out of sorts? Not in tune with their surroundings? Just plain grumpy?

"Dirty. Dead mice and all. And they call it a restaurant. Bah." "You are still young," "Grijpstra said. "The world is held together by dirt. Don’t think of it or you’ll never eat again."

Janwillem van de Wetering, Outsider in Amsterdam

Now, that's pithy, witty, and sympathetic. One of the virtues of writing grumpiness into our stories is that we clue our readers in that, yes, sometimes the world is a drag. And you know, it's okay to notice that. In fact, noticing that kind of thing can lead to insight.

Another thing grumpiness does is to make the reader more comfortable, while making the characters less comfortable.

The yellow omnibus crawled up the northern roads for what seemed like hours on end; the great detective [Aristide Valentin] would not explain further, and perhaps his assistants felt a silent and growing doubt of his errand. Perhaps, also, they felt a silent and growing desire for lunch, for the hours crept long past the normal luncheon hour, and the long roads of the North London suburbs seemed to shoot out into length after length like an infernal telescope. It was one of those journeys on which a man perpetually feels that now at last he must have come to the end of the universe, and then finds he has only come to the beginning of Tufnell Park. London died away in draggled taverns and dreary scrubs, and then was unaccountably born again in blazing high streets and blatant hotels. It was like passing through thirteen separate vulgar cities all just touching each other.

GK Chesterton, 'The Blue Cross'

This description tells us what the French visitors think of the view outside their windows. It may not be what you would have expected them to think about London at the time, but it's what they're thinking. But hey, they're hungry, and lunch, when it comes, is unlikely to please French policemen. One really good purpose of grumpiness in the narrative is to make you more sympathetic to the characters. Or you can tell the reader who not to like.

With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a sense of constraint and veiled hostility seemed to settle down upon the company. Miss Howard, in particular, took no pains to conceal her feelings. Mrs. Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice nothing unusual. Her volubility, which I remembered of old, had lost nothing in the intervening years, and she poured out a steady flood of conversation, mainly on the subject of the forthcoming bazaar which she was organizing and which was to take place shortly. Occasionally she referred to her husband over a question of days or dates. His watchful and attentive manner never varied. From the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I flatter myself that my first judgments are usually fairly shrewd.

Agatha Christie, 'The Mysterious Affair at Styles'

That's Hastings talking, before he met Poirot. You know he's a good judge of character. You can also set a mood with your grumpy details.

"I don't want to die now! I've still got a headache! I don't want to go to heaven with a headache, I'd be all cross and I wouldn't enjoy it!"

Arthur Dent in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

Now, we like Arthur, even though his glass is usually half empty. Arthur is as grumpy in his own way as Marvin, the perpetually whingeing android. In The Hitchhiker's Guide, grumpiness is played for laughs most of the time. You can use ill-humour to lighten the mood – on the page, if not in life.

Notice that what grumpiness also does is to focus on detail. Arthur Dent looks at the stars – and complains that the drinks machine can't make tea. We notice our surroundings more if people in the story complain.

Finally, grumpiness and irritation can be a terrific way to start a story. Here's one from Dorothy Sayers, and it introduces the whole action. It's a little long, but it shows you how it's done.

He frowned a little. It was irritating to be watched so closely, and always with that faint, sardonic smile. It was still more irritating to allow oneself to be so much disturbed by the smile and the scrutiny. Pender wrenched himself back to his book with a determination to concentrate upon the problem of the minister murdered in the library. But the story was of the academic kind that crowds all its exciting incidents into the first chapter, and proceeds thereafter by a long series of deductions to a scientific solution in the last. The thin thread of interest, spun precariously upon the wheel of Pender's reasoning brain, had been snapped. Twice he had to turn back to verify points that he had missed in reading. Then he became aware that his eyes had followed three closely argued pages without conveying anything whatever to his intelligence. He was not thinking about the murdered minister at all – he was becoming more and more actively conscious of the other man's face. A queer face, Pender thought.


There was nothing especially remarkable about the features in themselves; it was their expression that daunted Pender. It was a secret face, the face of one who knew a great deal to other people's disadvantage. The mouth was a little crooked and tightly tucked in at the corners, as though savouring a hidden amusement. The eyes, behind a pair of rimless pince-nez, glittered curiously; but that was possibly due to the light reflected in the glasses. Pender wondered what the man's profession might be. He was dressed in a dark lounge suit, a raincoat and a shabby soft hat; his age was perhaps about forty.


Pender coughed unnecessarily and settled back into his corner, raising the detective story high before his face, barrier-fashion. This was worse than useless. He gained the impression that the man saw through the manoeuvre and was secretly entertained by it. He wanted to fidget, but felt obscurely that his doing so would in some way constitute a victory for the other man. In his self-consciousness he held himself so rigid that attention to his book became a sheer physical impossibility.
'The Man Who Knew How'

I recommend that short story, by the way: it's a good little tale. And it's set up nicely by the nervousness at the beginning. First of all, you can identify with the man on the train, worrying about a stranger who's invading his privacy just by looking at him. Then you get interested in the conversation they have. It's about detective stories. Pretty soon, you're caught up in the dilemma of the tale – and you're ready for the surprises in store. It's very satisfying, and it all starts with an irritable mood.

The moral of this essay: don't make your characters too upbeat and optimistic. At least, not all of the time. Give them something to complain about, and see where it gets you.

Writing Right with Dmitri Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

28.08.17 Front Page

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