Are You Being Too Nice to Your Characters? Why Suffering Matters in Suspense

Image is a color photograph of two wooden artists' figures, one reclining in the other's lap; title card for the craft essay "Are you Being Too Nice To Your Characters? Why Suffering Matters in Suspense" by Jennifer Craven.

By Jen Craven •

Here’s a truth many writers (myself included) sometimes resist: if your characters aren’t suffering, your story probably is.

In the world of suspense fiction, suffering isn’t just dramatic flair—it’s fuel. It’s what cranks the tension, raises the stakes, and keeps readers flipping pages long past bedtime. And yet, so many writers instinctively pull back, cushioning their characters from consequences, softening the emotional blows, or resolving tension too quickly.

Why? Because we care about them. We see their humanity. We’ve spent hours (months, years!) with them, and the last thing we want is to watch them unravel. But here’s the thing: suffering is what makes stories matter. And if you want to write page-turning suspense, you have to get comfortable with watching your characters fall apart.

The Illusion of “Nice” in Character Craft

When we fall into the trap of being too kind to our characters, it usually comes from a good place: empathy. We don’t want our characters to suffer excessively, or we fear making them unlikeable, or worse—losing reader sympathy. But in suspense fiction, this can dull emotional impact and stall narrative momentum.

Let’s get one thing straight: readers don’t need your characters to be perfect—they need them to feel real. And real people face pain, moral ambiguity, and mistakes. Especially in suspense. Whether it’s psychological suspense, domestic noir, or a high-octane thriller, a suspense novel thrives when your characters are forced to confront the very things they fear most.

What Kind of Suffering Works in Suspense?

There are many shades of suffering, and not all of them involve trauma or violence. In fact, some of the most compelling suspense comes from internal or relational suffering—the quiet kind that unspools slowly across the pages.

Some examples:

Guilt: a character hiding a past mistake that threatens to unravel her life.
Betrayal: a husband’s affair, a friend’s lie, a family secret.
Loss of control: a mother whose child goes missing, a woman gaslighted by someone she trusts.
Identity crisis: a character forced to question who they are when the mask slips.

In my latest novel, The Skiers, the story builds up to a tragic accident that happens at the last event of the professional ski season. I wove in six witness statements—interviews with unnamed voices who reflect on what went wrong—giving clues and emotional foreshadowing. Each is tinged with guilt, regret, and pain. The tragedy at the end doesn’t come out of nowhere; it builds, brick by emotional brick.

The emotional resonance didn’t come from the event itself—it came from how each character suffered in the lead-up. The slow burn of tension. The self-doubt. The moments when they had a choice, and didn’t take it.

“Nice” Characters Don’t Change

Suffering is essential because it creates transformation.

If your character’s journey starts and ends with them being competent, confident, and largely unchanged, your story might be pleasant—but not powerful.

Let’s take a closer look at how suffering can lead to more dynamic storytelling:

It disrupts routine, which is the engine of suspense.
It exposes flaws, allowing readers to relate more deeply.
It forces decisions, driving plot forward.
It reveals values, especially when the stakes are personal.

Consider domestic suspense novels like Big Little Lies by Liane Moriarty. The novel opens with the knowledge that someone has died, but we don’t know who or why. The rest of the book unpacks how ordinary women—mothers, neighbors, friends—are carrying emotional burdens and personal wounds that eventually explode. No one escapes unscathed, but it’s in their emotional unraveling that they become most compelling.

Suffering invites readers to ask: What would I do in that situation? And that question is the heartbeat of suspense.

But Don’t Confuse Suffering with Trauma for Shock Value

Let’s be clear: Suffering ≠ gratuitous trauma.

We’ve all read stories where characters are subjected to pain or violence that feels tacked on for shock rather than for character development or narrative necessity. That’s not effective suffering—it’s exploitation.

Take domestic suspense, for instance. In many of these stories, the antagonist isn’t a stranger lurking in the shadows—it’s a husband, a best friend, a child. That’s what makes it so powerful: it’s the horror of realizing that the greatest threat might be someone you love. In another one of my novels, The Day She Vanished, a mother grapples with the consequences of a split-second decision that she can’t take back.

It’s not the crime itself that lingers in the reader’s mind—it’s the emotional fallout. The betrayal. The guilt. The irreversible consequences.

Here’s how to distinguish between meaningful suffering and cheap twists:

Meaningful Suffering:

Serves the character arc.
Complicates relationships.
Leads to lasting consequences.
Reveals deeper emotional truths.

Gratuitous Trauma:

Exists only to surprise or horrify the reader.
Doesn’t change the character in any meaningful way.
Feels disconnected from the emotional tone of the story.

Your job as a suspense writer is not to shock for the sake of it—it’s to create a sense of dread, consequence, and emotional investment. And you do that through suffering that feels earned and intimate.

Practical Ways to Push Your Characters (Without Losing Reader Sympathy)

So, how do you balance this fine line—creating deep, believable suffering without alienating your readers?

Here are a few techniques:

Identify the deepest fear. What keeps your character up at night? Is it losing a child? Losing control? Being exposed? Dig into the psychological underpinnings of their fear. Then, build the story to test that exact thing.
Escalate slowly. Let the suffering simmer. A sudden tragedy can be effective, but a gradual unraveling often hits harder. Start with a lie. A secret. A small betrayal. Then turn the screw.
Use relationships as pressure points. In suspense, the most potent suffering often comes from someone close. Make the antagonist a loved one. Make the betrayal intimate. A stranger with a gun is scary—but a spouse with a secret is worse.
Show the cost. Suffering is more powerful when we see the toll it takes—on a marriage, on a character’s mental state, on a child. Don’t rush the healing. Let characters sit in their pain. Let them make bad choices. Let them break before they rebuild.

Writing Prompt: Test the Boundaries

Want to try this in your own work? Here’s a quick writing exercise:

Choose your protagonist.
Write a list of three things she would never do—cheat, lie, hurt someone, etc.
Now, imagine the scenario that would force her to do one of those things.

The story lies in that moment—when the person she believes herself to be collides with the choices she feels she has to make.

Why Readers Crave This Kind of Emotional Depth

You might be wondering: But won’t this make my story too heavy?

Not if it’s done with care.

Suspense readers aren’t just looking for plot twists. They want emotional truth. They want to feel something real. They want to be pulled into the characters’ inner turmoil and sit with them in the dark moments.

Especially in domestic suspense, the emotional stakes often hit closer to home. These are stories about marriages cracking, friendships dissolving, children going missing. And the suffering is often internal—quiet, psychological, socially masked.

In a world where so much feels uncertain—parenting, marriage, identity, safety—domestic suspense becomes a mirror. And suffering is the crack that lets us see what’s really underneath.

Final Thoughts: Make Them Bleed (Metaphorically)

In suspense, the most powerful moments don’t always come from the big reveals. They come from the slow unraveling. The moment a mother realizes her child has lied. The split-second hesitation before a character makes the wrong call. The guilt that lingers long after the climax.

Don’t shield your characters from these moments.

Let them suffer. Let them stumble. Let them hurt the people they love. Then, let them carry that weight to the very last page. Because when your characters suffer, your readers feel. And that’s what keeps them turning the pages.

JEN CRAVEN writes domestic suspense and emotionally layered fiction about motherhood, secrets, and the lies we tell to protect what we love. She’s the author of seven novels, including The Skiers, The Baby Left Behind, and Her Daughter. Find her on Instagram @jencravenauthor.