In Defense of Melodrama
It’s not exaggeration—it’s emotional truth. A writer’s case for angst, reconciliation, and big feelings on the page.
For a long time, I didn’t publicly own what I most loved to write.
If you’ve read Party, or Zero, or manicpixiedreamgirl, or Random—even Shackled—you’ve probably already figured it out.
(Quick sidebar: I just re-listened to the Shackled audiobook in my car—on CD, no less—and I was genuinely impressed. It's really good. Like, “did I write this?” good. If you haven’t checked it out yet, go find the audiobook or grab the hardcover or paperback, whatever your thing is.)
Anyway—what I love to write is melodrama. Angst. Big feelings. And I think I’m pretty good at it.
Some of it comes from being a theater kid. I’m trained to perform in a 500+ seat auditorium without a mic. At 14, 15, 16 years old, I was up there, projecting my voice to the back row, reaching with my whole body. I don’t think I could do that now—my ribs would probably split open like in Alien. But back then, that’s what we were trained for.
Bigger. Louder. More.
When I started doing film work later on, I had to learn to dial it back. But in writing? I don’t have to. That same sense of scale and intensity carries over. I naturally lean into it.
It's exaggerated—but also, it’s not.
Not when you're 14. Not when you're 16 or 18. Those feelings are real. You’re experiencing them for the first time, and everything is magnified. The brain remembers that stuff—especially the trauma. Because that's how we're built as mammals: to survive by remembering the pain.
Your best friend betrays you. You blow up a relationship. You say something you can’t take back. That stays with you.
By combining my theater training and my deeply embedded emotional memory—it's easy, and kind of irresistible, to go there. To sink into the melodrama. To live in the angst. And honestly? It’s fun. It feels good.
Sure, I’ll watch certain '80s movies now as a parent and a writer and go, “Okay, calm down, kid.” That Get Off My Lawn voice is in me too. But when I write? Especially when I write for teens? I’m right there in it again. And I think a lot of adults like visiting that place—not to relive it exactly, but to look back from a safe distance. To remember the chaos and pain, but also the growth and intensity.
It’s the same appeal as horror stories, in a way. You’re gonna go through hell—but you know you’re going to come out okay. Probably…!
Most of my stories end with hope, even when I put the characters through absolute hell (which I do. Often. With glee). Because that’s part of the point of storytelling. The escape. The catharsis. The comfort of knowing you’ll survive the worst of it.
There’s research—I wish I could remember the source—that explains why we return to our favorite shows, books, and movies over and over again: It's not just nostalgia. It's safety. We know how it ends, and our brains find comfort in that.
This came up again for me today while writing a new scene in Breaking Character. Cassie visits Lindsay in the hospital—her first real interaction with her old friend in over a year. At first, Cassie thinks she’s doing the fundraiser for Lindsay’s family (because: American healthcare). But as the conversation unfolds, she realizes it’s also about something deeper: she wants her friends back.
She could just walk up and say, “Hey, I’m sorry. Can we hang out?” And maybe that would be enough. But there’s something in her—some compulsion toward atonement—that says, No, I have to do something big. I have to prove I mean it.
That’s melodrama. And I love it.
It feels emotionally true. It resonates. And it gives me space to tell stories that are both entertaining and, with any luck, healing.
Cassie and Lindsay’s moment—Cassie standing by the hospital bed, Lindsay waking up groggy, saying, “Hey,” and lifting her hand—and Cassie just taking it, breaking down in tears at this first contact—that’s the kind of scene that makes writing worth it. It’s what I come back for.
Tomorrow Cassie and begin the long work of rebuilding not just her and Lindsay’s friendship, but Cassie herself. Her relationship with Jesse is still the heart of the book, and that’s gonna bring plenty of drama too. They’re fifteen. You know it’s going to be messy. And…some kind of wonderful.
What I’m really enjoying about this book is how it starts in such a dark, lonely place—Cassie has put herself there—and it becomes a journey of rediscovery. Of reaching out again. Of realizing who she used to be, and who she still is.
And through it all: angst. Drama. Big feelings. All the things I love.
Thanks for reading. Hope your Monday is going okay. And hey—keep reading. The good stuff is just getting started.
~ Tom