Raise your hand if you’ve ever had an agent, editor, reviewer or reader praise aspects of your writing but ultimately condemn the whole as “lacking something” or “missing that special spark.” Or perhaps you’ve heard this version: “You’re a very talented writer, I just didn’t connect with the story.” Such feedback, infuriatingly vague as it sounds, may translate as an absence of emotional investment—the dreaded “So what?” or “Who cares?” Maybe your story stakes aren’t high enough. Before you fling more death and destruction on the page, though, consider whether the real problem might be stakes that aren’t personal enough, or put another way, a mismatch of external and internal action.
In her book, Creating Character Arcs, K.M. Weiland asserts “The character drives the plot, and the plot molds the character’s arc. They cannot work independently.” Test that theory and you might end up with a series of random events that could happen to any character. Car chases, explosions, battles and plagues are only as interesting as the characters they challenge. And even a complex character facing compelling obstacles loses reader buy-in when we cannot see or believe the connection between external conflict (plot) and internal change (character arc).
How then does a writer achieve the perfect match?
It all starts with a lie. A misbelief. The fatal flaw. Wound. Shard of glass. Whatever term we use, every character enters the story with a worldview based on lived experience—a belief about themselves, the world, or most often both—that impedes progress internally. The plot then provides friction between an external want or story goal and an internal need, or as Weiland puts it, “trying to salve inner emptiness with exterior solutions.” Even characters who achieve what they want on a plot level often find their journey unfulfilled until they dismantle the flawed thinking that prevents a feeling of wholeness. Take Mean Girls, for example, when main character Katie assumes leadership of the Plastics, getting revenge on bully Regina but losing her true friends and self-respect in the process. Katie’s arc isn’t complete until she stands onstage in front of all her peers at the Spring Fling dance as Queen and snaps her crown into pieces to share with friends and enemies alike. Only then does she demonstrate an understanding of the difference between fitting in (Katie’s want) and belonging (her need).
If you’re worried structuring your character arcs in this way will result in a formulaic story, consider the personalities in your own life. How a Type-A teenager reacts to a speeding ticket differs greatly from the way an alcoholic repeat-offender does; each character’s possible reactions and subsequent realizations are equally diverse. The important part is creating obstacles that press on your character’s unique vulnerabilities, prompting deep and lasting transformation.
Whether you begin with character sketches and backstory to uncover the lie (as recommended by Lisa Cron in Story Genius) or prefer to discover it organically through the drafting process, knowing what your character needs to learn (what some call the theme) helps elevate a story from entertaining to emotionally resonant in a way readers won’t be able to put down or forget.
