by Lisa Cron
And so, simply knowing that Wanda wants a boyfriend real bad isn’t enough. We also have to know why and what issue she needs to come to grips with before she can succeed. Because there’s no way she woke up one morning and bang! out of nowhere decided she can’t live one more day without a mate. And don’t try the old “but that’s exactly the way it happened to my friend Susan” argument. Remember, a story can’t get away with the things life can—and believe me, Susan actually had a good reason for it, whether she knew it or not. This is of key importance, so I want to pounce on it: No one ever does anything for no reason, whether or not they’re aware of the reason. Nothing happens in a vacuum, or “just because”—especially in a story. The whole point of a story is to explore this “why” and the underlying issue that, in real life, dear old Susan never let on she was struggling with. Otherwise, how will we, as readers, be able to pick up pointers for navigating our own lives?
Thus the protagonist’s true goal—even if it’s triggered by a random external event—is something that’s been evolving for years, although he might have been completely unaware of it until that very moment. That’s because his desire stems from what it means to him internally, rather than merely what it does for him externally. For instance, Norm doesn’t want that million dollars just because of all the shiny things he can rush out and buy the second he gets it. He wants it because all his life he’s believed having a lot of money is what proves you’re a real man, although of course this is not something he’d admit to anyone, including himself. It is, however, what drives his action. It helps to think of the source of your protagonist’s desire as the answer to the question actors always ask: What’s my motivation? Because as we know, the heart of the story doesn’t lie in what happens; it beats in what those events mean to the protagonist.
Case Study: It’s a Wonderful Life
Let’s take a look at a film that’s much beloved—and hard to avoid, even for the curmudgeons among us: It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s pretty clear from the start that protagonist George Bailey’s goal is to get the hell out of Bedford Falls. Why? Because, as he tells his father, the thought of being chained to a rickety desk for the rest of his life would kill him. He wants to do something that matters, something big that people will remember. In short, George equates staying in Bedford Falls with being a failure, which means if he stays there, no matter what happens, he couldn’t possibly be a success—this is the inner issue he’s battling. And it gives him a pretty powerful motivation for getting the hell out. This sentiment underlies everything he does. It’s what he struggles with each time something threatens his getaway.
By the same token, what keeps George in Bedford Falls aren’t the external events that befall him, either—it’s not his father’s death, it’s not that his brother Harry doesn’t really want to take over Bailey Building and Loan, it’s not the run on the bank. What stops George from leaving is also internal: his integrity. He can’t leave because, as much as he wants to, he knows people are counting on him. Thus what fuels his external reaction to these events is his internal struggle. It is what causes him to make the choices he does. Notice, too, that all this revolves around what we’ve learned from neuroscience: the brain is built to think socially. It’s not what happens externally that motivates George; it’s the responsibility he feels toward others, and how he sees himself.
George’s greatest reward is, of course, internal as well. That’s why it doesn’t matter that no one except warped, frustrated old man Potter ever really knows what happened to the missing eight thousand dollars, or that no one ever proves George didn’t embezzle it. Think about it: when the movie ends, for all anyone knows, George may actually have stolen it and buried it out in Bailey Park. The point is, it makes no difference, because being vindicated on the plot level is small potatoes compared to George’s real reward: the internal knowledge that all the concessions he made didn’t rob him of the life he wanted—as a matter of fact, on reflection, George realizes they gave it to him. What’s more, George’s epiphany occurs before everyone shows up at his door, ready to bail him out. If they’d carted him off to jail that night, he’d have gone a happy man.
But they didn’t, because the other characters responded in kind; their true gift to George is internal, as well. Sure, on the plot level they give him the money to stay out of jail. But what they really give him is unconditional love—as hokey as that sounds. He spent his life doing what integrity demanded. And that’s exactly what everyone in Bedford Falls does when they believe George is down for the count. As Uncle Billy tells him, when Mary let people know he was in a bind, no one asked what had happened; they were too busy reaching into their pockets and asking what they could do to help.
Proust observed, “The only true voyage of discovery … would be not to visit strange lands but to possess [new] eyes.”10 That is exactly what happens to George Bailey: he looks back on his life with new eyes and sees something altogether different from what he expected. And in so doing, he makes a discovery often made by protagonists: his external goal and his internal goal were at odds all along.
Upon Achieving the Internal Goal, Revisiting the External Goal
Often the protagonist’s external goal changes as the story progresses—in fact, that’s often what the reader is rooting for (remember Scarlett?). In It’s a Wonderful Life, George’s internal goal is to make a big difference in the world. His external goal is to get out of Bedford Falls and build bridges, skyscrapers, and to “do big things.” He believes these goals are one and the same. The movie then chronicles how his external goal is thwarted at every turn, and instead of doing big things, he always does the right thing. In the end, that’s precisely how he achieves his internal goal—making a big difference in many people’s lives—which brings with it the realization that he actually achieved his external goal as well. He did do big things—things that are far more important and enduring than building skyscrapers. Thus, by achieving his internal goal, he was able to redefine his external goal—and, happily, discover that he’d already accomplished it.
But up to that moment, George fully believed that only by achieving his external goal would his internal goal be met. And as real life makes all too clear, this is rarely the case. How many of us have thought, if only I could lose ten pounds (external goal), my life would be perfect and I’d be happy (internal goal)? Fueled by the belief it’s a twofer—achieve the external goal and the internal goal will follow—we lose those ten pounds (and the hard way, no less, without lap belts, stomach stapling, or liposuction). That’s when we discover—alas!—our lives are still not perfect, and now we’re even less happy because at least when we were fat we could fantasize about how great it would be once we were thin. It’s only then that we see the fallacy of our original assumption and begin wondering what, exactly, we really do need in order to be happy. By defining your protagonist’s internal and external goals, and then pitting them against each other, you can often ignite the kind of external tension and internal conflict capable of driving an entire narrative.
The Real Issue: The Protagonist as Her Own Worst Enemy
What the protagonist must overcome to achieve her external goal tends to be pretty straightforward—that is, the external plot-driven obstacles that stand between her and success—but what about her internal goal? What stands in the way of that? In the you-have-to-fight-fire-with-fire category, the answer is, internal obstacles—usually in the form of longstanding emotional and psychological barriers—that are forever holding her back. This, then, is her internal issue. We’re talking about the fear that whispers, What the hell do you think you’re doing? as she approaches each hurdle. It’s a voice that gets more convincing as the hurdles escalate in difficulty until by the end, the protagonist stops dead, sure there is absolutely no way she’ll be able to overcome that last hurdle—not with that voice nattering in her head, anyway. While in real life such a person might just pop a Prozac and watch the problem recede into a comforting haze, in a story she h
as to do it the old-fashioned way—cold sober and on her own.
In order to construct these internal obstacles, ask yourself: Why is the protagonist scared? What, specifically, is she scared of that keeps her from achieving her goal? By now I’m guessing you know that the answer probably isn’t, She’s afraid of losing her true love, going broke, or dying. Even though, plot-wise, that’s exactly what she’s afraid of. Hell, it’s what we’re all afraid of—hence it’s general and generic, and it doesn’t tell us anything we don’t already know. So although it’s a good beginning, it is only the beginning.
Like the protagonist’s goal, her fears spring from, and are defined by, her life experience—something we’re going to be talking about in depth in chapter 5. But for now, let’s take the most obvious fear: fear of death. I don’t blame you if you’re thinking, Oh come on—that needs an explanation? It’s universal, you don’t have to “learn” anything to know that the last thing you want on your daily to-do list is Toddle off into the great beyond.
Fair enough. I’m not going to argue with that. I’m going to sidestep it, because it’s not the issue. The issue is: what does dying, at this minute, mean to the protagonist? For instance, who will she leave behind who needs her now more than ever? What won’t she accomplish that she swore on her mother’s grave she would? What burning promise won’t she be able to keep? What wrong must she live till dawn to set right? The answers to these questions will tell you what dying means to your protagonist, beyond the big “Uh-oh!”
Yep, it always comes back to this: what do these events mean to the protagonist? What is her true goal? Knowing this will allow you to make her goal specific to her, rather than leaving it as a surface (read: generic) goal that we all have.
Why, then, do writers lob generic problems at their protagonists all the time? Sadly, it’s often because they’re following one of the great myths of storytelling.
MYTH: Adding External Problems Inherently Adds Drama to a Story
REALITY: Adding External Problems Adds Drama Only If They’re Something the Protagonist Must Confront to Overcome Her Issue
The myth that external problems add drama has plagued writers from time immemorial and has been inadvertently perpetuated by the myriad versions of the “hero’s journey” story-structure model, which mandates that certain external events must happen at certain specific points in a story. The result is that writers craft plots in which these events occur rather than crafting protagonists whose internal progress depends on said events occurring. Such stories are written from the outside in: the writers throw dramatic obstacles in their protagonist’s path because the timeline tells them to rather than because they’re part of an organic, escalating scenario that forces the protagonist to confront her inner issue. Thus the dramatic events aren’t spawned by the story itself but by an external by-the-numbers story-structure formula.
To create organic, compelling obstacles that work, you must make sure that everything your protagonist faces—beginning on page one—springs specifically from the problem she needs to solve, both internally and externally. This will help you avoid a very common pitfall: using a generic “bad situation” to create the protagonist’s goal.
I’ve read countless manuscripts that began encouragingly in the midst of an upheaval: the protagonist’s husband just walked out; the protagonist is driving to work when a huge earthquake strikes; the protagonist missed the jetty back to the cruise ship and now she’s stranded in Venezuela with nothing but what she’s wearing—a string bikini and flip flops. This is all good. The problem was, these authors had merely plunked their protagonist into a dicey situation to see what would happen next. But because the protagonist didn’t have a long-standing need that was then put to the test, her “goal” was nothing more than getting out of the horrible position she unexpectedly found herself in. Thus the spotlight remained on the problem rather than the protagonist. Sure, things happened, but they didn’t affect the protagonist on anything but a surface level. Because we had no clue what her specific desires, fears, or needs were beyond the very obvious one-dimensional need to get out of the current situation ASAP, we couldn’t anticipate how she would react to the things that happened, except in a generic, that’s-what-any-person-would-do sense. And that, my friends, is boring. Why? Because we all have a pretty good idea of what “any person” would do. Where’s the suspense in that? We turn to story to tell us something we don’t know. So while we don’t care a whit about what “any person” would do, we care passionately about what your protagonist would do—as long as we know why.
Having a firm understanding of what your protagonist’s specific goals and fears mean to her provides you with concrete plot guidelines. For instance, let’s take the disappointing manuscript that opened with the protagonist’s husband walking out. This was the story: the wife, Deb, blindsided by her husband Rick’s unexpected departure, simply picked herself up and got on with her life, rather than whining about it (which was too bad, because a little pointed whining would have at least given us some clue as to what their marriage was like, who she is as a person, and what her personal arc might be). Trouble was, with no real problem predating the breakup of her marriage, Deb was way too well adjusted to be interesting—so well adjusted, in fact, that the reader immediately wondered both why Rick left her and why she had married such a deadbeat in the first place. Ironically, that was the only sign that there might be more to Deb than met the eye, but since it was never developed, it read as what it was: a plot convenience.
So, does Deb’s story need to be scrapped? Not necessarily. Let’s take a shot at developing Deb’s dilemma ourselves, shall we?
THE STORY OF DEB’S BAD MARRIAGE
First stop, Deb’s backstory (something we’ll be talking about in far greater depth in the next chapter). What if Deb had stayed in a bad marriage because she didn’t have the courage to admit, even to herself, that she was terrified she couldn’t make it on her own? Thus Deb’s goal isn’t simply to move past a bad situation; it’s to overcome a problem that preceded (if not caused) her current dilemma. Now we’ve expanded the premise: when Deb’s husband walks out on her, she’s forced to see whether she can, indeed, make it completely on her own—the one thing she’s always feared most. This is a much bigger and more engaging question, one that opens the door to a whole slew of follow-up questions worth exploration:
• What caused Deb’s fear that she couldn’t be self-sufficient?
• Did that fear cause her to marry Rick in the first place?
• Was she settling?
• Was entering into a bad marriage her way of avoiding having to prove herself?
• Did Deb’s fear perhaps make her a tad passive-aggressive, and so Rick’s bad behavior wasn’t as one-sided as it appears at first blush?
• In fact, was dealing with the daily drama of her failing marriage what actually kept her in it, because it diverted her from having to come to grips with her biggest fear?
Wouldn’t you read on to find out?
But wait—now that we’ve mapped out the roots of Deb’s goal and fears, how do we get them onto page one without beginning: “Deb was born in 1967 in a little cottage.…” Remember, we’re not trying to tell the reader everything there is to know about Deb and her predicament on the first page, we’re simply trying to imply that there is a lot to know. Our goal is to make the reader feel like they know her, and—this is essential—to care enough about her to want to find out what will happen to her. Which means we’ve also got to establish two things—that big changes are coming and all is not as it seems—and we have to do it as quickly as possible. Let’s give it a try:
Shifting the weight of the grocery bags, Deb slid the key into the lock and braced herself. Not that Rick ever hit her—something that bad, and she’d actually leave. It was six, so she knew he’d be home. The TV would be on. And he’d ignore her with such intensity it would be like walking into a headwind. She told herself she hated him, angry that her pulse quicken
ed anyway. It had been another dull day. Shopping, cleaning, exercising as if it mattered. It struck her this was the first time since Rick’s sullen departure for work that morning that she’d been aware of her senses at all. There was the sound of a car pulling out of a driveway. The smell of the leaves that had been moldering under a tarp in a corner of the front yard since fall. With a sigh she turned the key, felt the click in her fingertips. The door swung open and she stumbled into the silence.
The house was empty. No Rick. No furniture. Nothing but a plain white envelope propped on the mantel, with her name neatly typed across it.
Can you see the elements of Deb’s backstory planted there? For instance, “Not that Rick ever hit her; something that bad, and she’d actually leave,” tells us that, in Deb’s view, Rick has been doing bad things to her, but that, short of hitting her, she considers it livable (suggesting that Deb is an ace rationalizer). The phrase, “Shopping, cleaning, and exercising as if it mattered,” tells us that being in shape hasn’t netted her much—perhaps Rick hasn’t noticed? It’s pretty obvious what’s meant by the sentence, “She told herself she hated him, angry that her pulse quickened anyway”—although there is enough ambiguity here to make us wonder about it. This sentiment is then echoed in: “It struck her this was the first time since Rick’s sullen departure for work that morning that she’d been aware of her senses at all,” which also gives us a glimpse of what Rick is like—at least according to Deb. Next, the example of what Deb then hears and smells aren’t random just-because-they-were-there sensory details, but each has a definite subtext: “the sound of a car pulling out of a driveway” (we’re about to find out that Rick has left her; maybe it was him in that car?); “leaves that had been moldering under a tarp in a corner of the front lawn since fall” (just as Rick and Deb’s marriage was allowed to decay in plain view). And finally, as we discussed in chapter 3, notice that although the story is written in third person, it’s clear we’re in Deb’s head, viewing everything from her point of view.
