My blogpost for readers this month addresses why we love to see characters change. If you agree with this premise, then how do you as the writer make that happen?
We’ve all read books or seen TV shows or movies where, to win the day, the protagonist must suddenly do something uncharacteristic. If the groundwork hasn’t been laid for such a change in thinking and behavior, we feel like the writer cheated.
Apparently, ancient Greek and Roman audiences were much more tolerant. Their dramatists invented the “deus ex machina”: a literal and figurative device in plays where a divine character was lowered by crane onto the stage (thus, the “god from the machine”) and magically solved the hero’s insoluble plight. This contrivance allowed the protagonist to complete the quest, win the maiden’s affections, and/or claim another reward he’d neither earned nor deserved.
Many first timers who write themselves into a corner might be tempted to try the deus ex machina approach—a fortuitous incident, a remarkable coincidence, a 100% reliable cellphone that suddenly can’t get a signal—but (most) modern audiences won’t buy it. Instead, the writer must set up the need for change and include some wrongheaded failures to do so before granting the epiphany that unlocks the secret of success.
It all starts at the beginning, when you’re making the basic decisions about your story. If you’re a plotter, you do this upfront work quite deliberately before you start your manuscript. If you’re a pantser, you’re probably doing a lot of this after the first draft as you now manipulate the story and characters so there are no deus ex machina moments and everything hangs together.
What matters at this point isn’t the plot but the main character. Hero, anti-hero, whatever choice you make, your readers will want that character to change in some way(s) by the end of the story, both as a result of their ordeal and to affect its conclusion.
What about a series character? Does V. I. Warshawski or Kinsey Millhone really change from tale to tale? Does Sherlock Holmes or Jack Reacher (aka “Sherlock Homeless”)? The interior change I think these characters undergo is to become even smarter and more formidable through their experiences—to “level up” as gamers say. What makes my favorite series character, Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch, so compelling is that we’ve seen him change over the years by acknowledging his increasing physical and mental limitations (e.g., no more foot chases or bedding comely strangers, and leaving the computer work to more capable keyboard jockeys) while still being the Man on a Mission.
However, even these iconic characters started with an initial story—and in that adventure, their author had to find ways of changing them, or at least their circumstances and outlook, by the end of it.
Your first decision is to determine your protagonist’s wants vs. their needs. They should begin the story wanting something and having some relatable reason—probably because of past experiences—for wanting it. They should also have an understandable flaw that prevents them from succeeding in this mental/emotional/physical quest. Their desire for this goal will be tested throughout the story, and achievement of it will be thwarted until they change that flaw into a positive quality and thereby receive what they really need, which is even better than what they wanted.
Does this sound contrived? Too paint-by-numbers? Deconstruct many popular stories and you will see this pattern. Katniss Everdeen, Harry Potter, Luke Skywalker, and any number of other heroes experience such a journey.
Your challenge is to come up with these elements—a want, a reason for having this desire, the flawed belief or illogic standing in the way, the change that must occur, and the need that surpasses the want—such that your readers will understand and relate to them. The more these elements resonate with readers, the more they’ll connect with your story on an emotional level and the more they’ll be rooting for your protagonist to evolve and reap the rewards of their change. You might even prompt some readers to change their outlooks and make improvements in their own lives.
Of course, if you’re writing a cautionary tale and the message you want to convey is a warning—e.g., power corrupts and nobody is immune—the situation gets reversed. Your character starts out with what they need but then, through negative changes in outlook and behavior brought on by flawed belief or illogic, they sacrifice their need in favor of ephemeral wants that always leave them desiring more and moving further away from their salvation. Michael Corleone’s fall from grace in The Godfather is the perfect example of this.
In either case, your readers will reward you if you give them a character who starts one way and ends up another through conscious, understandable struggles, choices, and actions. You’re the god behind the scenes, making it all happen—there’s no need to drop one onto the stage and make things easy for your hero.