In a previous post, I stated my belief that characters are pretty much only interesting if they’re trying to accomplish something. It’s incredibly common, in an unpublished manuscript, to get a good long look at a character’s life before—before everything changes, before they meet that interesting person, before tragedy strikes, before they find their passion. Nothing wrong with that, but it’s also incredibly common for that character to pretty much just bounce around while stuff happens around them, going where they’re told, doing a lot of emoting, but pretty much not trying to have an effect on their lives or on the world around them. I maintain that it’s hard to get interested in a character who is just observing the world. Interesting characters are movers and shakers. Even when they’re unhappy or unsuccessful, they’re trying to do something. If not, why the heck would we want to spend six to eight hours with them?

In order to fully convince you that I’m not pulling stuff out of my ear with this emphasis on character goals, I’m going to look through a random assortment of popular books and show that this is a technique that’s extremely common and effective in successful, published novels. Wherever possible, I’ll link to the Google Books preview of the book or to the Amazon page if there’s a Look Inside feature, so you can read the opening pages for yourself if you’re so inclined. Hopefully the links will work. If you’re not buying my argument yet, then go and see for yourself.

Incidentally, I’m also pointing you in the direction of some pretty good YA and MG books. If your interest in the book gets piqued and you want to buy a copy, the photo will be a link to Powell’s.

So without further ado, here we go:

Uglies, by Scott Westerfeld

Uglies begins with about half a page of sarcastic, teen-voicey description of an ugly sky. And then immediately, while we’re still on the first page, we have a protagonist with a goal. Tally Youngblood is waiting for darkness, pretending to go to sleep, and planning . . . something. We don’t know what it is yet, but it doesn’t matter. Within one page we know that Tally is someone who acts. Is she an unhappy teen? Yes—her best friend has moved on to New Pretty Town but she has not yet—but she’s not listlessly drifting from event to event. “Maybe this was a stupid plan, but anything was better than . . . feeling sorry for herself.” Indeed. As we keep reading, we learn that her immediate goal is to sneak over to New Pretty Town, where Uglies like her are not allowed, to spy on the festivities and seek out her friend Peris.

Now here’s what I was saying about tide-me-over goals: Tally’s goal for most of Uglies will be to infiltrate The Smoke and report on their location, so that she can finally achieve her transformation to prettiness. But at the beginning of the novel, we don’t know what any of that means or why that’s so important for her. She’s not ready for that big overarching goal yet. So instead, she has a more immediate goal, and it’s not worldshaking—she just wants to find her friend, reassure herself that he hasn’t forgotten her, and have a little fun. It’s something to keep my interest while the pieces of the major conflict are being set up. It also lets me know about Tally’s character without coming out and telling what kind of kid she is: Tally is a noncomformist, a rule-breaker, and someone who doesn’t quite fit in with the way her society is set up—even if she hasn’t quite figured all this out about herself. Think how much more interesting it is to see her act on these traits, instead of a scene where she’s maybe walking around the dorm thinking about how unhappy she is because she doesn’t quite fit in.

Divergent, by Veronica Roth

It’s a little harder to see what I’m talking about here. In the first scene, Tris is having her hair cut by her mom. In the second scene, she rides a bus to school. So where are the goals?

I say they’re there, but they’re subtle. Note how Tris sneaks a glance at the mirror even though she’s not supposed to. Note the exchange with her mother:

“Are you nervous?”

I stare into my own eyes for a moment. Today is the day of the aptitude test that will show me which of the five factions I belong in. And tomorrow, at the Choosing Ceremony, I will decide on a faction; I will decide the rest of my life; I will decide to stay with my family or abandon them.

“No,” I say. “The tests don’t have to change our choices.”

“Right.” She smiles. “Let’s go eat breakfast.”

There’s quite a bit of subtext here. Do you get the feeling that question was a test? Do you get the feeling Tris doesn’t quite believe her answer? Do you get the feeling that she somehow passed the test anyway?

Right before the scene break a little revelation is snuck in, one that could easily be missed as Tris goes back to being nervous and unsure about her decision in the next scene: On these mornings when my brother makes breakfast, and my father’s hand skims my hair as he reads the newspaper, and my mother hums as she clears the table—it is on these mornings that I feel guiltiest for wanting to leave them.

She does want something. She already knows, deep down inside, that she wants to betray her faction and choose another. But more immediately, she wants to know that she will be okay when she does this. That her brother and father and mother won’t despise her. That she’s not a freak for wanting something else or for being nervous right now. Consider her interaction with her brother in the next scene, where she asks if he’s worried about the test results:

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Are you?”

I could tell him I’ve been worried for weeks about what the aptitude tests will tell me—Abnegation, Candor, Erudite, Amity, or Dauntless?

Instead I smile back and say, “Not really.”

He smiles back. “Well . . . have a good day.”

I walk toward Faction History, chewing on my lower lip. He never answered my question.

Can a character without a goal of her own lie?

I will keep reading this because I know Tris has a secret. She does have a short term goal: to keep her secret, even if it means lying to those closest to her, and even if it means lying to herself. The indications are subtle, but they are there.

Bridge to Terabithia, by Katherine Paterson

I couldn’t ask for a better example of what I’m talking about. When the novel opens, Jess is sneaking outside in the early morning hours to run. Why? Because fifth grade will begin in a matter of days, and he is training to be the fastest runner in the school. An absolutely clear, concrete goal that has little to do with what the story is about. But it’s going to take a while to get into the story proper—Jess must meet Leslie and get to know her. In the meantime, this minor goal gives me something to care about as a reader.

Enclave, by Ann Aguirre

Another post-apocalyptic/dystopian society, full of rules and traditions we don’t know that we need to be immersed in. The story opens on the protagonist’s naming day, and within the first few pages we learn that one or more holocausts have happened since our time, and that humans don’t live very long, and that they live in tiny, almost feral communities. We also get some physical description. Pretty typical worldbuilding stuff right? But the protagonist still has a goal: in her naming ceremony she will be sliced with a razor, and she is focused on not screaming out or otherwise showing weakness. Again, some sign that we are following a protagonist who wants to direct the course of the events she is involved in.

Skellig, by David Almond

This novel opens with another typical situation for YA and MG stories: the kid arriving in the new house. And sure, we spend a couple pages of pretty typical Unhappy-kid-being-shown-around-by-annoying-overenthusiastic-adult. But that’s all: just a couple of pages, and then Michael is exploring the dilapidated garage, venturing into a building he has expressly been forbidden from entering for the time being. Here is a kid who doesn’t wait for the story to come to him, and a kid who doesn’t take “No”—or closed doors—for an answer.

The Mysterious Benedict Society, by Trenton Lee Stewart

This novel opens with Reynie Muldoon in the middle of the series of aptitude tests that will launch him into the larger story. His goal? To do well on the tests, so that he can have some more educational opportunities than his orphanage provides.

Things Not Seen, by Andrew Clements

This is a novel about (*wince*) an adolescent boy who turns invisible. The novel pretty much begins with the inciting incident—Bobby steps out of the shower only to discover that he can’t see himself in the mirror. He goes downstairs to tell his parents what has happened, but they don’t believe him—they think he’s playing a prank. Bang, a goal: he must convince his parents he really has turned invisible.

Ship Breaker, by Paolo Bacigalupi

This highly decorated new post-apocalyptic YA begins with Nailer, the young protagonist, scavenging copper wire and aluminum staples from a beached ship. He is stressed about whether he will make quota—whether he will be judged too big and slow to continue in this job, how soon it will be before the hungry girl who’s eager to take his job away from him will be better suited for it than he is, and how he will survive when he finally does lose this job. I’ve only read a little ways into this book so far, but do you think Bacigalupi has my attention? Absolutely.

How to Ditch Your Fairy, by Justine Larbalestier

Larbalestier is pretty much my favorite YA writer, but I’ll limit myself to just looking at one of her books. In the world of this novel, almost everybody has a “fairy” of some sort. You can’t see them, but each fairy has one particular specialization and you pretty much can’t miss their effects. Maybe you have a always-finding-loose-change fairy, or an all-boys-fall-in-love-with-you fairy, or a never-gets-into-trouble fairy. When the novel opens, Charlie is shopping with her best friend Rochelle, who has a shopping fairy. Her goal is to have some of Rochelle’s good fortune spill over onto her, and to be able to get a good bargain on a “doos outfit.” Mundane stuff, but it’s something. When she is thwarted, I have immediate sympathy for her. And in passing she and her friend slip in a comment about what her main goal is going to be: getting rid of her own fairy, an always-finds-great-parking-spaces fairy.

Okay for Now, by Gary D. Schmidt

I swear Doug Swieteck must be cousins with Chris Westbrook, the protagonist of my novel Vanishing Act. This is the kind of story I was trying to write; only time will tell if I’ve succeeded. Anyway, this novel begins with a bit of background, but in the flashback you still get a goal: Doug is trying to prevent his bully of an older brother from stealing his cap—a personal, autographed gift from Yankee first baseman Joe Pepitone. Read this and tell me you aren’t already rooting for this kid:

He came in at night when I was asleep and whipped my arm up behind my back so high I couldn’t even scream it hurt so bad and he told me to decide if I wanted a broken arm or if I wanted to give him Joe Pepitone’s baseball cap. I decided on the broken arm. Then he stuck his knee in the center of my spine and asked if I wanted a broken back along with the broken arm, and so I told him Joe Pepitone’s cap was in the basement behind the oil furnace.

It wasn’t, but he went downstairs anyway. That’s what a chump he is.

How can  you not love a kid who’d rather take his chances with a broken arm than give up his signed Yankee ballcap?

The Shifter, by Janice Hardy

I think this may be my favorite opening ever:

 Stealing eggs is a lot harder than stealing the whole chicken. With chickens, you just grab a hen, stuff her in a sack, and make your escape. But for eggs, you have to stick your hand under a sleeping chicken. Chickens don’t like this. They wake all spooked and start pecking holes in your arm, or your face, if it’s close. And they squawk something terrible.

The trick is to wake the chicken first, then go for the eggs. I’m embarrassed to say how long it took me to figure this out.

This segues immediately into the protagonist, Nya, getting caught stealing eggs. Why is she stealing? Because she’s poor and hungry. Her goal once she gets caught? To avoid being sent to prison for a couple of eggs.

The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins

This novel opens with a fair amount of world-building details, but woven into the exposition, one sentence or so per paragraph over the course of the first four pages, is action to break up the infodump. Katniss gets out of bed. Spots her sister. Heads out of her house. Towards the fence. Oh, and, casual as you please, breaks the law. Katniss sneaks into the forbidden zone beyond the not-quite-electrified fence—offhandedly mentioning that most folks don’t go out there not because it’s illegal but because it’s dangerous—to meet Gale and hunt for food. There’s lots of subtext beneath today’s hunt: it’s reaping day, and Gale talks of running away, while Katniss wonders who would take care of her sister and her mother. But it’s not just talk, just like it’s not just worldbuilding. We’re also getting a look at what kind of character Katniss is—an active one.

The Ghost and the Goth, by Stacey Kade

Another great read you should check out, if you haven’t already heard of it. This book opens with Alona sneaking out of gym class to make a phone call and berate someone. There’s all sorts of things we don’t know at the beginning—who is she calling? Why? But even though we don’t understand the particulars, we can see that Alona’s actively trying to fix something that’s bothering her. She’s got a Situation to unravel.

Too bad for her she gets hit by a bus first.

-o-

Look, I could keep at it all night, but I’ve got to think it will just get tedious, if it hasn’t already. The point is, here are real life examples from successful, talented writers, and their characters don’t wait around for the story to begin before they become active protagonists. From page one or very close to it, they’re take charge people. And when it’s too soon for us to have a clue what the big central conflict is—which is usually—they’re still actively protagging, they’re just focused on some other, temporary goal.

It’s not rocket surgery. Before I write a scene, I jot down what my character’s goal in this scene is. What is my POV character’s preferred outcome, that he or she is going to try to bring about.  And I’m deeply suspicious when the answer is merely, “continued existence.” I don’t begin writing the scene until I have an answer to that question. And if it’s too soon to have the protagonist actively pursue the central goal of the story, then I make sure he or she has a short-term goal to focus on for now.

“But I found a book that doesn’t do this!”

Alright.

There’s all kinds of books out there. Not everybody is trying to write commercial fiction, and I certainly respect that someone else’s goals as a writer may be different. I love fiction that’s literary and smart and uplifting and thought-provoking, but in my own writing I want to be entertaining first, and then accomplish those other things if I’m up to it.

Can a book be entertaining if the protagonist isn’t trying to accomplish anything for the first sixty pages of a novel? Heck, I suppose anything’s possible. My friend and mentor Linnea Sinclair likes to say “Follow no rule off a cliff.” It’s a truism repeated by writers at all ability levels that rules are meant to be broken. But I think too many beginning writers use this as an excuse to uncritically throw advice out the window rather than going through the difficult task of mastering it.

Successful writers don’t break the rules, they transcend them. So if you see a great book that doesn’t do this, ask yourself what that writer is doing that’s making the book work and stay interesting. Ask yourself whether the book succeeds because the protagonist isn’t actively trying to change his or her world, or does it succeed in spite of this?

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian opens with a lengthy description by the narrator of all his health issues, and all the reasons why folks on the reservation are predisposed to see him as a loser. And then he tells us how poor he is and how much being poor sucks. But what Sherman Alexie has in this novel is an absolutely fantastic voice, and I’ll keep on following this kid around until he finally narrates a scene with a goal in it (page 17: Junior wants to go to the powwow without getting beat up) because he’s so damn compelling even without one.

But I think that kind of opening is the exception, not the norm. And even though it takes Junior a while to show us his goals, eventually he does start protagging in a big way: he makes the difficult decision to attend school off the reservation, knowing it will draw upon him the ire of whites and Indians alike.

I’d lay good money that for every beloved book you can find that doesn’t open with a protagonist who actively wants something, I can find two that do. Wanna take that bet?

I try to avoid talking about craft too much on this site for a couple of reasons. One is because I don’t want this site to be boring to nonwriters. Another is because of cred: I don’t want some jackass to happen along and slap me down for daring to express my opinion on what makes good writing with a “Who the hell are you to talk?”

I can’t claim any authority, but I have picked up a few things and maybe just formed a few opinions. Take ’em or leave ’em, but if you’re at an earlier point on your journey than I am, you just might find some value here.

Last week in writers’ group, the topic of character goals came up. I maintain that characters are more compelling–arguably only compelling–when they are trying to attain something. I refer to this as whether or not your protagonist is protagging (not that I claim this is original to me). What it comes down to is this: I want to read about a protagonist who is active, not one who is along for the ride. Maybe in some rarified fiction circles you can write about characters who float from event to event but don’t act upon their world, but I don’t think most readers of popular fiction–into which I’m lumping genre and young adult fiction–want to read books like that.

Photo by Mark Rowland (CC BY-ND 2.0)

When I find myself reading something with a central character who is not protagging, I typically get bored. Sometimes, though, I’m forced to admit that exciting stuff is happening, and that’s when the issue of the central character who is just witnessing great events without participating in them pops out most recognizably.

Imagine a scene like this:

Sue is at the bank opening an account when a half dozen masked men come in–a holdup! The security guard tries to wrestle a gun away from one, only to get shot in the head. Behind an overturned chair, a little girl cries for her mommy, but mommy has to ignore her wails because the robbers have ordered everyone to keep still. Suddenly Sue hears sirens–a teller managed to push a silent alarm! The robbers decide they have to get out–but not without taking a hostage. They choose Sue, who follows them without argument. They pile into their van and peel out into traffic just as blue lights appear behind them. Trying to lose the cops, the robber at the wheel takes a corner too fast, and as the rustbucket careens around the turn, it flips onto its side. Immediately police surround the van and disarm the dazed criminals before they can think to create a standoff. Sue is checked for injuries by EMTs, but she has suffered only a sprained wrist, and is able to drive back home.

This scene has a crapload of action, but I maintain that it would be pretty boring if it were written this way, unless perhaps you played it for laughs. It could be pretty exciting from the POV of one of the robbers–heck, it could be a scene right out of The Town. It’s exciting—but short—from the point of view of the security guard or the teller who set off the alarm. But Sue never does anything! She never even tries to do anything! She never even considers doing anything or looks for an opportunity to do anything!

She’s just there.

There may be tension, and yeah, tension is important. But if Sue isn’t trying to change things–even if she fails!–then I say the scene is boring because Sue is boring.

It can be even worse with YA, where we may be left with a sulky and unhappy teen and nothing else:

Albert is at a party at a popular kid’s house. Of course the parents are nowhere in sight, alcohol is flowing freely, and people are half dressed and making out on every chair, sofa, and bed. In the open spaces, couples dance to loud hillbilly music. Not Albert, though. Albert doesn’t have a girlfriend, and he doesn’t like the same kind of music as everyone else in this hick town anyway. Albert is not popular at all, and he hates the popular kids. Albert is only here because Jim, his ride home from the marching band competition, decided to come to the party and brought Albert with him. Albert wanders around, watching people make out and drink. Stupid Jim. Stupid popular kids. Stupid parents. Stupid small town. Stupid life.

After three hours, Jim takes him home.

“You’re home late,” notes his mom.

Albert shrugs.

“Did you have a good time?”

“Whatever.”

Maybe you’ve been to this party yourself. This could have been a really interesting party to read about–from the POV of Jim, or of damn near anybody else there.

Here’s the thing about the angsty kid who is trying to change nothing about his life: Do you want to spend time with this kid?

Does either Sue or Albert sound like someone you’d like to hang out with for six to eight hours?

Sue’s scene could have been interesting if Sue were looking for a way out. Maybe early in the robbery she notices nobody is watching the side door.

She could just walk right out! But does she dare? What if they see her? What if they shoot her?! Have they really not noticed the unguarded exit? Sue steals a glance. They haven’t! Nobody’s looking her way! She’s gonna try–“Hey, someone get that side door,” says a gruff voice behind her. Too late. She waited too long. When they pick Sue as their hostage, maybe she plans to make a break for it the moment she steps out the door, gun or no gun. She doesn’t trust the bad guys not to kill her if they take her with them, so she’s going to take her chances. When they pass through the door, she yanks her arm away from the bad guy and takes off–only to stumble to the sidewalk as her heel breaks. A bad guy drags her to her feet, saying “Nice try.”

Nothing about the outcome of the scene changed, but now Sue was more involved, because she was trying to affect the outcome. Sue is more interesting, and I’d say the scene would be better now.

Maybe Albert wishes he could be one of the kids dancing and making out, but he’s terrified to ask a girl to dance.

What if she says no? Then he spots that one beautiful girl from his Algebra class–Taylor. He follows her around for a bit–does she recognize him? Does she even know who he is? She’s not with anybody. Maybe she’s just as lonely as he is! Maybe she hates country music too! He should ask her if she wants to hang out sometime. He should! But no–he can’t!

Wait—Screw that. Who cares if some girl in this craphole town rejects him? He will ask her. Here’s his chance. He walks up to her.

“Hey Taylor,” he calls out.

“What??”

The stupid music is too loud.

“I said ‘hi,’” he says.

“Oh,” she says. “Hello.” Then her eyes light up. A second later she waves to someone by the front door. “Vanessa!” she calls out, and just like that she is gone.

Shit, he didn’t strike out–it’s worse than that. He took his best shot and she didn’t even notice! It was like he didn’t even exist to her. Didn’t even rise up to the level of a nuisance to be rejected. Stupid damn town! Stupid beautiful girl!

Again, the outcome of the scene doesn’t change. Albert spends the rest of the night moping until Jim takes him home, and he drops the whatever-bomb on Mom. But for one shining moment there, Albert had a Goal. My argument is that this makes the rest of the scene more interesting. It’s more meaningful now. Albert’s still an unhappy, angsty kid, but now he’s an unhappy, angsty kid who occasionally tries to improve his life. This tells me as a reader that it’s worth spending some time with him, because I can reasonably hope to see him, in fumbling fits and starts, finally make a place for himself in this new town and realize it’s not so bad after all. It’s natural as a writer to want to show character growth by taking a character from loser to winner, but as a reader I’m not going to keep reading about a loser unless there is a sign that the winner is in there somewhere, deep down inside.

Maybe your character is going to have a goal as the novel progresses, but it’s just the beginning of your manuscript. The main conflict hasn’t kicked off yet. Rebecca is totally going to thwart the evil werewolf pack, but for now she doesn’t even know werewolves are real! So eventually, yeah, she’s gonna have a great goal. The reader’s just gonna have to wait, right?

Wrong, I say. The reader won’t wait. If you’re not already an author I’ve heard of, if I don’t already trust you to tell me a good story, if a million people haven’t already talked about how amazing you are, then why will I stick through sixty pages of Rebecca starting her new job at the mall and going wherever she’s told and furnishing her new apartment and pretty much just living a humdrum life?

I’ll wait if I see other evidence that Rebecca is worth hanging out with. Show me that Rebecca is a take-charge woman. Show me that she has other goals in her life before the werewolves come and turn everything upside-down. Let me see her pursue them, and let me get a sense for what is important to her, and for what lengths she will go to to get what she wants.

Maybe Rebecca moved to this town to take a job after college, but now that she’s begun, her new boss tells her that the position isn’t what she thought it was. It turns out she’ll be working part-time, and not for the expected $15 an hour, but for $8 an hour instead. What does Rebecca do? Does she go over her boss’s head? Does she start looking for a new job? Does she tearfully call home and ask her Dad to kick in a few hundred dollars until she gets on her feet? Does she stick it out because the boss also happens to be hot and single? Does she go out during her break and smash her boss’s windshield?

The back cover promised me a book about werewolves, dammit, and I’ll only wait so long before you’d better by God show me some werewolves, but while you’re setting things up—giving me that weird noise in the night and those unexplained clawmarks on the door the next day, and that mysterious disappearance—while you’re getting things in place (let’s say forty pages) you can hold my interest with this other stuff. Hopefully, you get me to sympathize with Rebecca in general. Damn she’s had it tough. Just moved to a new town, the big job falls through, her boss is a creep, and on top of that . . . freaking werewolves? Go Rebecca–go kick some werewolf ass.

But I won’t be on Rebecca’s side if you just give me the moving, the job bait-and-switch, and don’t show me a character who damn well intends to do something about it.

I call this a “tide-me-over goal.” I may not have invented the phrase, but if I didn’t, then I’ve forgotten who I stole it from. My apologies if I’m totally ripping someone off. But what I mean is Rebecca has interim goals, until you get far enough into the story to show me Rebecca’s Big Goal.

I care about characters who want things. I care about characters who do things. I care about characters who are propelling their stories, not being dragged behind them.

Continued in part 2: Goals and Tide-Me-Over-Goals: Examples from the Pros