When I was growing up, I always had something to prove.
In sixth grade, I was disappointed when I only came third in my class’s competition to read the most books during the school year. The base goal was for everyone to read five books; I read sixty-two.
In eleventh grade, I was one of only eight girls to take the wilderness survival course, both because I wanted to do it and to prove to everyone—and also (especially?) myself—that, despite all evidence to the contrary, I was strong and tough and could survive four days alone in the woods in January in a snow shelter I built myself.
In university, I took the famously difficult Heidegger course not because I liked Heidegger—as I discovered during the course, I distinctly did not like Heidegger—but because I needed to prove that I could take the hardest course the university had to offer, just like the boys who bench-pressed Hegel and sprinkled their conversation with Nietzsche quotes.
Clearly I haven’t completely grown out of this need to prove myself worthy: the other day, my partner told me I had done a B+ job of something, and I was offended to my core. He’d meant it as a medium compliment; I took it as a grave insult.
We’ve all got something to prove.
Think about the things you’re working to accomplish, and then think about why. Are you proving that you can keep your resolution to go to the gym regularly? That you’re worthy of a promotion? That you can make your way to the end of a manuscript? That you’re good enough for a book deal?
(Important note on that last one: publishing is a business, and your worth—and your book’s worth—often has very little to do with whether you get an agent or an offer. Traditional publishing is about making money for the company, and your book will be bought or rejected based on whether one person who may or may not have had coffee yet thinks that your book can sell—and then, if yes, whether they can convince a publishing board of people who may or may not have had coffee yet that your book can sell. If this doesn’t sound like a fun time to you, you’re not alone: many writers are choosing to self-publish for just this reason!)
The things you’re trying to prove and the avenues you take to accomplish them are what, in writing, we call “internal and external goals.”
What are internal and external goals?
Well developed characters, like real people, have desires that are important to them and things they’re trying to do to achieve these desires. Actionable goals—tasks that can be accomplished through specific measures to achieve a specific end—are external goals. I have an external goal, for example, to finish this blog post and put it up on my website. I have an external goal to meet my deadlines for the books I’m working on. I have an external goal to work through the course I’m taking on Editing for Conscious and Inclusive Language to strengthen my practice and become a better editor.
I have a million other external goals, as do you, but they all work in service of internal goals. The external goals listed above are all ways that I’m working to have a successful business, which is in itself a way that I’m working to be financially stable and successful in the path that I’ve chosen.
Running a successful editing business is not, ultimately, my internal goal. My internal goal is the reason I have an editing business: I wanted to build a life and career doing something I love.
Goals reveal character.
When you’re writing (or, as I’m doing right now, when you’re taking time to deeply reflect on yourself and your life goals), think about what your character desires most deeply in their heart of hearts.
Does your character want to be a successful businessperson and make lots of money? Great. Why? What are they trying to prove to themself and to others? Do they actually want stability? Safety? Freedom? Those are the internal goals.
My personal life goals are not to get rich. No one gets into publishing to get rich. (If your book becomes a bestseller and suddenly you find that you’re V.E. Schwab, then you may have accidentally gotten rich through publishing, but that’s not the original impulse. There are easier ways to get rich, so I’m told.)
My current internal goals revolve around finding peace and happiness in the life I’ve built. In my more competitive years of measuring brains with philosophy bros, my internal goals were slightly different: they were more focused on proving myself and being the best at the things I cared about. I needed to take the hardest course and get the best marks because at that point, my internal goals revolved around proving myself and my worth.
As a writer (and a human), you should think about what your characters truly want in their lives (their internal goals) and use those goals to give them believable external goals, reactions, and dialogue.
Goals change as characters grow.
One of the marks of a good book is that the characters grow and develop. In a fantasy novel, maybe your hero’s quest makes them realize things about themself that lead them to reevaluate their priorities and grow as a person. In a romance novel, maybe the protagonist’s relationship with the love interest makes them, well, realize things about themself that lead them to reevaluate their priorities and grow as a person.
Character growth is critical to creating believable and sympathetic characters. If, by the end of a book, the character hasn’t changed at all from their experience, then that experience hasn’t done what it was supposed to.
Think about why this story is the one you’re telling. Why is this character the one going on the quest? Why is this person the perfect love interest for someone else? Characters need to grow and change throughout a story for them to be truly compelling, and as they move through their arcs, their internal goals change with them.
How have your characters changed?
Think about who your characters were at the start of the book, and then think about who they are now. (Also a great thing to do in real life.) Have they changed? If not, then that’s a great place to start your revisions!
What were your characters’ goals at the start of the book? What are their goals now? Do their external actions reflect the internal growth that has occurred as a result of the events of the story?
Writing compelling character arcs can be difficult. (Stay tuned for an upcoming blog post in which I condemn Sarah J Maas’s A Court of Thorns and Roses trilogy for failing as enemies-to-lovers because neither character grows or changes, they’re not actually enemies, and they’re both just perfect from the beginning.)
But writing compelling character arcs is how you write a compelling book. It’s worth doing, even if it’s hard.
If reworking your characters to have stronger arcs feels overwhelming, that’s what editors are for! We’re here to provide a fresh pair of eyes and are well practised at finding ways to strengthen characters, conflicts, and story arc.
If you have characters in need of stronger arcs, Rookwood Editing is here to help. Get in touch today to help your characters achieve the growth they deserve!