The Duplicity of A Character’s Desire
By Guest | March 20, 2016 |
Today’s guest is the venerable Michelle Hoover, a true literary luminary who has won the PEN/New England Discovery Award been a MacDowell Fellow as well as a Writer-in-Residence at Bucknell University. Currently the Fannie Hurst Writer-in-Residence at Brandeis University, Michelle also teaches at GrubStreet, where she leads the Novel Incubator program. Her debut novel, The Quickening, was a Forward Magazine’s Best Literary Debut Pick, a finalist in the The Center for Fiction’s Flaherty-Dunnan First Novel Award, and a 2010 Massachusetts Book Award “Must Read.” Her second novel, Bottomland, released earlier this month (Grove/Atlantic) and is a March Indie Next Pick.
The Duplicity of A Character’s Desire
You’ve heard it before: What does your character want?
Many a world religion has found its purpose in dousing this terrible human business of wanting things—and wanting them desperately. But the drafts of many early writers are muddled with protagonists who have no greater existence on the page than a pair of eyeglasses. By temperament, writers tend to be observers. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t have much material. In a recent class, an older student of mine raised his hand to explain that his protagonist didn’t so much as “want things” but “preferred to offer his observations on life.” The room groaned (albeit politely). I imagined said protagonist as the thinly disguised student himself, with a longer name, a larger nose, and a rougher jacket.
It’s ego that keeps a writer and his protagonist-twin tidy at the sidelines, pontificating. Desire is messy. Desire is stupid. Desire bares a person’s heart and makes him do messy, stupid things. That’s frightening stuff for the kind of person who’d rather read a book about a bunch of strangers at a party than attend one. The biggest excuse I hear from writers with flimsy protagonists is that their characters don’t know what they want. “That’s what the story is about.” No, I answer, it’s you who doesn’t know what your characters want. And there your characters are, doing cartwheels, hoping you’ll pay enough attention to them to figure it out.
In From Where You Dream, Robert Olin Butler reminds us that without a character’s yearning, “nothing resonates in the marrow of [readers’] bones.” He goes on to differentiate between the type of desire expressed in entertainment fiction (e.g., “I want a man, a woman, wealth, power, or to solve a mystery or to drive a stake through a vampire’s heart”) and that expressed in literary fiction (“I yearn for self, I yearn for an identity, I yearn for a place in the universe, I yearn to connect to the other”). He later scolds his fellow literary writers: “But that there must be yearning the genre writers never forget. We do.”
Butler’s biases aside, he has a point. Literary writers tend toward dreaminess and a fair bit of snobbishness about these things. As Phillip Gerard describes in his essay “An Architecture of Light,” the literary writer is so “beguiled by the stunning inspiration effect of the finished cathedral” that they “fail to imagine themselves in the place of the artisan contemplating how to build the damned thing.” Flannery O’Connor is a bit more direct: “The fact is that the materials of the fiction writer are the humblest. Fiction is about everything human and we are made out of dust, and if you scorn getting yourself dusty, then you shouldn’t try to write fiction. It’s not a grand enough job for you.”
Still, I think Butler is missing something. His description of yearning in entertainment fiction falls into the realm of the concrete: a person, a position, the solution of a mystery, the defeat of a villain. For literary fiction, the yearning seems more abstract: self, identity, connection. Of course, attention to the concrete alone can create a wooden, plot-driven story that leaves character in the dust. But there’s a certain kind of pretentiousness in forcing us to watch a person sitting around yearning for enlightenment. A story exists on the page and a page is only black and white and there’s got to be someone doing something to convince us to stare so long at all those black lines.
I argue this: that in good fiction—literary fiction as well as the kind of genre fiction that engages the heart and mind—the protagonist must have desires both abstract and concrete. In fact, the two are dependent on each other, like two sides of a coin. And discovering both will not only help you inspire your readers with the dome of that cathedral, it will help you hold the damned thing up.
So what are these things, concrete and abstract?
The poets I work with have the darndest time understanding the first. “My protagonist wants to feel fulfilled,” they tell me. I answer: “What does that mean?” One character may envision fullfillment as an expensive briefcase, an island stream, a pair of shoes; another as the attainment of a man or seeing her name in lights. These are two very different creatures. Their visions—their concrete desires—are the tools for achieving their deeper, more abstract desires. In this case, fulfillment.
The concrete desire is singular, simple, and reductive. You would never say you’re writing a story about a boy who wants a trinket from a bazaar, yet that might be the very concrete desire that drives your plot—as it does in James Joyce’s “Araby.” Reduce The Great Gatsby to “a boy wants a girl”? How dare you? Yet Gatsby wouldn’t be a novel worth reading without it. Here are a few more:
- To get a social security check—“Marie” by Edward P. Jones
- To go to a brother’s funeral—“The Half-Skinned Steer” by Annie Proulx
- To outdo a buddy from work—“Feathers” by Raymond Carver
- To fulfill a dying friend’s wish—“Childsplay” by Alice Munro
- To find a doctor gone rogue—Tale of Wonder by Ann Patchett
- To find a biological brother—You Remind Me of Me by Dan Chaon
- To find the father of her child—Felicia’s Journey by William Trevor
- To protect two young girls—The Orchardist by Amanda Coplin
- To own a house—House of Sand and Fog by Andre Debus II
Keep in mind, a character’s concrete desire may be the worst thing she could possibly get. The reader knows this. The character might not. For the sake of dramatic irony, she doesn’t have a clue. The sanity of a desire seldom keeps a person from wanting it. Nor does the fulfillment of that desire need to be remotely possible. As long as the character is convinced of its worth, she’ll keep going for it—even as we beg her not to.
Abstract desires on the other hand are muddled, difficult, and multifaceted. If you can name a protagonist’s abstract desire with a single word, you’re not thinking very hard. Consider love as a desire. It’s mingled with a hodgepodge of other juicy things, like identity, freedom, home, self-worth, and power. The complexity of the character’s heart is tough to get a hold of. But as Butler writes, “It’s not that you come to some intellectual understanding. It’s an intuition of her wanting, a sense of her desiring.” It’s as difficult as describing why you love your child. You simply do. And you know the complexity of that love in your bones, in your blood. That’s the kind of knowing you’re searching for in your character as well.
This is likely what we mean when we say a character found us, not the other way around. Truthfully, I didn’t have to search much for the deepest yearnings of my most successful characters. I could simply feel them. And that’s probably the difference between the books I’ve published and those left behind in a drawer. Butler goes so far as to claim “Until a character with yearning has emerged from your unconscious, I don’t encourage you to write….” That’s all fine and good if you haven’t got four hundred pages under your belt, but again he has a point. Though the abstract desire is seldom named in the story, let alone understood in any clarity by the protagonist, the author at least knows it, and it bleeds through every image, every detail, every word. That’s hard to make happen on your 5th revision. But those four hundred pages may prove to be the practice you need before you write the real deal.
Here are some more ways to think about the duplicity of concrete and abstract desires:
The concrete desire is the desire the character is most conscious of, but the abstract desire is usually why the character wants it in the first place.
The first is more obvious to the reader, the revelation of the second may be saved for later. For example, Samantha’s concrete desire to marry Ben may never reward her with the sense of self-worth and freedom she’s yearning for, but that’s part of Samantha’s journey to figure out.
Stories follow the concrete desire in their escalations of character, setting, and theme; but underneath, the abstract desire is brimming.
As authors, we can make readers feel the abstract desire in the subtext of sentences, the difference between the character’s conscious intentions and the little ticks of apprehension and insight that slip out. We can signal the abstract desire in the character’s subtlety of voice, automatic reactions, and sensitivity to details, persons, and environments.
The abstract desire is most often revealed to the reader at the crisis point in the story.
This is the point at which the character may at last be close to achieving his or her concrete desire, and yet desperately conflicted about doing so. This is where the character most reveals herself to us. The importance of the concrete desire falls to the wayside. In truth, it was never that important to begin with. But the story must challenge the character enough to push her past the surface, a surface that’s been given her by society and all its preoccupations with the material. In the end, the story pushes the character deeper into herself.
A story is finished when the mystery of the character has been revealed. That’s what Flannery O’Connor wrote at least, and she tends to get it right. And no mystery can be revealed if the character isn’t challenged to come to terms with what makes her alive: the desires that get her up in the morning in the first place, whether she understands them or not.
What are your characters’ abstract desires? How do you convey these to your readers — and yourself?
Many thanks to today’s guest.
You can read more WU guest posts by visiting this link.
Wonderful, thought-provoking post. Thank you!
Thanks Carmel!
Without yearning “nothing resonates in the marrow of a reader’s bones.” I love this, and boy, do I agree. I’ve been looking for this when I read as well as looking for it in my own story, struggling to pinpoint these desires. The concrete one wasn’t so hard to nail down, but the abstract one has been an ongoing cat-and-mouse game. I drank in your beautiful statement…”It’s as difficult as describing why you love your child. You simply do. And you know the complexity of that in your bones, in your blood.” I needed to hear this, and yes, I do know these things about my protagonist, but…how to bleed them onto the page?? That’s the work that coats the mouth with dust! Thank you so much for this.
Yes, “coats my mouth with dust.” Great description for it. It’s obviously more difficult but I think more pleasurable for a writer in the end as well, as if you’ve been able to really reach inside something and truly understand it, truly lay it open on the page.
I love this Michelle. You present so many aspects to ponder, and offer hard questions to ask of ourselves.
I agree that unless you feel your protagonist’s abstract desire in your bones, the story may not be yours to write. Then again, I may simply hope that to be the case since a few months back I set aside a story started with great enthusiasm because I could never quite get a bead on the heart of my hero.
That wasn’t true with my first, though at the time I didn’t fully appreciate how that gift sustained me through the difficult parts. I’ve been thinking about that a great deal as I ease cautiously into a new and promising premise. This time I want the characters to emerge naturally, not be forced into a role.
Here’s the point that rings most true to me, both in my writing and in the books I’ve most loved — “Though the abstract desire is seldom named in the story, let alone understood in any clarity by the protagonist, the author at least knows it, and it bleeds through every image, every detail, every word.”
I think that’s essential to crafting a compelling read on an emotional level. And the most honest question a writer can ask of themselves is have they nailed that essential element of their story. Because if they haven’t, work is needed. It’s as simple as that. The task is challenging, but necessary.
Thanks so much for giving me something to ponder as I flesh out my new tale, and get to know my new characters.
Good luck with the new work. I think this kind of digging into character is always something we have to remind ourselves to do, because it’s difficult but also more rewarding in the end. I have to remind myself about this all the time. I’ll get back to my desk after teaching and think: “Duh! You’re not doing just what you were teaching all day long.”
I love this reminder about concrete desires. I tend to be one of those literary writers who fixates on the abstract, largely because of a belief drummed into me that wanting material things only leads to unhappiness. But it’s true, a story is more compelling when it includes actual things which can serve as hooks for the plot. The reader can track progress more easily, and when the final scene arrives, the desired object can crop up as a symbol, or a reminder of a lesson learnt, or a tear-jerker moment. Thanks for the great post!
I’m more literary too. It actually surprises me that my career has taken this turn, to insisting or even talking about these things. But avoiding the concrete seems to hold so many writers back, including myself when I’m not writing deeply enough. Glad the post helped!
Thank you for this wonderful essay as I thought about my own stories. As a children’s writer, I am used to having a very concrete goal for the character, but it is in writing the draft that I often discover what the story *really* is about. Revisions are so much more enjoyable for me because of this.
Absolutely! Yes, I would think a children’s writer would veer more toward the concrete, but I love that sense of what’s underneath. Happy writing!
I’m just starting a new project and will take note of this: “The abstract desire is most often revealed to the reader at the crisis point in the story.” Thanks!
Thanks for your response! Glad to have been of any help.
Hello, Michelle:
I’ve heard Robert Olen Butler speak about this, and it changed the way I teach desire.
I like the conception of abstract vs. concrete, though I usually refer to it as internal and external.
I also break down the yearning into a sense of lack — something missing from the character’s life, even though he might not be aware of it — and the yearning, which is the deep-=seated need to slake the thirst the lack creates.
I tell my students this process is as central to human life as the need for breath, food, water, and sex. The craving never stops. Throughout life, we respond knowingly or not to a need for something more.
To make the yearning more manageable, I refer to it as: the kind of person the character longs to be, the way of life they most hope to live.
In the course of the story, the concrete/external desire will bring them closer not only to a deeper understanding of that yearning, but the chance to come closer to its fulfillment.
I agree that single word yearnings — even “home,” which can resonate profoundly — typically do not do it justice. I recently saw a list of “internal needs” in a writing guide — identity, authenticity, a need to love and be loved, survival, adventure, etc. — and thought to myself: but no one ever wants just one, and so many are deeply interconnected, as you point out
I often define the yearning for myself in my own writing with a piece of music, so I intuit it in a non-verbal way. The music will conjure an emotional state (that I often can visualize, but not put into words) that defines the “state of grace,” as it were, the character longs for.
But the other big question to ask is: why isn’t the yearning fulfilled? And this leads to those incidents in the character’s past or the aspects of their nature that have dampened their
spirit, sapped their confidence, turned them away from the promise of life and instead focused them on avoiding the pain of life.
It may be a weakness (cowardice, laziness, lack of confidence), a wound (a great loss or betrayal or disappointment), a limitation (lack of intelligence, inexperience, being a woman in a man’s world), or flaw (rage, greed, callousness, Bigotry). It can be (and usually is) a combination of such factors. But whatever it is, it in a very real sense, “ruing the life” of the character.
They most likely don’t know this or accept it. They think they’ve made reasonable compromises and adjustments with “reality.” But the ache in their soul remains.
They have in fact fashioned their lives on habits of behavior that protect them from addressing that ache, the lack they feel, the yearning they’ve abandoned, and the weakness/wound/limitation or flaw that has taken over their lives.
The outer desire creates a set of challenges that force the character to address those forces blinding them, holding them back, and which also begins to awaken them to the yearning.
And once they do become aware — as you note, late in the story, and usually when the risk of failure, disaster, death is nearest — they touch that “white hot core of being” (Butler’s term) that they’ve feared or neglected or avoided so long. They see the person they truly want — and once expected — to be. They recognize the way of life they want to live. And failure in the external/concrete task threatens to destroy that person, that way of life, forever.
Not only is the yearning the deeper motivation for the action, it defines the stakes. If I become conscious of my yearning, but fail to claim this chance to come closer to fulfilling it, I’ve given up on my life. I’ve turned away from the person I want to be, the way of life I want to live. I’ve accepted a kind of living death instead.
Anyhoo, that’s how I teach it to my students. And I, like you, have Robert Olen Butler to thank for awakening me to the issue.
I’m teaching an online course at the moment that addresses all this, and I hope you don’t mind if I share this post with them. I think it’s incredibly useful. And wise.
Thanks for the thorough response! And yes, feel free to share as much as you want. Thanks!
P.S. See my short response about external vs internal conflict below (and yes, they’re close to the same thing. Sometimes I find students need several different ways of looking at a problem though.) Thanks again!
Great post. Thanks for digging down and revealing what really works. My character doesn’t want to move from her neighborhood, but there’s buried (psychological) treasure in that desire.
Sounds intriguing. Good luck with it!
I think of these desires as the external and internal goals.
A guy wants to be admired. So, the guy does everything he can to get into medical school.
I agree! Though I sometimes have writers who still don’t quite grasp that “external” means “concrete.” So a character is looking for love, which feels external to them, but unless there’s a specific love object or at least a more concrete idea behind the yearning, their characters still seem to wander about aimlessly, looking for a kind of ghostly dream.
That’s a great point, Michelle. I fully intend to steal it. :-)
Actually had to point this out to a student this week. It’s great the character is looking for love. How about, you know, a name?
So I’m reading along … enjoying this …learning … nodding, then I get to the book cover of Bottomland, and dang! I think I’m looking at myself at that age or a relative. Something about that girl’s eyes. I’m going to need a moment. :-)
Really Sheri? Wow! That’s actually a WPA photo, no idea who the girl is, though I wish I did know her. I’d actually love to hear her name or a relative pop out of the woodwork eventually, though I also hope they’d be okay or even happy about the photo as a book jacket. Thanks for letting me know!
Michelle:
Your post was was eye-opener in itself. David Corbett’s two-cents’ worth popped these baby-blues out of their sockets! Thanks to you both and to all those who commented.
Great!
Very kind of you to say, Christine. Glad the comment was helpful. I’m also really enjoying Michelle’s follow-up in her comments — in particular, her distinguishing external from concrete desire.
Michelle-
You don’t have to argue your point too hard in this house. The duality you describe is well known and much discussed in the circle of story masters (didn’t you receive the invitation in the mail, Michelle?) and here at Writer Unboxed.
Although the idea is the same, the language is a little different. It’s the difference between plot and story, meaning the outer need that drives a character into action versus the inner need that drives a character to change.
Characters whose motivation comes wholly from plot circumstances–“I must do this because if I don’t…”–are fine but will never feel fully real. Characters whose motivation is purely internal, by contrast, will tend to be “true” (as in vividly accurate) but also dreamy, wandering and uninteresting.
Neither way of motivating a character is wrong they just, as you say, don’t do the whole job. Together the tell the whole story.
Excellent post and right on target. Will you be at the Un-Conference in Salem in November?
Exactly. Writers tend to talk about these things in different terms, and I tell my students to just get used to it because writers don’t like to be buttoned in by craft-speak.
Actually, I don’t know about that conference Donald. I’ll check it out.
And exactly Jessi! Writers tend to talk about these things in different terms, and I tell my students to just get used to it because writers don’t like to be buttoned in by craft-speak.
In screenwriting circles, they speak of a character’s NEED versus her GOAL, and how the two may be at odds with each other. It’s different terminology for the same thing you are talking about, I think. The concrete desire is the character’s goal: what she thinks she has to have to make her happy or to solve her problems. The abstract (often unconscious) desire is the character’s need: what her soul is driving her to, sometimes in spite of what her conscious mind is telling her she has to have.
Example: a character’s goal is revenge against the blackguard who wronged him. The character’s need, however, may be to see how he himself contributed to the disaster that occurred and to achieve empathy and forgiveness.
At the end of the story, the goal may not have been attained, but the need may have been. Or vice-versa, or both, or neither.
Exactly. Writers tend to talk about these things in different terms, and I tell my students to just get used to it because writers don’t like to be buttoned in by craft-speak.
” Kane drops the snow globe in his hands and dies. But nothing can beat a Personalized Song which has the name of your beloved embedded in its
lyrics. Damien Rice has been a massive influence
on my life and music and his sudden return to the music
scene this year has inspired me to go back and listen to his catalog to find “The Best Damien Rice Songs Of All Time”.
This is a great article. I recently had a revelation concerning the inner need or abstract desire. A couple of my beta readers felt something was missing from a draft I’d passed around. Those readers recognized the concrete desire but wanted to know “why” the character had that desire and a particular fear. My draft was light on protagonist’s backstory. Reflecting on past readings of great novels, I realized that backstory is often where abstract desire resides. It’s in the backstory where the clues or explanation for the motivation of the concrete desire exists. So perhaps another way of separating the concrete from abstract desire is to think of abstract desire as the underlying reasons why a character is plotting their pursuit of a given goal, those reasons arising from the characters past, that yearning pressing into the present action of the narrative.