Make your Protagonist an Actor
By Kathryn Craft | April 8, 2021 |
photo adapted / Horia Varlan
Establishing “agency”—proving to your reader that your protagonist is equal to the journey ahead—is a craft element worthy of fresh consideration each time you begin a new project. This is especially true if you spend a good deal of your initial word count probing the protagonist’s memories and thoughts so you’ll understand the inner conflict that will drive their story.
That’s called “starting to write,” not “opening a novel”—but writers often conflate the two.
Reality is, you-as-author are the one who needs early access to that interiority. Your reader might not. Any reader who has met with an unreliable narrator will know that a character’s actions will speak louder than anything s/he is willing to tell us anyway. In order to earn your reader’s faith and investment, your protagonist must be willing to act.
This craft is based on physical law. As early as 1687, storytelling guru Sir Isaac Newton hinted at the necessity of getting your protagonist off his duff with his principle of inertia, which (sort of) states:
A protagonist at rest will stay at rest, and a protagonist in motion will stay in motion until his story problem is resolved, unless acted on by an external force.
Before submitting your manuscript to publishers, consider having your story open with your character already taking an action that suggests the nature of the journey ahead. Once that happens, Newton’s Third Law of Storytelling (oh why not rename them?) promises that “for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
Action—not thought—inspires the kind of external conflict that will pressure your character to engage with an inner arc of change.
Action—not thought—will show the character’s agency.
Merriam-Webster’s first definition of the word “actor” offers a simple perspective on the matter.
One that acts: doer.
Even a dazed woman wandering through a forest is different from one sitting on a stump thinking about how lost she is: the wanderer is looking for a way out.
This raises the question of whether all characters are capable of “doing” something. Let’s look at three increasingly challenged protagonists.
Anne Shirley
Even kids—and characters seized by PTSD—can act (or act out). If you don’t remember the 1908 novel Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery, watch a couple of episodes of Anne with an “E” on Netflix. At the outset, Anne, “about eleven” in the novel, is waiting alone at a train stop for her new foster father to pick her up—and when he approaches, she starts talking so fast and at such length that he can’t possibly pose the objection that he had specifically asked for, and expected to meet, a boy.
Due to countless cruelties suffered in an orphanage and previous foster placements, Anne could easily come off as a victim. But when seized by flashbacks, she patches her optimism by imagining heroic characters in “fantastical” scenarios. She loves to learn and relentlessly defends herself when mocked at school for her lack of formal education. In her new, kinder placement, she does not let obstacles like having no money, isolation due to rural spread, or an inability to ride a horse or drive a buggy keep her from reaching the ferries and trains that will allow her to achieve goals in other towns.
As a “doer,” Anne exhibits more agency than many adults I know. Through her, Montgomery teaches us that when it seems like a protagonist can’t act, the writer must imagine a way for her to do so.
Susy Hendrix
When we first meet Audrey Hepburn’s recently blinded character, Susy, in the 1967 film Wait Until Dark (synopsis), drug dealers looking for a heroin-filled doll are hiding in her apartment as she calls her husband, who’s at work, to say that she was “the best in blind school today.” After she decides to “tap her way over” and meet him at a coffee shop in his building, she blithely tells him “she’ll be the one reading Peter Rabbit in braille.” With her first words she’s already showing us she is handling an extreme obstacle like a champ. But how will that translate when the story comes to a head, and Susy must defend herself when trapped alone to face the violent thug who returns for the doll? Let’s see.
During the long climactic fight, she:
- continually finds ways to plunge the apartment into darkness by breaking lightbulbs, disabling the emergency light, and unplugging the refrigerator
- asks if he’s looking at her—and when he says yes, throws a chemical at his face
- douses him with gasoline and threatens him with lit matches while making him tap the floor with a cane so she knows where he is
- tries to scream for help
- arms herself with a kitchen knife and saves herself from rape by stabbing him.
Spunk can’t replace eyesight—or can it? In the end, Susy proves that our early faith in her was warranted.
Joe Bonham
The anti-war novel Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo, which won the 1939 National Book Award for Most Original Novel, pushes the envelope of establishing agency all the way to an unforgiving wall. Trumbo’s protagonist is as severely compromised as people get—a WWI draftee whose arms, legs, and face have been blown off, yet whose heart didn’t know enough to stop beating. How can a person with no sight or hearing or mouth or limbs—and with no way of knowing if he is awake and remembering, or asleep and dreaming—“do” anything? This story is an interesting case study because by necessity, most of the novel plays out in his mind. Joe’s agency results from his relentless striving against impossible odds. It takes him more than a year to organize time, distinguishing night from day by the distinct vibrations made when different people walk into the room.
In this state, even a suicide attempt is “doing something,” but his tracheotomy makes that impossible. After that, Joe deeply desires to take the necessary steps to connect with another human being. He tries to communicate with a nurse by banging his head against the bed. He is repeatedly drugged for this “agitation,” requiring that he start over with respect to his hard-earned day/night orientation—until a Christmas relief nurse figures out he’s tapping in Morse code and fetches a former army doctor to interpret it. What happens next is one of the most powerful statements on what it means to be alive that I’ve ever read in a novel.
If a character with no appendages or senses can convince us of his ability to act, so can your character.
These three stories feature characters who were easily remembered for this post because they have stayed in my heart for decades. Wouldn’t you love to have your protagonist linger in your reader’s heart for that long?
If you do, prove that s/he is worthy. Challenge yourself to have your character take story-relevant action as soon as possible. On page one, if possible. Gads of writing instructors, Sir Isaac Newton, Noah Webster, George and Charles Merriam—and my mom, who taught me about inner conflict and implied stakes with the words, “Actions speak louder than words, young lady”—all think it’s a good idea.
But the most compelling reason to do so is to build a relationship with your reader that will allow her to invest in your protagonist. Your character has no skin in the game while huddled within the safety of his own mind. It’s only once he takes the risk of acting from a place of deep desire, and then is met with a confounding obstacle, that will have your reader thinking, “Oh no, what will the character do now?”
Once you have the reader asking that, you have her hooked. And for that, publishers say, the sooner the better.
Fun exercise: Is there a character that has stayed in your heart for a good long while? Pick up your copy of the novel (because you kept it, right?), re-read his or her introduction, and report back: how was his or her agency suggested? If you don’t have the book on hand, tell us what actions your own protagonist takes early on (or what new actions you are now inspired to write!) that will beg the reader’s investment.
[coffee]
Kathryn Craft (she/her) is the author of two novels from Sourcebooks, The Art of Falling and The Far End of Happy. Her forthcoming book, Crafting Story Movement: Techniques to Engage Readers and Drive Your Novel Forward, draws from decades of experience as both a story consultant and a movement specialist/dance critic. Learn more on Kathryn’s website.
I love this fresh angle on the notion of agency! Isaac Newton will never be the same. Now I expect you to do your magic next month with Einstein’s theory of special relativity and tell us how to handle time and space in our stories! If anyone can do it, you can, Kathryn :-)
Haha good one, Barbara—if I start working on that now, I could only hope to finish it in my lifetime!
Newton’s law came to mind on this topic when I recalled a bit of advice I once received from Alice McDermott: Put your best material up front and the rest will rise to it. She was quoting some famous author but I can’t recall who—if anyone reading this comment knows who first said this, please let me know!
Kathryn, wonderful post today. I like the idea of exploring my character as acting in the story rather than just being in the novel. Brings the visual in at a much deeper level.
That’s great, Paula. I was hoping the fresh angle might jar something loose. Thanks for letting me know!
Magnificent point — and riveting, insightful examples too. Action is *relative*, and it’s defined by how the character’s own life is changing.
Authors often forget that they can set the pace for that action, and that’s why many assume there needs to be an explosion at the start. The problem there is that it’s hard to know what makes the character unique if they’re already busy fighting for their life, and the tactical problems squeeze out most sense of the human factor. For most writers, it’s better to start with Susy facing her daily blindness challenges and all the spins she brings to those, before the drug dealers close in and we see that in a new, um, light.
But that doesn’t mean she’s *inactive* until then. Far from it.
Very well put, Ken! I always wonder, when reading some version of an “explosion” in an opening—how can the action rise from there? And per your “fighting for their lives” point, that certainly suggests stakes, but it’s pretty obvious in the motivation department. Survival is a built-in instinct, whereas there are many more interesting motivations to explore in a novel.
I love the way you explained why Susy’s opening works—thanks!
Oh my! You’ve got me thinking!
Yay! My goal achieved. 💯
One of my favorite openings is in the movie Casino, which literally starts with DeNiro’s character Sam Rothstein in a car explosion. The monologue over the image of his body flying through the flames is priceless.
Thanks for the example, Bee. I had to look this one up—for others interested, the opening is on YouTube. This appears to be a frame that creates tension and demonstrates the high stakes of physical death. Then, the story backs up to when De Niro’s character is first put in charge of a Las Vegas casino. In this regard, it’s a teaser of what’s to come, in the manner of a prologue. But I agree that it’s entertaining!
Excellent post and a brilliant revisiting of character having agency. And indeed Newton will never be the same again. As writers we often spend way to much time on inner dialogue and worse yet, unnecessary exposition. This is a wonderful reminder and your examples are fantastic. Thanks for my morning writers jolt. Much better than coffee!
Wow—that means a lot, because it seems every writer’s social media feed extolls the aromatic ground bean!
To your point, guess what I’m doing right now? Going back through to look for places I may have over-explained.
Thanks for another great writing reminder, Kathryn. In 2020, I was captivated by the opening pages of David Mitchell’s “Utopia Avenue.” His poor hero meets obstacle after obstacle—getting mugged, then being so rattled at work it gets him fired, then not making his rent because he was mugged, then his fed-up landlady tosses him out of his flat. I didn’t set out to read that novel, but HAD TO because I was too stirred up over this hapless character. As it turned out, I thoroughly enjoyed a wild ride of a story. And I studied that opening to help with my own novel’s opening.
Ha! I’ve been similarly hooked by Mitchell before, Leslie. Thanks for the example.
I’d just like to extend your commentary a bit for any newer writers here. Yes, we must put the screws to our characters, but not because we want the reader to feel sorry for them. The purpose of the obstacles is to make it even harder for the character to reach his goal.
We want the reader to be saying, “Oh no, what will this character do now”—because due to the opening, we already have faith he’ll DO something—not “Oh no, that poor, poor guy!” Watching a character fight the good fight inspires the reader to carry on, whereas sympathy for a victim grows stale fast and have the reader looking elsewhere. Especially in a book the length that Mitchell usually writes!
As with the opening, throughout the novel we must pay close attention to what our characters DO in response to those obstacles. Knowing Mitchell, I’m sure that sensibility was in play. And knowing you, I’ll bet that’s what you were responding to.
Awesome, Katherine. Thank you!! You actually bring up a question. If a character makes a decision up front to specifically not do something, would you consider that an action? I ask because in Prospero’s Children, the MC’s decision not to engage in magic has serious ramifications later on. In my WIP, I have a similar situation, a young girl looking to re-invent herself in a new place by hiding who/what she actually is. The consequences set in quickly. Like Joyce, you have me thinking, too.
Hi Susan, thanks for the question! I haven’t read Prospero’s Children, so can’t speak to that story specifically. But going against expectation is often what makes a story interesting.
In general, it helps to restate the negative—the thing not done—in the positive—the thing done. Then, “I refuse to use magic” becomes something like, “I’ll just hold my power in reserve for now, thank you,” and a refusal to be authentic would be more like, “Until it feels safer, I’ll continue to hide that part of myself.” And then, of course, make sure they have good reasons for these choices!
A tenet that has held me in good stead is that a story is more interesting when focusing on what IS done as opposed to what is not. Hope that helps!
Really informative post. It got me thinking in clear-cut ways of the main protagonist’s actions in my new WIP and how I can strengthen those on the page. This will also move the story along with a show not tell by deepening the character arc. Thanks, Kathryn!
That’s great! I”m doing the same right now with my WIP!
Thank you, Kathryn. You hooked me with your example from Anne of Green Gables, my all-time favourite novel. I’ve been thinking of starting another book, so your contribution this week is timely. Action not only brings the character to life, it gets the reader engaged in a way that no exposition or inner monologue can.
Yay Diana, another Anne fan! Everything you say here is so true. But what is true for the reader is also true for the writer: we can get lost in the swirl of our characters’ minds. Action and reaction engages us as creators, too.
As always Kathryn, brilliant. Plus, I love Newton. And all your examples. I’ve not read Johnny Got His Gun but now I want to. Thank you!
Thanks Vijaya! I have only re-read a handful of novels because life is limited and there are so many great stories to get to. But I have read that one three times. I love a story that can dig right down to bedrock as concerns what makes life worth living.
Thanks, Kathryn!
I enjoyed reading this and figuring out how to apply this in some slow places in my WIP. I’m married to a science/math nerd, so applying Newton’s Law is a fun twist that made me smile this morning. :)
Biology major here. Some things always stay with you. Questions like “why” and “how do you know” are always in my mind, either scientificially, psychologically, or philosophically! Thanks for your comment, Amelia—it made me smile as well.
Another great lesson, Kathryn! Since you made this brilliant connection between physics and writing, I will make another connection — between writing and acting.
When I teach acting, the first principle I teach is: Acting is “action” not “emotion.” This is always surprising and even disturbing to eager young actors. But the reality is that you cannot play emotions — and if you do, you will stumble into cliche and overacting. But actions are eminently playable: to coax, to accuse, to warn, to threaten. When you play an action you become free and compelling on stage.
I can’t wait to carry this lesson into my writing as well!
Hi Susan, I’m so glad you landed here today! Your comment is so interesting to me because I’ve never studied acting, just read about it in Merriam-Webster’s, lol! “You cannot play emotions”—that makes so much sense now that I think about it. Dredging that emotion up would be such a chore. It would have to result from the actions taken.
“Free and compelling” sounds lovely—thanks for helping the readers here move toward that!
Spot on, Susan Chase. To coax, to accuse, to warn, to threaten…to amuse, to run, to hide, to hurt, to kill, to steal, to love, to lie…to do is to be. Acting is action indeed.