When a Character Does Nothing: Passivity, Paralysis, and Restraint
By Barbara Linn Probst | May 17, 2024 |
Clearly, our characters need to do things: they need to struggle, risk, defend, defy, atone (not simply “realize”). That’s the essence of story-telling: a character does something and, as a result, new things happen …
On occasion, a character may be acted upon, instead of acting. That is, he may be thwarted, diverted, or motivated by someone else’s action or by an external force like an earthquake or flood. “Something happens” that is beyond his volition or control. In consequence, he has to step up, shift, show what he’s made of—and then it becomes his story.
Being acted upon can work well if it’s part of the story setup, like a plane crash or betrayal, or a lead-in to the climax. These incidents need to be strategic, however, and rare—not the chief means of moving the tale forward. Otherwise, it can become hard to root for the protagonist (as in: bad luck keeps raining down on our poor hero, no matter what he does).
Modern readers tend to like protagonists who do stuff, rather than those to whom stuff happens. Bold, feisty characters who choose, persevere, overcome, attain.
In my recent post, I explored the nature of choice, including (briefly) the choice to do nothing. Today, I’d like to focus on three ways to not-do—through passivity, paralysis, and restraint—and how each of them can move a story forward.
Passivity
Passivity, as a trait, stems from a lack of force rather than a lack of means—a temporary (situational) or permanent internal condition that makes action impossible. Although a passive protagonist may sound like a strange idea, it’s not unknown. Think of William in Hello, Beautiful by Ann Napolitano. William is the book’s central character, but not the agent of the plot; he responds, generally by acquiescence, to what others want or do or fail to do. So too, in Absolution by Alice McDermott. Here, Tricia’s passivity is a reflection of the passivity of many of the military wives who accompanied their husbands to Vietnam; in a different setting, Tricia’s story would have been different.
In other cases, the story is about a protagonist learning not to be passive—overcoming some kind of oppression or limitation to become a more empowered, authentic self. There are many narratives, for example, framed by escape from an abusive partner (e.g., Black and Blue by Anna Quindlen) or liberation from a constricting parent (e.g., Go as a River by Shelley Read).
For that kind of arc to work, we have to see the character enacting his passivity at the beginning of the story; it’s only through contrast that the protagonist’s growth and change can be demonstrated.
Paralysis
Paralysis is, literally, the inability to move—to embrace, protect, avoid, or respond in any way.
A protagonist who wants (or fears) several things, especially if they’re irreconcilable, may find himself unable to choose, much like the poor donkey in my previous blog. Yes and no are perfectly balanced—the desire to act, and the reluctance to act—and the character freezes.
Too many possibilities can even lead to despair—like the child who’s told that he can have any toy in the store, but only one, and becomes so overwhelmed that he’d rather have nothing than sacrifice all the toys he would have to not-pick. (A tale from real life, I’m afraid.)
As trauma theory teaches us (see, for example: Bessel Van Der Kolk), paralysis can occur when both flight and flight seem impossible and the only option is to freeze (the third trauma response). When the moment passes—because someone else acts or the clock runs out—as in The Paper Palace, when the drowning boy drifts too far away and saving him is no longer an option—the character may un-freeze, but it’s too late. Perhaps he will have another chance to choose, later; perhaps not.
Inaction, through paralysis, may be followed by regret, guilt, shame, and/or rash acts of over-compensation, which have their own consequences. In that way, the paralysis can actually fuel the plot.
Restraint
A third kind of not-doing stems from the decision to hold back—despite the presence of all the ingredients for action including motive, capacity, and opportunity.
Why would a character refrain from acting, which action seems so obvious? From fear of the consequences, perhaps; better to stay invisible, and safe. Or from the desire to protect someone else, honor a pledge, or refrain from an over-sharing that would cause discomfort, confusion, shame. As Lara, the narrator of Tom Lake, decides, there’s no reason for her daughters to know every single thing about her past.
Restraint might even be an act of generosity—holding back so the other person has a chance to step in, prove his mettle, and have the life he desperately needs. I’ve always loved the moment in the movie Punchline, for example, when the Sally Field character steps aside and lets the Tom Hanks character win the contest, because she knows he needs it more than she does. It’s a gesture of kindness and power that we may not expect yet still believe, because that’s the kind of person she is.
In contrast, restraint might bring about a transformative moment, as it does in my own forthcoming novel. My protagonist—whose nature is to throw caution aside and indulge her impulses—finally comes to the confessional moment she’s been craving. And decides to say nothing, for the greater good. In that moment of restraint, she completes her journey. Given who she is, that transformation could only have come through restraint. For another sort of protagonist, it could only have come through risk.
I do think restraint is an undervalued virtue. Culturally, we like boldness, bigness—from the larger-than-life hero who singlehandedly vanquishes the band of attackers to the Everyman who finds his moxie and surprises us (and himself) by standing up to the big evil corporation. Restraint seems old-fashioned. Yet it’s the basis of so many powerful and enduring stories. One of my favorites is the film Educating Rita, which ends with an act of restraint that is, truly, an act of love: the Michael Caine character chooses silence—that is, selflessness—so the woman he cares about, who has outgrown him, can have the life she wants.
What makes restraint a bit trickier, in terms of plot, is that it’s rarely the protagonist’s explicit goal. He doesn’t vow: “I will seek difficult situations and then, at the crucial moment, step aside.” Rather, the possibility of restraint presents itself in the very moment when the presumed goal is close at hand or has already been achieved. It’s a plot-twist.
The Role of Timing
Structurally, doing-nothing can serve different functions, depending on when it occurs in the story.
In the beginning, a character may need to be passive in order for there to be a compelling before-and-after—to provide contrast with a future self or, perhaps, with another character.
In the middle, a character’s paralysis at a crucial juncture may become the driving force for embarking on a new goal (to be better, next time) that will fuel the rest of the story.
At the end, a character’s restraint—the decision to sacrifice what he’s been seeking (revenge, justice, confession, reward)—may bring about the true moment of fulfillment.
Over to you, now …
- Is there a place in your own WIP where a character’s choice to exercise restraint could make the story more interesting and surprising—in fact, prolong the tension?
- Is there a place in the WIP where the protagonist could freeze instead of responding, leading to new consequences and higher stakes?
- Is there an opportunity for a passive character to affect the plot, precisely because of his passivity? For example, let someone down—and things get worse as a result?
Barbara (she/her) is an author of contemporary women’s fiction living on an historic dirt road in New York’s Hudson Valley. Each of her acclaimed novels (Queen of the Owls, 2020; The Sound Between the Notes, 2021; and The Color of Ice, 2022) was a medalist for prestigious national awards, including the Sarton Award for Contemporary Fiction, the Independent Book Publishers Award, the Hawthorne Prize, and the Nautilus Award for Fiction. Her fourth novel, Roll the Sun Across the Sky, launches in May 2025 and has received stellar advance praise. Barbara has also published more than 80 articles on the craft of writing and the writing life. She has a PhD in Clinical Social Work and has been a therapist, teacher, researcher, and advocate for out-of-the-box kids and their families. When not writing, she’s a serious amateur pianist and a traveler to spots from Iceland to the Himalayas. Learn more on her website .
[coffee]
Interesting post, Barbara, for in real life the use of restraint is often automatic. Those we love and live with help create a process that we fall into in an argument, for instance. “Better to wait this one out, he’ll change his mind.” In marriage, in business, in LIFE….we learn when to push ahead and when to stay quiet…give it time. Thus, your post is interesting and presents a challenge to the writer. We must KNOW our characters so well, that when writing the reaction that occurs will feel RIGHT (yes this is what he or she would do) OR….in a crucial point in the flow of the story, the character surprises and does the opposite. WOW. The reader accepts the change, is eager to see how the character’s reaction can alter the flow of the story. I also appreciated your examples. Reading the work of another often stimulates our own writing…yes, that worked, it was moving, powerful. Now when my character is … Thanks!
Exactly! Sometimes the character does just what we would expect her to do, and the plot moves forward seamlessly. And sometimes the character does something that we would never expect, and our OMG response is the very thing that makes us keep reading, so we can find out where this is going to lead … Either way, the writer’s skill is what makes it work.
That “automatic restraint,” you mention might come from fear, deference, anxiety, the wish to please or buy time or avoid conflict ,and so on. The restraint that’s not automatic is what makes for a great storytelling moment because it signals an important moment in the development of the character and/or plot.
Thank so much for weighing in!
A thought-provoking post, as always, and one that suggests deeper ways to reveal the character than the standard “action”. I see a way this can be used in my next novel and am furiously taking notes as a result. And thanks for reminding me of two of my older favorite movies – Punchline and Educating Rita. I’ll be queueing them up this weekend.
How awesome that my post has inspired something in your next novel! I’d love to hear more, when you’re ready to share!
Thank you, Barbara, for making a case for not-doing. The two examples you give of restraint–“Educating Rita” and “Punchline”– make clear how culture-driven our attitudes tend to be. In “Punchline,” Field’s American standup comedian is dominant and powerful. What she chooses to not do comes from a person in a position of professional strength.
In “Educating Rita,” the characters are British. “Michael Caine’s character chooses silence—that is, selflessness—so the woman he cares about, who has outgrown him, can have the life she wants.” Caine’s character is a once-admired poet who is now a drunk and–fittingly–who has dried up as a writer. He has no wish to rehabilitate himself. He is shielded by an academic system that protects failures like himself, and by personal charm. His restraint demonstrates how strong it’s possible for a failure to be. I agree with your view that restraint is undervalued on this side of the pond. Boldness and bigness in England are less admired, except in nineteenth-century ship captains, and Winston Churchill.
Yup, ours is not a culture that values restraint … which is great (in a way), because it allows us writers to make fresh, creative use of an under-used element.
My personal interest is in a life-altering MOMENT of restraint in a story, rather than in a character who is always restrained—for that character, the interesting moment would be one in which he takes an action that represents a risk. For either, the new story question would be wither that out-of-character moment is a one-off or sends him in a whole new direction where that trait is able to manifest more often … That’s the fun of writing, which (for me) is always a process of discovery!
Your interesting article made me think of Beth in Little Women who was shy and quiet but had a strength of character despite that. She caught the scarlet fever that weakened her by going out in the winter weather to visit an ill family. I think characters who seem passive may show their inner strengths when it’s needed.
A wonderful point, Frances! “Passivity,” as a trait, can represent many things. It can be survival tactic in the face ongoing subjugation (emotional and/or physical), a lack of self-worth/ the fear of displeasing others, or a quiet equanimity that masks a deep inner strength. Thank you for reminding us of this!
The whole of the Pride’s Children mainstream trilogy is about restraint.
As one of my favorite reviewers noted:
“Kary is CLEARLY a hero, by any criteria you want to apply apart from armed combat, and she is the center of the book. She lives in isolation in New Hampshire, and writes; she suffers from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and it robbed her of her previous career as a physician, and gave her weak/treacherous husband the excuse he needed to rob her of her family. She has other grief in her life, but she does not share the pain casually.”
The restraint is that she will not reach for what she wants because her integrity tells her it would be a very bad bargain for the other to be involved with someone with her severe limitations – she believes in equality or nothing, and can’t do the former.
Most of the first two volumes are about how that plays out in detail, and actually causes more harm than it prevents.
I’m working on the third.
Yes, I’d agree that restraint often comes from integrity—that is, from a sense of responsibility, personal ethics, an impulse of altruism, and so on. Like your protagonist: not wishing someone else to suffer, or to be in the position of benefiting from someone else’s misfortune. I do get tired of stories about bad boys and “scoundrels we love to hate! ” Thanks, Alicia!
Alicia I was thinking of Kary—her restraint is masterful!
Barbara thank you for this closer look. So useful as I think about my own story people. The youngest especially needs to learn to be prudent.
A very overlooked aspect of characterization, Barbara. Thank you.
Two of my favorite fictional depictions of paralysis are Jean Rhys’s “Good Morning, Midnight” and James Joyce’s “Dubliners.”
In the Rhys novel, her protagonist lives aimlessly in Paris courtesy of a stipend from a deceased relative, but rather than descend into sybaritic excess she can’t escape the haunting effects of the death of a child she conceived with a man who abandoned her when he realized she was pregnant, and her inability to ever conceive again. She simply cannot find a way out of the dense emotional fog in which she finds herself. Though she wanders from event to event, there is no real agency; it’s just a peripatetic form of surrender.
Joyce himself described his characters in “Dubliners” as existing in a form of paralysis–political, sexual, social, psychological–as a result of the two great constraining forces on Irish identity: The British Empire and the Roman Catholic Church. Going back to those stories with that understanding has made me appreciate them much more deeply, as I see the various ways his Dubliners are stuck in their tracks.
Now, I think I should go do something. I’m pretty sure the dog agrees.
Many thanks for your reflections, Dave! For sure, this is something that is too-seldom considered in our discussions of character and craft …
And thanks for your great examples of paralysis. As you note, it’s not that the character wants to be frozen. There may be too many forces for a single, isolated human being to deal with—or, perhaps, those forces may be so perfectly balanced that the person can’t decide which way to move (see my post last month, in case you missed it, re: choosing not to choose). “Being stuck” is, of course, a powerful story premise, though I think contemporary readers would prefer the protagonist to try something, even something stupid, to get the story moving …
Like so many elements of a good story, it’s about the timing …
Thanks again!
I was struck by the example of “paralysis” caused by too many choices. In this case it was a child with a store full of toys, but the whole world is a store full of toys. And how can a man ask a woman to marry him when there are literally millions of women he then cannot have? (Or vice-versa.) Or how about a bright and curious young MC who has reached the stage in his or her education where a choice (medicine, architecture, literature) must finally be made? As a person who has engaged in a lengthy study of doing nothing, I would say there are some plots in here.
Thanks, Michael! Agreed: many plots offer themselves, versions of FOMO and “what if the grass is greener over there?” Paralysis can be a manifestation of extreme self-doubt … or its opposite, the inflated belief that one can do and have and be anything, so why accept any limits? Lots to ponder, so thank you for making me ponder even more …
Thank you for this, Barbara! An act of restraint may just be the perfect solution for a plot issue I’ve been struggling with. I was leaning toward the big, brave, and bold solution, which I thought readers would want, but also toward the restraint solution, which is what felt right to me, even if I couldn’t articulate why. Now I feel more confident.
That’s awesome! I’d say: try it both ways, and see … but IMO always choose what feels right to you, rather than what you imagine readers would want (especially since you can’t know!) Good luck!
Good post, Barbara. I would add that an antagonist’s surface passivity an mask interior malevolence and plans for revenge. Think of Iago, quietly plotting Othello’s downfall.
Oh YES! Thank you for adding that!! A great plot twist :-)
Barbara, the novel “Stoner” immediately came to mind, because the lead eponymous character, a university instructor in the Midwest, seem like a passive-though-observant visitor to his own life, which builds soft walls that are almost a psychic prison. Stoner is a character who suffers a lot of humiliation and insult, sometimes self-prompted, but he retains a gravity (or a strange stasis) that is somehow pure.
There is an utter lack of buoyancy in the passage of his time, and the cruelties wrought upon him by his choices and his enemies are hard to bear. But I loved this novel for its rich interiority. Just don’t read it when you’re depressed.
I remember reading “Stoner” long ago and being struck in a similar way. There can be a kind of grace in the refusal to react …. To make that work in a contemporary novel, however, my hunch is that it would need to be balanced by a second POV character (or, anyway, a second major character whom the reader cares about) who does act, react, move, grow, change …
Thank you so much for your comment!
Good extra points. I actually have THREE major characters in Pride’s Children, and the very active second one has a lot of changing and growing up to do, while the third is pushing a completely different path and isn’t afraid to make it happen unethically (any changes coming from her are fake, done for appearance’s sake).
They give me a lot to work with, as the novels are deep third pov, told in a rough alternation (with no narrator), so a reader can live as any of the three, experiencing their life from right behind the eyeballs.