Where does Character Motivation Come From?
Character motivation, my fellow Neophyte, is a curious creature—it emerges from the very essence of our humanity. Reflect upon your own desires, and there, my friend, you shall find the answer. In my personal quest for self-understanding, I’ve encountered a peculiar blend of oversimplification on one side and unwarranted complexity on the other. What does that mean, you ask? Well, on the one hand, motivation is portrayed as a straightforward matter—just a concoction of wants, needs, and a touch of self-deception. However, being the wonderfully complex beings we are, when we sit down to write, we tend to complicate matters unnecessarily, often for reasons even we might not comprehend. No, I’m not joking; we do engage in perplexing actions without a clear purpose, and you should factor that in as well.
Greetings, Neophyte! Today, we delve into the concluding topic on characters—at least for now. Hold your cheers, for Prewriting lies ahead, along with an extended journey beyond, so buckle up. I address this topic at the forefront because, as I’ve iterated numerous times, it is foundational. After scouring the vast realms of the internet, scrutinizing, researching, and observing what is being told, I must admit that the current discourse pales in comparison to older works. Without repeating my grievances (though rest assured, I might revisit them), let me express this sentiment: we are doing ourselves a disservice.
Why, you ask, dear Neophyte? Because it is far simpler to embrace the normal consensus than to attempt a fresh perspective. During my studies, I witnessed a plethora of people echoing the same sentiments repeatedly, akin to a mantra or a formula. This repetition inadvertently contaminates our works, for storytelling is a vivid, far-from-sterile endeavor. A piece of ourselves inevitably finds its way into the final creation.
So, where am I steering this winded explanation, dear Neophyte? Toward the profound realization that comprehending this singular question is existential for your entire work. Everything that unfolds will risk becoming a mere copy of what preceded it, perpetuating an infinite cycle where each iteration is merely a variant of a root concept—devoid of identity, devoid of uniqueness. Picture the Ouroboros voraciously consuming itself.
Now, take a seat and lend me your ear, Neophyte. Opting for a pre-made, boxed approach to creation is all well and good, but it alone doesn’t cut it. Suppose you aspire to craft an epic narrative set in medieval times, detailing a civil war where characters grapple with the grandeur of the situation and their own intricate motivations. Excellent choice! Just be cautious not to employ an army sergeant, a princess, and a rogue in your narrative. Why, you ask? Well, because you seem to be tightly clutching those papers that precisely outline such a scenario. Oh, dear. No, Neophyte, I’m not angry—just a tad frustrated. This formula has been served a hundred times before, and mark my words, it will be dished out a hundred times again. Still not grasping it? Recall what I mentioned about the Stories-in-Between.
Now, just because you’re orchestrating a grand scenario amid a sprawling conflict doesn’t mean your protagonists must be entrenched in its very center. Not every soldier ascends to the rank of general in a war, and even fewer emerge as the primary protagonists in their own lives. Allow me to furnish an example to illuminate this point. Lately, I’ve embarked on the journey of reading “Pillars of the Earth” by Ken Follett. Admittedly, I’m only a fifth of the way through (the tome is massive), but even within this fraction, I can discern a beautifully simple illustration of a character-driven story.
Yes, there exists an overarching narrative—a civil war simmering on the not-so-distant horizon. However, it feels remote, for the narrative remains grounded at eye level with the characters. There’s a father, yearning to provide for his family, thrust into the abyss of tragedies commonplace in that era. A mother intersects the father’s path, intertwining not only her fate but also that of her son with his. A priest, propelled either by ambition or zealousness, aspires to ascend the ecclesiastical hierarchy. The grander conflict manifests itself through the actions and motivations of these characters, casting a palpable influence on many—directly or indirectly. Yet, it remains at a distance. There’s no looming Big Bad threatening universal annihilation. Instead, there are people doing what people do—clashing, colliding, and evolving in a world undergoing constant transformations.
The father, in search of employment, shuttles between towns. The mother aligns herself with the father. The children of both adults clash and contend as the predictable world they once knew crumbles, partly due to choices their parents made. The monk, with a hand in events larger than himself, inadvertently paves the way for individuals more ambitious than him, who, in turn, reward him. Meanwhile, a minor nobleman and his family feud with another, whose association with rebel forces provides him a means to redress the perceived slights against his name.
The book transcends the confines of a that mere struggle. In fact, most novels might hinge solely on what I have just described, but this absolute unit of a book offers so much more. And why is that, Neophyte? It’s because it’s constructed entirely through character motivations. The dance between action and reaction is composed with such finesse that I almost failed to notice. You witness characters encountering one another, albeit briefly, yet influencing each other’s destinies, their immediate fates shaping the next sequence of actions, which builds a chain of action and reaction that feels organic.
The regrettable aspect is that the sheer length and depth of “Pillars of the Earth” might deter some readers. It’s a shame because I struggle to conjure a more simple and beautiful example of character motivation and how it profoundly impacts a story. A compelling narrative unfolds, populated by captivating characters, all devoid of otherworldly or fantastical embellishments, crafted from the very essence of what could be considered mundane. Yes, there is tiny, microscopic scene of witchcraft at the very start but it is so minor that you might forget about it. I am truly in awe.
That is one of the reasons I am so cynical about the craft nowadays. That’s why I am so scornful of those who preach and teach the craft. It is taught in a too simple, too formulaic, manner Neophyte. Repeat after me: there are no safe formulas, only proven patterns that work. Maybe that’s the reason why everything feels the same, why everything reads like it’s been written in the same style. So desperate to understand, not to make mistakes, that many just repeat what has been done before. Forgetting not just where character motivation comes from but how it comes about and that it should build the story. That is why I say the story builds itself up to a point.
As we move forward, delving into the tools in greater detail, I want you to keep it at the forefront of your mind. Do not forget it, Neophyte, please.
Until next time.
