Character Arcs: Turning Inner Struggles Into Story Power

Writers love to write plot twists; we revel in the next jolt of excitement. We are always searching for that spark to keep readers leaning in. But even the wildest plot falls flat if the main character stands still, untouched by the storm swirling around them.

(How to Figure Out What Your Character Wants.)

The stories that linger aren’t just a string of events. They’re about people transforming, reshaped by what crashes into them and what they carry away.

A strong character arc breathes life into the plot. When you know what your character aches for, what keeps them awake in the dark, what they run from, the story stops being just action. It starts to matter.

Lisa Cron’s books, Wired for Story and Story Genius, talk about this misbelief—a belief that once helped the character survive but now holds them back. Using a misbelief helps writers connect a character’s inner and outer struggles, making their growth feel real. Focusing on misbeliefs also makes revision easier and helps authors better understand their characters, thereby making the story more powerful.

How do we do this? Here’s a practical way to create arcs that feel real, whatever you’re writing. Whether it’s mystery, romance, or speculative fiction, the misbelief idea works. In mysteries, misbeliefs drive people to solve crimes or conceal secrets. In romance, they challenge lovers to face their own and their partner’s issues. In speculative fiction, unfamiliar worlds and rules push a character’s misbelief into new territory, revealing cracks they could once ignore.

Before you dive into the plot, pause. Step into your main character’s shoes. What belief, shaped by old hurts or hard nights, is holding them back? This is the misbelief. It has to crack for real change to slip in.

Try writing in your character’s voice. Five minutes, no filter. Let their fears and memories spill out, especially the moments that shaped them. Sometimes, the misbelief hides in the quiet spaces between their words.

It is crucial to know that misbeliefs aren’t villains. They’re armor, hammered out in old battles, now pinched and worn thin.

To find the misbelief, ask yourself (and your character) three questions:

Here are some examples from my own writing to clarify:

Adult Speculative Fiction/Adventure

In North Country, Flossie carries the misbelief that she is unworthy of love, attention, or desire—a belief carved into her by years of emotional abuse. Staying small once kept her safe; now it keeps her unseen. Visibility feels dangerous to her, even as the world around her demands she step forward.

YA Speculative Fiction/Adventure

In For the Love of Glitter, Grey Shima carries a misbelief forged in trauma: that safety and belonging must be earned through vigilance and self-sacrifice. After nearly losing her family during “That Awful July,” she becomes convinced that if she ever lets her guard down, someone she loves will pay the price. What once helped her survive now isolates her, driving her to overcommit, ignore red flags, and mistake intensity for connection.

As Lisa Cron notes, misbeliefs are often born in moments of emotional upheaval. Both Grey and Flossie carry wounds shaped by those exact moments. Whatever your story looks like on the surface, the misbelief is its heartbeat. The arc breathes. The plot moves with purpose.

Once you find the misbelief, let the plot press against it. Start gently. Turn up the heat, little by little, until the pressure hums under the skin. Every event should poke at what your character clings to as truth.

Now ask yourself:

As North Country unfolds, the harshness of Flossie’s world and the demands of a mission press hard on her misbelief. She is compelled to assume leadership, rely on others, and let herself be seen—not just for her competence, but for her full humanity. The more she shows up, the more her misbelief cracks, until she must choose between shrinking back into familiar invisibility or claiming the worth she never believed she had.

For Grey, the first parts of For the Love of Glitter present her with small tests. Staying quiet to protect someone, risking something to prove herself. As the story goes on, the stakes rise. Loyalty that once brought her in now leaves her standing alone. Each test presses harder, until her misbelief threatens to crack.

For both characters, the pressure comes from what they live, not from anyone’s words. When the plot pushes hard enough to crack the misbelief, the story exhales. It feels true.

Change doesn’t happen all at once. It comes slowly, with each choice. The character acts on their misbelief, stumbles, and begins to see what needs to change. Hold on to the old belief, and something breaks. Each choice leaves a mark. When you edit, look for these patterns—action, consequence, the arc bending. That’s where the story’s strength lives.

In North Country, Flossie’s arc is one of emerging visibility—emotionally, socially, romantically, and as part of the mission team. At first, staying alone feels safer. Later, it leaves her stranded. She sees that what once saved her now keeps her from living. Change waits, just out of reach.

In For the Love of Glitter, Grey keeps choosing loyalty instead of doing what she feels is right. At first, this makes her stand out. But as she continues, things get more dangerous, with lies and risks that make her uncomfortable. When her loyalty brings harm, she must confront both the situation and her own beliefs. She begins to recognize that loyalty grounded in fear isn’t loyalty at all, and that she is worthy of love and belonging without having to prove it. She learns through her actions, not by being told what to do.

Growth that comes from consequence, not lectures, feels true. It lingers.

You don’t need charts unless they help. What matters is noticing how your character’s journey rises and falls. Most arcs move like this:

Beginning: The misbelief seems to protect the character.

Middle: It starts to cost them something they care about.

End: They must choose:

Flossie (Adult):
Opening: Invisibility feels safer than being seen.
Midpoint: Invisibility keeps her powerless and alone.
Climax: She must risk visibility—claiming her worth and letting others truly see her.

Grey (YA):
Opening: Loyalty feels like the path to belonging.
Midpoint: Loyalty isolates her and puts her in danger.
Climax: She must choose between loyalty and integrity.

Different worlds, same heartbeat. That’s why character arcs matter.

Not every secondary character needs one, but giving a key secondary character a misconception can add depth and balance to the story. The arcs may be smaller, but they enrich the story. They also help showcase how the main character grows.

Arcs definitely live in kids’ stories, too. In A Pirates’ Pact, Mac tries to impress friends, hoping it will make him count. Kik remains silent, believing silence is safety. Every choice grows from these misbeliefs, and those choices drive the plot.  

At the heart of every story, a character struggles with what they believe about themselves and the world. The plot draws us in, but the character arc is what sustains our interest.

When you build from the inside out, letting the misbelief shape every beat, the story does more than move. It lingers in the quiet after the last page. You create a story that matters.

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