Once More, With Feeling: Writing Interiority That Resonates in Fiction

In my last article for Writer’s Digest, "Heart First, Brain Later: Why Your Character’s Emotional Arc Matters More Than Your Perfect Plot," I talked about the importance of emotional transformation—the way characters shift and grow as the story unfolds. And yes, I stand by my assertion that character arc is important, perhaps more important than plot.

(Immutable Moments: The Load-Bearing Beats of a Story.)

But you need more than the perfect plot and the perfect character arc. You can build a character with detailed backstory, create the perfect tragic childhood, give them a circus clown ex-lover, a hilarious but complicated relationship with their best friend, an unparalleled love for cats, and a coffee addiction so deep they own stock in Starbucks, but if the reader doesn’t know what’s happening inside their mind and their heart, the character just becomes another cardboard cutout. Characters need layers to feel real.

Those layers come from interiority: the art of revealing what your characters are feeling, thinking, denying, and aching for—even when they’d rather swallow nails than say it out loud. I posit that all character insight, everything that makes a character real, everything that allows your reader to connect to your characters comes from learning to excel at this one craft technique. 

Yes, interiority.

For emerging writers, interiority can feel complicated, like that situation with your bestie’s ex, and almost as frustrating. When you dig into your characters and their inner thoughts, you’re veering into “telling” as a style choice. And there’s nothing wrong with that, but it requires finesse.

Interiority is far more than just internal monologue. Interiority is the art of letting the reader know what your characters feel under the surface. It’s giving the reader insight into something the other characters might not know or can only guess. 

It’s how the reader knows that when your protagonist says, “I’m fine,” to another character, they’re really about one spilled cup of coffee away from a complete and utter breakdown. 

It’s how characters become genuine. Your character can’t be a total monster if they have emotional resonance showing their fear of abandonment or the trauma left over from being raised in an abusive home. Your happy-go-lucky, always sunshiney character can’t be boring if their inner world is a swirl of complex emotions.

Interiority gives a character weight. It’s the difference between reading about a character’s tears rolling down their face and having an actual visceral reaction to the character crying because you understand how they feel. 

But how do you actually do it?

An example from a work-in-progress of mine: 

I pause outside the door to check my reflection. Through the plate glass window, I spy Carrie, in grey trousers and a silky shirt. I’m stalling, walking into a room full of gay guys, big city publishers, my current girlfriend, and my ex-girlfriend. I open the door to a wave of laughter. Babs stands center stage surrounded by men who look enamored. She’s wearing some checked dress with a long pink sweater-thing and giant pink shoes. One of the guys is touching her necklace. She lets out a booming laugh and tosses her head and strands of blond curls that have slipped from her headband bounce around her face, and everyone looks at her. Everyone. Even Carrie, though she’s not even standing in the same circle, but standing a few feet away talking to an older man in an expensive-looking suit. That might be one of the hotshot publishing guys. “Hi, love,” I say, sliding an arm around Carrie’s waist. “Sorry I’m so late.”

*****

Here, I took out everything that wasn’t a factual event. It’s a fact that my character paused at the door, that he spied his girlfriend. It’s factual that he’s stalling, that there’s laughter in the room. But what is he feeling? How do we know what’s going on inside the character’s head? When that is added back in, we get some insight into the character.

I pause outside the door to check my reflection. I feel scruffy and I probably should have shaved or worn a nicer shirt. Through the plate glass window, I spy Carrie, glamorous in grey trousers and a silky shirt. Much as Babs irritates me, I have to admit she has a knack for styling Carrie. I’m stalling. What’s to be afraid of? Walking into a room full of gay guys, big city publishers, my current girlfriend, and my ex-girlfriend? I’ve handled worse.

I open the door to a wave of laughter. Babs stands center stage, of course, surrounded by men who look enamored. She’s wearing some Mary Tyler Moore-looking checked dress with a long pink sweater-thing and giant pink shoes. One of the guys is touching her necklace. She says something to him and the whole group laughs again. God, what I wouldn’t give to have presence like that. I don’t understand how she does it. She’s almost as tall as am I and with those heels, she’s towering over most of the men around her and probably outweighs any of them by at least 100 pounds. But she lets out a booming laugh and tosses her head and strands of blond curls that have slipped from her headband bounce around her face, and everyone looks at her. Everyone. Even Carrie, though she’s not even standing in the same circle, but standing a few feet away talking to an older man in an expensive-looking suit. That might be one of the hotshot publishing guys. And suddenly, I’m terrified. Terrified of making a fool of myself. Terrified, for some reason, of Carrie and her disappointment in me. I try to make my smile as cheerful as possible. “Hi, love,” I say, sliding an arm around Carrie’s waist. “Sorry I’m so late.”

*****

Interiority helps the reader to relate to the character, even to this character who, let’s face it, is kind of a jerk. He’s not a likable guy, but on some level, we can understand him. We’ve all been terrified. We’ve all been afraid of disappointing someone we love. If we can feel empathy for a character, we can connect with him.

So yes, interiority is the way into character and character is everything. Not because they save the world from villainous super-goats or rescue schoolchildren from burning buildings or somehow prevent a war with only a paperclip and their charm, but because they remind us we’re not alone. They remind us we’re allowed to be flawed, that we’re allowed to be awkward, messy human beings. 

When you flesh out your characters on the page as fully as they exist in your head, they stop being paper dolls and start feeling like people. And when your characters become real to you, they become real to your readers, too.