by Ross Browne
“Character driven” is a phrase one hears a lot in editing and publishing. In simple terms, it’s something we say when the experience of a book is shaped as much (or nearly as much) by the characters as by the story itself.
It’s generally a compliment and often thought to apply more to literary and mainstream fiction than to commercial novels. J. D. Salinger’s Holden Caulfield or Harper Lee’s Scout Finch are much more memorable characters than John Grisham’s Mitch McDeere or Dan Brown’s Robert Langdon. But to say that commercial fiction can’t be (or shouldn’t be) character driven is a fallacy we encourage our authors to reject.
Because plot and character are so inexorably intertwined, I find that the best and most compelling commercial fiction that I read is quite character driven, in some way or another. This is why I love authors like John D. MacDonald, Tana French, Caz Frear, Ken Follett, Jeffrey Archer, and Robert Galbraith so much—and frequently present them as role models in discussions with authors about the craft of characterization. These authors know how to tell great stories that attract readers in droves, and they bring those stories to life with memorable if not downright unforgettable characters. They write riveting novels that are plotted and usually fast paced—but character driven nonetheless.
Susie Steiner is another such author whose work I fell in love with after reading Missing, Presumed, the debut novel in her bestselling Manon Bradshaw mystery series, which has drawn praise from the likes of The New York Times and Oprah. The third book in the series, Remain Silent, takes risks on the path to standing out as a remarkably character driven mystery. Remain Silent got me thinking about what character driven really means in genre fiction (mystery, in this case) and how authors skilled at character driven fiction realize that lofty goal.
The inciting event of Remain Silent is the discovery of a Lithuanian migrant worker’s body hanging dead from a tree after an anti-immigration rally at a time of skyrocketing nationalism and xenophobic sentiment in present-day London. Detective Inspector Manon Bradshaw and her partner, Davy, are tasked with finding out what happened to Lukas Balsys in a novel that, on its surface, might look very much like a traditional “whodunnit” police procedural.
Remain Silent is a compelling mystery, but one thing that keeps it from feeling traditional is that the story of the investigation itself comprises less than half the book. The rest focuses on the stories and backstories of a handful of characters whose lives fatefully entwine once Lukas’s corpse is discovered. And this brings us to the first tool for making a book feel more character driven.
Proportion and Viewpoint
Steiner’s novel is a shining example of how the simple matter of proportion can dictate how character driven a book will be. Remain Silent is told via four third-person narratives, with each chapter named simply for the viewpoint character and the time it happens. (Steiner’s method of maintaining clarity on this front is effective and much appreciated.)
Because Manon is the lead investigator on the case, most of the investigation unfolds from her viewpoint. Davy is her partner, Matis is the best friend of the deceased, and Elise is the daughter of an anti-immigration leader. Of the 67 total chapters, 25 are written from Manon’s POV, 17 from Davy’s, 15 from Matis’s, and 10 from Elise’s.
But here’s the thing … many of Manon’s chapters don’t focus on the investigation. Much of the ink in her chapters is dedicated to exploring personal challenges that have little or nothing to do with the case (aging, weight gain, parenting, professional frustration, societal frustration, marriage, friendship, and sharing a life with someone she may very well lose to cancer). While not without occasional moments of humor, this is pretty dark stuff, as Manon is not especially happy or fulfilled. And just as so many things feel like they’re unraveling, her investigation gives her a front-row seat to the dark side of anti-immigration sentiment and how vulnerable immigrants are to exploitation.
Steiner’s choice to make Manon’s depression and midlife crisis such a focal point is as risky as it is rewarding because it takes us to dark places that some readers may feel are tangential to the plot. The same can be said for Matis’s and Elise’s shares of the narrative. But I personally wouldn’t change a thing about the novel’s chapter proportions because the more textual elements, while not vital to the story’s telling, enrich the novel so much.
Matis’s chapters tell the story of his and Lukas’s exit from Lithuania in hopes of better work and better lives, only to find themselves enslaved, exploited, and abused in an unconscionable fashion. What these men endure is truly horrible and hard to read about. Their story is fascinating (and harrowing!) but at times only loosely related to the investigation. (Steiner gives readers a dramatic and visceral view of intense hardships in a way that reminds me a little of Henning Mankell’s unforgettable rendering of the Chinese immigrant experience in The Man from Beijing.)
Elise’s chapters tell the story of a rebellious late-teen girl who, perhaps in defiant rebellion against her anti-immigration-activist father, ends up sleeping with Matis, becoming pregnant, and then being betrayed by both men with potentially catastrophic consequences. The events of her life aren’t as inherently dramatic as Matis’s, but Steiner does a fine job getting readers to understand Elise and care about her enough to be engaged and entertained.
The time Steiner spends breathing life into the highly personal elements of story and backstory adds much texture and thematic richness to the novel, but not without pulling readers’ attentions a long way from the mystery/police procedural elements—and perhaps slowing the pacing of that particular thread of the story. Some readers may love the approach and some may not, but what she’s done here affirms a very basic truth about fiction writing: the more ink you give to characters—specifically characters’ emotional experiences when those experiences not vital to advancing the story—the more character driven the book is likely to end up.
That might sound ridiculously obvious, but it’s worth thinking about if you’re an author aspiring to write character-driven fiction. How much of your working draft is focused on events that tie directly to the plot and are necessary to advance it? How much is focused on character backstories, personalities, motivations, and behaviors—things that might not be vital to the plot proper but enrich the novel nonetheless? The proportion may surprise you—or light the path to an easy way to move things in the right direction.
Subplots and Thwarted Desires
The drama of these deep dives into your characters’ lives determines in part how effective they are. Spending time with a character’s secondary challenges and sharing interesting anecdotes is one thing. Creating fully realized subplots—smaller stories with their own dramatic arcs, thwarted desires, and twists and turns—is another. Steiner’s skill with subplots shines in Remain Silent because she gets us to care about the characters at the heart of them and integrates their personal stories into the plot proper.
Matis and Lukas want better lives, but they can’t have them because they fall prey to exploitation and greed. So they take surprising, proactive steps to overcome the challenge.
Elise wants Matis and to make a new better life with him and their child, but she can’t have either because of her father’s politics and because Matis is pulled away from her by circumstance. She’s not in a position to be as proactive as Matis and Lukas are, but she nonetheless takes bold action to get what she wants.
Matis’s subplot unfolds in flashback form and climaxes with Lukas’s death, which becomes the heart of Manon’s investigation. Elise’s subplot leaves her locked in an attic awaiting an almost certain death unless Manon learns the truth of a savage betrayal of Elise and can intervene in time. So both subplots help cultivate suspense and put something valuable on the line for readers. And both factor into Manon and Davy’s quest for truth.
And then we have Manon, who is losing confidence in herself in just about every way imaginable. Fans of the series who share my affection for her are likely to find this subplot engaging and poignant. Her candor and directness on the experience of feeling creaky, slow, fat, unappealing, out of love, and professionally incompetent infuse the story with emotion and humanity. Aspects of this are quite dreary, as you might expect, but nonetheless a refreshing departure from mysteries in which lead characters are always attractive, clever, and brimming with confidence. Steiner wisely avoids having Manon think of herself as a victim. Instead, Manon struggles with acceptance of the rather bleak notion that this is what life is. We get older, weaker, and tired of our significant others. Yet Manon volunteers intervention when the husband of a dear friend strays from his monogamous marriage for someone younger and prettier. The results aren’t perfect but are not without a positive impact.
Like Steiner’s approach to proportion, backstory focus, and subplot, Manon’s reflection on the human condition makes the novel more character driven. And one very easy way to realize that goal in your own work is to go places that aren’t necessary to the plot but fit well with it, as Steiner does with Manon.
I suspect some readers, Steiner’s fans included, may not respond 100% positively to the experience of Manon’s midlife crisis or its impact on the story. Some of it is bleak, depressing, and hard to get through. But I have no doubt that this is deliberate and consistent with the author’s vision. And I think it does make the book richer and more nuanced. And it’s not without some form of redemption as Manon makes peace with various realities and comes to see the best in her disappointments.
I’ve always admired Steiner’s willingness to go to unexpected places in exploring what a mystery can be, and I found a lot to admire in what I can glean of her intentions in this story. I strongly suspect that she did set out to write a character-driven mystery, and if that’s the case, I’d say she succeeded brilliantly.
Tips and takeaways:
- Consider the question of proportion: what percentage of your novel advances plot versus advances characterization. This can be as simple as reading your manuscript scene by scene and assessing the primary impact of each with this question in mind. If you don’t come up with at least a handful of scenes that focus primarily on characterization, that’s a sign you may have more work to do if you want your novel to be more character driven.
That said, keep in mind the importance of pacing and the logic of not focusing on characterization exclusively for too long or letting plot momentum peter out. It’s all a question of balance.
- Consider how many characters whose inner workings, life challenges, motivations, backstories, etc. you explore above and beyond the strict demands of the plot. Odds are your protagonist and perhaps your antagonist get lots of attention along these lines, but what about your victim (if you’re writing a murder mystery) or others affected by the events of the story?
- Viewpoint and narrative positioning are another question in the effort to create character-driven stories. How many viewpoints are you using to tell the story? Restricting yourself to a single viewpoint—presumably your protagonist’s—may make it harder to flesh out other characters. (Though it’s by no means impossible to do so.) Ask yourself which characters’ viewpoints may be worthy of attention to better bring to life and how telling at least part of the story through their eyes might richen the mixture.
This simple decision to give a secondary character their own viewpoint can be highly impactful to making a book more character driven, mainly because it makes it so much easier to dramatize the internal emotional experience of that character. And don’t hesitate to mix up third and first person if you’re writing from multiple viewpoints. This technique (which Susie Steiner uses very well in Missing, Presumed) is becoming increasingly common in contemporary fiction, and for good reason.
- Remember that first-person narration creates more immediacy and often makes characterization easier to write thanks to the direct access it provides to your POV character’s thoughts, feelings, emotions, and observations. And there’s no law against having several first-person viewpoints in the same book, which is also more common nowadays than it used to be.
- Remember that while exploring your character’s backstory (events and influences that happened before the time setting of the novel) can be very useful in enhancing characterization, too much focus on backstory can be a doorstop if it comes too early in the story or is given too much attention relative to the plot proper. And it is important that the backstory itself be at least dramatic and interesting, if not riveting on some level. (Steiner knocks this out of the park with Matis and Lukas.) Avoid the uninteresting and mundane at all costs! And remember that giving readers just a little at a time, as Steiner does in Remain Silent, is usually better than dumping a ton of backstory all at once.
- Finally, be as thoughtful and deliberate as you can in setting your intentions for characterization in your novel. Think carefully about what kind of experience you’re trying to create for readers and what your goals are.
I can’t say for sure without asking Susie Steiner directly, which, unfortunately, I cannot do since she passed in 2022, but I strongly suspect that in addition to telling a fine crime story in Remain Silent, she also wanted to deliver something richer and more thought-provoking than a garden-variety whodunnit. I also sense a desire to help readers understand and deeply empathize with characters whose plights shed light on injustices that we might not otherwise think much about but that deserve consideration.
All I can say is that she succeeded masterfully!
Thanks for reading, and if I or any of our editors can be of assistance in making characterization more of an asset in a novel you’re working on, please call me at 520.546.992, email me at rsb@editorialdepartment.com, or visit our welcome center to tell us a little more about your novel, and let’s see what we can do.
