The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers by John Gardner

turn out because the character cares—our interest comes from empathy—and though we may know more than the character knows, anticipating dangers the character cannot see, we understand and to some degree sympathize with the character’s desire, approving what the character approves (what the character values), even if we sense that the character’s ideal is impractical or insufficient. Thus though we can see at a glance that Captain Ahab is a madman, we affirm his furious hunger to know the truth, so much so that we find ourselves caught up, like the crew of the
Pequod
, in his lunatic quest. And thus though we know in our bones that the theory of Raskolnikov is wrong, we share his sense of outrage at the injustice of things and become accessories in his murder of the cynical and cruel old pawnbrokeress. If we’re bored by the debauched focal characters of the Marquis de Sade, on the other hand, the reason is that we find their values and goals repugnant, their world view too stupid (threatening?) to hold our interest.
    Helen, then, must bring her trouble on herself, through the active pursuit of some goal we believe not wrong-headed. The nobler the goal, the more interesting the story. We need not elaborate in detail here the possibilities—her wish, as a child of Zeus, for more intelligent and sophisticated company, her horrorat the ethnocentricity of the Greeks, her desire for greater dignity and independence, and so on. Whatever the writer’s choice for the motivation of Helen, he must think out the implications of her motive, its relationship with the differing community values of the Trojans and the Achaians, and its origins. We may fully realize the implications of her motive only at the moment of recognition, the climax—how (for example) her desire for independence is caught in the crossfire of conflicting community values—but long before that moment we must be shown clearly, not just told, what her driving motive is. To be shown, we must be shown by action; the proof must appear in plot. We must be shown the relationship between Helen’s ideal and the functional beliefs of Trojans, on one side, Achaians, on the other, and this too must appear in plot. Some action of Helen’s might elicit one reaction from Menelaos, another from Paris, early in the story, and something in the nature of Helen’s character, or something in the nature of that early event, should give us clues as to why Helen underestimates Menelaos and the Achaians and perhaps overestimates her potential security with Paris and the Trojans. Finally, if Helen’s motive is to be perfectly convincing, we must be shown its origins; and that too means plot. She might remember from her early childhood, for example, some event involving a beloved nurse, once a queen, now a slave—an event that helped to shape Helen’s defiant and independent character. All these events, the authenticating proofs for every significant element of the story, the writer must weave into a smoothly flowing, inevitable-seeming plot.
    Having done all this, the writer is not quite at the end of his troubles. Every proof the writer thinks up in support of the story’s larger elements will have its own implications and exert its own subtle pressure on the story. The old slave he invented in support of Helen’s character, if she’s to do the work required of her (motivate Helen), must be a vivid and interesting character; otherwise we cannot understand why her influence should be so powerful. But once a vivid and interesting character hasbeen introduced, he or she cannot simply be dropped, forgotten henceforward. Once the character is gone—hanged, let us say—we miss the character; or, to put it another way, we expect the character’s return, at least in Helen’s memory. It will not be sufficient, the writer will find, simply to mention the old slave’s name from time to time. Though her work for the story is done, she must come back, at least briefly, and the