I took a few days off last week to spend some time in the mountains with a couple of friends from my “pod.” We went to a big park near here, backpacked the six miles to the private cabin we’d reserved, and settled in for a few nights to enjoy some hiking and birdwatching.
A couple who was staying at another cabin a few miles up the trail radioed us the first evening to ask if they could stop by during their out-and-back hike to a nearby lake the next day. We said no problem, we’ve be out birdwatching, and they could use our stove to cook their food if they liked. Keys wouldn’t be an issue: it was an old-school cabin that opened with an internal lever, so all you had to do was pull a string that ran through a tiny hole in the door. We let the couple know they should just make sure to clean up and air out before they left.
When we came back, the couple was just on their way out. And as they left, they mentioned something in a very offhand manner.
“The string broke and the door was stuck closed,” one member of the couple––let’s call him Rogelio––said. “So I kicked it open. The frame broke. Sorry about that.”
My friends and I were so surprised that none of us properly reacted to this revelation. We all mumbled something along the lines of, “Okay, thanks for letting us know, see you around.” And went inside to find shards of the wooden door frame he’d shattered, all stacked politely on the table.
We spent the next two days pondering what would compel someone to kick open the door of a cabin, an action that would almost certainly break some or even several elements of the door and the door frame in the process. While sitting by the lake, while meandering through the forest, while photographing marshes at the golden hour, we obsessively analyzed all potential justifications.
Maybe they were hungry, and desperate to cook their lunch? But we’d scoured the evidence, and knew they’d eaten a pre-cooked meat-and-bean dish out of a small carton and a bar of chocolate. Nothing that necessitated stove access to be edible.
Maybe they needed the bathroom? But it was a ways down the trail, in an outhouse, something they knew as well as we did; it was the same with all the cabins.
Maybe they had to take shelter? But it had been sunny and clear all day. And at any rate, they were just an hour’s hike from their own cabin, and were heading back there as soon as they left.
Also. Even if they absolutely did need access to our cabin, there was a ladder to a giant window that slid open easily just around back. About ten paces away from where Rogelio slammed our door open with his hiking boot.
Rogelio, why?!!!! The people need to know.
The reason I’m writing about this today isn’t to psychoanalyze Rogelio (though boy, did we). It’s to discuss why we spent the next two days talking about him. As humans, we have a deep-seated need to understand the reasons people do the things we do. So whether you’re telling a story about a person or a brand or a sentient can of beans, everyone needs to have reasons for acting.
Rogelio kicking open a door is an intriguing anecdote, but it’s not a good start to a story. It’s the kind of thing that would cause a reader to say––wait, that doesn’t make sense. And unless you’re a very charitable reader willing to fill in these logical gaps, this feeling of frustration, of missing pieces, is going to make you lose interest in whatever comes next.
Stories are not believable or interesting unless we know what’s motivating the main character. There’s nothing innately interesting about gathering infinity stones or launching an updated model of a cell phone. But if you’re gathering infinity stones to save half the beings in the known universe from imminent destruction? Or if you’re updating the cell phone so I can take better low-light pictures and not run out of battery by 3pm? Okay. Now I’m intrigued.
This is one reason so much editorial feedback early in the story development process has to do with motivation. Many issues with dysfunctional plots, out-of-character protagonists, or narratives that just don’t make you feel anything come down to one issue: BUT WHY?!!
Motivation answers this question. It makes things make sense. It brings both order and emotion to your narrative world. And it scratches our itch to just...get things.
So out there in the woods, bereft of any answers, what did we do? We sat in our broken-door cabin. And told ourselves some stories.
Happy storytelling! And please, if you kick open any doors? Just make sure you have a good reason first.
Erin
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Erin Becker (she/her)
Writer | Communications Consultant | Storytelling Expert
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