INTERIORITY

“What are they thinking/feeling?”
“Consider letting them react, internally or otherwise—this is a big moment.”
“Let us into their mind a little. Do they think that plan is a good one?”

These are some of the most common notes I leave on the manuscripts I edit. In those scenes, it’s a given that I’ll find dialogue and description, sometimes beautifully written, but they’re missing a key element. That key element raises tension, deepens the reader’s connection with the protagonist, and shares more context about the world around said protagonist.

It’s interiority. You knew that already from the title, but just to reiterate, yeah! Today, we’re talking about interiority!

Not Interiority, like the site you’re on and the newsletter I send because oooh, I love a metaphor, but rather the concept of interiority in writing as a facet of dialogue. Because to this editor, interiority is dialogue, and it can make or break a novel.

WHAT IT IS

Fortunately, interiority is exactly what it sounds like.

Interiority, |inˌtirēˈôridē|, noun: a character’s interior, or inner life, revealed to the reader on the page as the character’s thoughts, feelings, reactions, or internal monologue. It’s how the point-of-view (or POV) character responds to the world around them so the reader understands how that character feels, whether they’re buying postage stamps or facing off against the big bad.

Here’s some interiority on the page:

Fury made Alanna gasp for breath. How could anyone get well in a menagerie? How could Jonathan breathe? This went against all the comonsense rules Maude had taught her for healing: clean air, quiet, absolute cleanliness, calm and reassuring voices. Didn’t these city people know anything?
—Alanna: The First Adventure, Tamora Pierce

Focusing on the words made [Cyril’s] eyes ache, but he was a professional, for queen’s sake, and a hangover was not going to dull his edge.
—Amberlough, Lara Elena Donnelly

I had stood in the presence of great gods before […] Yet [Athena’s] gaze pierced me as theirs did not. Odysseus had said once she was like a blade honed to a hair’s fineness, so delicate you would not even know you had been cut, while beat by beat your blood was emptying on the floor.
—Circe, Madeline Miller

Each of these examples aren’t just telling us what’s going on in the scene—they’re also letting us into the protagonist’s particular perspective. Interiority invites us to share in what the protagonist is thinking, feeling, and how they react to the scene around them, all because of who they are. That is, all because of their unique perspective:

• Alanna first learned to use her magical Gift from the rural healer who raised her, so she balks at the spectacle of the prince’s ineffectual palace treatment. (And yes, okay, fine, the book is 40 years old now, it’s so not the most recent example, but Tamora Pierce is my favorite, so I’m making you read her, too.). Alanna’s upbringing informs her perspective and gives the reader context for what’s happening.
• In Amberlough, Cyril is fighting a raging hangover in the apartment of his lover while he tries to read an important briefing. He could just be sitting there aching and struggling, but instead, we get to see him chastise himself, insisting he should have the skill and fortitude to rise above the pain of too much absinthe (something no one can do unless they’ve got superhuman metabolism). In one line, the reader understands the expectations of Cyril’s job and that he’s self-deprecating even when he doesn’t deserve it. His attitude informs his perspective, and we learn more about him. We get context. (More on context in a bit.)
• When the character Circe first meets Athena, the goddess of wisdom and war is eerie in her words and appearance alone. But add Circe’s experience of other gods, plus what she learned from Odysseus—Circe’s perspective, informing the moment—and Athena becomes downright terrifying. Because we see that Circe is afraid, we know to be afraid, too.

I use that Circe snippet in some of the classes I teach because it’s perfect for demonstrating precisely what interiority means. Take a look at the same scene without any interiority:

“What I desire will come to pass. There is no mitigation.” [Athena] extended one immaculate hand. “Give me the child.”

“No.”

“You would stand against me?”

“I would.”

Per my usual refrain, there’s nothing technically wrong with that passage. The dialogue alone does convey some tension, and the description in the prose hints at Athena’s otherworldliness. But add its original interiority, and look how it changes:

“What I desire will come to pass. There is no mitigation.” That voice again, like shearing metal. I had stood in the presence of great gods before […] Yet [Athena’s] gaze pierced me as theirs did not. Odysseus had said once she was like a blade honed to a hair’s fineness, so delicate you would not even know you had been cut, while beat by beat your blood was emptying on the floor.

She extended one immaculate hand. “Give me the child.”

All the warmth in the room had fled. Even the fire popping beside me seemed only a painting on the wall. “No.”

Her eyes were plaited silver and stone gray. “You would stand against me?”

“I would.” The air had thickened. I felt as though I gasped for breath.

Let’s, as the kids say, fricking GO. Now the tension is ready to snap off the page, all because the reader is fully immersed in Circe’s perspective and understands how she’s thinking and feeling. We can see clearly and vividly that Athena wields otherworldly power and control, and she expects to be obeyed. Circe noticing the lack of warmth, the thickened air, her own shortened breath—those are all hallmarks of utter terror that the dialogue alone just couldn’t convey. Look at the word choices, too: shearing metal, blade, silver and stone gray. All of it calls to mind swords, armor, shields, desolate battlefields. It paints a vivid picture of a powerful warrior.

All that to say, interiority doesn’t just tell us what happens. It tells us what happens through the eyes of a particular person, with all their lived experience.

If this sounds familiar, it’s because last time, I talked about how spoken dialogue should accomplish the same thing. It gives us context for who the protagonist is because it lets us into their mind. To me, interiority is just as important as spoken dialogue when it comes to telling the reader who the protagonist is.

WHY I CONSIDER IT DIALOGUE

But Katherine, I hear you saying (again), interiority is thoughts. Inside thoughts. Not speech. What’s it doing here in the Year of Dialogue?

Good question! It’s here in the Year of Dialogue because it is dialogue—it’s just that the conversation is between the protagonist and you, the reader, instead of between the protagonist and other characters.

Interiority invites you to react, to form opinions about the protagonist and their world just like dialogue does. It invites you to respond. And we readers do respond, whether by continuing to read, tossing the book aside, or sometimes reacting out loud. Which of us hasn’t yelped at a protagonist doing something that makes us cringe or cheer or nooooo?

Interiority is a conversation. It sets up a connection. [Hannibal Chau voice] BOTH WAYS.

WHY IT’S IMPORTANT

As you’ve no doubt gathered from the above, interiority acts as exposition, giving the reader all the context they need to fully immerse themselves in a scene. As I mentioned, it’s similar to how dialogue should give a reader character context, because both dialogue and interiority are rooted in who characters are and how they exist in their worlds.

Ultimately, it tells the reader how the protagonist feels, which informs how the reader feels, creating connection with the characters and tension on the page. If you’ve ever heard readers say “I just couldn’t connect with the characters” or “I don’t get the protagonist,” lack of interiority is likely why.

Lemme show you.

“Bravo Two, come in.”

The silence stretched on. Kira kept moving, but there was no sign of Jace.

“Bravo Two! Answer!”

Nothing technically wrong here.™️ Interiority doesn’t need to be in every single line. It’s often effective to just share what precisely is happening. But the addition of interiority, especially during big moments (and it’s up to you what entails a big moment in your story), can heighten our emotions, raise tension, and put us directly in the protagonist’s mind. This one feels like a big moment. Let’s add some interiority.

“Bravo Two, come in.”

The silence stretched on. Kira kept moving, heart racing, eyes on the shadows, but there was no sign of Jace. Where the hell was he? He was even quicker on the mics than Erik, certified channel-hogger. If she lost Jace too, if she had to return to the coroner’s office one more time this miserable month, she’d well and truly break something.

“Jace! Answer me!”

Yeah, the second example is longer—but it’s also more effective at sharing what’s going on in the protagonist’s mind. We get information about Kira, her relationship with the team, even about what’s been happening to her lately and how it’s affecting her. And changing the final line so that she ditches the callsign and uses the guy’s name instead? It’s a clear way of showing she’s upset enough that their formal systems of communications are breaking down.

WHEN TO USE INTERIORITY

Interiority often tells us things characters can’t say aloud, whether it’s impractical for them to speak, redundant because people in the scene already know the information, or because they’ll just look wacky if they narrate their thoughts word for word. In the end, there’s no prescription; where you choose to use interiority is up to you. But it can be a handy exercise to scan scenes like these and add some interiority if none exists:

• New-to-the-reader characters are introduced on the page. What does the POV character think about them, first impressions or otherwise?
• Terrible, exciting, or otherwise remarkable things happen to the protagonist or others. How do they feel about it?
• Important new information appears or changes. How does the POV character react, and can they connect it to what they’ve seen so far?
• Moments before characters take action, big or small. How does the POV character hope things will go? What do they want out of those actions? Use interiority to remind readers of the stakes.
• When the POV character’s thoughts differ from what they say aloud, share that with the reader so they’re in on the secret.

WHEN NOT TO USE INTERIORITY

There doesn’t need to be interiority in every line, and in fact, too much can harm a narrative. As with all things, it’s about balance. Look for scenes like these and condense or trim the interiority:

• Character-to-character dialogue that has paragraphs of interiority and description between each line of dialogue, thus slowing down the conversation and the narrative.
• Rapid-fire action scenes. Rely on quick moments of interiority (Oh shit or No no no or Got him! or So much for negotiations) rather than long sentences and paragraphs (He missed! Apparently his fancy fencing academy didn’t teach him the basics, like striking your opponent while they’re in your sights!).

GOOD INTERIORITY VS JUST OKAY INTERIORITY

To really drive home the point, and because I love some examples, let’s explore some moments of interiority that work, but could be better, and why.

JUST OKAY #1

He’s my roommate.

Simple, nothing technically wrong—but lacking much character context, and therefore doesn’t give the reader much useful information apart from a social link. It’s ineffective because it’s vague, and it’s vague because we don’t know how the protagonist actually feels about the roommate (and therefore how we the reader should feel). Like any dialogue, specificity is the key to better interiority.

BETTER #1

He’s the one who leaves his gross socks all over our living room.

Better! Now we’ve got a specific behavior that still manages to demonstrate that the protag and this guy are roommates, all while showing the protagonist’s disgust. Because the protagonist is disgusted, so are we, the reader. Who wants used socks all over their shared living space?

JUST OKAY #2

Oh, skewer me sideways, the stained glass was magnificent.

Like before, there’s nothing technically wrong here, and the exclamation gives us a sense of the protagonist’s wonder. But if this line is all the reader gets about the stained glass, how are we supposed to tell what exactly strikes the protag as wondrous? Better to use interiority to paint a picture that demonstrates why they feel wonder in the first place.

BETTER #2

Each pane of the magnificent stained glass wall was as small as my thumbnail, lighting up the room in mosaic daubs of blue and red and green. Exactly the kind of craftsmanship I’d come to River’s Edge to experience.

Ahh, much better. Now we know precisely what causes the protagonist to wonder, and because it does indeed sound wonderful, we the reader can wonder at it, too. With the added line, we also understand that the protagonist has been searching for this exact thing, and since they’ve found it, the story can continue.

(Note also that here, the Just Okay and Better examples CAN go together, with “Oh, the stained glass was magnificent” acting as a kind of thesis, and the rest defending that thesis. But to me, the second example is better on its own because it doesn’t tell us that the protag is awed. It shows us—demonstrates to us—that they’re awed solely by what they focus on.)

CONTINUE TO AVOID GETTING LOST IN THE WEEDS

Like personalizing dialogue, interiority can feel intimidating to tackle in the early drafts—so you don’t have to. This editor gives you permission to wait! Get words on the page, finish a draft or two, then come back and explore your options. Some writers do an editing pass solely focused on interiority and/or dialogue. If that’s helpful to you, go for it.

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All the clever dialogue and vivid description in the world can’t replace the work of interiority: creating an emotional connection with the reader. More than anything else, that connection is what keeps pages turning and our minds on the characters long after The End. It’s what makes good books great. It’s what turns nifty characters into our ride-or-dies.

Try it—or ask questions in the comments below if you’ve got ’em.

Next time, we’re gonna delve into body language and how it supports (and is) dialogue. Til then!

—Katherine