It is much easier to write a character if you know what they want in the moment. Not the character’s general philosophy about life, not a complete catalogue of their personality traits, not the full backstory that explains why they are who they are. Even in a first draft, a goal can be simple: get a library book back before the person who owns it knows it was missing; ask for an apology; conceal a shattered vase; complete a speech; cross a room without being spotted. The goal gives the scene a point.
The obstacle is what makes the goal hard. Someone else; a law; a feeling of fear; a time limit; a miscommunication; incomplete knowledge. If “Mina wants an apology,” the obstacle might be that the other person won’t hear what she says. If “Jon wants the truth,” the obstacle might be that truth would hurt someone he cares about. The obstacle doesn’t have to be monumental to be effective, but it should be powerful enough that the character cannot walk away.
A common mistake in early drafts is talking about the character rather than having the character do something. The narrator might inform us that the character is brave, sad, or self-centered, but nothing actually happens because no one is trying to do anything. The goal transforms a descriptive adjective into action. The self-centered character keeps speaking over others. The sad character keeps smiling, even when the other person leaves their chair at the dinner table. The brave character walks into the room, even though everyone is afraid. We come to know the character through decisions like these.
Here is a starting formula for scenes: Character desires [blank], but [blank] makes it difficult. Both slots should be as specific as possible. “A boy wants to get away, but people don’t believe in ghosts” is too broad for a single scene. “A boy wants his older sister to believe in ghosts, but she doesn’t believe in him” gives you scene, dialogue, an event, and a possible decision. Now you have movement. The sister might turn and leave the room, insist he isn’t listening properly, insist she isn’t listening, or decide he isn’t someone worth listening to.
A character goal is also useful in terms of the scene’s ending, if not the story as a whole. If you are writing about someone who has a goal at the start of the story, what should change? Does he succeed or fail? Does he change his goal? Does the character pay for their actions in a way they didn’t expect? These changes are the heart of a narrative structure. The character who wants to be the loudest in the room at the start of the story might finish it having realized they wanted to be the first one to be heard; the character who wants to avoid an encounter might change her mind when the conversation is exactly what she has been looking for all along.
Scene details can reinforce the tension. A timer on a phone; a locked door; a busy corridor; the battery at 1 percent; a hand shaking as it holds a cup can all make the tension feel present. Dialogue can also help, whether it cuts short a character’s desire, or ramps up the stakes. These don’t need to just be window dressing on a scene; rather, they should be working at the same time as character motivation: the pressure, the reaction, or the decision leading up to the decision at the climax.
Before revising a draft, add a note in the margin or at the top of the page about what each character is wanting, and what is stopping them. Then reread that scene. See what parts of that scene have nothing to do with the characters’ desires, their obstacles, their stakes, or their decisions. Some lines that are beautifully written might need to go, some backstory might need to be moved, but once you have a character with a specific want and a specific something pushing back, your story will be something that readers can latch on to.