Recently, a student of mine received advice from several literary agents urging them to infuse more 'interiority' into their writing.

I must confess that I was unfamiliar with the term myself. As a traditionally published author with works released by Penguin and Macmillan, I had never encountered 'interiority' in my discussions about writing.

Intrigued, I dove into research, which led me to insights that have revitalized my approach to writing in a remarkable way.

After twenty-five years in this field, it's quite rare to experience such a profound revelation.

What exactly is interiority?

The dictionary defines 'interiority' as the 'inner character or nature' of an individual.

For writers of fiction or memoirs, interiority encompasses the thoughts and emotions of your viewpoint character—essentially what is happening inside their mind. This internal narrative is often invisible to an outside observer.

Interiority is the layer of understanding that someone not in the character's shoes would have to deduce or infer without direct communication.

Have you ever experienced any of the following?

• Smiling politely at someone while harboring negative feelings toward them?
• Agreeing to do something you weren’t keen on?
• Experiencing any kind of emotion at all?
• Processing someone’s words or actions through internal dialogue?
• Pretending to recognize someone you actually don’t remember?
• Telling a harmless fib?

All these instances reflect interiority. If you wish to create a well-rounded character, you must weave ample interiority into your narrative.

Here’s how I recognize interiority in my own writing.

I employ a technique that I believe will be beneficial for your manuscripts as well.

I envision my narrative as a movie.

That’s the secret sauce: Interiority consists of all the storytelling elements that a movie viewer cannot see.

In film and television production, it's the actors' responsibility to convey emotions, intentions, and thoughts through their expressions, gestures, and vocal tone.

Writers, on the other hand, convey these elements through words.

As I edit other writers' pieces, I often notice mundane action beats, such as:

• He crossed his arms.
• She smiled and nodded.
• He gazed at her.
• She sat across from him.

These beats lack interiority. They serve to control pacing and indicate physical actions but offer little else.

For instance, "He crossed his arms" could imply anything from frustration to coldness to a medical emergency. The ambiguity is endless.

Similarly, smiles and nods have become clichéd and often stripped of meaning. We can smile or nod for a myriad of reasons—happiness, sadness, indifference, and so forth.

Why did he look at her? What emotions were stirred when he did? Is he infatuated with her? Does he harbor resentment? Is he memorizing her dimples or reminiscing about her resemblance to her mother?

What thoughts occupy her mind as she sits across from him? Is she poised and proper or slumped? Why is she rigid or relaxed?

One crucial question to frequently ask yourself is: How does your character feel?

You aim for your readers not only to understand your character’s emotions but to experience them alongside them. Interiority transcends the character merely thinking something before vocalizing it or recapping their internal dialogue.

Your character should sometimes have conflicting feelings and thoughts that don’t align with their spoken words—this is the essence of humanity.

For example:

“What's for dinner?” John inquired.

Dinner. “I don’t know.”

“Well, we have to eat something.”

Okay. How about spaghetti? “Spaghetti?”

In this instance, the highlighted words reveal interiority.

The dialogue revolves around deciding on dinner, with John asking Mary, the viewpoint character, for her preference. However, her internal state remains ambiguous. Are they hungry? Annoyed? Eager to share a meal? The lack of insight into Mary's feelings leaves her character somewhat vague and confusing.

Now, let's enhance the interiority:

“What's for dinner?” John asked.

“I don’t know.” What did you make? She hadn’t fully entered the house from work yet. Her shoulders were sore, her head throbbed, and she still wore uncomfortable heels on her swollen feet.

“Well.” No wonder he didn’t bother to look up from his game. He rarely focused on her. “We have to eat something.”

You could offer to cook, you know. It wouldn’t kill you. “Spaghetti?”

Now, we clearly see Mary’s frustration. The shift from nine words to a substantial portion of interiority reveals her emotions.

We not only understand her feelings but also gain insight into John’s character through her perspective. He appears self-centered, neglecting the attention she desires. He seems oblivious, as he’s unaware of her mood.

This revision conveys her frustration without stating, "Mary was angry." The reader can sense it too.

Let’s try once more:

“What’s for dinner?” John asked.

A thrill coursed through Mary. Perhaps Tuesday night dinners with her husband would eventually lose their charm, but not yet. “I don’t know.”

“Well.” He kissed her as if it had been a month since their last encounter instead of just since breakfast. “We have to eat something.”

Yes. Yes, they did. Eventually. “Spaghetti?”

Here, we’ve transformed the scene into a romantic moment. The same scenario now feels sweet and almost intimate, portraying Mary as a lovestruck newlywed.

This revision implies love without explicitly stating that "Mary was in love." There’s clarity in her feelings.

Shall we attempt yet another version?

“What’s for dinner?” John asked.

She blinked slowly, then looked up at him. “I don’t know.”

He reached for her face but withdrew when she flinched. “Well, we have to eat something.”

Did they? Sitting at the kitchen table, the empty seat across from her always dulled her appetite. But John grew concerned when she didn’t eat, and dealing with his worry was worse, so she forced a smile. “Spaghetti?”

Now we convey a scene heavy with grief. The context of the vacant chair remains unspecified—perhaps it signifies a lost child or a parent no longer present, either through death or departure.

Yet, the poignant weight of sorrow is evident through the interiority. This version expresses 'everything hurts' without stating, "Mary is grieving." The reader can feel her loss.

The revisions focused on amplifying Mary’s inner thoughts and her responses to John’s actions (ignoring her, kissing her, or reaching out).

Countless variations could shape this brief interaction, each altering the mood entirely through Mary’s interiority. Grief, anxiety, joy—each emotion could be explored.

Interiority surpasses mere repetition of actions.

In the initial example, there is some interiority, yet it consists solely of Mary echoing John's words internally. Such repetitive interiority lacks depth.

Remember, interiority isn't merely about internal dialogue. It’s not even primarily that.

Sure, Mary may have John's words echoing in her mind as she prepares her response. But what truly matters is how she feels. If we can express that vividly without resorting to telling (Mary was angry. Mary was in love. Mary was sad), the reader will connect with those emotions.

And that is our ultimate goal.

Here’s an exercise for you.

Select a scene from your draft and highlight any elements that wouldn't be visible to an observer. This represents the interiority.

It’s impossible for me to specify an exact amount of interiority needed. There’s no universal ratio; some sections will require more than others. By highlighting what you already possess, you can assess whether large sections lack enough interiority.

For instance, on the first page of my novel Center of Gravity, I highlighted the interiority.

Only two lines lack interiority. The rest, if portrayed as a film, would remain unseen.

The second page introduces dialogue and more action beats.

Here, the balance of interior and exterior shifts due to the dialogue, which is always external.

Two passages of exposition occur: one where she observes her friend, describing her hair and earrings, and another reflecting on Megan’s brother and his living situation.

While Megan would be visible on screen, the main character’s thoughts about her feelings of inadequacy would not.

Exposition can happen within a character's mind but may not qualify as interiority.

This is exposition:

> Denny is her older brother. For the past six months, he’s lived in an apartment with three friends. He’s studying at CU Denver to become an engineer. Until recently, Denny’s visits meant that Megan and I would beg him to play foosball with us.

In a movie, this could be established differently—perhaps via dialogue.

This, however, is interiority:

> Not anymore. Apparently.

The interiority provides context for the exposition. In film, the character’s disappointment would rely on dialogue and the actor's expressions.

In literature, we gain insight into her thoughts and feelings, allowing us to inhabit her perspective.

Here are some aspects to scrutinize:

• How much highlighted interiority simply repeats what was just said?
• How much foreshadows what the character might say next?
• How much directly tells the reader how the character feels (e.g., Mary was angry)?
• Are there sections devoid of interiority?
• Are there portions where excessive interiority disrupts the flow of dialogue?
• Are sensory words, such as heard, saw, or felt, present? Words describing feelings (happy, sad, angry, excited) can indicate sneaky telling instead of showing.

Examine the action beats and question their significance. The "why" is more crucial than the "what."

Your objective is to cultivate an interiority in your writing that not only conveys what’s inside your character but also immerses your reader in their experience.

I would prefer to understand that seeing a dimple reminiscent of someone who once shattered his heart is physically painful, rather than just knowing he is looking at her. As a reader, I can relate to that experience. The writer’s role is to lead me there.

In my view, this often forms part of the editing process. As you draft, prioritize getting the story on paper. During revisions, frequently ask yourself: What does it feel like to be this character in this moment?

What thoughts or feelings occupy their mind? How do they process external events? How do their actions and words diverge from their internal experiences?

Shaunta Grimes is a writer and educator based in Northwestern PA, where she lives with her husband, three exceptional children, Louie Baloo the dog, and Ollie Wilbur the cat. Follow her on Instagram @ninjawritershop and check out her books, including Viral Nation, Rebel Nation, The Astonishing Maybe, and Center of Gravity. She is the original Ninja Writer.

Subscribe to her Substack newsletter, Then See What Happens, or follow her on TikTok.