There's something that
 we live by when we read a novel or watch a movie, but tend to 
completely forget when we write one: readers (and viewers) assume that 
everything the writer tells them is there on a strictly need-to-know 
basis. Our assumption is that if we don't need to know it, the writer 
won't waste precious time telling us about it. We trust that each piece 
of information, each event, each observation, matters-right down to how 
the protagonist's hometown is described, the amount of hair gel he uses,
 and how scuffed his shoes are-and that it will have a story 
consequence, give us insight we need in order to grasp what's happening,
 or both. If it turns out that it doesn't matter, we do one of two 
things: (1) we lose interest, or (2) we try to invent a consequence or 
meaning. This only postpones our loss of interest, which is then mingled
 with annoyance, because we've invested energy trying to figure out what
 the writer was getting at, when the truth is, she wasn't getting at 
anything. So as a writer how do you avoid falling into this particular trap? By using something I like to call the "And so?"
 Test. It works like this: ask of each insight, each piece of 
information, each scene, "And so?" Meaning, what is the point? Why does 
the reader need to know this? If the answer is she doesn't, give 
it the boot. You'll both tighten your story logic, and banish those 
pesky darlings that otherwise send your reader off into a decidedly 
different story than the one you're actually telling - that, or to the 
refrigerator for a snack.
                         ***************************** 
Lisa Cron is the author of the forthcoming Wired for Story: The Writer's Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers from the Very First Sentence. She's
 a story consultant, an instructor in the UCLA Extension Writers' 
Program, and there's nothing she loves more than talking story. She can 
be found at wiredforstory.com.
One
 of the pleasures of great fiction comes when a character you love takes
 an action that you didn't foresee and yet is so right for the character
 that it feels inevitable. You find yourself saying, "Of course! That's 
so like her!" The flip side of the experience is the character whose 
action so surprises you that you scratch your head and flip to the cover
 just to make sure you're still reading the same book. That's emotional 
resonance at work (or not at work in the second example.) Character 
interviews and charts listing personal appearance and habits are an 
excellent beginning, but how do you move into the realm of what makes a 
character internally consistent and emotionally true? To get at the 
deeper character, a writer has to ask herself deeper questions. Here are
 two to get you started.