Life doesn’t make sense. But it’s helpful to pretend it does.

I read at some point that your statistical odds of getting caught driving drunk are so low, given how many people do it, that you could drive across the country and back completely sloshed, and you most likely would not get pulled over. 

So it’s probably fine to drive home after a few drinks every now and then, right? Your house is certainly much closer than the Grand Canyon. But imagine what happens to a character in a story who regularly drives home intoxicated. They almost certainly get arrested, or if the writer is feeling particularly dark and gloomy, they kill their partner or kid.

In Elements of Fiction Writing: Scene and Structure, Bickman explains the importance of cause and effect in storytelling: 

“…fiction must make more sense than real life if general readers are to find it credible. So, for example, in real life someone may fall ill for no apparent reason and with no evident cause. In fiction, the character would have to be seen depressed about recent developments and tired from overwork.”

Everything that happens in a story must have a cause. And every cause worth including in the story must have an effect. Another version of this rule is “Chekhov’s Gun”: 

"One must never place a loaded rifle on the stage if it isn't going to go off. It's wrong to make promises you don't mean to keep." 

Real life doesn’t follow this rule. That’s why we like stories; they make more sense than real life. But if you’re looking for ways to improve your life or steer your long-term outcomes in a better direction, assuming Chekhov’s Gun does apply to your life might be helpful. 

What happens to a character who keeps saying that once they get a little more money, they’ll be able to slow down and enjoy it?

Or the character who says every year, “I’m going to lose 10 pounds,” but never changes their lifestyle? 

Or the character who keeps pushing people away, refusing to commit to anyone because they’re waiting for their “perfect” match? 

And to put some positive spin on the exercise:

What happens to the character who wakes up and works on their novel for an hour every morning? 

What happens to the lonely character who tries to meet one new person every day? 

What happens to the character who looks in the mirror and says, “enough is enough,” puts on their running shoes, and jogs their first mile in years? 

The answers are obvious, yet we often fail to see these blind spots in our lives. So I like the “what happens to your character” exercise because it helps get through two mental hurdles:

First, we often think we can cheat the system. And that assumption can lead to life’s hardest lessons.

You might drive drunk every single day for your entire life and never get into an accident. You might never take care of your body and still live to 90. You might jump to something new every two years and get lucky at some point and strike it rich. But should you rely on getting lucky?

We love hearing about people who beat the game because it provides some hope that maybe we don’t have to do the things we don’t want to do. If there are people who live to 100 who smoke, maybe it’s fine if we keep smoking. Maybe the rules don’t apply to us. But when you imagine what happens to a character who behaves that way in a story, you can see the train coming a little clearer. 

We can see they’re trying to cheat the system. To have their cake and eat it too. Or that they’re lying to themselves. Seeing those behaviors in ourselves is more challenging. 

The second hurdle it helps with is recognizing the best parts of life are often hidden behind great efforts. 

Starting a workout routine is hard. Changing careers is hard. Giving up on speed is hard. We often know exactly what we need to do to get the results we want. The problem is taking those first hard steps in that direction. So we look for shortcuts, for cheat codes, for permission to take the easy route. We lean towards stories about people winning the lottery instead of people working really, really fucking hard every single day for thirty years.

So look at your life and ask yourself: what happens to my character? 

Are they moving towards what they want? 

Or is the audience screaming at them in frustration for repeating the same failed patterns over and over again? 

Are they making decisions that should compound towards some happily ever after? 

Or are they teetering on the precipice of punishment?

Life doesn’t make sense. But it’s helpful to pretend it does.