The time for action is now

Why the queen's advice on life and leadership doesn't work for protagonists in fiction

As a lifelong and unapologetic aficionado of the British royals, I naturally fell in love with The Crown, the Netflix show with its exquisite storytelling, atmospheric settings, and high drama over high tea. On my first watch (of many!) of the series, I found myself inspired by the words of Queen Elizabeth (which, incidentally, have never been attributed to her in real life, but still get quoted frequently):

“To do nothing is often the best course of action, but I know from personal experience how frustrating it can be. History was not made by those who did nothing.”

The sentiment resonated with me because at the time I was working on trying to unlearn my “fixer” tendencies. Whenever a problem arose—at work, at home, with friends—I’d jump in to solve it. This exhausting habit strained my relationships and my mental health until I discovered the wisdom of strategic inaction. Learning when to step back, combined with studying the philosophy of stoicism, transformed me into a better manager, partner, and parent.

But when it came to fiction writing, the “do nothing, most of the time” approach backfired. In many short stories I’ve drafted over the years, my characters felt deeply, observed and reflected, and absorbed the things that happened to them. They were excellent at introspection—but they were passengers in their lives. From my own peaceful, passive back seat, I’ve often been too timid to push them out of their comfort zones into a place of action, where they have to take radical steps to change the course of their own history.

I imagine readers of these stories behaving like impatient children banging on the glass at the zoo exhibit, screaming, “DO SOMETHING!” And my characters stare back, the forlorn animal raised in captivity who doesn’t remember how to act purely on instinct.

By definition, a protagonist acts

In contemporary Western storytelling, a protagonist who mostly observes, endures, or reacts won’t carry a narrative, no matter how interesting or psychologically rich they are. Readers want to follow someone who is doing, not simply being. Even though in real life, keeping calm and carrying on is the best way to go, in writing this kind of pacifism is a sure way to make a story flatline.

Editor Tiffany Yates Martin identifies several common traps that create lifeless protagonists: the witness who observes events rather than driving them, the bystander who watches others make things happen, and the recipient gets handed victories they didn’t earn. Then of course there’s the victim who weathers storms without fighting for their own victories.

These characters share a fatal flaw: they lack agency. The test is simple, as Martin writes: would the story unfold the same way if your protagonist wasn’t there? If the answer is yes, the character isn’t actually a protagonist; they’re a prop or a voiceless extra.

We don’t read stories to watch characters exist. We read to watch them strive. Even in quiet, character-driven literary fiction, protagonists must desperately want something and take action to get it. This doesn’t mean our characters must succeed immediately or even make smart choices. But they must decide, act, and drive the narrative forward through their decisions and behavior.

How to give characters agency

Set clear goals. Your protagonist needs both an overarching desire and immediate objectives in every scene. What do they want right now? What action are they taking to get it? These micro-goals create stepping stones toward the larger journey.

Show desire when action isn’t possible. Sometimes characters face legitimate constraints—social position, physical limitations, lack of power. But you can still demonstrate fierce wanting. Let readers feel how desperately your character longs to act, even when they can’t. This tension keeps readers invested until the character finally breaks through.

Make inaction a choice. Occasionally, a character’s refusal to act can drive the story—but only if that refusal serves a specific goal. Strategic silence or withdrawal must be deliberate, not just a result of passivity.

Put action on the page. Show the characters making decisions and connections and taking the necessary steps in the moment. Secondhand agency doesn’t create emotional investment.

Convey how much they care. The protagonist must care about their goal, and our readers need to understand why. As Jana van der Veer writes, this is where internal and external stakes intersect. Internally, achieving the goal meets a deep emotional need, often rooted in past wounds. Externally, failure brings concrete consequences—loss of freedom, safety, love, or life itself. For the reader, understanding both creates tension from wondering what will happen and caring about whether it will.

Pushing my protagonists into action

Just as I was getting myself comfortable with sitting back and letting go of things in life I couldn’t control, I had to start pushing my characters to be bolder than I’m willing to be in real life—to make messes and dumb decisions, to stick their noses in where they shouldn’t, to take risks, and to refuse to accept what they can’t change, all in pursuit of their precious goals.

On the page, I’ve had to take a different stance from my hands-off queen, accepting that the most important thing a protagonist can do is act.