By Ali Cross
Imagine you’re about to take the road trip of a lifetime. With the snacks packed, the playlist queued, and the tank filled, there’s just one thing left: a destination.
Sure, some folks are free-spirited enough to hop in the car, hit the gas, and trust the universe will provide, but if you’re hoping to reach a breathtaking destination—a place that moves you, that changes you, that remains in your memory for a lifetime—you’re going to need a plan.
Writing a novel isn’t much different from planning an epic road trip.
If you want to write a compelling, emotionally resonant story—and trust me, you do, since that’s the way to readers’ hearts—then you can’t just spin your wheels and hope for the best. That’s not to say you can’t write “by the seat of your pants”; but you need to have some specific points of interest marked on your story map. Because if you don’t plan ahead, then you might end up in the middle of nowhere without a gas station in sight—and that’s how people get stuck in their “messy middles.”
If you don’t know where you’re headed from the beginning, you’re far more likely to end up in a narrative ditch somewhere around page 200, wondering where it all went wrong.
So let’s talk about the key landmarks that will keep your readers engaged, your themes on track, and your destination as unforgettable as the journey.
The End from the Beginning
Before you write, ask yourself: How does my protagonist change by the end of the journey?
It’s not the added scars, gray hairs, or robot limbs that matter, but who they’ve become.
What lessons have they learned? What inner demons have they faced? How have they changed on a fundamental level?
A powerful story takes a character on a journey of transformation—whether that’s overcoming their deepest flaw, finding a truth they once rejected, or understanding something about the world (or themselves) that they never saw before.
Consider the change of heart in each of these examples:
Ebenezer Scrooge (A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens) goes from cold-hearted miser to generous, warm, and joyful. There are at least 57 movie adaptations, but would it be as powerful and timeless if we didn’t see and feel Scrooge’s transformation? It isn’t the money or status that moves us, it’s Tiny Tim, and Scrooge’s nephew Fred. It’s the human connection.
Elizabeth’s growth in Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen is more subtle but deeply personal. She learns to question her own biases and grows emotionally, making her one of literature’s most beloved characters. Without that heart, Pride and Prejudice might have been nothing more than a lovely exploration of Regency country society.
When I read Dune by Frank Herbert as a teenager, I believed Paul was the Fremen’s messiah. It crushed me when he traded his humanity for power, making his arc a rise of heroism and fall into villainy.
Your character’s transformation, the heart of the story, doesn’t have to lead to happily-ever-after. Your story can be a drama, comedy or tragedy, so long as it has a beating heart.
Plot, without character transformation, is like taking a road trip without stopping once to experience the country. You might still end up somewhere interesting, but will it be meaningful? Will it have resonance?
Resonance comes from stories that feel true—that echo something deep within us. And that’s why, if you want your story to hit hard, you need to define the emotional destination before you write.
The Crash Everyone Knows is Coming, but No One Can Predict
I describe the catalyst or main inciting event as being T-boned on your way home from the grocery store, but a more subtle, life-altering event works, too. Maybe your hero gets a mysterious letter. Maybe their spaceship crashes on a strange planet. Maybe they’re hired by a young man who will change the course of history.
It’s the wrong turn on your road trip that leads to an unexpected adventure. It’s the moment that changes everything.
In Hamlet by William Shakespeare, the ghost of King Hamlet’s revelation about his murder drives Prince Hamlet into a spiral of revenge and paranoia, leading to the downfall of nearly every major character. Without the ghost, there’s no tragedy in Hamlet—it’s the ultimate inciting incident.
Alice (Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll) would never have gone to Wonderland if a white rabbit in a waistcoat hadn’t appeared before her. It’s a classic example of how a small, odd encounter can trigger a surreal, transformative journey.
And who can forget the letter—or letters—from Hogwarts? (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J. K. Rowling) That moment when Harry receives his Hogwarts letter shifts his destiny, pulling him from an oppressive home into a world of magic and adventure. Without that letter (and Hagrid), Harry remains a mistreated boy under the stairs.
Have you noticed something elemental in each of these examples? Yes, each catalyst forces the hero out of their comfort zone. Yes, it’s the moment they, and the story, gets moving—because without the catalyst, or if the hero refuses the “call to adventure”—there is no story.
But more, in each of these examples, the catalyst is a vehicle for change.
Before the catalyst, the hero is just cruisin’ the streets, a passenger in their own life. But now they’re in the driver’s seat, whether they like it, or not.
Your Road Trip Buddy
Have you ever taken a road trip alone? I have, and it’s zero fun. However, my husband and I drove coast to coast as newlyweds and despite the newness of our relationship (and the ensuing “issues”), we both remember the experience as one of our favorites.
Unless you enjoy long conversations with gas station hot dogs, most of us prefer to share the road with a companion. Someone who challenges us, pushes us, and maybe even annoys the heck out of us. A companion who makes us laugh the hardest and feel the most.
In storytelling, this is the character foil. They represent who the hero can become or the lesson they need to learn. They act as a mirror, making the protagonist’s flaws and struggles impossible to ignore.
Sherlock had his Watson. Woody needed Buzz. And Frodo would never have made it to Mount Doom without Sam.
Even the most independent hero needs a character who forces them to see themselves more clearly.
The Deepest Loss
In the days before smartphone GPSs, David and I drove from Boise, Idaho to Tooele, Utah, with the last of our possessions left behind by the movers, our six-year-old son and two-month-old twins. By the time we passed Salt Lake City, it was dark and the earlier light flurries had degraded into a white-out.
We’d never been to the house in Tooele before. We thought we had the lake to one side of us, but with no visible landmarks, we were lost. And, as if scripted by the best storyteller, our hungry and dirty babies were screaming for relief. Which made our six-year-old cry. But without a safe place to pull over, we had no choice but to grit our teeth and just keep driving.
We didn’t know where we were, how to care for our babies, or when we would ever find help. Our situation felt desperate and impossible. We didn’t even know if we were going in the right direction. Thankfully, we made it to our destination—shaky, relieved, and determined never to put ourselves in that position again.
If this scene was in a book, David might have swerved to avoid an oncoming car and landed us in the frigid Great Salt Lake. Heavy laden as the car was, we would have sunk to the bottom. If David survived but his family had not, it would be the lowest point in the book. It would be a moment of deep, unbearable loss. He would feel that everything he was working toward had been ripped away, leaving him a shell of a man.
The Dark Night beat can be external—like losing the car, the stuff, and the family—but it’s always internal and it shakes your hero to their core. Maybe they realize they’ve become what they feared. Maybe they’ve failed someone they love. Maybe they see, for the first time, that their old way of thinking was a lie.
My favorite example is in the movie The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (J. R. R. Tolkien, Peter Jackson). With Frodo poisoned and captured by orcs, Sam is alone. He almost gives up, clutching the Ring and overwhelmed by despair, exhaustion, and the weighty burden of evil. Instead, he chooses hope and decides to save Frodo. Sam’s decision makes the later emotional payoff so powerful.
In Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back (George Lucas), Luke fights a vision of Darth Vader—only to see his own face beneath the mask, foreshadowing his darkest fear: that he could become the very evil he seeks to destroy. Rife with an identity crisis, fear of destiny, and self-doubt, it’s a psychological moment that shakes Luke’s confidence and makes his confrontation with Vader even more meaningful.
And in Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018), after being tied up by his own father, Miles is alone, doubting whether he’s ready to be Spider-Man. He’s isolated and full of self-doubt and the weight of expectation.
This moment must hurt. You must shatter your protagonist, or your readers won’t feel it. And if they don’t feel it, the transformation won’t be satisfying.
These scenes show how the Dark Night of the Soul isn’t just about suffering; it’s about the choice that follows. Will the hero rise? (Spoiler: Yes, they will, and it’ll be epic!)
Because genuine change doesn’t come from minor inconveniences. It comes from crisis, loss, and the realization that there’s no going back.
Proof of Change
Once broken down, the protagonist must rise again and prove they’ve changed.
Too many stories skip this step. They have the hero reach the ultimate battle, the last conversation, the big showdown, and poof! —they’ve got all the wisdom and courage they need.
Don’t do that.
It’s not the way to honor the struggle of life. The struggle your readers feel every single day.
Tony Stark, once selfish and arrogant, doesn’t save himself in the end, but saves (most of) the world. (Avengers: Endgame)
And Katniss, once a pawn of the Capitol, then the face of the rebellion, ultimately proves her own growth and wisdom by actively shaping the future.
Then there’s Michael Corleone’s transformation in The Godfather (Mario Puzo). Michael begins as the family good boy, the one who wants nothing to do with the mafia. But his choices pull him deeper into the world he swore to avoid until he proves he has become Don Corleone by lying to his wife about a murder, then shutting the door on her—literally.
These characters prove their transformation through action, not just words, which is what makes these endings stick.
Your protagonist must make a choice that costs them a moment where they prove, beyond doubt, that they are not the same person who started the journey.
Maybe they refuse to take revenge when they once would have. Maybe they choose self-sacrifice over self-preservation. Maybe they walk away from a toxic cycle instead of repeating it. Whatever it is, it should be an active, undeniable choice—one that assures the reader that they’ve earned this ending.
The Best Road Trips Change You
When David and I drove across the country, we knew where we were going. We’d rented an apartment just off campus—our first of several “sight unseen” living spaces because we were slow to learn a valuable life lesson. We were going somewhere, but more, we were going toward our life together. The journey didn’t stop when we reached Rexburg, and it’s still going.
Because we are still growing.
You see, the story isn’t about the plot, at all.
It’s about the transformation and how deeply it resonates.
If you want to write a book that sticks with readers, that resonates deep in their bones, then don’t focus only on plot. Focus on transformation.
Know your destination. Give your protagonist a compelling reason to change, then challenge them. Make them lose everything. Then, before the end, make them prove they’ve changed.
That’s what makes a story unforgettable.
That’s what makes a reader willing to go on the road with you—and, perhaps more importantly, to do it again, and again, and again.
Writing a story is an adventure. It’s messy. It’s unpredictable. But with the right roadmap, you can create a journey that doesn’t just take your characters somewhere—it takes your readers somewhere, too.
About Ali Cross
Ali Cross is a USA Today bestselling author, speaker, and book coach. She writes YA speculative fiction as Ali Archer and Christian romance as Ali Noble.
She lives in Utah with her hacker husband where they collaborate on stories, artificial intelligence and their plan for virtual world domination.
Find Ali at her website www.alicross.com, or @thealicross online.
