Priya frowned at the screen.

For the umpteenth time this month, she had opened her manuscript to scroll up and down. She rewrote perfect sentences only to undo the changes. Her frustration had already crossed all possible peaks.

Her protagonist, Meera, was supposed to be torn between her corporate ambitions and her desire to return to her ancestral village to care for her ailing grandmother. On paper, it sounded compelling. But when she read the manuscript after a month-long gap, she didn’t feel Meera’s struggle. The woman was vague, indecisive and insipid—not the character Priya wanted to create!

Internal conflict is the heartbeat of memorable fiction. It’s also one of the hardest elements to execute well. The difference between a character readers root for and one they find annoying often comes down to how relatable their inner turmoil feels.

After working with dozens of writers through my coaching sessions, I’ve identified four techniques that consistently transform flat internal conflict into something readers can’t look away from.

Root the Conflict in Universal Human Needs

The mistake Priya made with Meera wasn’t in choosing the wrong conflict. It was in how she presented it. Her early draft focused on logistics: should Meera take a sabbatical or quit? What would her boss say? How would she manage the commute?

But readers don’t connect with logistics. They connect with needs.

Before: Meera checked her email for the third time that morning. Her grandmother’s caretaker had sent another message about medicines and doctor’s appointments. She wondered if she should speak to her manager about remote work options. Maybe she could visit Rajgarh on weekends. But the promotion review was coming up, and her manager had hinted that face-time mattered.

After: Meera’s phone buzzed with another message from her grandmother’s caretaker. She didn’t open it. Instead, she stared at the proposal on her screen, the one that could make her the youngest vice president in the company’s history. Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her head: “You were always meant for bigger things, beta.” But what were bigger things? The corner office she’d dreamed about since business school, or the chance to hold her grandmother’s hand before it was too late? She’d spent fifteen years proving she was more than just a small-town girl. Going back now felt like erasing everything she’d built. Staying felt like choosing ambition over love.

The second version taps into universal needs: the need for achievement versus the need for connection, the fear of losing our identity versus the fear of losing someone we love. Every reader has faced some version of this choice, even if they’ve never worked in a corporate office or had a grandmother in a village.

Give Both Sides Legitimate Weight

Arvind came to me with a historical fiction manuscript set during the Partition. His protagonist, Hassan, was conflicted about whether to stay in Delhi or migrate to Pakistan. But as I read, the choice felt obvious. Arvind had unconsciously stacked the deck. Every scene in Delhi was warm and hopeful. Every mention of Pakistan was shadowed with uncertainty and fear.

“Your character isn’t conflicted,” I told him during our call. “You’ve already decided for him.”

True internal conflict requires that both options have genuine appeal and genuine cost. The reader should be able to argue for either choice.

Before: Hassan loved his bookshop in Darya Ganj, loved the way sunlight filtered through the dusty windows each morning. His friends were here, his whole life was here. Going to Karachi meant leaving everything behind for an uncertain future in a new country where he knew no one.

After: Hassan ran his fingers along the spines of books in his Darya Ganj shop, each one a memory. This shop was his father’s legacy, his anchor. But each morning now brought new graffiti on the shutters, new threats. Yesterday, a stone through his window. His younger brother was already in Karachi, sending letters about streets where they could walk without fear, where their names weren’t whispered as accusations. But Karachi also meant abandoning his father’s grave, betraying the Delhi soil that held three generations of his family. To stay was to risk everything. To leave was to lose everything.

Now both choices carry weight. Staying means honoring legacy but risking safety. Leaving means finding safety but abandoning identity. The reader can genuinely understand either decision.

Make the Conflict Visible Through Action

Writers tell us the character is conflicted, but we never see the conflict play out in choices and behavior.

Sneha’s manuscript featured Kavya, a classical dancer torn between tradition and innovation. Sneha kept telling us about this conflict in internal monologue, but Kavya’s actions never reflected the struggle.

Before: Kavya sat in the green room, adjusting her costume. She knew her guru would be in the audience tonight, expecting the traditional Bharatanatyam recital they’d rehearsed for months. But Kavya wanted to experiment, to blend contemporary movements into the classical framework. She felt torn, unsure of what to do.

After: Kavya’s fingers trembled as she cued the music. The traditional track sat ready in her phone, the one her guru had approved. But her thumb hovered over the fusion piece she’d secretly choreographed at midnight for the past three months. She could see her guru in the third row, hands folded in her lap, that familiar expression of expectation. Kavya pressed play on the traditional track. The opening notes filled the auditorium. She took her position, then froze. Her body knew both pieces by heart, but in that moment, her feet moved into the opening stance of her fusion choreography. Her thumb lunged for her phone. She changed the track. There was no going back now.

The conflict isn’t just described; it’s embodied in her trembling fingers, her frozen stance, her last-second choice. We see the war between tradition and innovation play out in real time.

Connect Internal Conflict to External Stakes

Internal conflict gains power when it has external consequences. The struggle isn’t just philosophical; it changes the character’s world.

Rahul’s protagonist, Aditya, was conflicted about reporting his friend’s exam malpractice. But the conflict felt abstract until we connected it to what Aditya would actually lose.

Before: Aditya watched Rohit slip the folded paper from his sleeve. His best friend since Class 6 was cheating on the IIT entrance exam. Aditya knew he should report it, but Rohit was his friend. What should he do?

After: Aditya’s pen froze mid-equation. Three seats ahead, Rohit’s hand disappeared into his sleeve, emerging with the folded cheat sheet they’d joked about last week. Aditya had laughed then, certain Rohit wasn’t serious. But there it was. The invigilator was two rows away, checking ID cards. One word from Aditya, and Rohit’s engineering dreams would shatter. But Rohit’s older brother had helped Aditya’s family when his father lost his job last year. The Sharmas had paid three months of Aditya’s coaching fees. How do you betray someone who kept your dreams alive? But if Rohit got away with this, another deserving student would lose their seat. Maybe someone who’d studied sixteen hours a day. Someone like Aditya himself. The invigilator turned toward their row.

Now the stakes are clear and personal. This isn’t about abstract morality. It’s about gratitude versus fairness, loyalty versus integrity, and there’s a ticking clock forcing a decision.

Priya rewrote Meera’s story using these principles. When she sent it back to me, I loved it.

I had to know what Meera chose. I don’t know what I would have done in her place.

That’s the marker of relatable internal conflict. When your reader closes the book still feeling the weight of the choice, you’ve done your job.

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Mother of three adult humans. An idealistic, outspoken woman of scrupulous integrity, in love with words. A storyteller who enjoys crocheting tales. And a passionate bibliophile, of course.