While working on my current project, a longish story that I’ve outlined again and again over the past year, I had an epiphany: I was bored.

It took me entirely by surprise, and I didn’t understand why. My premise was plenty interesting. My characters were complex, and my setting was picturesque. Yet even in the process of writing I had that nagging thought: I was bored, and somehow I was being lazy. What was I doing wrong?

If you’re anything like me, you’re pretty low-key. Non-confrontational. Willing to pursue your desires, but not at the cost of another person’s happiness. Whether driven by mildly low self-esteem, moderate apathy, or extreme introversion, your personality quirks are perfectly acceptable in real life.

But in a story, they’re dead boring.

No matter how much I tried to make my female main character different from me, she was still making my kinds of decisions. I was spending too much time approaching her problems from my point of view. And, to be quite honest, I would not make a very strong main character. I’m too passive. And by imbuing her with my inclinations (toward avoidance, silence, and introspection), I feared I was failing to write a strong female lead.

What is a strong character?

It’s been a question that has plagued both the Young Adult market and the film industry for years. Is she athletically gifted? Physically capable? Emotionally detached? Inclined toward violence? These traits are fairly common in characters such as Katniss (The Hunger Games), Tris Prior (Divergent), and Arya Stark (Game of Thrones). Arwen is given a sword in Lord of the Rings. Merida rides around with a bow and arrows in Brave. Katsa is an assassin in Graceling. Somehow these traits are all considered masculine. Providing the girl with a weapon makes her a man.

“I am no lady,” Arya says, shrugging off the restraints of her gender despite the horror of her sister and mother.

In general, George R. R. Martin does a fantastic job capturing strong leading ladies who don’t universally apply to the “emulate a man” club. If you disregard the large cast of women who exist merely as sexual beings, Game of Thrones and A Song of Ice and Fire seem like good sources of inspiration for that highly-sought strong female character. As someone in search of a girl in touch with her femininity who also portrays characteristics of strength, I could learn from the likes of Daenarys, Cersei, Shay, and Catelyn.

What do these women have in common?

They made decisions to actively shape their own futures.

Click. Maybe that was it. Maybe the marker of a good female character was not physical or, necessarily, intellectual prowess — or even good decision making. Maybe it was the ability, and the willingness, to act on her own desires (and strengths and FLAWS!) to influence her own and others’ lives.

To be active, not passive.

Well, if you have ever tried to develop a character, that may seem obvious. “Of course we need active protagonists,” you may say; “otherwise there’s no story!”

I don’t know why it took me so long to have the epiphany.

Or why, indeed I even needed an epiphany. It should be obvious.

But how often do we see females in the media who barely scratch, let alone push, the plot? Females who exist to be kidnapped and saved, to criticize and disapprovingly observe, or to play the symbol of motherly compassion or neglect? Even in movies which pass the Bechdel Test, women are shunted to the side, unable to influence the world around them due to the overwhelming presence of a male lead.

Somehow, the requirement of active-not-passive has become normal for male characters and a struggle for female.

Active female characters are what I (and audiences) crave. Need proof? Look at the success of Mean Girls, Bridesmaids, Pitch Perfect — female-centric films in which the women move mountains (each other) to help, hurt, or divert each other from individual end goals. None of these leads carry weapons; yet all pierce us with empathy, humor, and entertainment.

This is also why I like movies like Brave and Frozen. The women in both movies are inherently flawed — stubborn and rash and naïve and irresponsible — and these flaws propel the story. Merida, Elinor, Anna, and Elsa put themselves in trouble and get themselves out of it. Regardless of their positions as protagonist, antagonist, or philanthropist, female characters affect one another. The women respond to each other’s actions like fish respond to the currents caused by other fish; and the plot is as much turned by estrogen as by anything else.

I can’t say why I am passive in my own life. I can’t say why I push that passivity onto my female characters (while my male creations are quite loud, intimidating, and interfering). I can say that consistently depicting women in uninfluential roles reduced to scapegoats (as in Transformers 4), unestablished heroes (Iron Man 3), or middle-school dreams of manic pixie dream girls (Looking for Alaska, Perks of Being a Wallflower…), broadcasts a negative message to girls and women worldwide.

It says that women are

1. Unable to change their fate;

2. Unseen, unheard, and unacknowledged by those around them;

3. Unable to influence the decisions, reactions, or lives of their friends, enemies, or rivals; and

4. Dare I say it, useless outside of the context of lovers or mothers.

This is not acceptable, because the truth of the matter is that women do influence the world around them. Telling them that they do not is cruel and damaging.

This is why I’ve added a step to the Bechdel Test, in my own judgment of films’ and books’ qualities. As a refresher, the Bechdel Test is a measure meant to bring awareness to the presence of female characters in science fiction and fantasy movies and comic books. It demands that:

1. There are at least 2 named female characters

2. Who speak to each other

3. About something besides men.

It’s shocking how many movies don’t fit the bill. But I’ve taken the liberty to add another, much more difficult step to the list.

4. …And influence themselves, other people, or the world around them.

(In a manner that does not involve their death.)

I have challenged myself to write according to these guidelines. My main character is not driven by external forces which buffet her like a marble in a pinball machine. She must make the choice to cross the threshold and embark on her own adventure, make her own mistakes, and find her way back to equilibrium in her own way. Other characters, men and women alike, bump around the edges of the story, pushing her one way or another based on their inclinations; but my main character shows her strength by actively fighting toward her hopes, dreams, and desires.

I’m redefining strength for my writing: In my work, I would like to depict strength as not traditional or Olympian; not necessarily emotional resilience or social capability. Strength is being able to influence yourself, others, and the world around you. For good or ill.

I think that’s a pretty good reality for all kinds of audiences.