I like taking a character at the most intense moments of their

The words of Greg Iles — “I like taking a character at the most intense moments of their lives and exploring all that in full and then moving on.” — are not merely a reflection on storytelling, but a profound meditation on the nature of life itself. For it is in the intense moments, when the heart trembles, when the soul is tested by fire, that the true measure of a person is revealed. To study a character in comfort is to skim the surface; to behold them in trial is to peer into the depths of their being.

The ancients understood this well. Homer did not sing of Odysseus sitting idly at his hearth, but of Odysseus battling storms, monsters, and the temptation of despair. Sophocles did not show us Oedipus in peace, but in the searing moment of discovery, when truth tore his world apart. It is at the edge of crisis that the veil of ordinary life is torn away, and the essence of a man or woman is laid bare. This is why Iles seeks those moments: they reveal not only the character, but the eternal truths of the human condition.

To explore in full is to linger in the fire until its lessons are burned into memory. When we see a person’s choices under unbearable strain — whether they falter or endure, whether they betray or remain steadfast — we see ourselves reflected in their story. Such explorations teach us courage, humility, compassion, and the frailty of our own hearts. It is through another’s trial that we prepare for our own, learning what it means to be human when the world closes in with all its weight.

History offers us living examples. Consider Abraham Lincoln, not in his youth, but in the furnace of the Civil War. It was in the most intense moments of his life, when the Union threatened to dissolve and the blood of brothers stained the fields, that his character was revealed. He chose perseverance, humility, and the conviction that freedom must prevail. His trial became the story of a nation, and in it we glimpse how greatness is not born in ease, but in crucible.

Yet Iles also speaks of moving on, and here lies a deeper wisdom. For after the moment of fire, life continues. The story does not end with the test; it flows forward into new seasons. To move on is not to forget, but to honor what was revealed and carry it into the next chapter. If we linger forever in the heat of the trial, we risk being consumed. If we flee from it too quickly, we rob ourselves of its wisdom. The balance is to explore in full, then release, then step forward transformed.

The lesson is clear: do not turn away from the intense moments of your life. They may be painful, frightening, even overwhelming — but they are the forge in which your character is made. Face them with honesty, explore them in full, ask yourself what they reveal about who you are and who you are becoming. And when their work is done, do not chain yourself to the past. Like the hero who survives the battle, step forth into the new day, stronger, wiser, and ready for what lies ahead.

Practical wisdom follows. When crisis arises, slow down, breathe, and take stock of what is happening within you. Do not rush to escape or numb yourself; lean into the fire long enough to learn its lesson. Write, reflect, speak with those you trust. Then, when you feel the lesson is carved into your heart, practice the art of moving on. Do not dwell forever on wounds or glories; life is vast, and new chapters await.

Thus, Greg Iles’ words stand as both artistic principle and life teaching: seek the truth of character in the most intense moments, and when the truth has been revealed, move on. For life itself is a series of trials and passages, each meant not to imprison us, but to prepare us for the next journey. Explore deeply, then release. Endure, then walk forward. This is the rhythm of story; this is the rhythm of life.