characters

Bruises Build Character

My brother and I were once discussing movies we love and turned to the subject of Raiders of the Lost Ark, casually getting into why Indiana Jones was so appealing (aside from the innate charisma of Harrison Ford, of course), and I suggested one reason was the fact that Ford played Jones as a plausibly human hero who actually got hurt. Action films often have the hero surviving things that would kill real people—not only survive them, but walk away unscathed. You see thing like people being shot and still being able to fight on. I referred to Indiana Jones as Johnny Take-a-Beating, and that’s become shorthand between us for a protagonist who actually suffers when the plot hurts them.

I’m currently reading a sci-fi novel whose main character is basically indestructible. There are plot reasons for this having to do with their nature and the technology surrounding them, but just because you can come up with a reason to make your main character a tiny god in your fictional universe doesn’t make that a good writing decision. It’s always lazy writing.

Lazy, Lazy for Loving You

It’s always tempting to make your protagonist indestructible. One reason is it streamlines your storytelling, because no matter what kind of pickle you place them in, they can break free. Another reason is the simple fact that having your main character kick ass all over the place is thrilling, for a time; you can set them up against all sorts of strawmen and comically evil characters and it’s kind of fun as a reader to imagine having the power to instantly master any situation through insane violence that would kill any normal person.

The trick is, if you set your character up as indestructible, it should be leading to a fall. Strip them of their power, remove their technological crutches, and have a plot reason for it all. Not only is having a previously super-powered character suddenly vulnerable kind of thrilling, it can turn all the dumb tractionless violence of the early story into set up for the real payoff.

Otherwise, all you have is a boring character who can’t be harmed. If you can’t be harmed, nothing means anything. It’s like revealing that the entire book has been a dream, so joke’s on you if you thought any of it had consequences.

Plus, I hate reading about people who can run and jump and fight without having to sit down and rest all the time. It’s kind of virtually exhausting.

Write a History

There are times in every fiction writer’s life when they fantasize about writing one of those experimental novels that boldly go against all literary tradition—for example, a novel without characters, because characters are difficult, complicated imaginary beings. They often arrive in our stories flat and empty, and stubbornly refuse to become interesting no matter how much effort we put into them.

Sometimes characters fill out and become interesting through the organic process of telling the story and giving them something to do. Sometimes they never rise above the mechanics of their plot roles. When the latter happens, you can end up with a terrific story that has a surprising and interesting plot but no believable people to make your reader care about that plot.

Or, sometimes, you have the opposite scenario: Characters who pop off the page or screen as living, breathing personalities you’re certain your readers will want to spend time with, but your story meanders pointlessly. In either case, one way to jolt things into working order is to step away from the main plot and write up some history.

The Secret Histories

Recently George R.R. Martin broke hearts and shattered minds when he announced that he might not get The Winds of Winter out the door this year, but 2018 would see the publication of 2 Game of Thrones-related works, one being a history of Westeros called Fire and Blood. While fans tore their shirts over the steady delay of the sixth A Song of Ice and Fire book, I wonder if Martin needed to step back from his story to write that history as an exercise.

A history of your fictional world, or biographies of your fictional characters, don’t ever have to see the light of day. But they can clarify motivations, codify patterns of behavior, and give you heaps of material that inform your characters, fleshing them out, and give you hints as to where your story needs to go. History repeats, so if your secret histories yield up some interesting Noodle Incident, maybe bringing it into the main plot will move your story past your block.

A secret history or biography could be a few paragraphs jotted down, a complete other book-length work, or something in-between. I used to write lengthy histories of my epic fantasy universes, often with a brusque, academic tone, simply seeking to get ideas on paper, and it worked wonders for convincing myself that my fictional universe was real, and the characters I’d populated it with were living, breathing folks.

Next time you’re struggling, step back and write a history. And then pour yourself a drink. Not for any particular reason, just because drinking is fun.

Get to Know Your Characters: Do the Madeleine

Sometimes novels grow organically from inspiration, and every character you create feels like a real person who has been living in your brain for decades; they come complete with back story, personality, and a visual.

Sometimes we create characters because the plot requires them for some reason, and they show up to the story as robots, sans personality. Sure, they can pull their plot levers as programmed, but they’re not very fun, and not very interesting. As the writer, it’s up to you to get to know them a little, so you can make them interesting.

If you’re not sure how to do that, steal a page from Marcel Proust.

Or Ratatouille, if You Prefer

If you’re unaware of Proust and his epic masterpiece Remembrance of Things Past (a.k.a., In Search of Lost Time), shame on you. It’s more than 4,000 pages long, so there’s no shame in admitting you haven’t read the whole thing—but you should at least read the “episode of the madeleine,” which is deservedly famous. The short and soulless summary is that the narrator eats a type of cake he hasn’t had in years, and the taste transports him into his past and the specific sensations tied to the experience of eating one.

It’s essentially the same thing that happens to Anton Ego in the film Ratatouille when he takes a bite of the titular dish and has a flashback to his simple, joyous childhood. And you can do something similar with your characters as a way to get to know them.

Start with something appropriate for the basic character as you’ve envisioned them. Would they eat cakes? Cookies? Or is it a slug of whiskey, or a sip of beer that brings them back to the day their father gave them their first taste, or the last time they drank before going into AA? A cigarette that brings them back to their schooldays? It doesn’t matter what you choose, as long as it’s a sensation that evokes a response. Then, build out that memory. Explore it. See what details it reveals to you.

Just be prepared to crave a lot of things after you’re done.