by Sarah Bower
The fiction writer is a strange, parthenogenetic species
whose offspring arrive in the world in all sorts of guises. They may be
fully-formed or mere outline sketches, male, female, child or ancient, human,
robot, or anything in between. Some are sweet-natured, some seething with evil
intent, most shift up and down this spectrum in devious and unpredictable ways.
All are, or should be, in some way memorable. They bristle with barbed hooks
that, once they have entered the reader’s heart, cannot be easily removed.
Having looked last time at tips for how to find
inspiration and begin writing, we now come to the nuts and bolts of creating a
story, the set of technical components – plot, character, setting, point of
view, voice, pace – which make up a piece of narrative fiction. The greatest of
these is character. What do we really remember about our favourite books? What
is it that makes them our favourites in the first place? Imagine you are among
a group of people who all loved Little Women as children. The first
thing you do is play the categorisation game. Who are you? Glamorous Amy,
worthy Meg, the ‘little mother’, gawky Jo with her ink-stained fingers? Long
after we have half-forgotten what happens to these girls in the course of
Alcott’s novel, we remember them, the essence of who they are and what they say
to us as – usually – women.
There’s another of these games. In your choice of partner
are you a Darcy girl, or do you prefer the maimed Mr. Rochester? Or Heathcliff,
with all that that entails. You may only half-recall the finer details of the
stories of Jane Eyre, Elizabeth Bennett and Cathy Earnshaw, but you never
forget the women themselves or the men they fell in love with.
So, when thinking about how to construct a story, even if
the characters are not the element which comes to you first, they are the key
to involving readers. It is the characters who will ventriloquise what you want
to say.
The most obvious – and most hotly denied – source of
characters is your own friends and family. This is not to say that you will
want to lovingly recreate every detail of Auntie Gladys, or your annoying
little brother, or your best friend from school. While all fiction is, by
definition, autobiographical because it is generated by the author’s own
imagination, there’s autobiographical and autobiographical. A mistake many
beginning authors make, when enjoined to ‘write what you know’ is to write what
is, in effect, memoir, not fiction.
The way to use the people in your life as characters in
your fiction is to cannibalise them. As Graham Greene famously remarked, every
writer must have a sliver of ice in his heart. So, much as if you were playing
Tops and Tails, you can take Auntie Gladys’ honky tonk piano playing skills and
blend them with your best friend’s taste for Malibu to create the basis for a
character who is completely fictional yet composed of ‘real’ parts which will
help you to achieve the authenticity and true-to-life feel that strong and
memorable fictional characters always have.
People watching is a great source of material for
characters. I have a chronic inability to be late for anything, which means I
frequently find myself hanging around in bars and cafes, waiting for people who
have a more wholesome attitude to punctuality than myself. On these occasions,
I shamelessly watch people and eavesdrop on their conversations. I make up
scenarios about groups and couples based on their demeanour with one another
and snatched words and phrases overheard, and busily noting these down in my
notebook or on my phone makes me look less like a billy-no-mates as I wait for
my companions to arrive.
You can be more pro-active in this process if you
actually choose someone in the street and follow them for a while. This is an
exercise often set for student actors, to follow a stranger for, say, half an
hour and then be able to reproduce their walk, their attitude when sitting or
standing, getting on a bus, ordering a coffee etc. This approach is, of course,
particularly useful for the budding author of crime fiction!
Once you have amassed the raw material you need to construct
a character, how do you adopt the mantle of Dr. Frankenstein and breathe life
into them? Fiction, even when it is at the outer realms of fantasy, is an
imitation of life. It cannot be anything else because life is all we know.
Consequently, the best way to approach the business of making your characters
live is to think about how we learn to know our fellow human beings in the real
world. We do this from the outside in; it is not, usually, until we know people
well that they reveal their innermost thoughts and feelings to us. Even then,
they may be selective with the truth, and will give their lies away to the
attentive observers by a whole series of ‘pantomimes’. Our knowledge of other
people is built up through our senses (sight, sound, smell, taste, possibly, in
certain circumstances) and our intuitions. So, when you set about revealing a
character to your readers, this is how you should do it.
Try to avoid ‘telling’ readers about characters. When you
introduce your heroine, do not give us a paragraph detailing the colour of her
hair, the number of brothers and sisters she has, her preference for jasmine
tea and pinot grigio over espresso and margueritas. This not only stops the
forward momentum of your story because it is merely descriptive, it also tends
to be off-putting to readers because it leaves them no opportunity to put their
own imaginations to work in conjunction with yours. Focus on showing what she
is like through her actions, so she is revealed to readers in just the same way
as she is revealed to other characters in the story.
Let us learn she likes
jasmine tea through seeing her order it, or overhearing her telling someone
else it’s her favourite. Let us know she has red hair because she wishes it was
blonde, or decides she can’t wear purple because it will clash with it. This
way we learn not just that she is a red head but that she lacks confidence in
her appearance, likes the colour purple, is a little vain and possibly fancies
a man who always goes out with blondes. You tell us one thing, but you show us
many more.
Finally, remember Stephen King’s dictum that, however
minor a character, when that person is centre stage, the spotlight is on them
and no-one else. All your characters, even the walk-on parts, must be
multi-dimensional and nuanced just as real people are. The milkman isn’t just
the milkman, he’s a forty-two year-old father of three whose wife suffers from
depression and who dreams of bungee jumping in New Zealand. The hero isn’t just
tall, dark, handsome, square-jawed and ripped, he’s terrified of spiders, gets
eczema on the backs of his knees and likes seventies soul music.
The power of fiction lies in its ability to turn a mirror
on the world we live in and tell us, truthfully, who is the fairest of them
all. The driving force behind this process is the characters, the
representations of humanity who act out their lives on the page and thereby
offer us catharsis. Our relationships with our favourite fictional characters
may outlast friendships, marriages or the bonds between parents and children.
Wouldn’t you love to think that the characters you create might have this
power?
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