In my own writing, I don’t usually work with a large cast of characters. I like simple stories that are more or less stripped down to their bare essentials. Whenever I write a scene that has more than two characters, I tend to get worried about whether or not everyone is getting equal billing.
Has the third wheel gotten enough lines? Do they even have anything to add at this point? Will the reader wonder where they’ve gone if I don’t mention them soon? It’s a point of stress for me that I try to avoid whenever I can.
That being said, I see absolutely no reason I can’t offer you advice on the topic. Just think about it like someone with agoraphobia giving you tips on how to enjoy the great outdoors. At the very least, it could be entertaining. And, really, what else do you have to do for the next five minutes?
(Most likely the answer is a lot of other things, but for now let’s pretend your schedule’s wide open.) So buckle up. Here we go.
The older I get, the more a particular piece of advice begins to resonate with me. It’s that well-worn writing chestnut: “Write what you know.”
I honestly have no idea who first said this, and I don’t have a clue as to the context in which it’s meant to be taken. All I can tell you is what it means to me, or what it has come to mean to me, which is maybe the same thing but still feels a little different in my mind.
Whenever I hear “write what you know,” I immediately think open your diary. Not that I have such a book. Nor is its cover adorned with winged unicorns. And no, it doesn’t feature a gold-filigreed lock that responds to a single key which I wear around my neck night and day. That would be ridiculous, and I am a serious sort of man. Seriously!
Getting back to the point, opening your diary means putting yourself in your stories. It doesn’t matter what genre you write or when and where your story is set, you’re going to be dealing with characters and situations about which you have an opinion. What better place to tell people what you think.
It’s not easy for me to put aside character building in favor of story building. The main character has always been my stepping off point for building a new short story or novel. I like setting down the backstory on my character before I begin.
For this reason, I really loved the ABC television series Lost. Each week, we were able to delve into the backstory of a new character, further fleshing out the survivors of Oceanic flight 815.
You might think the writers of the hit television show had a good understanding of all their characters, certainly their main ones, before they started filming the pilot episode. You’d be wrong.
As you may know, the handsome doctor Jack (played by Matthew Fox) became the de facto leader of the survivors on the show. What you may not know is that when the show was in its infancy, the writers had killed Jack during the pilot episode. But Fox’s portrayal of the likable character convinced the executives (and in turn the writers) to keep him alive. They knew they had a good character that the audience could root for.
The decision to keep Jack ended up driving many changes in the series. First and foremost, Kate (Evangeline Lilly) was no longer going to be the leader. Jack was. Second of all, it created the often-bemoaned love triangle between Jack, Kate, and Sawyer (Josh Holloway). By the end of the series, we realize the show was really about Jack’s journey.
When I started writing my latest story, I knew very little about my main character. This was — if you’ll pardon the expression — “out of character” for me. I needed to put plot first, because I was writing for an upcoming anthology and the story’s idea seemed more important than the main character.
So this time, I decided to let the story drive my character. The result gave me three good pieces of insight.
Your main character can be defined to the reader by how he/she reacts to elements (e.g. characters, events) in the story. As with Jack, sometimes it just takes one heroic action to make a character likable.
The actions of the character are equally important in progressing the story. If the character isn’t willful enough to move the story forward, he/she shouldn’t be your main character.
The story must drive change in your main character. If your character doesn’t grow as a result of his/her experience, then it wasn’t a good story.
I’m pleased with the story that I wrote (and the fact that I cranked out a 4,000-word story over the course of a weekend). More importantly, I’m pleased that a great character emerged from the story, where none had originally been.
So, the lesson here is to listen to your characters carefully, but don’t be afraid to let your story change them. The best character you create might be a minor character you had intended to kill off.
For a couple semesters in college, I tried my hand at being a photographer. I was average at best, but enthusiasm carried me through the classes. Of all the things that I learned from both a technical and aesthetic standpoint, the critique sessions are what stick with me.
I have very clear memories of my professor standing in front of the far wall of the classroom where all the students’ assignments had been mounted. He’d walk up to each photograph, hunch over to examine it, and scowl. Then he’d invariably say the following, “You shouldn’t need a caption to tell me what it’s about.”
I think about that phrase all the time.
Maybe it’s because our defeats cut sharper memories than our victories. Perhaps that’s why they motivate us so well, because they don’t easily fade. I prefer to think that this particular memory endures because it was really great advice. In essence, the professor was saying to any of us who were listening: show me, don’t tell me.
