Writing Outside the Box - Writing Character

Scroll to the end of the blog to watch the video tutorial for this session or read on for a full transcript of the workshop.

To find the other six sessions type #WritingOutsideTheBox into the Blog’s search engine.

Introduction:

A lot of people imagine writers sit down to write with a whole plot already worked out in their head. Perhaps some writers do, but most of the ones I’ve met spend more time developing characters than thinking about what actually happens in their stories. A well-written character is the difference between making a story believable and intriguing or losing your reader half way down the first paragraph. Good characters are often a kind of Frankenstein’s monster, made up from lots of different characteristics, habits and details drawn from people around us. For this very reason, I like to write in coffee shops. When I’m describing my characters on the page, I need to be able to look up and, like a visual artist painting a model, note how the people around me are moving, sitting and engaging with each other. I’m sure they sometimes wonder what I’m staring at.

I try to carry my characters in my head for as long as possible. I get to know them, asking questions about who they are and what they’re like. I have imaginary conversations and try to create as much background detail as I can before I begin to write them into any of my stories. I don’t like to start writing until the characters actually feel like real people to me. I need to know how they’ll react, what they’ll say and do before I place them in certain situations. There’s a handy formula that explains this. Character + Situation = Plot. What does it mean? All it means is that when you put a well-developed character into a situation where they have choices to make and are forced to react, they will act in accordance to everything you already know about them. This action generates the plot for your story. It’s the essence of where most stories come from. When you hear writers talking about how they didn’t write a story, it was the fictional character who wrote it for them, this is what they’re talking about. They’ve spent long enough getting to know their character to be able to second guess how they’ll act in any situation.

Characters aren’t just vehicles for advancing the plot of a story though. They need to be interesting, well-developed and described, and have a rich interior life if they’re to hold the reader’s attention. A good character doesn’t have to be likeable or a hero to make them interesting. Some of the best characters in literature are thoroughly horrible human beings. Flaws make a character intriguing as do unique character traits, interests or abilities. Nobody wants to read a cliched character. If you want to read some great character descriptions I suggest having a look at any of Roald Dahl or Charles Dicken’s characters; they’re so rich with descriptive detail. The American short story writer Flannery Connor also writes fantastic descriptions of the, often grotesque, characters in her short stories. For something a little more gentile, though usually just as scathing, try reading some of Jane Austen’s introductions to her characters. Look for ways in which these authors make their characters stand out; what stops them from being stereotypes? Notice both the physical and interior descriptions; what the characters look and act like, as well as what they’re really like inside. Sometimes these two aspects of a character can be in conflict. Ask yourself why you’re drawn or not drawn to particular characters in literature and what makes a really memorable character.

Interactive Writing Exercises:

·      Find an image of a person you don’t know. It can be a painting, a photo, a person in a magazine or an image lifted from the internet. Pick someone who looks interesting to you.

·      Have a good long look at this person. They’re going to be your character.

·      Decide what their name is and write this down. Make sure it’s a name that actually suits them.

·      Under your character’s name create a short profile for them. Using bullet points note down five facts about them. It could be age, occupation, physical description, relationship status. You can use your imagination to think of anything as long as they’re facts anyone in your story might know about your character.

·      Now, note down three things about your character’s interior life. It could be something about their personality, a character trait, a dream they have, a secret. These three details should be things only the characters themselves or a close confidante would know.

·      If you’ve got time introduce your character to the rest of the group by telling everyone a little about them.

·      The next thing we want to do is find out how our character ticks. This will help us to know how they’ll react in different situations.

·      Ask the following 4 questions of your character and quickly jot down your first response. It’s always best to go with your guts on these questions. 1. What is your character’s biggest fear? 2. What does your character want most in life? 3. What is your character’s biggest attribute, (ie. what have they got going for them?) 4. What is your character’s biggest flaw?

·      You now have a little summary of your character’s motivations. These key things won’t really change regardless of what situation you place them in. They’ll always remain essentially the same person.

·      Let’s test this theory by thinking about your character might react in the following situations. How would they respond to a really bad haircut? What would they do if they came home to find their friends had organised a surprise party for them? How would they react if they came across two teenage girls fighting in the street? If possible discuss these scenarios with the rest of the group.

·      You’re beginning to bring your character to life. They’re starting to feel like a real person. It’s time to put them in a situation and generate some plot.

·      The setting for your story will be the place you currently find yourself.

·      Pick one of the following three situations for your character to engage with 1. Someone comes into the room they really don’t want to see. 2. They’re trying to get out of the room and can’t. 3. They want to stay here but are being forced to leave.

·      Knowing what you know of your character ask yourself why they might have found themselves in this situation and how they would react to these circumstances.

·      Write a short, (less than 500 word), monologue in the first person. This simply means you’re going to tell the story as if you are your character. You’ll use the word I and explain everything that happens as if we’re seeing it through their eyes.

·      Share your monologue with the group.

Example:

Here’s a section from a monologue I wrote where a woman is describing how annoyed she is to find a young family sunbathing in the little cove where she likes to go swimming by herself. The woman’s quite standoffish. She’s a bit judgmental and very independent. I’ve tried to bring this out in the way she describes the scene and the way she acts. The story this excerpt is taken from is called “A Certain Degree of Ownership.”

Sean says it isn’t safe, swimming alone.

“No one will see if you’re drowning,” he says.

“If I’m going to die an undignified death,” I say, “I’d prefer not to have an audience.”

Sean does not think death is something to joke about. Sean is a worrier; the sort of man who takes a wet wipe to every apple he eats, just to be on the safe side. Sean would rather I didn’t swim outdoors. If I simply must -Sean’s own words- he’d rather I swam at the main strand, cautiously, in full view of the lifeguards’ station.

Instead, I swim here, in a tiny cove cut off by boulders on one side and a sheer cliff face on the other. A thick band of seaweed separates the sand from the sea beyond. In summer it smells like soy sauce and warm piss. The kelp flies rise in consternation when I pick my way through. In winter it is less pungent but slippier. I wear neoprene booties and step carefully. My feet are ludicrous; two fat slugs squirming at the end of my shins. At high tide the seaweed swims with me. Its smooth tongues lap my arms and legs. I think about Jonah in the belly of the whale; all those slick intestines sliding against his skin. I feel small in myself and gently held.

I choose to swim here because it is always empty. The seaweed puts people off. It is a decent hike from the road, through fields and a small forest. Once I brought Sean with me. He was to read whilst I swam. Sean could not concentrate for watching me. I could not swim easily with his eyes always on me. Afterwards we had words in the car. We argued about what should be made for supper, aware that this was code for a much deeper frustration. Sean did not come to the beach again.

It is warm today. The beach hums in the heat. I leave my towel, water bottle and book in a small pool of shade next to the rocks. I slip my sundress over my head, heel my trainers off and swim my usual six laps of the bay. Though there’s hardly any wind, the sea is choppy. Towards the end of the fifth lap my arm muscles begin to burn. By the sixth, I’m exhausted. The sun is loud in my eyes as I thrash clumsily through the shallows. I am thinking about the granola bar which I might have brought from home. I’m already on the beach before I notice them.

There are three of them, or rather two and a half. Anything under sixteen counts as half in my book. Sean disagrees. Sean likes children. Occasionally, he raises the possibility of acquiring some. I’ve told him I’m not interested. I suspect Sean has no specific interest either. He sees children as something which should be done at our age. He has similar feelings about personal trainers.

I make my way up the beach, squeezing the water out of my hair. I stare at them. They haven’t noticed me. She is leafing through a glossy magazine, pausing between pages to tip the ash from her cigarette into the sand. He is dozing on his front, one hand draped heavily across her thigh as if afraid someone will run off with her while he sleeps. Her thigh is the fake mahogany colour of a flat pack desk. His swimming trunks are Barbie pink and printed with anthropomorphic pineapples. The pineapples dance across the hump of his backside, shaking their tiny maracas and tambourines like billy-o. The baby is wearing nothing but a white, disposable nappy. It is stuffing sand into its mouth in greedy handfuls. The sand is stuck to the snot running out of its nose. I look at the baby’s face. It reminds me of an ice cream dipped in hundreds and thousands, but dirtier.

I should feel sorry for the baby. I don’t.

The person I feel sorry for is myself. I shouldn’t have to share my beach with them.

I could leave. If Sean was here, he’d say, “just leave them to it. You’re only going to sit their seething if you stay.” I am not going to leave. This is my beach. In the two years since I began swimming here, I have encountered no other human beings. I have assumed a certain degree of ownership. The beach is like that thin strip of flowerbed between our garden and next door’s. Does it belong to us? Does it belong to them? Who knows? Sean said we should consult the architect’s plans. I said, to Hell with that, and stuck a couple of rhododendrons in. Now the flowerbed is ours. The same principle applies to this beach.

Developed, written and presented by Jan Carson

Produced by Alan Meban

Funded by Arts Council NI