Creating Characters: How to Build Story People (27 page)

Too great intelligence
is
negative where a viewpoint character is concerned. The acceptable hero or heroine will prove more satisfactory if he or she is a solid normal, for most of us are less than enthusiastic about the individual we think of as The Brain. Why? Because we know we ourselves aren’t all that smart, and we feel uncomfortable with or inferior to the person who clearly is our superior.

If you do want a brilliant hero or heroine, make him or her modest too. Or present him as Rex Stout handled Nero Wolfe: brilliant but with foibles, and with an ever-so-down-to-earth normal aide, Archie Goodwin, as viewpoint.

Finally, remember that the things a character notices and the amount of space you, the author, devote to that noticing are part of characterization.

Take these lines from Earl Emerson’s
Fat Tuesday
. We’re in the hero’s viewpoint as he interviews a mother. Three children come in, and there’s a bit of byplay establishing them. Then the mother says,

“There’s a stain on your dress, young lady.” The girl peered down guiltily.

“Michelle did it.”

“Lucy.” Veronica Rogers’s tone was controlled, but the message stung. Lucy turned around obediently and marched away behind the two boys. She didn’t need spurs for these kids. Like a Comanche warrior on horseback, she had them trained to knee commands.

You see? Mother acts, and her action characterizes her. Hero notices and interprets,
in character
, and that characterizes him.

Or here, when Hero gives his first major description of the mother:

Mrs. Rogers had short blond hair and a tan that, considering the Northwest’s winters, had probably been nursed under a sunlamp. She was one of those women who made you wonder how far the tan extended. You felt impolite wondering, but you wondered all the same. She wore a loose print blouse under a waist-length jacket and expensively faded charcoal jeans that were tight enough to make you remember them but not so tight as to beg fashion. Her high-heeled shoes were a bright cherry red, her sockless feet evenly brown.

Clearly, the amount of space, of description, of this woman not only draws a picture of her but indicates that she’s important to the story. And the
manner
in which Author has Hero describe her, the details picked out for emphasis, show us the state of mind, the feelings, she engenders in Hero. Despite her cool, controlled appearance, Hero’s interested in her—to a degree sexually interested—but not panting; and the ground is laid for further developments and the climax of the book. It’s a skilled use of viewpoint by Emerson.

2. Inadequate research

Here we’re talking about things important to the story that Writer should know. Why? Because if he doesn’t, readers quite possibly will. Author’s failure to know them automatically raises the thought in Reader’s mind, “This guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about—so why should I bother to read him?” Again, belief has been shattered. When you don’t know the difference between a rifle and shotgun, or organdy and tulle, it’s a mark against you.

We’ve already talked about the business of research in terms of the technical, not-so-trivial trivia writers too often slight—the revolvers with safeties, etchings versus woodcuts, the nature of a geode. But failure to do adequate research goes beyond that, and I do mean into the realm of character.

This most often involves matters of attitude. Too often, we assume that all people—and all characters—feel and think as we do, and that simply isn’t so.

For example, how is a frontier mother supposed to feel about hostile Indians? A contemporary business man about unions? A retiree with three small rental houses about subsidized housing?
What turn of mind led young girls to become Charles Manson groupies or biker mamas?

The key to answering all these questions is, of course, research. Is it worth while? Yes. The perfect example is a fragment in Mark Twain’s
Huckleberry Finn
. Huck has disguised himself as a girl. But a woman penetrates the ruse instantly because Huck clamps his legs together when she tosses him a lump of lead to throw at a rat. A girl wouldn’t have done so, because a lifetime of wearing skirts would have conditioned her to spread her knees to catch a thrown object.

How did Twain find the basis for this bit? Obviously, he did research—kept his eyes open for incidents he could use in his writing.

3. Telling

Versus showing, that is.

Showing brings belief. Telling doesn’t.

At least, not necessarily.

Take the case of the woman who says to you, in regard to a neighbor, “She’s no better than she should be.” Perhaps she elaborates with stories of Neighbor’s sexual misconduct.

Do you believe her? Maybe. Or maybe not.

On the other hand, you’re walking through the park tonight and take a short-cut. Off to one side, partially concealed in a clump of bushes, lies the woman you’ve been told about. She’s locked in a steamy embrace with a man.

Do you believe your eyes, what you yourself are seeing?

Yes. You simply can’t deny that kind of visual evidence.

The same principle applies when I claim I can levitate myself—rise from my chair and move through the air this way and that. If I tell you about it, you may nod politely, but you’re hardly likely to believe me. But if I demonstrate by actually performing the feat, you’re forced to accept the truth of my statement.

Same for opening a vault a la Jimmy Valentine, “feeling” the combination with my super-sensitive fingers. Or reading someone’s mind by pure power of will. Or talking up my derring-do as a soldier or scholar or explorer versus having a diploma or display of medals hanging on the wall, or showing you a scrapbook full of clips of my exploits.

Do learn to write your stories in terms of such proof.
Show
things happening; don’t just
tell
about them.

4. M/R gaps

A story is made up of a succession of scenes and sequels, units of confrontation/conflict and units of transition/decision. In general, action and development within a scene is continuous. It consists of a series of motivations and reactions (M/R): first a stimulus from outside the viewpoint character, then the viewpoint character’s response—in character—to that stimulus . . . which brings on another motivating stimulus from the person or circumstance being confronted . . . which calls forth another reaction . . . and so on, as when someone speaks to you; you answer; the other person responds to your answer; which leads to you speaking again, making yet another remark . . . until the scene, the confrontation, is ended. (I’m oversimplifying here. For a more detailed development, see my
Techniques of the Selling Writer
.)

Thing is, a scene, a unit of conflict, is made up of a continuous series of these stimulus/response or motivation/reaction units. It’s what gives your readers the feeling they’re living through the experience.

If you don’t follow this pattern of development, however, if you allow spots to creep in where a motivation doesn’t lead to a reaction, or a reaction flashes on sans motivation, you jar your reader, gamble with his suspension of disbelief.

I call these breaks, these holes where motivation isn’t linked to reaction, gaps in the M/R stairway, because a scene’s development very well may be compared with a flight of steps—each motivation a riser, each reaction a tread. Leave out either a riser or a tread and Reader is likely to stumble or fall where his sense of continuity and building tension are concerned.

Let your reader be thrown off balance too many times, and she may decide that something’s wrong with your story, even though she can’t say what.

Thus, if Hero slaps Heroine and she gives no indication of it, or if a character touches a hot stove but doesn’t respond by jerking back, your story people aren’t behaving realistically. Increasingly, readers have difficulty believing them.

In sequels, units of transition and decision between scenes, action isn’t necessarily continuous. A character may wander around
for hours or days, take care of incidental business while brooding about a problem and trying to decide what to do. But in scenes, the units of confrontation/conflict where action is continuous, gaps in the M/R stairway can really shatter a story. Watch out for them.

5. Planting

We’ve talked about planting before. But since the lack of it can be a major cause of reader disbelief, it warrants a bit further attention here.

To
plant
something means to stick that something into your story early in the game because you know you’re going to need it later. Case in point: Hero is going to need a gun with which to shoot Villain or hold him at bay. So, you
plant
a gun—that is, reveal its presence to your readers—in a desk drawer within the first few pages and let someone on your hero’s side—the heroine, perhaps—be aware of it. You don’t make an issue of it, you understand; you simply make it obvious that it’s there.

Now, story nears climax. Villain holds Hero at bay with some lethal weapon. Heroine stands off to one side, next to the desk, well-nigh petrified with fear. Hero charges Villain and is appropriately clobbered. Villain raises his weapon to finish groggy hero off. Whereupon, the realization that Hero’s about to die shatters Heroine’s paralysis. She claws open the drawer that holds the gun and fires at Villain. Because she lacks experience with firearms, she misses. But the crash of the gunshot distracts Villain momentarily. In that moment, Hero regains his feet and knocks Villain cold. Clinch and close.

(Why does Heroine miss? Because in the past, reader anticipation ordinarily demanded that Hero should, by his own valor, triumph. Heroine was expected to be gentle, passive, hapless, and hopeless. Is this a sexist handling? Yes. In many of today’s stories, Heroine would be a crack shot, drop Villain in his tracks, and be the final victor. You plan your climax to fit your market.)

Must all planting be so obvious? No. You can be as crude or subtle as your story and your editor permit.

Further, planting is by no means limited to objects. You can—and should—also plant
character traits,
as in the example from
Fat Tuesday,
above. A character who kicks dogs and pulls the wings off flies seldom proves to be the hero. And when Heroine spends the money she’s saved for a wedding dress to buy an air conditioner or
smoke detector for the impoverished old lady next door, readers will tend to think well of her.

Abilities,
too, need to be planted. If someone must ferret out what’s wrong with a broken-down pickup, establish him as a mechanically minded car buff earlier. Training as a nurse sets up a woman to take over at the scene of an accident. A hairdresser is likely to be able to detect dyed tresses. An accountant will look at doctored books with more insight than will a layman.

Closely related to this is the ability of a character to note significant details, and the key word here is “significant.” Take a priest who, despite vows of poverty, drives a flashy sports car. This is significant only if it indicates an aspect of the priest’s character or is a plant to explain his contacts or such. It is not significant if he only drives it temporarily because it was donated and he can’t sell it for the cost of a plain four-door sedan. Same for a skeleton hanging on a rack in Heroine’s bedroom or her mother’s fondness for a patent medicine that contains 40 percent alcohol. If these details don’t contribute to the plot they’re not significant and shouldn’t be mentioned.

Note, too, that
plant
to a large degree means
show
. It’s hard to plant something that can’t be seen or heard or whatever. (In print fiction you certainly may plant an odor, for instance, or a taste. Since you’re in a character’s head, you may report anything Character experiences.)

When you plant something, however, bear in mind that you’re obligated to
pay off
said plant. If you make a thing of the gun in the drawer, readers will expect someone to use it later. Same for love letters, emerald necklaces, the fragrance of roses, or a bad disposition.

6. Distaste/denial

How much realism is acceptable in a story where your characters’ behavior is concerned? And will too much tend to aggravate readers sufficiently as to shatter their suspension of disbelief? It’s something to consider.

In a book I read recently, a character was shown helping to put an elderly invalid “on the pot.” I found it integral to the story and totally inoffensive. An acquaintance, however, did not. “Disgusting” and “revolting” were the mildest terms she used to describe the bit, and I wondered what dimension her vocabulary would
reach were she to read some of the passages in Thomas Harris’s
The Silence of the Lambs
.

In the same way, some readers may be bothered by a scene in which a diabetic character takes an insulin shot. If you include rape or attack details in a story, you take a chance. Bloody descriptions of accidents or surgery or war are
verboten
to some readers. Same for death and desolation. Howard Fast’s description of the final fate of his subject’s bones in the biographical novel
Citizen Tom Paine
haunted me for months. (The bones were lost forever in England when a mountebank couldn’t get a permit to exhibit them for pay.)

This problem isn’t limited to the written word. Toulouse-Lautrec’s painting that depicts two whores waiting in line for medical inspection is distressing to many viewers. Hogarth’s engravings of
The Rake’s Progress
still draw adverse reactions.

The issue is, of course, the audience. Judy Blume was condemned because her writings for young people dealt realistically with situations—divorce and family and adolescent problems—that disturbed adults. Though S. E. Hinton won awards with books like
The Outsiders,
whose characters are slum Chicano adolescents, many parents felt they had no place on their children’s school reading lists. The people in romance novels, horror stories, and mysteries upset many readers to the point that they reject all such. And Frederic Wertham received national publicity for his outrage at the gorier comic books, in one of which characters used a severed head as a baseball.