Getting Into Character: Seven Secrets a Novelist Can Learn From Actors (10 page)

Example of Denial

Kino, along with his wife and baby, set out on their journey to sell the pearl. They leave at night, trying to hide from all who would steal their treasure. They travel all night, then take cover and sleep most of the day. As they’re preparing to walk again, Kino discovers three men are following them. Kino decides they should hurry up a mountain to elude their pursuers. They hide in a cave.

The three men catch up with Kino and his family, making camp near the cave. During the night Kino decides he has to attack the men to save his family. Just as he prepares to attack, Coyotito lets out a cry, alerting the three men of their presence. One of the men fires his rifle. The once-peaceful Kino falls upon the men in a violet attack. This is it for Kino. If he—one man against three with guns—doesn’t win this battle, all is lost.

At the Denial stage, just when all seems lost, in stories with happy endings the character somehow manages to turn things around, pushing aside the Denial and once again aiming himself toward his desired path. However, the most exciting plots add a final zinger before the character man- ages to overcome the opposition. That leads us to the final D.

The Fourth D: Devastation

The Devastation suddenly twists the fate of the character from mere Denial of his Desire (as if that wasn’t bad enough) to an outcome so terrible, so
devastating
, that he hadn’t even imagined it. This occurrence shoves the character so far off course he’s worse than when he started. A Devastation serves as a final “gotcha” for the readers. Just when they think things couldn’t possibly get worse—they do.

As exciting as a Devastation can be, some stories simply can’t include them because of certain constraints. A novella, for example, may lack the word length needed for this final twist. (
The Pearl
, a short novel of about 100 pages, does include one. But the Devastation comes immediately after the Denial.)
Or a romance may not want to take the conflict this far.

In my novels, both suspense and contemporary, I usually include a Devastation. In my Seatbelt Suspense® novels, which are known for their twists, the Devastation often provides the final, strongest twist. At that point my protagonists face the worst conflict yet. Still, since my novels turn out with generally positive endings (although there’s a price to pay for all that happens along the way), the character does finally manage to overcome. In the case of a tragedy, as with Steinbeck’s
The Pearl
, the protagonist is left defeated.

Example of Devastation

In the Denial,
Kino begins a fight to the death with the three men. He manages to overcome them all. Grabbing one of their rifles, he shoots the last man. Kino revels in the following silence—until he hears a blood-curdling scream from his wife. Running back to his family, Kino realizes the first wild gunshot from one of the men has hit and killed Coyotito.

From this Devastation there is no fighting back. No final positive outcome for the protagonist. The next day Kino and Juana walk back into town, carrying their dead infant. Their eyes are glazed. They speak to no one. They drag themselves through town and to the ocean. There Kino pulls the pearl from his pocket and throws it back into the sea.

Using The Four Ds

Once you’ve determined the Four Ds of your novel (or perhaps Three Ds, if you don’t include a Devastation), you’ll know your story’s key events, and creating individual scenes from one D to the next will be far easier. Your character will have a clear super-objective or Desire that pulls him through the story toward its answering end. Each scene, then, will be a logical step as he pursues that Desire and meets opposition that pushes him off course.

If you’re a plotter you’re likely to figure out the Four Ds before you start writing, plus many of the scenes that connect them. If you’re a pantser you won’t. Still, as I’ve noted, you should definitely know your protagonist’s Desire. Once you know that, you’ll be better positioned to allow your character to take you into unknown territory, for you’ll have a clear sense of the character’s driving motivation.

With the Four Ds as guidelines there’s room for all pantsers and plotters and those in the middle (where I tend to sit). You might plot just enough to discover the Four Ds as a basic outline, then allow free-form methods to work as individual scenes unfold. With this approach there is still much room for last-minute creativity, for the possible paths that lead from one D to the next are infinite.

Action Objectives for individual scenes

Once you understand the process of the Four Ds, particularly the first—determining your character’s super-objective or Desire—you can use its mini-version in writing scenes. The same basic principle applies: you must know what your character wants to accomplish. Just as your character approaches the novel in its entirety with a Desire, so she will approach each scene with an initial Action Objective—what she wants to accomplish in that scene. As the scene unfolds, conflicts will occur that make the obtaining of that objective difficult.

Picture again the path from point A to B. The character enters the scene on a path to reach a certain goal. But obstacles—conflicts—appear in her way that she must deal with. These conflicts may come from other characters, whose own initial Action Objectives for the scene are at odds with hers. Or they may come from within herself or from nature. A new, smaller Action Objective will then arise within her as she seeks to overcome each conflict. In turn, each of these smaller objectives will prompt her to make a specific response in order to stay on the course of obtaining the initial Action Objective.

Action Objectives set the course for

conflict, dialogue, and choices within a scene.

As the term implies, Action Objectives must be stated in the form of action rather than state-of-being verbs, for the same reasons that a character’s Desire must be. However, as Stanislavsky notes, it’s important to remember that
action
does not necessarily imply
activity
. An Action Objective can range from purely mechanical in nature—”to climb over this fence without hurting myself”—to purely psychological—”to make a decision between the two opportunities that beckon me.”

In the same way that a character’s overall Desire sets in place the answering end to your novel, so does your character’s initial Action Objective for a scene set up the scene’s answering end. At the scene’s conclusion, your character will either achieve her initial Action Objective, draw closer to it, or be pushed further from it.

Sometimes a scene will be so powerful that it will contain a mini-version of all Four Ds. In other words, the character will approach the scene with his Action Objective, the series of Distancing conflicts will lead him to a Denial, and then things will turn even worse—a Devastation. Scenes this strong are often major turning points in a novel. We’ll see an example of such a scene in the Study Samples at the end of this chapter.

To understand how Action Objectives work, let’s look at the opening scene between Mr. Lockwood and Mr. Heathcliff in Emily Brontë’s
Wuthering Heights
, which takes place in 1801. We’ll take the scene step by step, noting how the Action Objectives of Lockwood change as conflict arises, and how those objectives prompt him to specific responses.

Lockwood’s initial Action Objective for the scene is: “To place myself within the good graces of my new landlord so I can remain in my rented home.” Without being told the details that lead to this Action Objective, we are led to believe that Lockwood must have had good reason to think he’d angered the landlord. We come to understand this as we see the enduring strength of the Action Objective in light of all that occurs.

[Mr. Heathcliff] little imagined how my heart warmed toward him when I beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat, as I announced my name.

“Mr. Heathcliff!” I said. A nod was the answer.

“Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honor of calling as soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have not inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation of Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts—”

“Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,” he interrupted, wincing. “I should not allow anyone to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it—walk in!”

Because of his host’s obvious displeasure at his visit, Lockwood’s Action Objective now becomes: “To enter the house without displeasing the landlord further.” This motivation lead to his response. He quickly accepts the grudging invitation, choosing to think of Heathcliff’s demeanor as merely “reserved” and choosing not to take the surliness of Heathcliff’s servant personally.

The “walk in” was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment, “Go to the deuce”: even the gate over which he leaned manifested no sympathizing movement to the words; and I think that circumstance determined me to accept the invitation: I felt interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself.

When he saw my horse’s breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put out his hand to unchain it, and then suddenly preceded me up the causeway, calling, as we entered the court—”Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood’s horse; and bring up some wine.”

Joseph was an elderly, nay an old man: very old, perhaps, though hale and sinewy. “The Lord help us!” he soliloquized in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent ….

Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date “1500,” and the name “Hareton Earnshaw.” One step brought us into the family sitting room, without any introductory lobby or passage …. It includes kitchen and parlor, generally; but I believe at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into another quarter …. In an arch under a dresser reposed a huge, liver-colored bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses ….

Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-skinned gypsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some people might suspect him of a degree of underbred pride; I have a sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know, by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of feeling—to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He’ll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again.

As they seat themselves and Heathcliff fails to make conversation, Lockwood grows uncomfortable. His Action Objective then becomes: “To find an action to fill the awkward silence.” Response: He tries to pet the dog, even though it appears unfriendly.

I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that toward which my landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by attempting to caress the canine mother, who had left her nursery, and was sneaking wolfishly to the back of my legs, her lip curled up, and her white teeth watering for a snatch. My caress provoked a long, guttural snarl.