Guest Post by Tristan Brand

As someone who spent seven years studying math, I’m interested in patterns. My favorite type of patterns are the unexpected ones. Seeing similarities emerge when previously you saw only differences is really neat.

Now, as much as I know you’re all hoping I’m going to spend the next thousand words discussing some very exciting developments in algebraic number theory, I’m going to apply this concept instead to myths.

One of the cool things about mythologies is how diverse they are, culture to culture. Though the Greeks, Norse, Egyptians, and Celtics all had their own pantheons of gods, each were different in their personalities, powers, and how they interacted with mortals.

From this diverse set of myths, we see patterns, similarities. Cultures whom never interacted with one another – who never even knew of the other’s existence! – came up with some of the exact same ideas. There’s a term for this; cultural universal. An idea that occurs in essentially every known human culture.

One of those cultural universals is shapeshifting.

Now, if I were to guess where these cultural universals come from, I’d conjecture they emerge from common human experiences. We’re all bipedal, two-armed, two-eyed omnivores. Surely that would have to lead to some similar developments. We all talk; we all walk; we all eat. What we don’t do is turn into wolves and run around in the night making trouble.

Yet, apparently, we all tell stories about exactly that.

Maybe this is less surprising than it seems.  Humans’ connection with animals in the real world is as ancient as our myth. We’ve depended on animals to survive; dogs protected our homes, horses carried us through terrain we’d never survive on our own while oxen hauled our belongings; cows gave us milk and chickens gave us eggs. Even when animals aren’t doing our work for us, we’ve always kept them around for companionship. They had pet cats in ancient Egypt,  who no doubt knocked over their fair share of cups of water and urns containing your ancestors organs.

This connection to animals seems to lead to a couple things. First, we begin to anthropomorphize the animals close to us. The trusty oxen you’ve used to haul your equipment for the past two years suddenly becomes Eddie. You start to ascribe moods to him as you would a human – happiness, sadness, boredom, anger. Maybe you even start talking to him,  something I may or may not do with my own pets.

Second, we look at the traits animals have and wonder: what would it be like to run like a wolf? Smell the scent of your prey in the night? To swim like a fish. People have looked up at birds and wondered what it was like to fly for centuries before we ever developed the technology to do so.

But as the universe did not grant us such traits, so we did the next best thing: we imagined. We thought of men and woman transformed to these animal shapes. What would they experience? What would they see? What would they do?

We imagined, and we told stories. The Greeks told of Circe turning Odysseus’s men into pigs. The Celtics told of Llwyd ap Cil Coed, who transformed his wife and attendants to mice to eat the crops of rival Dyfed. The Norse told of the god Loki, who took the form of a mare to sabotage a man building a wall.

Shapeshifting is still prevalent in modern stories. Though shapeshifting itself is a shared idea among every culture, the way each individual storyteller handles it is different.  It can impact a story in a thousand different ways.

One common approach is when then main character is unwillingly transformed into an animal. A classic example is in Roald Dahl’s novel The Witches, where the main character, a young boy, is turned into a mouse early on. Another, perhaps less known example, is The Dragon and the George by Gordon R. Dickson, where a man is transported to a fantasy world and transplanted into the body of a dragon.

Often in these stories, the main plot question becomes ‘How do they become human again?’ Additionally, we get to see the characters struggle with their new forms, learning new senses, new body parts. Other conflicts appear that would never matter to a human – like a mouse having to evade mouse traps, or a dragon having to deal with a new propensity toward freshly killed meat.

In other stories, the character controls when, and sometimes even what, they can change into. The wargs in George R. R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire series can project their mind into that of animals at will. The were-wolves in Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files series control when and how they turn into wolves.

Usually when shapeshifting is a choice, it becomes less of a plot question and more of a tool that the characters use in chase of the rest of the plot.

Another way shapeshifting changes in a story is how other characters within the story view shapeshifting. Is it considered a gift or a curse? Is it something that can be done openly or must it be hidden? The answers to these questions will help shape the world around your story, and make shapeshifting a natural part of that world. A great example of this is in Robin Hobb’s Tawny Man trilogy, where people with a power called the Wit can bond with animals – and even inhabit their bodies. The disgust others in story-world have toward this practice motivates a number of important plot points.

These examples only shallowly explore how shapeshifting affects stories. Every author has a different take on it. Some of them will resonate more than others, and will be read by our children and our children’s children and so on. Today’s stories slowly become tomorrow’s myths. I bet a thousand years from now, when humanity has travelled to the stars,  they’ll still be telling stories about shapeshifting.

Maybe by then we’ll have even figured out how to shapeshift for real.

 ***

Tristan Brand is an aspiring fantasy author and technical writer. When he’s not obsessively checking the mail for his long-overdue invitation to wizarding school, he can be found playing StarCraft II, practicing classical piano, or reading a good book. He keeps a blog at www.TristanDBrand.com, does a web-show with his friend called Why We Like It (http://day9.tv/d/b/why-we-like-it/), and can be found on twitter as @TristanDBrand.

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When I’m waiting at the bus stop, I see all kinds of people.  People with skin colours from cocoa to olive, from toffee to porcelain.  People in turbans, in hijabs, in saffron robes.  People wearing crosses, pentacles, Stars of David.  People of all ages, of all income levels, speaking a variety of languages.

When I’m writing, I want to reflect that kind of diversity in my stories.  Unless there’s a specific story-based reason for everyone to look the same, believe the same, and exhibit the same behaviours, I like my fiction to encompass the wide variety of human experience.

Growing up, I read a lot of stories based on Greek and Roman myth, Biblical personages, fairy tales, Norse legends, King Arthur.  The prevalence of these tales made sense in a historical context; these mythologies form the bedrock of modern Western culture.  I also found a few precious collections of different mythologies, containing very different personages:  Nanebozho, the Ojibwe trickster.  Rama, the hero from India.  Fox spirits from China.  I loved these stories.  I’d memorized Cinderella and Snow White.  These anthologies provided me with something new, something different.  As I grew older, I found that readers, and publishers, are increasingly open to stories featuring a wider diversity of characters, based on legends and mythologies from all over the globe.

Full disclosure time.  I’m white, female, of predominantly German ancestry, in a relationship with a man.  But I write about all kinds of people.  People whose life experiences I cannot base on my own; people whose cultures I was not raised in.

I have to be very careful when I write about these people.

Cultural appropriation is the act of taking something from another culture and using it to suit your needs.  To an extent, all cultures in contact mix and borrow from each other.  Suburban youth listen to rap songs about life in the hood; Canadian teenagers read Japanese manga; people all over the world go to movies based on American comic book characters.  There is, however, a tension in these relationships, particularly when a group with power plunders groups with less power, taking their symbols and distorting them, commodifying them, stripping them of their cultural context and selling them.  There is also a tension when people “try to be something they’re not,” particularly when this means they act out of fantasy and idealization rather than a true understanding, or forget their own heritage in the attempt to ape someone else’s.  Appropriation can perpetuate stereotypes (think of how Vodun, aka “voodoo,” struggles to be recognized as a religion), water down symbols (it’s hard to take a powerful symbol seriously when you can buy it as a T-shirt or fridge magnet), and confuse with partial understandings and half-truths.  Borrowing mythology from cultures not my own is tricky.

And yet, to write only about white, heterosexual people of European ancestry is both dishonest (in that it doesn’t reflect the totality of human experience) and dangerous (in that it insinuates these are the only people worth writing about).

The beauty of fiction is that it demands that I, as a writer, develop the ability to see through my characters’ eyes.  I need to know what motivates them, what their dreams are, what their fears are, what their goals are.  Their point of view makes sense to them and I need to understand it in order to figure out what they will do next.  I need to see them both in the context of their cultures, and as individuals, whose behaviours and beliefs may vary a little—or a lot—from their cultures’ norms.

And so I imagine what it would be like to be a man.  Or a lesbian.  Or a Hindu.  Or an Asian woman.  Or someone who lives in the 18th century.  I learn about issues these groups face that I do not, in the hopes that my portrayals are based on reality and not on stereotypes.  I do my best to portray the myths of other cultures with respect for the context in which those myths were created, and with the reverence I would give to the figures of my own childhood.  And I aim to honour, rather than use; to share in, rather than take.

It’s a balancing act, and I can’t please everyone, but when the alternative is to write about a world where everyone is White and European and middle-class and straight, I’ll take some risks, and do some research, to build a world that’s an honest portrayal of the human experience.

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As you are well aware, excellent reader that you are, every story starts from an idea. Every legend is inspired by something real. Think about some of your own stories and the crazy places from which they originated: a phenomenal supernatural event in space, a news report, or a picture you stumbled upon on the internet when you were [suppose to be] writing. Most of my best story ideas come straight from my dreams.

Let’s take a look at the seeds that eventually grew to be literature’s most legendary heroes and villains.

Protagonists

These popular protagonists underwent a few author-induced identity crises to become some of the most iconic characters in literature.

New Sherlock Holmes by allegator

Sherlock Holmes

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle fashioned his character Sherlock Holmes after an infirmary clerk, Dr. Joseph Bell. Doyle also had other sources including Sir Henry Littlejohn, a lecturer on Forensic Medicine and a Medical Officer, but Bell provided the main trait of figuring out the mystery from small, seemingly innocuous clues. After Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories were published, Dr. Joseph Bell wrote to Doyle claiming, “You are yourself Sherlock Holmes and well you know it.” Perhaps we are reading a bit of Doyle himself in the pages of every Sherlock Holmes story.

Captain Nemo

Captain Nemo on the Nautilus

Captain Nemo (aka Prince Dakkar) was not always of Indian heritage. Jules Verne originally wrote him as a Polish aristocrat whose family was murdered during the January Uprising, in which Poles protested against enlistment in the Imperial Russian Army. Verne’s editor feared that Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea would be banned in Russia – a French ally at the time. Verne kept Nemo’s origins relatively vague for the time period (nemo in Latin means “no one”), although he is now clearly identified as Indian.

Hobbits

Before I jump in here, did you know the decision to publish The Hobbit came down to a 10-year-old boy? Unsure if she should publish the story, Susan Dagnall of George Allen & Unwin Ltd. gave the story to her son to read, and because he enjoyed it, Dagnall decided to move forward with its publication.

The Hobbits by Qwertee.com

Although he had been writing about goblins and developing languages for years before he began writing about Hobbits, Tolkien suspected his idea for hobbits came from The Marvelous Land of Snergs by Edward Wyke Smith. Tolkien wrote that the Snergs were “a race of people only slightly taller than the average table but broad in the shoulders and have the strength of ten men.” He also noted that Sinclair Lewis’ character Babbitt had a homebody-like nature, which was also an influence.

Tolkien originally wrote Aragorn, or Strider, as a hobbit.  Imagine Frodo’s first encounter with the mysterious hobbit Strider in the Prancing Pony! Doesn’t quite have the same effect, does it?

Antagonists

Some of literature’s more legendary antagonists were created from the most obvious and peculiar places.

Dracula

Bela Lugosi in the 1931 Dracula

The name alone triggers shivers down the spine. It may be no surprise to you that Dracula originated from the Romanian word dracul, which means ‘the dragon’ or ‘the devil’.

As Bram Stoker dug into Wallachian history, he happened across Prince Vlad III, or Vlad the Impaler.  Known for his brutality by impaling his enemies, it’s estimated that Vlad killed nearly 10,000 people.

Vlad’s patronymic name was Dracula, passed down from his father Vlad II Dracul, a member of The Order of the Dragon. These knights were tasked with protecting Christianity in Eastern Europe.

The cover of John Gardner’s book Grendel

Grendel

In the Scandinavian epic Beowulf, the monster Grendel terrorizes a mead hall and slaughters those poor souls who happened to be drinking inside of it. The author describes Grendel as a grotesque creature descended from the race of Cain (who was the first murderer according to the Bible). Scholars debate the nature of Grendel – was he monster or humanoid? Some scholars even propose that Grendel represented enemies of the Geats, or even more simply, an outcast.

Moby-Dick

Moby-Dick sans barnacles

An enormous, albino sperm whale covered in barnacles that attacked whaling ships in the early 1800’s served as the inspiration for Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick.

Jeremiah Reynolds, an explorer in that time and who was thought to have inspired the character Captain Ahab, wrote of the whale Mocha Dick, describing how its attacks on ships appeared premeditated. It was rumored that Mocha Dick had around 20 harpoons in his back from the 100 or more encounters it had with whaling ships that sailed near the Chilean island Mocha.

The saying goes that legends are born, not made. But, as evidenced above, they certainly can be made – created from an idea half the size of a man, or as terrifying as a bloodthirsty albino whale.

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Guest Post by Craig DiLouie

I enjoy writing horror because it allows a writer to really stretch and go way beyond standard norms and reader comfort zones. But what makes a good horror story?

First, let’s define horror fiction. Wikipedia defines it as a genre of literature that is intended to “scare or startle readers by inducing feelings of horror and terror.”

In other words, it’s fiction that produces feelings associated with horror—what Merriam-Webster defines as “painful and intense fear, dread or dismay”—in the reader. The Horror Writers Association essentially agrees with this definition.

I do as well, though I would add that effective characterization is so important to achieving the goal that it should be part of the definition. Why? Horror is more likely to be realized by the reader when there is a character, with whom they can relate, experiencing it at the same time. In this way, certain characters in the story are intended to stand in for the reader.

Character is doubly important when one considers the fact horror is a very subjective emotion. Some of us find the sight of blood horrifying, while others don’t. Some of us tremble and sweat at the slightest turbulence on an airplane, while others barely notice it. If the author can put the reader in the protagonist’s shoes, they should experience feelings of horror through empathy even if they themselves don’t find the object of the protagonist’s horror that scary or dreadful.

Before we continue, we should probably ask the question: Why would anybody want to actually experience this? Horror is, after all, horrifying.

In Thrill Seekers Thrive on The Scary, published on WebMD.com, Dr. Frank Farley, psychologist at Temple University, says people can satisfy their curiosity about and fascination with the frightening, the bizarre, the unusual, and make sense of it. Dr. Glenn Sparks, professor of communications at Perdue University, believes people have a basic need to seek out situations outside their comfort zone. In some cases, they want to confront danger in order to conquer it.

Then there are the physiological changes that occur when confronted by danger, which some people enjoy—the adrenaline rush, the pounding heartbeat, the sweaty hands. Says Farley, “There’s almost nothing else, including sex, that can match it in terms of the incredible sensory experience that the body is put through.”

That’s powerful stuff. So how do we “bottle” that in a book?

The basic structure of a horror story goes like this: You have the normal, introduce the horror element that disrupts the normal, and finish with the new normal.

Force some interesting people in a story to face the fantastic with high stakes, and you’ve got the setup for a thriller. Make the fantastic horrifying, and you’ve got horror. Make the horrifying life-threatening, and you have survival horror. Make the horrifying element a ghost, demon, etc., and you have supernatural horror. Make the horrifying element a serial killer who brutally slaughters his victims, and you have splatterpunk. Make the horrifying element be life-threatening to everybody at once, and you have the makings of apocalyptic horror. And so on.

Personally, my favorite kind of horror stories are apocalyptic. There are so many great stories that can be told in an end-of-the-world scenario. When well told, these stories can be stirring to the spirit as well as the intellect, particularly when horror is contrasted with hope.

So now we know what horror fiction is and why it’s sought out. But what makes a good horror story? The answer is deceptively simple. In short, a good horror story is a good story that happens to be in the horror genre.

I’m not trying to be cute here. Too often, writers put the horror element so far forward that other elements of the story that matter, particularly character, take a backseat. At all times, a good horror story will give us people we care about, engaging conflict and so on.

Story always comes first!

In fact, with horror, getting the basic story elements right is even more vital because the horror element may be so fantastic it requires a greater suspension of disbelief and therefore a higher degree of grounding. The more the reader can empathize with the character’s subjective response to the horror element, the greater their shared feelings of fear and dread. The more richly rendered the setting, the more the monsters that populate will stand out. The greater the willing suspension of disbelief, the more likely the reader will confront the horror in your story, find it believable, and experience genuine feelings of horror. And so on.

In short, the greater the story, the greater the horror.

Now let’s talk about the horror element, which can be conveyed as elements that are internal or external, imaginary or real, supernatural or physical, atmospheric or in-the-flesh. This is where you can have a lot of fun and let your imagination soar. Is it a plague that changes behavior? A trusted pet that turns on a family? A serial killer stalking a couple in a remote motel? A nice, outgoing family man slowly becoming violently insane? Tentacled monsters freed from an underground cavern? Hordes of the cannibalistic dead? A sadistic summer camp counselor? A derelict house haunted by the spirits of its victims? How successful the novel is will depend on two things—first, how well your writing gets the reader to empathize with the characters’ horror, and two, how much the horror element resonates with their imagination.

Horror is still a young genre that has been largely neglected by the major bookstores. With the advent of eBooks, online retailers like Amazon are eating their lunch as literally thousands of titles are becoming available, many of them very good. As a result, there is still plenty of opportunity for writers to break in and make a name for themselves. Forget your preconceived notions of what horror fiction is—that it’s werewolves and vampires, that it’s Nightmare on Elm Street and Friday the 13th, or whatever else immediately comes to mind—and make it your own.

Most important is to tell a good story and have fun, and your reader will too!

Craig DiLouie is the author of the apocalyptic horror novels Tooth and Nail, The Infection and The Killing Floor. His latest horror novel is in contract negotiations with a major publisher. He is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association. For more information about Craig’s work, visit www.craigdilouie.com, where he blogs regularly about apocalyptic horror media.

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Leigh talked a bit about writing good villains earlier this month.  I’m going to touch on a related topic – how do you make your antagonist likable? You might not always want a likable antagonist. But when you do, how do you pull it off?

I’m going to borrow a definition from Writing Excuse’s podcast on the Hollywood Formula.  An antagonist is not always the villain. Heck, in the really good stories the antagonist is often a friend or confident of the hero. So, using the Hollywood Formula an antagonist is “person who places obstacles to that goal in the path of the protagonist. . . . The antagonist is the one whose goals are diametrically opposed to the protagonist, and they’re the one who is blocking the protagonist’s journey.”

As an example from Writing Excuses, in the Dark Knight movie, Batman is the protagonist. His goal is to quit the dark knight gig and return to  a “normal” life with the woman he loves. The person who stands in his way of that goal is the antagonist. Who is it?

One hint: it’s not the Joker.

It’s Harvey Dent, the prosecutor who loves the same woman. When it looks like Dent and the love interest can’t both be saved, Dent begs Batman to save the girl.  In the end, because Harvey won’t be the man he could be, Bruce has to don the cowl and become the dark knight. Harvey’s your antagonist. but he’s not very likable. Is he?

Why not? Well, read on.

Let me take another example: Victor Laslo in Casablanca. Casablanca has the same love triangle that Dark Knight does. Follow the movie beats, they’re a lot of similar notes. Rick wants the girl, but Laslo already has her. Like Dent, Laslo represents more than just himself. When it looks like Elsa and he can’t escape, Laslo begs Rick to save Elsa. In the end, because Laslo is honorable and stays true to his goal, he makes Rick want to be a better person and rekindles his faded patriotism.

Plot-wise. Casablanca and the Dark Knight are more similar than dissimilar.

So, why do I like Laslo but not Dent? To me the difference between Harvey Dent and Victor Laslo, is that Laslo is willing to give up everything for the greater good. Dent isn’t. Fundamentally, Dent is selfish. He’s more interested in catching the headlines than catching the crooks. He’s not the best boyfriend. When he falls, he falls hard.

So, how do you make the antagonist likable?

1. Just like your protagonist and villain, your antagonist needs a goal (other than messing with the protagonist for the heck of it). I tend to like characters whose motivations I can understand and ring true.

2. The antagonist has his own morals and strengths. I dislike Harvey because once you take the shine off, he’s selfish and immature. He refuses to accept the truth Batman sees – that he (Dent) is a symbol of more than self. Dent is a weak character. First he’s seduced by power and fame. Then, the Joker seduces him with the idea of revenge. I don’t tend to like people I can’t respect. Dent loses my respect over the course of the movie.

3. The conflict with the antagonist makes the protagonist “better” in the long run.  Rick’s hope rises from Pandora’s box, but Batman is condemned to a life he tried to escape. Batman is worse off in the end.  

4. Even though the antagonist stands opposed to my protagonist, I almost want the antagonist to win. This goes back to the first few points. I want to be able to identify with this character and feel good about it. I’d like to be Laslo. Not so much Harvey Dent.

Have you come across a likable antagonist? If so, what made you like him or her?

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Character versus character is, of course, not the only way to bring conflict into your story.  Other avenues include character versus nature (dangerous terrain, wildlife, storms, floods…) or character versus self, where the character must overcome an aspect of themselves, such as their fears or the beliefs instilled by their upbringing, in order to be successful.  Still, in stories with multiple characters, watching their personalities strike sparks off one another is a realistic and intriguing way of developing conflict.  And conflict is the fuel that drives a plot – without an adversary to overcome, heroes sit around doing nothing.

The most obvious form of character versus character is hero versus villain.  Other blogs this month talk about what makes a good villain, so I will add only this:  a good villain sparks an interesting conflict with the hero.  This statement encompasses both evil masterminds whose machinations drive the plots of whole series, all the way down to the minion who perhaps doesn’t survive his first and only interaction with the hero.  Even that one-encounter minion can be memorable.  Perhaps the hero realizes she can’t defeat this minion with strength, and has to use cunning, or endurance, or ask for help, instead.  Perhaps it’s the first time the hero has ever had to kill in battle, or the first time she’s ever lost someone under her command.  This conflict can involve both the fight itself (physical action, mental strategy, or both) and the aftereffects (emotional fallout; fatigue or lost gear heightening the hero’s conflict with her environment; the time delay heightening tension; etc).

Some of the most interesting conflicts are conflicts between protagonists.  Just because a group of people are on the same quest, or in the same military unit, or working toward the same goal, doesn’t mean they’re going to all like each other.  They may not even get along with one another.  Aspects of their personalities are going to grate on one another.  First impressions may create misunderstandings; past beliefs may shape prejudices or preconceptions.  Different desires may set members of the same group working at odds to one another, or tempt one to betray the group; or threaten to splinter the group.  These dynamics can lead groups to a vast array of outcomes, depending on the pressures placed on the group by the plot, and the choices made by the characters within the group.  All that, and a villain besides!

Previous posts this month have dealt with romance, and one of the most elegant conflict generators – the love triangle – hinges on romantic attraction.  If two characters (I’ll say a girl and a guy) like each other, there’s only so many ways to defer that mutual attraction before it’s acted upon.  But if a girl likes two different guys, the writer has now set up two additional conflicts:  the girl is forced to make a choice between the guys; and the guys are set in an adversarial relationship, competing against one another for the girl’s attention.  Like any formula, this one can be tinkered with:  for example, the girl who likes a guy who’s oblivious to her and doesn’t notice the second guy who dotes on her; or the “triangle” that becomes a square with the addition of a fourth character.

Love triangles don’t suit every story—category romance, for example, favours one hero and one heroine, and a story that illustrates how they overcome the obstacles in their path to a life together.  Perhaps their conflict is generated by secondary characters:  the disapproving family members; the crazy ex or jealous outsider, sowing misunderstandings to sabotage the relationship; the character who represents duty, such as a child, military unit or business obligation.   A writer doesn’t even need romance to torment his hero with secondary characters such as these.

Without conflict, characters have nothing to do.  Without disagreement, readers become bored watching the Happy Hero, and his Happy Friends who always act and think and feel exactly like their leader, wander on their Happy Way.  But once the Happy Hero faces off against the Cunning Villain, with nobody at his side except:  the alien with questionable loyalties; the attractive gunner who can’t get along with the equally attractive navigator; and the cranky sergeant who hates the villain only slightly more than she hates the hero; well, then the hero’s not always so Happy, and then you’ve got a story.  A story that keeps readers hooked, wondering how those conflicts will play out.

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In my first published novel (I’ve only had the one, but hey, I’m nothing if not an optimist), I originally set out to write a book that would subvert expectations in that it had no romantic subplot whatsoever. It was about three men setting out on a globe-trotting adventure. No icky girl cooties here! There was lots of questing, but alas, no love story. Well, after a few beta readers got through with it, I caved and added one—and you know what? In that case, the book was better for it.

Then, last summer, I sat down to begin work on a new novel. In the first chapter, I introduce two characters—one of them a man, the other a woman. They’re co-workers, archaeologists working together on a dig in South America. The two characters aren’t romantically involved. They’re just friends.

Well, by Chapter Five I found myself inadvertently writing a paragraph about the man admiring the woman from behind and acknowledging that he’d always been attracted to her.

Whoa! I thought to myself. Where did that come from?

Maybe Harry Burns was right. In When Harry Met Sally, one of the most iconic romantic comedies of all time, Billy Crystal’s character starts off spouting his theory (though he calls it fact) that a man and a woman can’t just be friends. Ignoring the hetero-normative caveat here, his ideas are met with stiff resistance. Every time I watch this movie, I cheer when Sally sets him straight. I mean, what a load of crap! Of course men and women can be friends. My own life is exploding with opposite-sex platonic friendships.

So, it is with great dismay that I watch as the movie progresses to Harry ultimately being proven correct. Perhaps it’s true that men and women can’t “just be friends,” but Harry and Sally eventually fall in love in dramatic Hollywood fashion. (Sorry, folks; no spoiler warnings for twenty-five-year-old movies. Them’s the breaks.) I’m quite the sentimentalist at heart, so this is most likely the only time I’ve actively rooted against a romantic-comedy couple overcoming the odds and making it work. I just don’t like the underlying message.

Indeed, I am a big proponent of platonic relationships in fiction. And yet, I am forced to look at my track record. As in the two examples cited above, I started off writing romance-free relationships and ended up reversing course. I guess that makes me a hypocrite.

The thing is, romance is easy. Now, when I say that, I don’t mean to imply that writing romance doesn’t come with its share of challenges. On the contrary, as the people charged with the uncomfortable task of reading my first drafts know all too well. I’m not the world’s best romance writer. I have to put in two or three times the usual effort for my romantic liaisons to really jump off the page—in a good way, that is.

So why do I say it’s easy? Well, romantic feelings are a wonderful and effective way of motivating your characters to take action. Love causes people to climb mountains, swim oceans, and reach for the stars. The death of a loved one, in particular, can set your story on fire—and this was my motivation, however misguided, for linking my star-crossed archaeologists. You see, in the absence of love, an author has to dig a lot deeper to figure out why characters behave as they do. Adding romantic subplots to spur along a waning story or character is a default move, and it can be used as a crutch when handled inelegantly.

If you are to get your reader deeply invested in a platonic relationship, you’re going to need to get creative. Could When Harry Met Sally have been a satisfying movie if the two characters had merely turned out to be best friends who never developed feelings for each other at all? I’d like to say yes, but I don’t think I’m alone in having a hard time imagining it.

My experiences and observations show me that if it’s true that love makes the world go round, then friendship is the glue that keeps it from coming apart as it hurdles through space at thirty kilometers per second. In other words, friendship is, at its core, stronger. Which is a bit ironic. Friendships, historically, last longer than marriages.

By tapping into the reasons why this is true, we can find a number of ways to guide the creation of compelling opposite-sex platonic relationships. So, let’s get to those reasons!

For one thing, best friends are less likely to keep secrets from each other than romantic partners. As any dramatist knows, secret-keeping is fuel to the plot engine. But guy-and-gal friendship combos are most likely going to be co-protagonists (or co-antagonists, which can be extra spicy), meaning the question of whether or not their friendship will survive calamity doesn’t need to be at the core of your story. It can be, but it doesn’t need to, whereas lovers can hardly ever get through a story without getting muddied at some juncture. The vulnerability and honesty of friends-only pairings actually allows us to cheer for them and relate more readily. A best friend can be the haven in the midst of heavy drama.

In a friendship situation, we are more likely to drop our masks and just be ourselves. If sex and/or a relationship isn’t on the table, what do we have to lose? A man who isn’t trying to woo a woman needn’t work so hard for her to like him, meaning we’ll get a better chance of seeing who he really is. What you see is what you get. The same is true for women, who also are likely to keep their cards close to their chest when there’s a risk of suffering a broken heart. When the chance of rejection is low, the real character comes out—and in fiction, that’s exactly the kind of scenario into which we want to coax our characters. Transparency is a virtue!

The mistake you might make is creating friendships without love. But strong friendships are built on intense love… just not the romantic/erotic love we are more likely to recognize. And if you think I’m making a case for writing friendships without dramatic undertones, think again. The threat of losing a best friend will drive a character to extreme lengths just as strongly—perhaps even more so—than the threat of losing a lover, especially if that friend has been around for a long time. The risk of losing that kind of honesty, vulnerability, and transparency can be devastating.

Returning to the real world, my best friend happens to be a woman, and it sometimes feels as though we have been friends since the dawn of time. We don’t see each other nearly as often as we like, since we now live very far apart, but our bond is tight. The last time we saw each other, just after Christmas, our conversation took an interesting turn.

After dinner one evening, she put down her fork and asked, “What’s the dealbreaker?”

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“Well, what would I have to do for you to end our friendship? You know, the dealbreaker.”

Silence set in. I honestly couldn’t think of anything. After all, we had been through a lot, surviving hundreds of fights and come out stronger every time. Nothing was ever bad enough to drive a wedge between us.

“What if I murdered someone?” she prompted.

I thought about that. Honestly, my bond with her was so strong that even murder wouldn’t change the way I felt about her. The only real dealbreaker I could imagine is if she insisted that I help cover it up or dispose of the body, and even that would depend on the motive for the crime.

And that’s what I mean. Platonic relationships are true partnerships. In fiction, romantic couples are constantly cheating on each other, breaking up, and getting back together. They’re famously inconstant. But when men and women leave romance out of the picture? Well, that’s kismet.

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We’ve all heard the criticism:  “Your characters are flat” or “One-dimensional” “Make them deeper, more rounded.”

The problem is, most of the time the people offering that vague advice have no concrete suggestions for fixing the problem.  Many newer authors often fall into the trap of trying to add quirks or other surface affectations to try to make the characters appear ‘interesting’.  Quirks can be cool, but only if they tie into the character’s real psyche.  If not, they’re just weird and don’t help.

In my last post, I explored what it means to have deeper, more complex characters by utilizing Larry Brooks’ three dimensions approach to character development.  Today I want to explore additional examples from books and television to highlight what we mean when we say a character has ‘depth’ or is ‘complex’.

First, we need to know our characters, know them better than we know just about anyone else in our life.  Think about it – most of the people we interact with are enigmas.  We know their surface personalities, and we may know a little about their history, but how many people do we know well enough to imagine them in an extremely difficult situation like the ones we’re going to place our protagonists in, and then feel confident we can predict how they’ll react?  The number is probably smaller than we usually assume.  We can’t have that ambiguity with our main characters.  When we place them in extreme situations, we need to know how they’re going to respond.

Many of the ‘flat’ characters we see are ones where they don’t seem to have a history.  They step onto the page with no back-story, no childhood, no past mistakes or triumphs to be reminded about.  As a result, we only see the surface of a character but get no insights into why or how they reached that stage in life.  These are characters with only that first dimension defined.  Fine for secondary characters, but not for central characters.

For example, in The Dark Knight, the joker is such a fantastic character not only for how crazy he is on the surface, but also for the hints he gives us of his tortured past.  We never actually learn the truth, but just hinting at it is enough to make him far more deeply fascinating and freaky.  Who’s ever going to forget the line, “Want to know how I got these scars?”

As a reader, knowing a character’s back-story helps us develop empathy with them.  This is the why of a character’s actions that gives them meaning.  Without it, we cannot connect with them.

Another fascinating example is the character Cobb, the main protagonist in the movie Inception.  On the surface, Cobb is an efficient dream spy, capable of infiltrating the best-kept mental secrets.  Then we’re faced with his ex-wife who continually threatens to undermine all his work.  That twist becomes infinitely more interesting when we learn she’s actually dead, a projection created by Cobb’s own sub-conscious that refuses to be ruled by him.  Throughout the movie, the layers are peeled back as the stakes rise, until we realize this projection is his inner demon, the part of his psyche he has to face.  We’re left wondering right up to the end:  how did she die?  Was he really responsible?  Why can’t he let go?

Brilliant use of back-story and inner demons.

Another wonderful example, and an excellent venue for studying complex characters is the tv show Once Upon A Time.  Not only is the concept fantastic and the writing brilliant, but the show offers many examples of great character development.

Virtually every character in the show has a complex back-story that interweaves with other characters and generally experiences at least one major flip that catches the audience completely by surprise and challenges expectations.  This is especially true for the evil characters (the wicked queen and Rumplestilskin – the dark one).  We see them struggling against evil impulses and trying to live the best lives they can.  It’s absolutely brilliant because we end up developing empathy with characters we should simply loathe.

There is nothing simple about any of these characters.  Their second dimension is fully fleshed out and complex.  Even better, in critical moments, we see even some of the evil characters try to break out of the mold they’ve placed themselves in, and we root for them.  At other times, we see the heroes struggle with powerful temptations to do terrible things, usually with plenty of justification.  These are the deep moments when characters’ true selves are revealed, the third dimension moments of truth, and it’s wonderful to see a character we think is evil show us a hint of good, even if they back-slide later.  I’ve learned a great deal from this show, and hope to apply it to some of my own writing and character development.

Of course, most of us won’t get to use our back-story as heavily as Once Upon A Time.  They set up the show format around this complex back-story, and the very structure of the show allows them to maximize the power of it.  Still, the point is valid – it’s absolutely vital for the writer to know what happened in their characters’ lives before page 1, and find ways to share that information with their readers.

Another fun example is Shrek.  The funny, irreverent ogre who refuses to live within the narrow boundaries expected of him.  As he explains to his companion, donkey, he has layers, like an onion.  All good characters should have those same layers.

Of course, once we’ve created our onion characters, we then face the daunting challenge of when and how to weave that back-story into the narrative without falling into that dreaded ‘info-dump’.  It’s hard to not share the cool stuff we know about characters, but that information is best served in small portions, sprinkled throughout the story.  It’s the seasoning that separates the simple stories from the great.  But like any seasoning, apply too much, and you wreck the effect.

What other characters stand out as exceptional examples to you?  Why do you find them so powerful?

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We’re talking a lot about character this month, as well we should.  Great characters are critical components for great stories.  We need to understand our characters, their relationships, and then we need to reveal the truth about our characters with a deft hand, weaving in back story and inner demons.

It can prove a daunting process, and sometimes it’s hard to know how to approach working with our characters to maximize their effectiveness.  At times, it’s like looking at a hidden 3d image, like the one at the top of this article.  Can you see the hidden image?  It takes effort and practice to train your eye to see what’s right there.

Same with building great characters.

There are lots of opinions and articles and books on the subject, including this month’s Fictorians posts.  One resource I highly recommend is Orson Scott Card’s book Characters & Viewpoint.

Another, which I found extremely helpful, is Larry Brooks’ Three Dimensions of Character.  This is available as a standalone ebook, but is also incorporated in Larry’s best-selling book Story Engineering.

The brilliance of this approach is that it explains complex character building in a direct, understandable way that makes it accessible to every writer.  Larry provides a toolbox to assist authors in crafting great characters, and knowing what is required to do so.  He teaches, in essence, how to see the hidden image by removing some of the vague, mysterious elements from the process, which I found refreshing and extremely helpful.

I won’t explain the entire system.  This short article won’t do it justice, but I will review the core concepts to illustrate the power of it.

Characters have three distinct dimensions that authors need to understand and define, and which they can then apply for greatest effect.

Dimension 1:  Personality.  What a character looks like, their quirks, how they present themselves to the world.  This is all surface material, without any assigned meaning.  For minor characters, this may be all we ever see, and it’s left to the reader to assign any deeper meaning, if they choose.  For important characters, we cannot stop here without getting the dreaded “your characters are flat” reviews.

Dimension 2:  Back story and inner demons.  This is where things get interesting.  This is the why of a character’s choices.  This is where meaning is assigned, where they face their inner struggles, hide their deepest fears.  It’s the world view that motivates their actions, and it may or may not coincide with the face they choose to show the world.

Dimension 2 is where characters gain depth, it’s where the reader gains a glimpse into the why, and gives us a chance to build empathy with the character, which is absolutely crucial for our story success.

However, we’re not finished with Dimension 2.  Dimensions 1 and 2 are still what the character wants us to see, to understand.

Dimension 3 is where we get to the true heart of a character, their moral substance, or lack thereof.

Dimension 3 is what a character does in critical moments, moments of extreme stakes, moments that count.  This is where everything is stripped away and their true, inner core is revealed.

It may surprise us.  It may surprise them.  This is where a character really becomes a hero, or a villain.  It’s where they shine, or where they run away screaming.  This is where inner demons are excised, when a character arc is complete.  Only then is the hero ready to overcome the external antagonistic forces.

This is powerful stuff!  Too often advice about character lacks this level of clarity.  Larry goes on to expand upon this in his books, and I highly recommend you study his system, because it empowers authors to elevate character development to a much higher level.

To illustrate briefly:  Assume we have a character, a middle-aged school teacher who works with first graders.  Never married, but beloved by her children.  All first dimension stuff.  Then, let’s give the readers a glimpse into her past.  Maybe she went into teaching because a younger sibling died and she always felt guilty for not protecting that child, and has dedicated her life to teaching to help excise that guilt.  Second dimension back-story and inner demon.  She’s an easy character to empathize with.

Then let’s set the school on fire.  Children are in danger.  What will she do?

Well, that’s the question, and the moment that will make the story.  Will she rush into a burning room to save children, perhaps by making the ultimate sacrifice, and therefore justify her life’s work?  Or will she break down and ignore everyone around her, perhaps letting children suffer because she’s unable to break out of the prison of her memories?  Or does she do something totally different?  It’s not until that moment of crisis that her true character is revealed.

In my next post, I’ll explore examples of great complex characters, and lessons we can learn from them.

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If you’re a genre writer, you’re probably a romance writer. But no, you say? You write fantasy, or science fiction, or mysteries, or…doesn’t matter. One thing about us genre writers, to some extent our genres usually mix, and the most common secondary element is romance. There’s a reason that so many writers from so many genres show up at the romance-centered panels during conventions. For many of us, romance is a strong sub-plot that runs through most of our fiction. So, why should we use it, how should we use it, and to what degree?

Every element of interest we add to our story increases the level of interest to readers. Of course, we don’t want some eclectic hodgepodge, but who doesn’t love a good fantasy book with elements of horror, mystery,  and romance. Sometimes we substitute the romance with the growth of a friendship or business partnership, but that relationship growth is something that carries us along. It gives the story focus when the main plot needs a hiatus, when the bad guys are readying their next assault, when the good guys are recovering or regrouping. Some type of relationship story, in some form, is almost always fundamental to a good book. We need those relationships in order to become truly invested in our protagonist’s well-being.

Integrating romance into a story is like adding spices to a good pumpkin pie. The crust may have no extra flavor, but it’s taste is influenced by the spices running throughout the filling.  And the best pies will have the occasional design on the crust, maybe a cut-out leaf or a small pumpkin, with plenty of cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top that gives our palates a surge of the wonderful flavors within. So, in a good story. Hints of the relationship will flavor the entire story: a look, a touch, a comment, a moment of inner dialogue. But then we will have the turning points in the relationship, where it takes center stage, even if only for a few paragraphs; the moments when the relationship moves to the next level. This may be the moment when the protagonist realizes he has feelings for his love interest, maybe their kiss, maybe more. It may be a point where the protagonist realizes his contagonist isn’t his enemy but can become an ally. Moving this story arc in concert with the main story will make a more intriguing book. These sugar-coated biscuits dotting the crust move us eagerly through the story as much as the action scenes, giving our tales more depth and emotional resonance.For anyone needing help with this, let me refer you to David Farland’s book, Million Dollar Outlines. I attended the workshop, but I’m sure the same tools and techniques are discussed in the book.

What level of romance or relationship we use can vary from book to book or author to author. For the best discussion I’ve yet seen on the subject, I refer readers again to David Farland and his writing tips at www.davidfarland.net.  Though romance may lead to a sexual relationship, romance itself is the process of falling in love. I think most readers, even men, enjoy participating in that process. Some readers would like to see that romance go to the next level, with every sexy detail, while others would rather have the door closed and know the protagonist and their love interest lived happily ever after. Which is right for you, as a writer, is a very personal decision. I will say though, when you put romance in your books,  or any other kind of relationship, learn how to do it right. Just as a reader won’t accept a moral, honest character suddenly stealing a horse and knifing their victim, they won’t accept a usually open and forthright person suddenly clamming up about their feelings for the sole sake of adding tension to a relationship. Keep your actors in character, in ALL situations.

For me, romance is the cinnamon in my cinnamon rolls, my favorite flavor in fantasy and science fiction. Even my upcoming horror short story, Demon River, has an element of romance that helps us root for a very troubled and difficult protagonist. Love makes the world go around, whether it be this one, a planet galaxies away, or the fantastical ones of complex imagination.

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In romance, we have fairly specific types of characters running through our pages: The hero (probably alpha, could be beta), the heroine, the best friend or side-kick, and perhaps a villain or antagonist.

Let’s look at these characters in terms of romance because romance is almost always a character-driven tale of ups, downs and eventual happy-ever-after (HEA) togetherness.

I’m not discounting any combination of relationship (male/male, female/female or anything else) because to my mind you’ll still have at least one person who is more or less portraying the hero and one the heroine, regardless of gender. So, with that disclaimer let’s start.

While many heroes are alpha males, there is also the beta hero.  What’s the difference?  For me – it comes down to ease of emotion and sensitivity.

Alphas are strong – they ooze confidence and strut arrogance.  They’re über capable and may even be abrasive because they don’t really care if they offend anyone.  They don’t worry about their emotions or being sensitive.  They don’t need to.  They’re too busy kicking-ass.  If they were a doll (action-figure, for the guys), they’d be G.I. Joe.   Guys want to be them and girls want (desperately) to be with them.

Beta heroes are more subtle.  They’re often funny and charming.  They may be able to kick ass, but they’d rather reason or humor their way out of any conflict.  Mother’s love them.  They bring flowers just because and remember anniversaries.  They’re in touch with and willing to express their emotions.  They can (and do) plan candle-light dinners and know what present will bring their lady-love joy.  If they were a doll/action figure, they’d be Ken.   Happy to hang out in Barbie’s dream house for romantic weekends of long talks and walks along the beach.

I love both types of heroes.

Our heroines need to be smart and capable. No one wants to read about a lead character who is too stupid to live (it’s a thing… really).  We want our heroines to perhaps need rescued from a situation but not from their lives.  They need to be able to stand on their own two feet just fine without our hero, so they don’t need the hero, but they want him.

The key is that our hero and heroine are both better people for having the other in their life.  And as a reader, we need to love them both.  If we don’t, we aren’t rooting for them to get together and find their HEA.  Through this identification with and love for the characters, we are invested in their path to happiness, and that’s what a romance is all about – the emotional journey.  Next month when we discuss genres, I’ll go into more depth on the whys and what-fors that make romance … romance. Right now, let’s continue on with the people inhabiting our stories.

We may also have the sidekick/best friend characters. Like other genres, these people can be a huge amount of fun because they don’t have to be heroic. They get to have a lot more flaws and we don’t have to love them.  They can be cowardly, obnoxious, slightly stupid, clumsy… a whole host of things that our heroes do not get to be.  They are perfect foils for our leads characters.

Our villains and antagonists in romance may or may not be actual bad guys/gals, they may just be the wrong guy/gal for our hero/ine.  How far this character is willing to go to keep our leads in their lives determine where they fall on our villain – antagonist spectrum.   Or they may be someone (a well-meaning, or not, relative?) who feels these two should not be together and will do whatever it takes to keep them apart.  Often though, what is keeping our lovebirds from their HEA isn’t a who so much as a what – their flaws or internal conflicts.  I’ll discuss more on this next month as well.

What traits do ya’ll think are necessary for our hero/ine to be identified with and loved?

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So, you’ve done the deep psychological analysis, built the world, have a broad outline, now what? How do you place your character into the story and make it believable? How do you keep the protagonist’s story on track? How do you keep character interactions interesting, genuine and moving the story along?

In complex novels, I use charts to help me along, to keep information organized and to consider the deeper questions of values and motivation for each significant character. In every instance, I refer to the major points from the story arc because that’s when those critical moments of change, realization, action and reaction happen. This system keeps me from straying from core values during interactions. What happens in those moments when characters surprise me and go in a totally different direction for reasons of their own? As long as the character is true to their core (usually is), I embrace the change and make adjustments accordingly.

Relationship Arc Chart– Protagonist and a Key Character

It’s also important to be aware of the impact of a significant event on all major characters. For example, the death of a central figure has a huge impact on the protagonist and other characters. We really see this, and expect it, in mystery writing yet reactions need to be thought out just as clearly in any genre. How does each person feel about the death? What opportunities or misfortunes do they see as a result? How every character reacts to the death and to those around them must be consistent with personal motives and values.

 Relationship Arc Chart– Reaction to a Major Event

There are two seldom spoken about things writers need to be aware of to keep interactions genuine. I don’t chart these but I do short write ups on each to make sure I understand them from my characters’ points of view.

Male and Female Perspectives

Yes, males and females see and express things slightly differently. And no, it’s not all stereotypical black and white behaviour either so please don’t take my comments as such. However, it’s folly not to consider the language, approach to situations and socialization of the sexes when writing characters or in understanding target market appeal. That’s why there are so many books on relationships (the Mars and Venus stuff) because it is important. It’s not about equality issues or discrimination. It’s simply that as women and men we are biologically different and we see the world a little differently. Those differences need to be understood and embraced. We can do the same jobs but our approach and communication may be different.

Women may be more prone to focus on emotions and relationships while men are more concerned about process such as fixing something or winning the race. Use this to create confusion and tension as characters speak at cross purposes on an issue. Mix it up to make interactions more interesting. Change the socialization norms. That’s what happened when television, books and movies first created female detectives and lawyers – interactions between the sexes was awkward and rife with tension. It still is and it makes for compelling viewing and reading. Being aware of the differences gives writers more ammunition to mix it up and make interactions more dynamic, less boring and less stereotypical.

Life stages

So how do people react to Joey – as a late teen, and with his father’s death, his mother Sally doesn’t want him to leave the household to become his own man. He’s now expected to fill his father’s shoes, stay in the family business and look after her. Although he knows he must do this, Joey’s interactions with his mother will be charged as he struggles for his own identity and sense of self. If Joey had been married and with a maturing family of his own, his position in society and his skill wouldn’t be questioned and therefore his interactions with his mother would be quite different like charged but now able to assert himself and demand what he wants, respectful or entirely dismissive.

Writing for teens (YA) is different than writing for adults or middle grade. It’s deeper than point of view – it’s about issues, maturity, ability to express, comfort with expression and experience. An adult who has been burned in a relationship as a teenager will have a very different approach to a date than a teen on a first date. That seems obvious, but as an adult writing for teens, I must be very careful not to insinuate my adult knowledge, observations and experience on my characters otherwise their interactions won’t ring true for my readers. The same holds true whenever we write about something apart from our own soci-economic strata.

These are just a few of the tools I use to keep character interactions interesting. What works for you?

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We can build worlds, create interesting characters, have background information and personality/motivational analysis that fills a book. After studying how to create characters, how to make them interesting, unique and multidimensional, we must somehow bring them to life and make them as real to the reader as a living, breathing human being. Yet how can this be done?

It’s all about relationships. Characters come alive when we see them in relationship. Their interactions (actions and reactions) reveal their innermost secrets, their fears, their world view, their values. Just like us, they act and react to those around them – life is not lived in a vacuum. That’s why the background work and world building are so important. What is the society’s prevailing code of ethics or conduct? Where does the character live – the social and survival norms are different from a crowded city in first world or third world economies, rural or urban settings, earth, Mars or a fantasy world. This determines what is important to the character – what she values or abhors.

We interact with and react to our families, our pets, our loves, those we loathe, those we casually know and those we don’t even know but have a strong reaction to. A strong reaction to strangers? Think about it. Do you slam the phone on the telemarketer or do you make friends with that person? Do you disregard or mock political propaganda from the party you don’t support or do you take the time to befriend a supporter and understand their views? In both examples, the interaction with strangers is at different ends of the spectrum – from blatant disregard to embracing their humanity. Most of us are somewhere in between. The way we choose to interact with people in these situations is determined by what we value, what motivates us and what issues are pressing in on us. Knowing where your character lies on the value spectrum will make it easier to write believable character interactions. Is your character determined or unsure? Have faith in life or believe it can’t be trusted? Accept or reject change?

For example, in a self-help book on relationships (those are gold mines for writers!) titled Love is a Many Splintered Thing by Patricia H. Rushford, we follow Samantha and David as they journey from the honey moon stage to near divorce. The fight scenes, simply done for illustrative purposes, are quite compelling. In one scene, we learn that David has manipulated Samantha’s computer dating data sheet so that their scores will jive. Samantha is so furious that she wants nothing to do with David. David is hurt and upset. He had fallen in love with her the moment he saw her and didn’t want to trust a machine with the rest of his life.

So, why did Samantha have such a strong reaction to David’s action and why did he manipulate the data? The answers lie in their backgrounds, in those deep dark corners that are so easy to ignore yet which compel us to act as we do. As Rushford explains: David is a man’s man, always in control and is uncomfortable with the feelings Sam has awakened in him. He has tried to be the kind of man he thought his father (now dead) would have wanted him to be but David feels he has never quite succeeded. Now once again, in his relationship with Sam, he hasn’t quite succeeded. Samantha, on the other hand, comes from a childhood of abuse and neglect and so resists love for fear of abandonment. At times her emotional needs exceed her ability to reason.

Understanding fears and aspirations this deeply means a writer can stay true to the core of who their characters are. That then makes their actions and reactions more consistent and true to their nature as they interact with other characters. What about dialogue and body language? Both are important and once again, are part of knowing your character well. Is her language terse? Can he say what he means? She talks of feelings while he refers to car manuals. Is her manner aloof, open or frustratingly neutral? Is there a combination of warmth and cold, efficiency and aloof caring, that is both appealing and frustrating? How does each character react to how the other speaks let alone to what he or she says? Thinking through those dynamics creates most interesting interactions.

There is one major stumbling block to writing genuine character interactions. That is unconsciously slipping into your own value system and not remaining true to your character. That’s when characters and scenes become one dimensional. Personally, I hate conflict. I prefer to be the peacemaker. Knowing that about myself gives me the awareness I need to let my characters be themselves in all their gore and glory. The best writing advice I ever received was permission to be cruel, to ramp up the stakes, to let my characters sweat, squirm and yes, fight.

By knowing our characters intimately, from their deepest darkest fears to their speech patterns, we can totally abandon ourselves to the muse and write compelling, memorable scenes that will whisk our readers into our characters’ worlds.  Ah, yes, the elusive muse – that’s the moment when we know our characters so well that on paper, we become them and we give genuine voice to them and to those they interact with.

What things have you learned to bring your characters to life and to make their interactions genuine?

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“There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays, and every single one of them is right!”
-  Rudyard Kipling

Every writer does things a little bit differently, and that’s just as true of building/creating characters as it is of any other task in the writer’s list.  That being said, there are still some common elements that we as writers can talk about when it comes to the creatures of our minds that inhabit our stories.

So how do characters come to light?  To my mind, there are three basic paths you can take to create characters, none of which are mutually exclusive.

First, characters can grow out of world building.  If you’re a writer who spends much time creating a self-consistent story universe before you begin writing the story, you may well create the universe first, then ask yourself what kind of people would inhabit it.  I know of several authors for whom this would appear to be their favorite method, but probably the most well-known example of this would be J. R. R. Tolkien’s Middle-Earth.  Tolkien first invented the amazing languages in his stories, then tried to imagine what kind of people would speak them.  Out of that grew the stories that served as bedrock for The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings.

Second, characters can grow out of situations.  This tends to be very true of writers who tightly plot their stories, from what I can tell.  If you’ve got this great idea for a end of civilization as we know it story, what kind of character would tell it?

And third, sometimes the characters steps onto center stage in your mind, full-blown, full-grown, out of seemingly nowhere.  This tends to happen a lot with writers who are pantsers.  (Raises hand.  Happens to me a lot.)  The problem then is trying to figure out what story needs to be told for that character.

There’s going to be more posts later this month about specifics of characters and characterizations.  I’d like to spend the rest of this one dealing with one thing we as writers sometimes don’t think about very much.

I’ve often heard it said that one of the keys to successful story telling is having believable characters.  That’s true, as far as it goes.  But in today’s reading environment, it’s just as important—if not more so—that characters be ‘connectable’.  In other words, do the readers connect with them—do they feel what the characters feel?  If your readers don’t feel some kind of empathy for at least one of the characters in your story—preferably the hero—it’s not going to succeed.  But for your readers to connect with your characters, you have to connect with them first.

Case in point:  Marion Zimmer Bradley told an anecdote on herself in a story introduction she wrote for a story in The Best of Randall Garrett (edited by Robert Silverberg, Timescape Books, 1982).  She was talking about the friendship she had with Randall, and how many times and ways he had helped her.  At one point she tells of being five chapters into writing a new novel.  It wasn’t going well, and she could tell that it wasn’t going well, but she couldn’t figure out what the problem was.  It was driving her nuts.  So she drove over to Randall’s house, handed him the manuscript, and asked him to tell her what was wrong.  She waited while he read the five chapters.  His response after doing so was as follows:

“Honey, you know what’s wrong with this book?  It’s written very well and it’s a nice idea.  But your hero is a klutz.  Nobody wants to read about a klutz.”  (The Best of Randall Garrett, page 44.)

Marion concluded the anecdote by saying that she immediately recognized that his critique was valid, that she rewrote all five chapters to make the hero into a different person, and the rest of the writing went smoothly.

I told you that story to make the point that no reader is going to connect with a character that we as writers don’t connect with, that we don’t understand, that we don’t have some form of empathy for.  It doesn’t matter if they’re bad guys or good guys.  It doesn’t matter if we built the characters like Legos in the world building process, if we discovered them dealing with disaster, or if they sprang full-grown from our foreheads in search of a story like Athena from the brow of Zeus.  If we don’t feel them, if we don’t understand them, if we don’t connect with them, our readers won’t either, and the story will fail.

If you want your stories to work, you don’t necessarily have to like your characters, but you do need to understand them and feel something for them.  This will come through in your writing.

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Okay, before you can go to the conventions and use your elevator pitch like we talked about last month, you have to write the story. This month we’re going to focus on the craft aspect of writing. Because it’s February, and for some reason this month bring about images of mostly naked babies holding bows. we’re going to focus on relationships. Don’t groan – we aren’t going to spend the entire month talking romance, although it will be a topic this month.

Think about the stories you love. What made you love it? Not the plot. Not even the special effects. It’s the characters and their journey that takes a story from like to love.  Some of the all time most loved stories include Gone With The Wind, The Wizard of Oz, Charlotte’s Web, and To Kill a Mockingbird. Action adventure movies can be loved, but it seems to me that only happens when there’s something extraordinary about the character dynamics.  Well loved stories, regardless of genre, all have one thing in common – characters that stay with us long after we close the book.

I’m going to use one of my favorite books – The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle – as an example of what I mean. Each of the characters, even the unicorn, is flawed. Schmendrick the Magician (and I didn’t have to look up how to spell his name even though my spelling is atrocious) can’t actually work magic. He’s the incompetent fool, the disappointment and the failure. He can’t touch the unicorn. He joins her quest to benefit himself, not because it’s the right thing to do. Yet, he still finds the strength to get up each morning and try to be a true magician. Molly Grue lives with bandits. She’s brash and a bit crude. Yet, her heart is pure enough to see a unicorn. King Haggard has everything, but can’t feel joy or love. The unicorn is immortal, but she doesn’t know love or regret. A misfired (or not) spell robs her of her immortality. Over the course of the story all four of these character (and Prince Lir) confront who they are.  All are searching for something more than themselves. All but one changes.

Why is this one of my favorite books? Because of the depth and beauty of the characters and their interactions. Peter S. Beagle’s A Fine and Private Place is also on my most favored books list for the same reason. I wanted the good guys to win. I wanted the bad guy to get his comeuppance.

How did Peter Beagle and all those other writers create such memorable characters?

Well, that’s what we’re talking about this month.

This month we’ll look at creating a complete characters, the “good” bad guy, and believable character interactions. We’ll spend some time on Romance in deference to St. Valentine’s holiday. But also platonic relationships between the characters and conflict in general. Please check out posts over the month, and remember it’s not too late to get that box of chocolates.

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