Category: Character development

How to Introduce Your Hero Without Exposition

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Image by Pat Loika

Image by Pat Loika

Your protagonist is up for a job interview.

The position: adventure guide.

The hiring company: your reader.

He’s only got a few paragraphs to make that first impression and convince the reader to take him on for the next 200 pages. He’s got a resume full of great skills like sword-fighting and cat-saving, with a detailed peril history, but your reader isn’t really sure what qualities she’s looking for. Exposition isn’t going to help. She wants to see proof he’ll take her on a wild adventure, and that it’ll be fun, moving, thought-provoking, or all three.

It’s a working interview.

And this working interview—also known as his grand entrance into the story—must be three things:

  1. Memorable. It should be strange, clever, charming, funny, or disturbing. Something that makes the reader wake up and take notice, even if just to figure out what the heck he’s up to.
  2. Insightful. It should show something unique about the character. Elements of his appearance, his actions, and anything he is carrying can all illustrate the kind of person he is, and hint at his background. This can be as simple as mentioning his bum leg, and how he tries to hide it when he meets a pretty girl. Or maybe how he scares his grandkids by driving a fork into it.
  3. Relevant. It should relate to – or introduce – the problem that leads to the plot. The moment normal life gets turned upside down, whether the hero realizes it yet or not. Like Luke Skywalker buying a couple of used droids to help on the farm.

Think of great hero (or villain) entrances in movies and TV, where it’s harder for writers to sneak in exposition:

Pirates of the Caribbean

Captain Jack Sparrow standing on the topcastle of a sinking boat, one hand on the mast as he rides smoothly into harbor, past crowds of astonished eyes, to reach the dock just in time and stride nonchalantly on.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Arthur Dent in pajamas lying in front of a bulldozer he’s just been informed wants to knock down his house to make way for a bypass. Moments later, a friend arrives informing him he’s got to forget the bulldozer because the Earth is about to be destroyed to make way for a hyperspace bypass.

Doctor Who (new series)

Rose is incredulous to find herself chased by a gang of animated mannequins. The first sign we see of the Doctor is his hand grabbing hers. Rose looks up to see a cheeky grin framed by large, goofy ears. “Run!” he says.

Mary Poppins

Flying in by umbrella. Looking exactly like the imaginary nanny Jane and Michael described. Pulling several large items out of an average-sized carpet bag (evidently it is bigger on the inside).

Star Wars IV

Darth Vader stepping through the hatch to board the rebel ship, surveying the dead with approval, the sound of the soulless breath clicking in and out of his metal lungs.

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What do these entrances say about the characters? What do they say about the adventure to come?

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Should your characters be likable or relatable?

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Image: RoseofTimothywoods

Image: RoseofTimothywoods

You’ve heard about making your protagonists relatable. And you’ve heard about making them likable. Are they the same thing? If not, which is more important?

The difference between likeability and relatability

You relate to a character who is similar to you in some way. This doesn’t mean you have to have the same occupation, background, or religion (though that can help) – it means you share some of the same struggles, weaknesses, or desires. A “deep down, we all just want to be loved,” kind of a thing.

You like a character you can admire. Maybe they have qualities you wish you had or that you aspire to. Or maybe they’re just fun to be around. They could be funny or quirky or extremely loyal.

It’s like the difference between empathy and sympathy – in one, you can actually feel the other person’s pain as if it were your own. In the other, you can only imagine the other person’s pain, but you still root for them.

Relatability can create stronger emotions for the reader. Rather than simply watching your hero go through things, the reader is going through things with the hero.

Likability can create more pleasant emotions for the reader. A hero who is fun to be around, or who earns the reader’s love, can become like a best friend or brother – someone the reader doesn’t want to leave.

Which should you aim for?

They aren’t mutually exclusive: relating to a character can lead to liking him, and vice versa. They aren’t mutually dependent, either: you can like a character who’s very different from you, or you can hate a character who represents all the worst parts of yourself.

Whether you aim for likeability or relatability or both depends on the tone of the story and the traits you already know the character has.

But generally, you should try for a little of both.

How to write likable characters

I talked about this awhile back – right here. There are some relatability tips in there, too.

How to write relatable characters

Again, relatability is more about feelings (pain points and dreams) than about facts (age, sex, religion). The best path to relatability is not to avoid extremes so as not to alienate anyone (you’ll just end up with a nondescript Lego brick), but to tell the truth. Give your hero your own deepest, most powerful feelings, good and bad. Describe in detail how they affect you/him physically, and the thoughts they scream through your head. Nine times out of ten, the response will be “You, too? I thought I was the only one.”

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Who’s your favorite likable character? What character do you most relate to? Why?

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* Thanks to David for suggesting this topic.

 

 

3 ways to cure Gorgeous Hero Syndrome

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You might have noticed a similarity between the two cheesy romance examples from the post at the beginning of this month: both start with “two attractive people.” The vast majority of fictional romances share the gorgeousness trait, which seems a rather unfair statement about all the people who aren’t supermodels, like they either don’t fall in love or their stories aren’t worth writing.

But that’s not the only reason we should think twice about writing all our protagonists to look like Greek gods:

It feels amateur. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, character attractiveness is not important to the plot. Unless you’re writing about actual supermodels, taking the time to point out how drop dead gorgeous your protagonists are is a red flag that you are still just recording an elaborate daydream, rather than writing a real story.

It’s cliché. Most real people aren’t beautiful or ugly, but fall into a “kinda cute” grey area, so it might damage your story’s credibility to even hint at once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess and a handsome prince.

It feels more silver screen than literature. As Jubilare pointed out in our discussion about the three suspiciously fine looking dwarves in The Hobbit movie, looks are important on screen, but not so important on the page. I would rather look at Christian Bale for two hours than at Steve Buscemi, but the written word is a unique opportunity to get to know and love the Steves without being distracted by all the heart-fluttering nonsense of the Christians.

It doesn’t encourage reader sympathy. There are layers of immersion in fiction. There’s the first, superficial layer in which your readers can pretend for awhile that they are beautiful people doing exciting things. Then there’s a deeper layer in which readers come face to face with characters who are eerily similar to themselves. By extension, every event – good and bad – hits the reader harder, because the unconscious implication is that it could happen to them.

 

How do you cure Gorgeous Hero Syndrome?

Make their chief attraction subtle. Something only the people closest to them and/or their recently-introduced soul mate would notice. A unique mannerism that becomes an endearment, like the way he shuffles when he’s standing, or (maybe this is a bad example, but) the six smiles of Rosalee Futch in Win a Date with Tad Hamilton.

Give them something to be self-conscious about. Even the most attractive people have something about their appearance they don’t like. Something that makes them awkward, even if only in their own minds. Maybe she hates her widow’s peak, or he can’t grow facial hair to save his life. But be careful not to fall into the equally bad cliché David pointed out (and the British Biebers take constant advantage of) – the attractive character who thinks she is ugly.

Don’t talk about appearance as much. You are writing about living, breathing people. Not magazine covers. So focus on expressions, rather than features. Body language, rather than shape. Those are the things that keep telling us about the person after the first-glimpse impression.

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Related stuff:

6 ways first person narrators can describe themselves

5 ways to make your characters more believable

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In other news: Welcome to the new digs, everybody! WP Support kindly moved my followers over here yesterday, but I seem to have gained more than 100 followers in the shuffle, so I suspect some people got double-subscribed? If any of you receive this email twice, you might need to adjust your subscription settings. I’m sorry for the annoyance!

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3 tips to avoid writing a cheesy, shallow romance

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image by K Kendall

image by K Kendall

Two attractive people meet. Adventure ensues. They get shot at together. One or both of them shares a moving past experience with the other. Suddenly, it’s love.

Sound similar to the romance in your story? Sorry, it’s also the romantic subplot in pretty much every action movie.

Or maybe yours sounds more like:

Two attractive people meet. One is awkwardly hesitant. One is powerful and forward. They are inexplicably drawn to one another. There are a lot of smoldering gazes and fluttering hearts. It doesn’t matter that they’ve only known each other weeks, days, hours. They know they can’t live without each other.

The problem? You’re just making Cool Whip. The relationships are based on nothing but physical attraction and a few gushy player lines. Corn syrup, oil and air.

You might have done this unintentionally. You might have intended to write something that spoke to the human condition…and watched with horror as the cheesy Jerry Maguire you-complete-me dialogue came oozing out of your fingers. “I’m supposed to be the next Markus Zusak,” you spit at your computer, “Not Stephenie bloody Meyer!”

I know. It’s happened to me.

So here’s the approach I’m taking: Try to forget for the first eight tenths of your book that there even will be a romantic relationship.

Develop the characters individually before you develop their romance.

It might help to think of primetime dramas instead of movies or books—the ones where the two leads are always dancing around a relationship. They work together, struggle together, probably see the best and worst of each other, and still go home alone at the end of the day for years. This means:

  • The audience really gets to know the characters.
  • The characters really get to know each other.
  • You build a ton more tension.

Pretend you’re writing about two people becoming friends.

In literature, as in life, it’s best to build the friendship first. This will force you to stop depending on the cheap thrills of his devastating smile and her million stomach butterflies, and start finding substance on which to build a real relationship, like:

  • Values, fears and interests they have in common.
  • Things they can teach each other.
  • Ways they can grow together.

For some reason, we don’t usually think of these things when we think of romance. Perhaps because most of it’s so cheaply crafted. But a few classics remain shining examples; Pride & Prejudice just celebrated its 200th anniversary.

Sure, it shares elements with a lot of shallow romances: things that appeal to our most basic desires:

  • To be singled out by someone selective.
  • To be adored and sacrificed for.
  • To be protected and provided for.

But it goes much deeper. The heroine and hero of P&P:

  • Value each other’s integrity and intelligence.
  • Discover their own faults by interacting with each other.
  • Become better people from having known each other.

They should fall for each other’s actions, not each other’s words.

There’s little mention of Mr. Darcy’s looks, and no pretty words but one impassioned proposal, which didn’t work for him anyway. It’s Darcy’s actions that win our hearts, from his awkwardness in pursuing Lizzie, to his strength in saving her sister whilst enduring horrible humiliation.

And while Edward Cullen is immortal by way of being undead, Mr. Darcy has been alive and adored for centuries. And, by all accounts, for centuries more.

Aspire to that.

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8 cool ways to get close to your characters

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Image by Okko Pyykko.

People who aren’t writers don’t know the extent of background work that goes into writing a novel—how much plot, setting and character development we write that never appears on the published page.

This is a list of a few of those things.

If you find you have a flat, boring, predictable character—or possibly an unpredictable one, whom you can’t force to do anything he is supposed to do—you probably just don’t know him well enough. Here are some icebreaker exercises to get you two acquainted.

  1. Outline a short history of his (or her) life. Born in this type of neighborhood, went to this type of school, had these types of friends, had this first job, was obsessed with this brand of beef jerky, etc. Include all the major emotional events—moving to another town, death in the family, spelling bee won, heart broken, etc. Check every scene in your novel against this history. Does the character’s emotional reaction match his background? (I recently realized that, in my novel, I had recreated the most traumatic event of one character’s childhood, but he endured it with no signs of inner turmoil: not even a flashback. Don’t let this happen to you! Don’t waste a good chance to add drama!)
  1. Write a traumatic scene from his childhood. Pick one part of that history and actually write it out. It can be as traumatic as his parents’ violent deaths or just losing his mom in the grocery store for five minutes, or seeing a scary movie. This’ll help you figure out his deepest fears and how he reacts to them as an adult.
  1. Describe his “emotional acre.” This tip from Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. She says we are each born with a sort of imaginary acre of land we can do whatever we want with. Plant vegetables or hold an eternal garage sale, that sort of thing. Based on what you now know about your character’s life, figure out what’s in his emotional acre. What does he nurture, hoard, or leave to ruin? With that in mind, ask what he carries in his pockets (or her purse), or keeps in his sock drawer.
  1. Write a stream of consciousness piece from his point of view. Even if you’re not writing in first person (or if you are, but this character isn’t the narrator), step into his head for half an hour and look through his eyes and read his thoughts. Write down what you discover.
  1. Write what people say about him behind his back. How others see him will reveal a lot about him—even is it isn’t all true. How does he stand? How does he sit? How does his posture change when he is bored or nervous? Do people misinterpret his body language? What are the worst rumors about him? How much of it is true?
  1. Write his eulogy—as written by some of your other characters. What people say about him after his death can be even more revealing. Are they afraid to speak ill of him, or was he such a jerk that no one cares? Do they remember nice things about him they had long forgotten? Do they wonder how they’ll go on without him?
  1. Take the Meyers-Briggs personality test for him. Now that you’ve got a feel for him, answer this series of yes or no questions on his behalf. At the end, they’ll tell you his personality type, give you some essays about that type, and a list of fictional and real characters who have/had the same personality. Read it all!
  1. Give him breathing space. You may go through several drafts of your novel, the character shifting with each draft. His actions and speech will change as you learn more about him, and you may discover things about him that force you to alter your plot. Go with it. Don’t try to force him into a box. In a strange twist that parallels Judeo/Christian theology, if you don’t give your characters free will, they will be boring, soulless robots.

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What Meyers-Briggs personality type is your character? Tell me in the comments! (I’ve got an INTJ and an INSJ.)

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