I Can’t Say Enough About Characters

Recently I’ve come across some reading that discusses the idea of creating characters with such depth that they begin to speak for themselves. As someone who considers himself to hold character development in high regard, I was surprised to find that I’ve never experienced this myself.

The concept, I think, is a beautiful one, to have the kind of relationship with one’s characters that they take on lives of their own. After all, that’s kind of what writers do: create lives. Each person we write into our stories is not limited to what they say or do within the confines of the tales we tell. There was a “before,” generally, and this has an immense effect on what people do. There’s also the bits and pieces of their lives that we don’t see during the story itself; these have to be accounted for, if not in the writing, then in the writer’s head.

My first post that I wrote was entitled “My Characters Are My Children.” I wanted to express the idea that (I believe) I heard first from J.D. Salinger, that one should know one’s characters as one would one’s own kin. That’s a mouthful, but it’s important; if we don’t know our characters inside and out, we don’t know our stories. That makes them particularly hard to tell, don’t you think?

I often spend a good deal of time developing character backgrounds. I’ve done this since I acted in my high school’s theatre productions. If you are to become a character and behave as they would, you need to know absolutely everything about them. If there are gaps in your knowledge, you aren’t doing your job; the illusion you create for the audience disappears. You are no longer the character; you are an actor portraying one.

As a writer, you never want to be a puppeteer. That is, you don’t want your readers feeling as though they’re watching an artificial performance, like a puppet show. Instead, you want them to feel as though they’re engaging with real people with real lives and real interests and real faults and real flaws and real wants and real needs and so on…

Unless, of course, you want to highlight the artifice in your work. If so, disregard this.

Even if your plot itself is more or less implausible, or even impossible in reality, we maintain the suspension of disbelief in our work. You want your audience to have full faith in the reality occurring in the pages or on screen, even if it can’t exist in the world outside the theatre or beyond the cover. This is achieved through the creation of characters who, regardless of the situations they find themselves in, are real people.

Recently, I took a look at a short story I have been working on. Before I laid eyes on the pages, I thought of my plot and the characters involved — and I couldn’t, for about thirty seconds, remember the name of my protagonist.

That’s a problem. That’s thirty seconds too long. While I definitely did write an extensive character bio about her, I couldn’t think of her name when asked. Therefore, I did not know my character nor my story — which helped me identify the sinking feeling in my gut that it just wasn’t any good. Of course it wasn’t — my heart, my mind, my writing was not in it, simply because I didn’t develop my characters to their full potential.

I consider it an insult to them; would you want your children to fail to develop as people? Certainly not; so why would you let the same happen to your characters?

Again, I had heard of this idea of characters beginning to act and speak for themselves, but I couldn’t really put a face to it. There were no characters in works I had read or watched whom I ever felt I could predict. Granted, the position of an audience member is certainly different from that of the writer, but shouldn’t the viewer/reader feel as though they know the characters to enough of a degree that they can at least imagine what they might do or say next? Unless you don’t want your audience predicitng such things…but hear me out:

This morning, I was watching an episode of House of Cards. I just started the show this week, and I’m already a ways in. I absolutely love Kevin Spacey’s character, Frank Underwood. He’s got such a particular vernacular about him that every word keeps me interested; I always want to hear what Frank has to say.

Today, as I watched Chapter 11 unfold before me, Frank was having a conversation with his wife, Claire (Robin Wright). A long pause arose, the ball was in Frank’s court, and he had yet to speak. In that silence, I said aloud what I thoroughly expected to come from Frank’s mouth — and, lo and behold, I was right.

This happened again afterwards, and even later on as well. Frank Underwood, though I didn’t fully know him, had become such a familiar character that I could predict his speech. Now why can’t I do that with my own characters?

I suppose I don’t know them as well. And that’s pretty upsetting — its like being more familiar with your neighbor’s children than your own. You’d feel like a neglectful parent, or in my case, a neglectful writer.

I realize I have a good understanding of how to get to know my characters, but I don’t do it. I write these expansive character bios and leave them to be, hardly referring back to them or expanding upon them. There is always more to be said for your characters, so why not go the extra mile?

Believe me, I’m not exactly one for patience. I’m happy to practice it, but I would rather get immediate results. However, patience is at the heart of configuring a good story. You need to take the time to get to know your characters before you put them in situations in which they need to act. Otherwise, they’ll flounder.

So let your characters grow, and grow with them. Make them people you’d like to talk to.

Who knows? They might start talking back.