Not too long ago I discussed some basics on how to build effective characters. I think some specific examples might be helpful to people trying to scribble out compelling fiction, and in the wake of NaNoWriMo, you might be looking back over your work wondering how to improve something. Hopefully, examinations of existing characters might help in that effort.
This week we’re taking a look at the brain.
No, not that brain.
No, not that brain either.
The brain I’m referring to is the character on the story responsible for explaining the science or technology behind the problem at hand. In science fiction, this is your science officer. Procedurals tend to have the brain in a lab somewhere working on the forensics to solve the case. Television is a great example with plenty of different brains on display. CSI has spun into three separate shows all about entire teams of brains working on the crime of the week. Bones counters the babble of the brains with the earthy everyman charm of Agent Seeley Booth, who affectionately calls them ‘squints’. Most other shows just have a nameless person to appear and deliver the science.
NCIS, however, is not most other shows. NCIS has Abby.
Few if any shows have given the individual forensics expert down in the lab the sort of characterization that Abby has received. She’s smart, produces results quickly and supports the team any way she can. She’s also a goth, constantly listens to happening music, gives hugs whenever she deems them necessary and drinks down Caf Pow like a fiend. Did I mention she sleeps in a coffin, has all sorts of interesting tattoos, uses ASL and occasionally cuddles a stuffed hippo that farts when squeezed? These are, individually, little quirks, which when put together make for one of the most unique characters in a television procedural, or any television show ever.
The point is, Abby is a brain without being overtly nerdy or socially inept. She breaks the mold of brains that have come before, and shows how a few small things can make a character that would otherwise be more of the same into something truly memorable. When you’re making a character, it can help to list the character’s quirks, along with likes, dislikes, goals and phobias. This works for heroes as well as villains, and is something I plan to explore in the weeks to come.
Unless you’re a large business with the right sort of representation to bitch & whine to the government for a bailout, you can’t get something for nothing. You need to work to be successful. Even geckos know that. And you don’t want to be outdone by a gecko, do you? I didn’t think so. I mean, he’s cute and all, what with the big expressive eyes and the adorable accent, but if a tiny lizard can do it, what’s to stop a human being with a fully-functional frontal lobe, or even the likes of Sarah Palin?
I know I said I was going to avoid political commentary in this webspace, so all I’m going to say is that Ms. Palin has gotten a book published. I could continue to rag on Stephenie Meyer and Dan Brown, but at least when they throw up on their keyboards something colorful comes out. Ms. Palin’s vomit has all the color and variety of the Bonneville Salt Flats. Anyway, let me meander back to my point.
My point is, if you want your stories to be experienced by people other than your mother or your long-suffering spouse, you need to do some work. And let’s face it – work sucks. Even when you’re doing something you enjoy, it can quickly become a chore. We’d all rather play with our kittens or fire up video games or tune into favorite shows rather than work.
It’s worth keeping in mind, however, that the end result is why we work. The goal is what we’re aiming for. Nobody plays soccer just to kick the ball. Sure, footballer’s wives get their jewelry, MGs and pool boys regardless of how their footballer plays, but the actual athlete wants to score points on the field. That net taunts them, and they want nothing more than to kick the ball hard enough to send it sailing past the tender and into the net’s smug imaginary face.
There’s a dust jacket, out there, that’s acting like a net for you. It’s all set to wrap around an edition of your story or stories, sit on a shelf and tempt consumers into buying it. It’ll gladly protect the cover of the book and the signature you’re going to put in there for a fan. And it’s patient – it’s not going anywhere. But it taunts you. It tells you that you’re not going to put anything into it. It’s more than willing to take in your work but it knows you’re struggling to motivate yourself.
Are you going to let that dust jacket win? Well, are you?
Okay, my metaphor’s stretching a little thin, but I think I’ve made my point. This struggle, the lethargy and procrastination, only lasts as long as you allow it. You are the only person who can tell that story that’s kicking around in your brainpan, and you need to be the one to sit down and bang it out. And you know that tangle of emotions that’s tripping you up on the way to your writing desk, typewriter or keyboard? They’re negative emotions you can use.
So get off your ass and do it. And by “get off your ass” I mean “walk to where you need to write, sit down on your ass, and write.” So by getting off your ass, I’m saying sit your ass down.
Lighthouse is, I feel, benefiting from a lack of perspective. I want my heroine to maintain her unique voice throughout the story, which means periphery scenes told from an outside perspective need to be cut. This means that several of the characters I’d meant to introduce early in the story will also not make their actual appearance until much later, if they appear at all.
Take for example the mercenary recruiter and somewhat diminutive French stereotype De L’Ombre. Cool name, right? “Of the shadows” is a nice way to describe someone picking up unsavory talent for a mysterious employer. However, looking back on the scenes I’ve cut, I think the character falls a bit flat. He’s the kind of underling you’d expect from a Bond film, sure: an underhanded backstabbing enthusiast interfacing with the talent so the Big Bad doesn’t have to. That’s ground which has been fairly well trod, I think.
And then there’s Grosse, a big Eastern German dude I introduce just for Morgan to blow up. Seriously, Grosse’s German for ‘large.’ Clearly I was in my creative prime when I dreamed this guy up.
“I am good at what I do,” Grosse replied in a cold, business-like fashion. “As we have sat here I have determined 37 ways to kill you and make my escape from this country before the police even arrived here. And only 14 of them involve the firearms I carry.”
Grosse spoke as if he was discussing options on a bathroom accessory. De L’Ombre stopped in mid-sip. His thin lips curled into a smile around the lip of his cup.
“Marvelous,” the Frenchman told the German. “I believe you are exactly the kind of man my employer is seeking.”
If I were still aiming for the pre-Daniel Craig Bond film demographic, this would be fine. But I’m going in a new direction. One that doesn’t involve dialog so campy the characters are pitching tents.
Moving on from these guys, we have the Mongoose. I do plan on keeping him in the story, but it’ll be without this introduction.
The sounds of the Pit were almost drowned out by the background of the city – all the fighting, cursing, lovemaking, singing and vomiting that constituted so urban an area. De L’Ombre felt simultaneously repulsed by the raunchiness of the environment, and drawn to the vibrancy and diversity of life here, on what some considered the underside of the world. But the Pit was his objective, and he would not be distracted. With a wad of cash pressed into the burly guard’s palm, he made his way down the narrow, rickety staircase into the poured concrete basement that was the Pit.
The Pit had many names, but everyone who knew of it knew it served only one purpose. There was the unmistakable sound of a fist striking flesh and bone, followed by the howl of the crowd. Bodies jostled and shoved for a better view into the gravel-filled hole in the floor, arms waving bills as two men circled each other in the 12-ft. wide space. One was easily over two meters in height, a foreigner to these parts, German perhaps; blond hair cut very short, body spotted with tattoos. The other was a head shorter, either Korean or Vietnamese, about De L’Ombre’s height, with jet-black hair and calm, almost lazy eyes. The German had his hands up in a classic boxing stance, while the other kept his arms at his side, his every move possessed of deadly grace. De L’Ombre suspected this boy to be the Vietnamese fighter he sought, but he had to be sure. So he watched, and waited.
The German took a wide swing at the smaller man, who easily ducked back. Using that momentum, the Oriental fighter leaned to his right and propelled his left arm towards the German, the first two knuckles of his hand striking the side of his opponent’s elbow. There was a resounding snap, the unmistakable sound of bones breaking, followed closely by the roar of approval from the mob. Cursing loudly (and in German, so that at least was confirmed), the larger man flailed with his other arm, trying to bring his meaty fist in contact with the side of the smaller man’s head. But again, the Vietnamese fighter was simply too quick, dropping into a crouch and then, with catlike speed and movements, he spun and kicked out his right leg, catching the German in the back of his shin. Caught off-balance, the huge fighter toppled, and in a heartbeat the boy was on top of him, literally crouched on his chest. There was a moment, where the mob quieted and the young man stared down at the European with unblinking eyes. Then, with a movement like a cobra snapping at a rodent, the victor’s right arm snapped out again, and the German gasped, eyes wide, as the bony knuckles of his opponent’s right hand crushed his windpipe with frightening speed and accuracy.
What I like about the Mongoose (real name Vanh Minh Thao) is that he’s smart. He knows De L’Ombre’s a slime ball, especially when he makes his proposal.
Vanh’s mouth twitched. “I do not normally fight women, let alone kill them.”
“Nevertheless,” the Frechman told him, “this woman needs to die. She is between my employer and his business, and that cannot be. She is to be removed, and my employer is willing to pay that fee for your service.”
“Where is this woman?”
“America.”
“Why not hire an American to do this thing, then?” the Mongoose asked, seeming annoyed. “Why come all the way to Kowloon making such offers?”
“My employer wishes to continue to enjoy the pleasures of anonymity. Besides, talents like yours deserve to be paid for in such a manner,” De L’Ombre replied with a thin smile.
After the gunplay in the upcoming action scene I plan on writing tonight, a fight between Morgan and the Mongoose is likely to feel both more intimate and more intense. At least, that’s the goal I have in mind. Posting these clips from my old manuscript helps to show me how far my writing has come. Chuck Wendig is right in that by writing more, even if it’s crap, we learn how not to write crap and maybe, just maybe, write something that’ll get read by someone besides Mom.
But I’m definitely leaving De L’Ombre out. And no, it’s not because he’s French.
Nobody feels fantastic all the time, at least not without heavy drinking or severe medication. Creative people are, by and large, emotional and thus emotional blindsides getting hit can knock you right off of the rails you’d been riding towards the completion of a project. How do you deal with this sort of thing, other than reaching for the nearest bottle of hard liquor or happy pills?
You use it.
Instead of wallowing in the negative feeling, take it and run with it headlong into your project. If you’re unable to focus on the project, write something on the side that uses the feeling. Here are some examples.
I know I’ve covered using your anger previously, but invoking a Star Wars reference never gets old. Still, if something is making you furious, with fists and teeth clenched regardless of how other people are telling you how to react (doesn’t the words “Oh, you’re over-reacting” make you want to punch someone in the face?) you need to expend that energy, and preferably without damage to property or invoking personal injury lawsuits. If you’re a writer, what do you do?
Write a fight scene.
Get into the headspace of a person involved in a barroom brawl. Hell, write about someone starting said brawl. Did someone say something to a significant other you didn’t like? Is someone chatting up a friend of yours without permission? Not enough booze in your drink? Write about how it makes you feel, how the fury wells up inside you and how the sensation of wheeling around and letting someone have it right in the face touches off the kind of chair-breaking bottle-throwing grand melee unseen since the days of John Wayne.
You’ll probably feel a bit better, and nobody will be suing you.
Let’s face it. We’re all afraid of something. It could be bugs, rejection, alienation of friends, cars, bacteria, being laughed at, loneliness… I could go on. The bottom line is, sooner or later your fear is going to grab hold of you. Grab hold of it right back and go dancing.
Try a ghost story.
Something goes bump in the night. You catch an unfamiliar or unexpected motion in the corner of your eyes. The lights go out, and the shadows seem to grow to fill the empty space. Do you start sweating? Does your hand start to shake? How fast is your heart pounding? What voices do you hear? What do you imagine is lurking there in the darkness? It could just be the cat. It might be your spouse in the next room unaware that you’ve hit the light switch. Or it could be a phantasmal fiend from beyond the grave. Write it out and see where your fear takes you.
More than likely, it’s not a place as frightening as you thought it might be.
Despair, anxiety, paranoia… they’re all cut from the same cloth. “Should I have said that?” quickly becomes “I shouldn’t have said that,” which leads to “I’m an idiot for having said that.” Sure, sometimes you make a legitimate mistake and need to clean the egg from your face. Other times, something with good intentions turns out getting tossed under a steamroller paving the road to Hell. Whatever the cause, you’re left with this cloying feeling of inner doubt and depression, and you need to do something about it, otherwise it’s going to consume you.
Time to write a walk through the rain.
Rain is an evocative weather condition. The sky’s the color of gunmetal, the sun or stars hidden from view, the rain cold and relentless on the weary traveler and the wind makes sure that every surface of the body is wet. Yet people walk through it, alone with their thoughts. “What if I’m wrong? What could I have done to keep this from happening? How much have I lost, and can any of it be rescued? And what the hell am I going to do now?” Write through the thought process. Describe the rain drops, the thunder, the looks of people cozy in their warm homes or places of business, the way others are ignorant of your inner conflict. Work with the emotions. Coax them out of the shadows and into your hands where you can change them from a disability to an advantage.
No matter what you decide to do with your negative emotions, be it one of the above or simply focusing on a project at hand, the sooner you do it the better off you’ll be. This is experience talking here, folks – if you’re unable to shake off the darkness, if you let this sort of thing fester and grow unexpressed in your heart, it’ll creep into every aspect of your life. You’ll lose the motivation to create, you’ll lash out at friends and family and the depths to which your emotions can sink are more frightening than anything ever put on paper by Poe, King or Lovecraft. If nothing else, talk about it. Get things off of your chest.
Negative emotions are a lot like a badly-prepared meal you’ve just eaten: better out than in. Sure, things might stink for a bit, and you may feel inclined to flush afterwards so nobody else has to deal with your vomit, be it physical or creative. But once it’s out, chances are it won’t come back. I’ll leave you with a bit of Emerson’s advice, since he’s far more experienced and eloquent than I.
Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.
So this section used to be called “Breaking Writer’s Block” back in the early days of the blog. However, it has been proven by scientists that writer’s block is complete and utter bullshit. In light of this revelation, it’s necessary to rebrand this service I’m attempting to provide. So rather than breaking writer’s block, we need to look at what writing is. Writing is a skill. There’s natural talent involved, but in order to develop it, the skill needs to be trained. Since you’re training a skill that at times requires a pencil or pen, I’d refer to it as pen training, or PT if you prefer.
“I will PT you all until you fucking DIE!” – Gunny Hartman, Senior DI, Full Metal Jacket
I’m not going to be that harsh, but what follows is certainly an exercise. Basically, if you find yourself stuck with words running around in your head but stubbornly refusing to jump out, grab some sheets of scrap paper or index cards. You’ll need at least five.
Names
On the first sheet/card, write down five proper names. They can be as serious or as silly as you like. If you can’t think of any, crack open a book. Especially a gaming book, the first couple pages are full of names.
Actions
Next we’ll need some verbs to go with these proper nouns. So on the second sheet/card, jot down five actions. Do more than just name a verb, though, and add descriptors. They should be things like “jumped over,” “shoots at”, “talks to,” and so on. You can also add descriptors on the front end: “viciously punches,” “passionately kisses,” “breathlessly describes,” &c.
Targets
I mentioned shooting as a verb, but the target isn’t always being targeted by violence. You’ll need the other half of what grammar aficionados will recognize as the predicate. On your third sheet/card, write down some objects or people to be affected. “the car,” “Steve,” “that annoying client” and “the wall” are just a few examples. We’re going for creativity, not necessarily realism, so go nuts.
Extras
Subject & predicate alone make sentences, but they can be a little boring, so on the fourth sheet/card you’ve got, jot down some extra descriptors. Again, this is a creative exercise, so don’t limit yourself. Things like “with a rebel yell,” “in space,” “because the rum was gone” and “for no apparent reason” all qualify.
Mix & Match
So you’ve got one black workspace left. Fill it up by taking one element from each of the four previous pages and making a sentence. Once you use something, cross it out so you don’t repeat yourself. You should end up with five sentences that look something like this:
“Chuck viciously punched the wall with a rebel yell.”
“Bill jumped over the car in space.”
“Sam passionately kisses Robert for no apparent reason.”
Hopefully you’re laughing a little at these. That’s part of the point. Laughing releases endorphins, which along with the creativity used to put these sentences together, is sure to help break up that writer’s block authorial obstruction.
