An Exercise in Character Description

One of the first pieces of advice I received when I began writing mysteries, in the 1980s, was this: Every story should have something real in it. Not everything can be invented; the story will begin to feel ungrounded, thin. The real element can be in the setting, characterization, dialogue, or plot development.

In writing classes I illustrated this general rule with a simple writing exercise focusing on character development: describe three people, one whom you know, one whom you have seen around where you live but don’t know personally, and one who is entirely your invention.

 

Every student reacts to this exercise differently.  At first I thought students would approach the three characters in the order in which they were presented, and some did, but not all and not even most. I expected they would devote an equal amount of time and thought to each one, but again they did not. Some spent paragraphs on one and only a line or so on the others. Again, I expected most would fall into the pattern of a basic description, but I was wrong. Some gave a basic description of each person, almost like an abbreviated biography, and some gave the same information in a bullet list. Others wrote a scene with snatches of dialogue, and still others described the person in question engaged in an activity. For some this exercise was clearly the beginning of a short story. But in the end almost every student responded to one of the three characters most strongly and most creatively.

 

The second character I asked them to describe—the one whom you have seen around the town or city where you live but don’t know personally—brought out the most original and compelling characterizations. After listening to the students describe their process, I wasn’t surprised at the results.

 

The first person, one whom you know, brought along a lot of limitations, and the writers felt restricted—and some felt uncomfortable—in describing someone they knew well. The last one sounded tempting, and for several it was, but the character felt less than real, sometimes fanciful and often dull. The middle one—one whom you’ve seen but don’t know personally—gave them a starting point. The mere fact that this was a person who had caught their attention suggested their imagination was already engaged, and the descriptions became vivid, going far beyond the person they had seen at a distance. By not knowing the individual personally no one was constrained by specific characteristics. The half-knowing seemed to stimulate the imagination, and the descriptions took off from the basic reality of the person seen from afar.

 

The second person had enough grounding in reality to give the character, no matter how fancifully or outrageously described, a certain persuasiveness because he or she was in fact real. Even when we’re making something up in its entirety we add that telling detail we glimpsed while sitting opposite someone on the subway or a manner of speech we overheard at a party. We look for something that caught our attention and use it to catch the reader’s.

Developing the Protagonist

This past weekend I attended Crime Bake, the annual mystery conference held in Dedham, Massachusetts. This is a small conference with lots of panels and opportunities to meet other writers and readers. In the coming weeks I'll share some of the ideas and insights from the conference. Today I'll talk about the practice of developing a protagonist by listing 20 things you know about this character.

At first this sounds like an easy exercise. This is your novel and your protagonist, so you know all there is to know about your character. Right? Probably not. Each item or characteristic will limit what can be included afterwards, and some will have a greater impact than others. In addition, once you get past the first ten or so items, the exercise becomes more difficult. Let me work through one example, using Chief of Police Joe Silva. When we meet Joe, in Murder in Mellingham, he is already entering middle age.

1. Joe Silva is of Portuguese descent. This has implications for the kind of experiences he has had growing up and as a young man.

2. Joe is a little over average height, so he's considered tall. But his height isn't so great that he would compete with Jack Reacher, Lee Child's creation.

3. Joe is unmarried. This opens up all kinds of plot possibilities, and indeed he makes a commitment in the third book, Family Album.

4. Joe worked on his father's fishing boat. This means Joe is working class.

5. Joe is easy going.

6. Joe has a kind sense of humor.

7. Joe is the middle of seven children.

8. Joe calls his mother every week, but rarely visits his family, who live about two hours away.

9. Joe attended Northeastern University. This is a co-op school, meant for commuters as well as the working class population. He would have dressed well, jacket and shirt, perhaps even a tie, for his first week of classes. If he'd been born in a different environment, and gone to Harvard as a legacy student, he would have dressed very differently.

10. Joe is patient. No one would ever call him a hot head, and for a career policeman this is important, affecting his chances for advancement.

By this point we're going deeper into Joe's character. We could fill up the slots with personal tastes (coffee with milk), physical description (black hair and brown eyes), talents (he learned to carve from his grandfather), and childhood (he shared a room with his two brothers). But these aspects, though important details, don't tell us much about the man who is Joe Silva. This is where we have to make choices, and dig deeper for human qualities and behaviors.

11. Joe is broadminded. Having grown up as a minority and working class, he felt the sting of prejudice, and he is sensitive to how circumstances can make other people feel.

12. Family matters a great deal to Joe, so he understands the motivations of others who often make bad decisions for what seem to be the right reasons.

13. Joe is tolerant. He knows people are different simply because he grew up surrounded by siblings who were always debating and arguing and being as different as people can be.

14. Joe grew up in an old-fashioned home, and has chosen to maintain certain practices. You will not hear him call his older relatives by their first names. His uncle will always be Tio.

The deeper we go into the list, the less observable the qualities are. We are now delving into Joe's character, his way of living in and dealing with the world. These are the qualities that people come to know about another after living or working with them for a number of years. They are also the qualities that emerge in a crisis, as we follow our character through the process of discovering the murderer or confronting him or her.

15. Unless someone else's rights or standing are on the line, Joe will prefer to walk away from an argument. Life is too short to be tense with anger all the time.

16. Joe will not bear a grudge but he will keep his distance from people whose way of life repulses him, the fast-talker, the smooth-talker, the builder who cuts corners, the man who whines about his taxes but lives in a million-dollar home.

17. Joe loves his family but he vowed as a young man when he entered the force that he would not show favoritism to any friend or relative. This has not always been easy for him, but he takes it day by day if he has to, as in Last Call for Justice.

18. Joe grew up working on his father's boat and his uncle's farm, so he is physically strong, but he finds most sports a waste of time. He doesn't play golf or tennis (no one in his family did), and only signed up for track and field during high school. He was big enough for football and fast enough for ice hockey, but the violent physical contact didn't appeal to him. He'll watch a football or hockey game but he's not interested in playing.

Even though we may now think we know this character well, he can still surprise us, and we should be ready for that. Joe Silva remained unmarried well into adulthood. But when he did make a commitment, he exhibited two more qualities that are important to our understanding of him and his life story.

19. Joe is a man of fidelity. Once he makes a commitment to a life partner, he is never going to cheat on her.

20. Joe became a stepfather and discovered that he loved being a father. He had set aside his feelings about family and parenting when he didn't marry as a young man, so coming to this in his middle years has brought unexpected happiness. He looks forward to opportunities to spend time with his stepchildren, and to teach them what he knows, in Come About for Murder. 

We learn who someone is by watching his or her behavior, and the same is true in a novel. I developed Joe Silva's character through several books, but in each one I had to stay true to the original impression I created in Murder in Mellingham. In each book, however, we get to know Joe more deeply. He's not perfect, but he's a decent human being who loves his work and his family, and faces challenges squarely.

 To find the Joe Silva/Mellingham books, go here.here

Consistency in Characterization

One of my favorite stories as a child was about a large family living in an old Victorian mansion with pets, a dozen children, a cook, a maid, and a driver/caretaker. I've forgotten most of the book but remember it for its humor, including the moment when the father looks down at one of the boys rolling around on the rug and says, "Which one are you?"

I sometimes feel like that father. I'm deep into a scene with one character taking over and doing wonderful things to complicate the plot, and out of nowhere enters the protagonist's half-brother or long lost cousin or the neighbor who shows up at every barbecue without anything to contribute. I look at what I've typed and wonder, "Which one are you?"

In my current work-in-progress, Chief Joe Silva must deal with a death ruled a suicide in one of Mellingham's better neighborhoods (okay, I admit it, they're all better neighborhoods). The house sits near the inner harbor, which of course means lots of activity involving boats and sailing, and into this comes Joe's stepson, Philip. So far, so good. But I've forgotten what I knew about Philip. Who is he?

I keep three-by-five inch notecards on each character and certain aspects of Mellingham. All I have to do is pull Philip's card and note what I've written about him in previous books. Seems easy enough. He came into Joe's world in Family Album, as a nine-year-old boy, and stayed when Joe fell in love with the boy's mother, Gwen McDuffy. I read the notes I've made on Philip and once again see the young boy. But I know there's more, so I pull out the two previous books in which he has appeared and read every section, gleaning crucial details and nuances of expression that I should be mindful of as I write.

Philip is older, by two years, since his last foray into Joe's world of crime and misbehavior typical of a small town, but he's not an ordinary teenager. I have given him certain qualities and quirks, and I have to continue these. It wouldn't do to have him turn into an avid soccer player or a hard-core junkie when his character in A Murderous Innocence promised an entirely different future.

Any writer who has written at least two books in a series recognizes this problem. Sir Arthur Conan

Doyle was famous for changing a character's eye color halfway through a story, and lesser writers have changed a character's name and left the evidence on the occasional page (find/replace function notwithstanding). These superficial things bother me less than an unexpected change in character or unresolved plot threads.

My job as a writer is to tell a good story while being observant of the way people behave and expressing that honestly. I want readers to recognize in the teenage Philip the nine-year-old boy introduced in the third book in the Mellingham series.

I have learned that no matter how careful or detailed my notes are, nothing can convey the full sense of a character better than going back to the earlier passages and getting to know him or her all over again. I've been doing this with Philip, a teenage boy who discovers that he loves sailing, thanks to Joe deciding that anyone who lives on the water should know how to manage it. And fortunately for everyone, Philip manages very well.

Come About for Murder is Philip's book, despite all the other characters sailing through it. He's still a teenager, but a maturing one, and I love getting to know him again.

Tomatoes and the Writer

I think of myself as a writer, not a gardener, but sometimes the two overlap. When this happens, as it did for me this month, I'm in trouble. The same question posed to the gardener and the writer can elicit very different responses. The cause of this problem is tomatoes.

We have six quite large tomato plants, and we have waited impatiently for a couple of months for the first fruits. The green ones have grown and turned pinkish and now red. The plants are happily prolific, but unfortunately, that means they're producing a lot more tomatoes than we can eat. As my Indian maidservant used to say, Very great problem, Memsahib.

And that it is. Those of us with vegetable gardens face the question of what to do with too many summer squash or tomatoes or beans. Later it will be too many apples, but I digress. My first thought is to give the produce away, but that is where I run into problems, the result strictly of being a writer.

My first thought is to give a few or several to my neighbors. Most of them have children of various sizes, and they tend to eat a lot. But what if my neighbors misconstrue this as the beginning of an unwanted obligation to give something in return? What if they see these large (and I do mean large) ripe, nearly perfect specimens and expect to be charged? Or, suppose they're allergic to tomatoes. I've never heard of anyone being allergic to this fruit (despite what the Supreme Court calls it), but it's possible. Okay, we'll skip the neighbors with children.

What about the neighbors with no children? Will they too suspect the tomatoes carry an implicit obligation to be collected on in future? And if they're not growing their own though they have time and space, do they dislike them? If they do, then the tomatoes will be wasted, or foisted onto someone else.

I could give them to vendors I deal with regularly. My favorite dry cleaning establishment has changed hands a few times, changed the name twice, and changed locations at least once. The women on the counter change every other year. I could give the dry cleaning cashier tomatoes. Is it safe from unexpected consequences?

Some cultures have a longstanding custom of giving a gift in return for anything received. It doesn't have to be of equal value or special or even something purchased. This year I have visions of leaving the dry cleaners with a stack of wire hangers in exchange for my tomatoes.

The corner store is now owned by a very nice couple from Korea, and the wife is an excellent gardener from the looks of her window boxes. If I gave her tomatoes, would she think they were an implicit criticism of the tomatoes in the deli section and take offense? Would I have to explain that I wouldn't be offended if they used them in their sandwiches and sold them, slice by slice?

Suppose I give all my tomatoes away and learn--too late, of course--that I've forgotten someone, a neighbor or friend who has been waiting, hopefully, for fresh, home-grown tomatoes. Would this non-recipient be angry, or hurt, or resentful? How would I find out? I shiver at the thought.

When I was still working I used to take the extra produce into the office. I lined up my tomatoes next to another staff member's cucumbers, someone else's squash, and, of course, a bowl of green beans.

I could become the stealth tomato bomber, leaving them in the dark of night on people's doorsteps. I could set out at midnight, when some people walk their dogs, and deposit one or two on every porch, a gesture of good will and neighborliness. Of course, if the police or anyone else saw me, I could be arrested for vandalism. You see my dilemma?

What does this have to do with writing? I cannot imagine anyone, someone I know or don't know, receiving a bag of large, ripe, luscious tomatoes without having some feeling about it, and those feelings are the stuff of character. And character is story.

I imagine the characters behind the outstretched welcoming hands, or the early morning door opening onto the red surprise sitting next to the morning newspaper, and it's all I can do to stick to the question at hand--disposing of more tomatoes than we can use in a month.

It is a cliche to say that the problems of this world stem not from a lack of material goods but from poor distribution. I would add to that timing. If only tomatoes could grow throughout the year, I would be a happy part-time gardener.

But now, as it is, I have dozens of tomatoes and a new story to write, stocked with characters pondering fruit.

Bad Manners for Good Stories

Long before I was married my parents and I were having dinner in a cafe in Geneva. Across the room from us was a young couple. The husband had pushed his chair back from the table and held a newspaper opened in his lap. The woman with him gazed around the small room at the other diners. My mother leaned over to me and said, "They're married."

I supposed then she was commenting on how married people stop having a lot to say to each other over meals though they continue to love and support each other. But as I look back on that scene, still vivid, I wonder if the woman at the other table was a writer or an artist, someone who collected images for her artwork.

The advent of the cell phone and the consequent change in manners that allow people to stare at their phones while ignoring the person or persons sitting opposite them at a dining table has been a god-send for artists and writers, at least for this writer. Until recently it was considered rude to stare at strangers. It may still be considered rude, but the strangers don't know I'm staring at them because they're staring at their phones.

At a recent lunch in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, my husband contemplated his meal and his cell and I contemplated the other diners. Sometimes I go through the day collecting images of one item or another--rust spots on cards, trash blowing in a street, dog leashes, and the like. This time I collected images of men carrying trays. There are numerous ways to carry a tray--one-handed at an angle; two-handed at waist level; with arms extended and the tray at mid chest; two handed along the long side; two-handed almost at chin level, with the chin thrust forward; and tray held tight against the waist with the shoulders forward.

Equally interesting, to me, were three young women friends eating together. They might have been related because they had similar bone structures but I was caught by their hair. Some writers leave out physical description, or describe their characters in such similar, vague terms that no character is distinct from another. But these three women belonged in a story together. One had long, light brown wavy hair; the next had curly darker hair a little shorter; and the third had almost black hair with tight curls lying flat to her head. I could study each one because all three were staring at their cells.

Near me sat two women of a certain age with similar reddish hair but very different bone structures. One wore a great deal of makeup and the other wore none, and both women were doting on a little girl who must have been someone's granddaughter. A third woman, apparently the girl's mother, also had reddish hair but looked nothing like the other three. They all had cells.

Instead of bemoaning the creeping tendency of technology to disrupt personal interaction, I welcome cell phones in restaurants and other places for liberating me to stare at people to gather what I need for my characters and stories. I no longer have to stare surreptitiously, apologize, or pretend I didn't realize what I was doing. And on top of all that, I can write it down and no one notices.

Knowing Your Characters

A new story or novel usually begins for me when I see characters moving around, engaged in a specific activity. Once I know these visual images will be part of the story, I begin looking more closely at the protagonist.

Developing a character in fiction often seems to be an exercise in choosing hair and eye color, height, and physical build. The man, of course, is always handsome and strong and drop-dead attractive in most novels. And the woman is equally gorgeous, at least to him. These are the details we learn first. But I want to know much more about my characters before I begin writing, alert to the fact that I will discover more as I work.

I keep a set of questions to answer as I begin working with a new protagonist or important character. These questions are equally important for the main characters in subsequent Mellingham books. I may not use all this information in the story, but if I begin writing without knowing the answers to these questions, the character will come across as flat and undeveloped. This is the process I went through to develop Chief of Police Joe Silva, who appears first in Murder in Mellingham. 

Here is the basic list I work with. You may have other questions important to you and your stories or settings.

Where did she go to school, or college?

How did she pay for it?

Did she graduate?

What is her economic or social class background?

Does she own a set of formal attire? How does she look in formal clothes?

Does she have a distinctive walk or mannerism?

Is she left-handed?

Where is she in the birth order in her family?

Were her parents young or old when she was born?

Are her parents still alive, still married?

Does she maintain close relations with her family?

Is she athletic? What are her pastimes?

Is she a regular voter? Is she politically savvy?

Does she have pets? 

Does she know her neighbors?

Does she have a lot of friends, or a few very good ones?

What kind of car does she drive?

How old was she when she learned to drive?

Does she need to be able to drive for where she lives?

What is her first reaction to someone threatening her?

The last question may seem to be the whole point of a story, for example, but is in fact how the story grows. In some parts of the country a man or woman is expected to respond to a phsical threat with enough force to make the other person back down. But in other parts of the country, the first choice of reaction is humor, to defuse the situation among other things.

 

The question of education is equally important. A working class man or woman who went to college in the 1950s and 1960s, perhaps as the first in the family to do so, would appear on campus for the first day of class well dressed, perhaps in a blazer or formal sweater. A young man or woman who attended prep school would dress differently.

Someone who is very conscious of social class and maintaining status would choose a car carefully. Someone who grew up with money and didn't care about it could be just as happy driving a junker, but he would have the car serviced regularly by a very good mechanic. In Love Takes a Detour, the people of West Woodbury village are dependent on their cars. The rural area has no public transportation, and the outlying farms are too far away from town for walking. Keeping a car on the road means women as well as men are ready to do quick repairs.

Chief Joe Silva is typical of the man who grew up in a working class family, broke the tradition of generations and went to college. He paid his way through by working part time, and, typical of that era, left school with no student loans. He remains close to his large extended Portuguese family, and takes people as they are. As the chief of police in Mellingham, he encounters men and women of all classes, and he judges them only on their behavior. He doesn't like ostentation, and he admires those who are good parents. The sixth book in the Mellingham series, Last Call for Justice, focuses on Joe's family and background.

Just as our close relatives can surprise us with a quirk or personal taste they never revealed before, so too our characters can startle us as we write. This is the best part of discovery, when the character comes alive and leaves the author's control, and I always look forward to those moments of going deeper into a character I thought I knew.