Developing memorable and interesting characters is an art form unto itself.
In much of contemporary literature, building characters often relies upon human action/interaction within some monumental, environmental setting, or upon our protagonists being thrust into challenging events. These formulaic ways of presenting our leading men and women appeal to our modern, cinematic experience.
And our writing experts of the past 5 decades, or so, instruct us to show, rather than tell, a story or poem — very appropriate in many circumstances, relating story in action and imagery. Particularly so in poetry, I find.
Yet, there’s something powerfully compelling in being allowed into an author’s vision of his own characters’ internal mental gyrations and backstories. This can’t happen without a bit of telling, whether it occurs in dialogue or descriptive narrative. Dialogue is a natural and valuable vehicle for imparting information, personal biases, and relational aspects, but sometimes it’s overused or misused, while narrative is ripe for establishing setting, mood, and epiphany — although sometimes reads either as overwrought or too mundane.
But just how is it done, this detailing? What makes a characterization superb, rather than just well-written? I am beginning to surmise that it’s more to do with the nature of the writer than just an attempt to develop personality traits. There are some writers who are clearly more adept than others at making characters breathe. This doesn’t mean, though, that the rest of us shouldn’t attempt some crafty CPR on our protagonists.
Beginning around 6 years ago to now, I’ve made it a personal mission to read (and reread) the most celebrated books and full collections of as many classic novelists as I can. During that time, I’ve devoured all of Alexandre Dumas, Jr., Baroness Emma Orczy, the Brontë sisters, Arthur Conan Doyle, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and much of D. H. Lawrence, to name a few powerhouses out of many.
While not all 19th- and 20th- century authors can claim to be any better than our contemporaries, there are those whom I classify as masters of characterization. Of the preceding list, 2 authors are quite notably adepts of characterization: Montgomery, and Lawrence. The others certainly did cut memorable characters — who doesn’t have their mental models of the four musketeers, Count of Monte Cristo, Sherlock, or the Scarlet Pimpernel? But what authors Montgomery and Lawrence shared (that the others did, too, only in lesser intensity) is keen observation of the internal landscape; not only did they share such observation, they also had the knack for committing a profundity of details in every narrative description, most particularly in depictions of leading characters.
(Lucy) Maud Montgomery’s Anne (of Green Gables) was a chatterbox, a perfect mouthpiece for showcasing her habitually tumultuous and minutiae-filled mind. Montgomery’s deft handling of specifics in the Anne series (and later Emily of New Moon series) is a phenomenon of the author’s personality. These succulent, descriptive passages of Montgomery’s are what make Anne the long-loved sensation she is.
More recent in my mind, though, are the characters in D. H. Lawrence’s The Lost Girl. Lawrence knows people — he convinces me — and while some readers might say his Alvina and Ciccio, for example, are memorable because they are quirky, I say they are only quirky in the way all of us are in our inevitable cultivation. We are the sum of myriad experiences. Of inherited or borrowed mannerisms, philosophies, and beliefs. And so are Lawrence’s characters.
Lawrence both shows and tells readers, through actions and speech, but also through omnipresent observations cleverly enrobed in exquisite details. The depth of which his characters, both main and peripheral, are probed — and so uncovered — is beyond what many writers ever attempt.
My own earliest characterizations suffered from a stiffness that Lawrence, himself, would surely have railed against. I can see him now, leaning over my prone Amalia, administering mouth-to-mouth.
Over the years, I’ve guessed at 2 reasons for my struggles.
The first, being told repeatedly by instructors to “show, don’t tell.” In fear of being a storyteller who tells a story (you get the irony), I tried to develop just enough attributes for each character, yet leave so much unsaid that the reader could fill in with her own imagination. How like scriptwriting. But what about my imagination? Aren’t readers supposed to be interested in the author’s imaginings?
The other thorn I had to pluck out of my “sleeping beauties” was my fear of naked honesty. For a long time, I thought that if I revealed too many details in a character’s history, and about her opinions or habits, readers would dislike her. I came to realize that readers might do so, but wasn’t it better to have what they thought of as a living, breathing virago than a cardboard cut-out for a protagonist?
Both the above issues really have to do with lack of details.
We modern writers, if we want to be remembered for our unforgettable characters, should emulate the masters of yore and put even more effort into personality development than we typically do. We can become more observant of the deep quirks and psychological results of combined human experiences; record our observances by applying them to our characters. Worry less about “good” and “bad” individuals and focus on multifaceted qualities and dispositions. Not only show behavior and attributes, but describe temperament, nature. Even if you feel uncomfortable with the idea of “getting in a character’s head and revealing his thoughts,” which is sometimes considered a hokey technique if not treated carefully, you can instead portray his extraordinary qualities using descriptive, transitional passages. If you need help describing a protagonist, model characters on people you’ve known (as students of D. H. Lawrence's works assure us he did), or ones you have watched at some local public spot.
Not everyone is inclined to be observant of other people. But if you’re a writer and you want to create interesting, believable, and assorted characters, become so inclined.
I mentioned in yesterday’s blog that I met a woman outside my house during the afternoon. Turns out she used to live in my house, said she’d stayed here 15 years and still loved it. We packed a lot into our conversation; she seemed almost desperate to share of herself and told me things that most strangers don’t feel free to talk about. I watched her as I listened, and found myself considering what a striking model she might make for a literary character. What intrigued me was the sheer diversity of ideas bridling to come out of her during our standing together, and how she vibrated with the intensity of her desire to express what she thought and felt about having lived here with her husband and large family of rescued animals.
In the next few weeks I’m going to practice my own advice and work out a character sketch modeled after this not-so-stranger . . . see what I can learn from my detailed observations.
Go forth and characterize, dear writers!