Whether I’m
writing a full-length novel, a short story, or any other work of fiction, there’s
a question I ask of every character I introduce: What are you doing here?
If your characters
don’t “earn their keep” on the pages, then they have no business being there in
the first place. They’re occupying
valuable words and page space that could otherwise be devoted to additional
dialogue, narrative, action, or more deserving characters.
And what does
“earn their keep” entail? That can be
answered several ways.
Within the realm of
principal characters (in “Child of Privilege,” that would include Dana,
Richard, Maggie, Angelo, and Reavis), this judgment is a no-brainer. Can they
carry their weight? Do they possess the
depth of character, the personality, the strength, and the literary texture to carry their assigned story
elements and retain the reader’s interest?
Do they have the flexibility to go
with the flow and evolve along with the storyline and the suspense arc? (No
suspense arc in your story? You’ve got
REAL trouble.) Do they have literary muscle?
And most importantly: Do they have the legs to run the marathon that is a full-length novel?
If not, the
author has a problem ... a major one.
A writer’s
lifeline to the audience is the emotional tie that develops between characters
and readers. That lifeline doesn’t
necessarily need to be amiable either.
Remember the worldwide buzz created by the late Larry Hagman’s
skin-crawling portrayal of the psychotic oil baron J.R. Ewing on the Dallas primetime soap? There isn’t a villain in the history of
literature that wouldn’t be tickled pink to command the kind of following that
ol’ J.R. enjoyed.
It is critically
important that each principal character develop some sort of emotional
relationship with readers. The basis of
that relationship can run the gamut of human feelings: sympathy (Dana), anger (Maggie),
hatred (Richard), encouragement (Greg), disgust (Reavis), and perhaps
forgiveness (Angelo). Whatever the
nature of that connection, it must be strong, evolving, and palpable to the
reader. Otherwise, that character comes
across as hollow, unsatisfying, and shallow.
Every other element of your
novel—no matter how well-crafted—will suffer by association.
And the author
has some work to do.
In my humble
opinion, dear reader, two factors keep the downloads downloading, the pages
turning, and the books moving off the shelf: relatable characters (in a lovable
OR detestable sense), and a plot with more unexpected twists and turns than a
politician’s opinions during an election year.
If your
characters don’t cut the emotional mustard with the readers, the most dizzying
storyline in literary history won’t propel your novel to success. There will always be something lacking. It’s like
trying to drive a Rolls-Royce with a lawnmower engine; it just ain’t gonna
happen.
Plus, your reviewers
will slice-and-dice you more effectively than a Veg-O-Matic ever could.
For a novel of
its length (approximately 96,000 words), Child
of Privilege is fairly well-populated.
Aside from the principal players, the supporting cast is considerable:
·
Wanda
(the vulgar woman on the bus);
·
Red, the
lecherous good ol' boy club owner;
·
Deputy
Sheriff Barnett;
·
The deputy
at the Summertree County Jail;
·
The
abusive woman (and her battered child) at the carnival;
·
Annie
the waitress at the Junction Cafe;
·
Greg
Parmenter;
·
And the
other detectives who relentlessly hound Dana.
As you read the
book (and I really hope you
will), you’ll find the supporting players—regardless of their roles’ importance--adding
his/her own unique flavor to the stew.
Each is important; each contributes to the reader’s pleasure (hopefully)
in reading the novel. Each has proven to
me that he or she belongs there and is necessary for the effective telling of
the story. If not, trust me, they
would’ve been cut long before the novel ever appeared on Amazon’s digital bookshelf.
For example, the
“Wanda” character has significant action and dialogue for only a single chapter. Yet, SHE altered our heroine’s trajectory in
the overall storyline. It was HER evil
deed that compelled Dana to appear in the wet t-shirt contest at Red’s honky-tonk.
(I’m
intentionally omitting something here to pique your curiosity a little.)
THAT, as a
result, got Dana arrested and unceremoniously ushered into a County Jail cell.
THAT, in turn, caused
her to be turned over to the reptilian detective Reavis Macklin.
(I’m
intentionally omitting something else here to pique your curiosity a little
more.)
THAT eventually resulted
in Dana’s arrival in Beckett Junction and her less-than-fairytale introduction
to Greg Parmenter.
(I’m
intentionally omitting a lot more
here to pique your curiosity even further.
Read the book to find out what!)
Think about the
wide-ranging chain of events triggered by one minor character with a
one-chapter role. Your supporting cast--if
they are well-developed and strong enough to convincingly execute their individual
subplots--can add incredible depth and richness to your novel. Their effectiveness can add additional layers
of believability and connection to themselves, the main characters, and the story as a
whole. Don’t hesitate to carefully formulate
them and include them in the story ... but always use wisdom and good judgment.
I’ve always
believed that characters are introduced into a novel to serve one of two
purposes: to interact with a situation; or to interact with another
character. If they do neither, ask
yourself why they’re there at all. The more the merrier shouldn’t apply to
the business of characters in fiction writing.
Too many actors clutter the stage and distract audience attention from
those who are truly earning their keep and deepening your story’s reader connection. Perhaps less
is more would be a more beneficial guideline.
I use a standard
series of questions to guide me when dealing with the sticky issue of character
creation.
Does a character
deliver meaningful dialogue or perform a critical action at a decisive juncture
of the story? Does he/she assist another
actor in terms of plot movement or character development? Does he/she harm, injure, or impair another
actor? Is he/she a danger to him/herself
... or to another? Or is he/she perhaps
a savior or benefactor to another?
Finally, the DECIDING
question: Would the work be as effective without this character?
The answers to
these questions usually decide the character’s fate for me: either doomed to
the netherworld of my word processor’s CUT function; or included in the manuscript
file to live another day ... or at least until the next editing pass.
But don’t spend too
much time mourning for the dearly-departed actor. You’ll probably write many other novels
needing other characters for other purposes.
Besides, coming back from the dead is always an option. In the limitless dream-world of
entertainment, resurrection is neither impossible nor uncommon.
It worked for
Bobby Ewing on Dallas, didn’t it?
