Somewhere along the writing road you’ve surely read – and if you haven’t you will – a critic describe a protagonist in a story as one dimensional.  Or worse, an agent to whom you’ve submitted your work.

The implication here is that there are other dimensions to explore as we develop our characters.

But what are they? 

Why don’t we ever hear characters described as two-dimensional?  What’s that extra dimension about, anyhow?  What does it even mean?

And why are the only obvious three dimensional characters out there lately in a James Cameron blockbuster, or marching in a Disneyland parade? 

At least we know what that means.

The Deeper Dimensions of Character

Given the implication that we should strive to write multi-dimensional characters, especially heroes and villains, it behooves us to understand what those other dimensions are all about.

As with story structure, you could indeed just set out to intuitively slap together a little character depth – in effect, the pantsing approach to character development. 

Maybe you get it right, maybe you don’t.  Maybe that’s a coincidence, or maybe your intuition is keenly developed.

Such is the risk of pantsing in any area of story development.  If you don’t know what you’re shooting for, just making stuff up as you go, it probably won’t work.  At least until you write another draft.

Or you could, by design, imbue your characters with three very separate and compelling layers –dimensions, in this context – that are carefully crafted to bring your story alive with resonant depth.

Real life unfolds in 3-D.  So should our characters.

These three realms stand alone as unique, yet they always overlap. 

Human beings are the sum of all three dimensions.  What the world sees, even if it’s all a smoke screen for dark and deeply hidden secrets, is an amalgamation of their best and worst essences.

Sometimes it’s those dark and deeply hidden secrets that make your characters especially compelling.  And the reasons for the need to hide them become part of the puzzle your story must unravel.

The first dimension of character – surface traits, quirks and habits.

Think of this as the exterior landscape of your character.  Their personality.  What the world sees and assigns meaning to.  Or not.

It may be the real, it may be a mask, but without another dimension to go along with all those quirks the reader will never know.

Peripheral characters in our stories are usually one-dimensional, as they should be.  In fact, it’s a mistake to delve too deeply into peripheral characters merely for the sake of adding depth.

Not good.  Focus on developing your hero and villain and any major players.   We really don’t need to know what it was about the pizza delivery guy’s childhood that made him take up food service as a career.

That said, even your peripheral characters, if given stereotypical quirks and tics, come off as cliché. 

Quirkiness for the sake of quirkiness is a fool’s game in the storytelling trade.

The grouchy lieutenant in the local police precinct who never smiles and is always spilling coffee on his cheap shirt?  That’s a one-dimensional character.

The slimy politician preaching values on the evening news before stopping by a brothel on his way home?  That’s a one dimensional character.

Why?  Because we don’t know what, if anything, is behind those behaviors, or those quirks.  If the character is a hero or a villain, we need to know.

This is often a great trap of newer writers, who infuse their characters with all manner of quirks and kinks and little tics designed to make them either cool, weird or supposedly – best intentions — compelling.   But if those quirks and kinks are all you offer the reader, in the hope that the reader will fill in all the blanks, then you’ve created a one-dimensional character.

If the quirks are just too quirky, it’s actually worse than cliché.

Because when quirks are obvious attempts to imbue the character with greater depth, but that depth is otherwise lacking… this is the quintessential one- dimensional character that agent will use as rationale for rejecting your story.

The second dimension of character – backstory and inner demons.

In this realm we see the inner landscape of the character.  Regardless of how you’ve dressed them up with personality on the exterior.

Where they came from, the scars and memories and dashed dreams that have left them with resentments, their fears, habits, weaknesses and inclinations that connect to why they are as they appear to be.  

Even when the quirks are a smokescreen.

Glimpsing an inner landscape allows the reader to understand, which is the key to eliciting empathy.  Empathy is the great empowerer of stories – the more of it the reader feels, the more they’ll invest themselves in the reading experience.

Translation: a publishable story.  Maybe even a bestseller.

Think about the books you love and the characters that star in them.  The reason you love that story has as much or more to do with the character than the plot, and the reason that’s true is because you feel for the character, you get her or him, you empathize, you invest yourself emotionally in the reading experience.

You rooted.  You cried.  You chewed your nails.  You loved.  You felt loss and you shared joy. 

You cared.  Because you related to, and empathized with, the character.

The most fertile ground for the cultivation of this reader response is the inner landscape of your primary characters.

Quirks or no quirks, this is the real stuff of storytelling.

But you’re not done yet.  There’s a third dimension you must add to bring it home. 

Because even the best and most understood of intentions do not a hero or a villian make. 

The third dimension of character – action, behavior and world view.

A hero takes a stand, takes risks, makes decisions, dives in and executes.

A villain rationalizes behavior and is insensitive to, or refuses to accept responsibility for, the associated costs and violations of accepted social standards.

Character – in this sense defined as moral substance, or lack thereof – is defined not by backstory or inner demons, but by decisions and behaviors.

You may have been angry enough to kill someone, or at least punch someone’s lights out, at some point in your life.  But you didn’t.  Why?  Because of your character.  That decision defines you.

Now imagine that you had yielded to that impulse.  Same backstory, same inner turmoil and agenda, same inciting series of events, same emotions… different decision. 

And because of that decision – you cold-cocked the bastard – a completely different dimension of character manifests.

The Art of Integrating the Three Dimensions of Character

Using this example, it is clear that the first two dimensions may or may not dictate the third.  These are your tools as an author, layer by layer, to create the most compelling, complex, frightening, endearing and empathetic character that you can.

Too many writers settle for the first dimension only. 

Even more writers focus on the second dimension to the exclusion of the third.

Even more fail to integrate these realms convincingly and compellingly.

That’s the art of storytelling.  And there’s no manual for it beyond a grasp of these fundamental principles. 

But be clear: your work as a storyteller is not done until your hero and your villain are fully fleshed out in all three realms.  

Do that, and do it well – which means, the relationship between the three dimensions make perfect and compelling sense – and you’ll never hear that one-dimensional or shallow criticism leveled at your characters again.

COMING SOON — “The Three Dimensions of Character — Going Deep and Wide to Create Compelling Heroes and Villains“… a new ebook from Storyfix.com.

Also, check out my guest blog on The World’s Strongest Librarian, a  very cool website by Josh Hanagarne, who is the strongest – and tallest – librarian you’ve ever seen.

The Three Dimensions of Character Development is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

 I know this guy.  Everybody in our circle of friends knows him.  They go back years (not me, I’m the newbie in the group, which makes me analogous to the reader of a story… I just sit back and watch the pages unfold).  Everybody, in context to this group dynamic, seems to like him.

But do they really? 

Sometimes the more you know about a person, the harder they are to like.  This fellow, for example, has been cheating on his wife off and on for decades.  Everybody in the room knows it – except, perhaps, his wife. 

Who, incidentally, everybody not only likes, but also empathizes with.  And the only person in the room who doesn’t realize that is the cheating bastard himself.

The guy is funny and often charming, the first one with an amusing story and an entertaining way to tell it.  He’s warm, he hides his agenda well.  Doesn’t want to ruffle feathers.  Let’s just have a good time, get this evening over with without incident.

Such is the stuff of our stories. 

Because our characters have secrets to hide, stories to tell, facades and illusions to maintain.  But in our stories, it’s not that simple to walk away from at the end of the evening.

Because unlike reality, our readers are distanced from a childhood investment that allows for forgiveness.  Readers have only one criteria for sticking around, and it’s simple – are they hooked?

If not, they’ll walk for good.

And it takes more than a smokin’ & jokin’ good time protagonist to hook a reader.

So what does hook a reader in terms of character? 

Certainly, our heroes and villains, even our bit-players, should be complex and imperfect.   But in fiction, the art of crafting a compelling character isn’t their likeability.   Not even close. 

Whoever told you that was probably your high school creative writing teacher.  We need to like our protagonist echoes through halls of time, often distorting what the evolved writer needs to really understand.

Maybe we like them, maybe we don’t.  That’s not the issue.

Because when it comes to a protagonist, we must root for them.  Remember, the essence of storytelling holds that we have placed that character on a path, with something at stake, with something to do, to achieve, to learn and to change.  And we have placed obstacles – some external, some from within their deepest psyches – to make the journey interesting.

Not so much for them, but for us – the readers.

 The trick, then, becomes the balancing of character imperfections that might otherwise put us off with the empathy we need to muster for our hero as they proceed on their quest.

Here’s the key to doing that: readers love a vulnerable hero who realizes her or his own weaknesses and temptations, and conquers them in favor of a higher calling.  They come to realize that they’re sorry, they repent, they heed a  more noble calling, at least in the context of the story at hand.

That, we can empathize with.  We can get behind such a hero, root for her or him, even if it’s temporary.  Because we’ve all been there, we’re all human.

It is the writer’s manipulation of reader empathy, rather than the nature of faults and gold stars, that results in effective character dynamics that infuse the story with stakes and vicarious emotion. 

Which are absolutely required to get it published.

If your hero thinks nobody else in the room knows about his wandering ways, or worse, if they know he’ll back cruising the bars the next night in the naïve assumption that nobody knows, or worse, that nobody minds… that’s the antithesis of a hero.

Even if we seem to like him over a beer or two.   That’s real life, perhaps, but it’s not enough to make your story work.  In fiction, the term hero needs to be taken literally.

A Deeper Look at Character is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Today brings the 7th and concluding post in our series on “The Art and Craft of Characterization”

Part 7: A Sum in Excess of the Parts  

One of the reasons writers get confused about these separate elements of storytelling is that, at the end of the day within a story that works – and let’s be honest, that’s what we, as consumers, spend our time reading – the lines between them blur.

Rest assured, the creator of that work reached clarity through one of two processes: they understood the elements and separate processes of development, and knew how to blend them… or, they either got lucky or they’re intuitive enough to make them work without knowing how.  Good luck with that.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to leave my storytelling, or my career, to luck.  And while I’m often intuitive as hell, I sleep a lot better knowing there’s a structure, a process and a paradigm for storytelling that – contrary to the belief of some pantsers – doesn’t remotely compromise the creative process.

I am often asked to clarify the difference between concept and plot, between concept and theme, and between character arc and story structure.  There are plenty of posts here on Storyfix that directly address those issues, but I’d like to offer a powerful mental model for the last one: the melding of character arc and story structure.

When done right, they mirror each other.

Earlier we’ve discussed story architecture as a 4-part structure, with significant milestones within and between each part.  All of that remains true: Part 1 is the set-up… Part 2 is the hero’s response to their new quest… Part 3 is the hero’s proactive attack on the obstacles that stand in their way… and Part 4 is the resolution in which the hero applies what they’ve learned and overcome (which is character arc, pure and simple) toward the solving of problems, the slaying of dragons and the out-witting of the bad guys to create an ending that satisifies on multiple levels.

Endings don’t have to be perfect.  But they should be perfectly satisfying.

All this remains gospel truth.  Don’t mess with it.  But you can swap out some words and view it through a character-focused lens and see that this sequence is nothing other than character arc applied to a series of story points.

So rather than think of structure as Parts 1 through 4, think of the four sequential ”realms” of your story as discreet segments of character status, presence and growth, which become the mission of those four segments/parts/realms as they relate to the storyline. 

Now, with this new perspective, each part has two congruant missions.  Which is plenty of guidance for you, the storyteller.  The plot-driven approach to structure – parts 1 through 4 – has four seperate  missions in place, as does character-driven structure, thus allowing the writer to understand the critical context of what goes into them… what scenes need to appear within those sections, and how they are written contextually, now from two seperate perspectives.

Let’s see how this looks.  Remember, this is story structure with a new coat of paint, one that focuses on character context as well as plot-exposition. 

Part 1 becomes the Orphan stage.

We have defined Part 1 as the set-up, wherein we meet our hero and see what she or he is doing, what she/he is pursing in their life, before the introduction of the primary conflict-driven quest unleashed at Plot Point 1.

Think of this as the hero being detached – or orphaned – from their old life in the face of the task they are about to be given.  What is ahead for them will be a shift, a change, a new life, propelling them toward a new home, a new existence, a new life.  In Part 1 they are loose and unconnected to the forthcoming story, orphaned from their destiny.

Part 2 is the Wanderer stage.

After Plot Point 1 falls from the sky to end Part 1, the hero now faces a whole new set of problems, objectives, obstacles and needs.  A new quest.  During this stage, per our  plot-driven definition of Part 2, they are responding to this new situation, reacting to it, running from it, investigating it, challenging it, disbelieving it… but not really attacking the problem yet, at least in an informed manner.

It could be said that the hero is wandering here, disconnected and unsure.  This is where their old patterns and inner demons – the starting point of their character arc – bite them in the butt.  They learn that what they’ve been doing won’t work anymore, at least not in a way that is sufficient to meet the need at hand.

Something needs to change, and quickly, or they’ll fail.  In many stories, they might even die.

Part 3 is the Warrior stage.

What changes in Part 3 is that they evolve from a wanderer into a warrior.  Which blends perfectly with the plot-driven context of Part 3, which is to become a proactive attacker of the obstacles that block their path.

Ever seen a warrior who is not ready and willing to attack?  Didn’t think so.

Here again their inner demons may hinder them, but because they are now being proactive — frankly, they’re just plain smarter now — they begin to recognize what it was about their old ways that haven’t been working so well.  Realization kicks in – they need to change, to step it up, to be better than they were.  This is where they learn, which is the essence of character arc.

Part 4 is the Martyr stage.

So now, here in the concluding context of Part 4, the hero is better equipped to square off with the antagonist and its inherent obstacles, because they’ve learned their lessons.  They’ve changed, grown, evolved.  They have courage where once they were cowardly.  They engage where once they were isolated.  They’ve conquered inner demons that had tempted and haunted and filled them with doubt and dread, and now they’re prepared to apply that learning toward the implementation of heroic decisions and acts – even to the point of martyrdom – to save the day.

Blend and Stir, Cook Until Done

Like a great recipe, all the parts reside as separate as they sit on the kitchen counter awaiting the attention of the cook and the heat of the oven.  The person preparing the meal has the latitude to change and add nuance, all within their responsibility to observe the major principles of the meal at hand.  

Certain rules still apply: you can’t serve the meat raw if it’s not sushi, and if that’s your creative choice, then I hope you enjoy eating alone.

At the end of the storyteling day, all the arguments about character begin to sound the same.  Story is plot.  Plot is character.  Character is theme.  Story is structure.

Yes, yes, yes and yes. Because the heat of your story melds theme into one seamless narrative.

Just don’t think for a moment that the cook had no clue how this would happen.  A real cook beholds all the ingredients set out before them… and where the masses see a bunch of groceries and raw food, she or he envisions a glorious, multi-faceted feast.

Bon appetit.

Image credit: Country Boy Shane

(Click HERE for an incredible reader review of this site, and of my 101 Tips ebook.)

Part 7: Characterization – How to Make Your Readers Love ‘em Instead of Leave ‘em is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

(Click HERE for an incredible reader review of this site, and of my 101 Tips ebook.)

Today’s post is the 6th in a 7-part Series on “The Art and Craft of Characterization” 

Part 6: Crafting an All-important Character Arc

Last time we introduced the notion of inner versus outer conflict, the inherent demons of personality and psychology that affect the hero and prevent her or him from doing what must be done, squaring off against what is blocking their path toward accomplishing the mission at hand.

What are those inner demons?  Cowardice, selfishness, addiction, fear, conceit, arrogance, hatred, bias, lack of confidence, heritage, poverty, ignorance, a lack of honesty, naiveté, a spotty moral compass, sexual deviance… in general, any aspect of humanity that isn’t in line with the expectations of others or the requirements of success within the boundaries of this story.

Great heroes have one or more these.  They aren’t perfect.  If they were, they’d be boring.

Character arc is the process of conquering those inner demons.  Pure and simple.  Of learning.  Of gaining strength and insight.  Of acquiring that which is lacking.  Of shedding that which is hindering.  Of making a better decision when it counts.

For example, the thematic mission of a story is rarely about how to conquer alcoholism, but rather, how to save a marriage that is being destroyed by alcoholism.  The hero’s quest is to save the marriage.   His alcoholism is merely an obstacle in his way.  The outer conflict is that his wife has filed for divorce and is seeing someone else, so the clock is ticking.  But the inner demon — of the stuff of the real drama in a story – is the grip that alcohol has on the protagonist as he tries to win her back.

Two levels of conflict, inner and outer.  In some stories the inner journey is every bit as dramatic and powerful as the exterior journey, which is the stuff of bestsellers and smash hits.  

In the movie Top Gun, almost all of the inherent conflict in the story was in Maverick’s inner realm.  Very little else happened, which is why this particular movie is not considered a model script.  Just model box office.

In The Davinci Code, not so much… the appeal of that story was conceptual and plot-driven.   Landgon showed us very little in the way of inner conflict, and therefore, there was little inner drama or potential for character arc.  Langdon was pretty much perfect from page one. 

As you can see, commecial success doesn’t often hinge on how well you execute the basics.  If you allow that to rationalize your approach, much anxiety and pain await you.

And, it just goes to show how powerful a strong concept can be (The Sixth Sense is another example), even in the face of mediocre performance elsewhere. 

In The Cider House Rules, though, the characters move through spheres of personal challenge and growth in a way that rivets the reader every bit as much as the plot itself.

Notice that Top Gun and The Davinci Code weren’t up for any writing Oscars.  The Cider House rules won one for best adapted screeplay, based on John Irving’s #1 bestseller (note: he also wrote the screenplay).

Where inner demons come from is the role of backstory.  How they affect the story is the realm of character arc.

Conquer inner demons, and you have character arc.

Your hero should exit the story enlightened, enriched, evolved and enabled in comparison to how they entered the story.  This learning cannot occur in a vacuum, it should be result of trial and error, of action and consequence, literally of learning a lesson from the hero’s experience within the story. 

You’re familiar with the age-old principle: show, don’t tell.  Character arc is the most critical element for which you need to apply it.  We must see and feel the character bettering their weaker self, rather than simply reading the news of it or have it spring from no logical, discernable source.  They can’t just wake one day and suddenly get it.  (This is where some paranormal stories fall flat — the hero learns via a sixth sense, rather than experience.)

With hard-learned lessons well in hand, the hero will come to a place where she or he will make better decisions when it counts, which is in Part 4 of the story.  Where they – by definition – become the primary catalyst in the overcoming of the obstacles that results in the story’s conclusion.

In Top Gun, Maverick learned to work within the system, to not leave his wingman when it counts (his new wingman; he’d already killed off the first guy by being an idiot), and in doing so he got the girl, saved the day and protected America from the bad guys, all without a hair out of place.

And if that isn’t heroism, I’m not sure what is.

Image credit: Seiho

Next post: Character — A sum in excess of its parts.

Part 6: Characterization – How to Make Your Readers Love ‘em Instead of Leave ‘em is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

 (Click HERE for an incredible reader review of this site, and of my 101 Tips ebook.)

Today’s post is the 5th in a 7-part Series on “The Art and Craft of Characterization”

Part 5: Inner vs. Outer Conflict – the Clash of the Demons

In part 1 of this series on character, I suggested that the one single word that best describes “story” is conflict.  While some like to argue the point – there are abundant writers who will argue virtually any point – it remains irrefutable that conflict is essential to good storytelling.

In that context, conflict refers to what opposes the hero in their quest to achieve whatever it is they need to do, win, accomplish, avoid, find, understand or otherwise attain.  That conflict makes it’s first full frontal appearance at the first Plot Point of the story, and after that the hero’s new journey in the story is launched.

There may be conflict beforehand, but only at the First Plot Point do we understand where the hero must go — literally and/or figuratively – from that point forward, and in context to the conflict at hand.

In good stories things aren’t quite that simple. 

Because in good stories our heroes are complex, they’re conflicted, they’re multi-dimensional.  Sometimes they aren’t even all that likeable –which, by the way, is a less-critical criteria for a protagonist than the essential need to empathize with what the hero needs to accomplish.

The hero can be a complete ass, but if their role is to save some kids from a kidnapper, then we empathize, we root, we care.  Think Bruce Willis here.

We may not like the character getting drunk out on a camping trip, but we can certainly empathize when a hungry bear targets him as its next meal.

Often that inner complexity – some call it being F.U.B.A.R., look it up – gets in the hero’s way.  It becomes, in effect, yet another obstacle as they strive to overcome whatever external barriers you’ve diabolically put in their path. 

That guy running from the bear, for example.  He’s drunk, by his own doing, which complicates things greatly.  Because the bear is not drunk. 

These self-oriented issues become an inner landscape of human psychology that drives and effects – and often hinders – -the actions and decisions the character needs to make in the story.  They arise from and link to backstory, and they can be influenced by a world view and a system of values that may be contrary to their quest.

You could think of these as inner demons, the things that make someone their own worst enemy, especially in context to the story at hand.  If, in the above example, Bruce Willis couldn’t stop drinking while trying to save the children, or when camping under a “Beware of Bears” sign, then there you are… an inner demon is in play.

The Two Levels of Conflict in Every Great Story

Every great story presents two levels of conflict for the reader’s pleasure: one, an external obstacle to the hero’s quest, and two, an internal demon that hinders the character’s ability to make the best possible decisions under pressure.  An inner drive, belief system or kink that makes them weak, that temps , diverts , seduces, that blinds them to the truth, that summons them toward skewed values and warps their ability to see things straight.

Examples: deeply-held religious beliefs (say, prompting one to turn the other cheek to a hungry bear), a parental hatred, a resentment and distrust of authority, or some clinical issue such as fear of heights, claustrophobia, agoraphobia and a long list of other phobias.  Each of these issues could easily get in the way if the hero needed to make a better decision.

Tom Cruise comes to mind as the hot-shot pilot Maverick in the film Top Gun.  His thing was assing-out as a vehicle of rebellion, making foolish decisions that put him and his wingman (Goose, who ended up a regular on E.R. after Cruise got him killed in this movie) in peril because he needed to overcome the stigma of his father’s military failures, to appear fearless and bold, to stand out in a crowd, to be a cowboy in a world that runs on discipline.

If the inner demon was allowed to remain in control, the story would be less satisfying than if the hero found a way to grow, to overcome that which was in their way.  This overcoming of the inner conflict comes prior to and is thus enabling of the hero’s ability to conquer the exterior obstackes.

Read that again, stated slightly differently: the overcoming of an inner conflict is prior to the final showdown with the antagonistic form, and thus becomes an enabling factor with respect to the hero’s ability to conquer exterior obstacles.

How they learn to overcome their own weaknesses and shortcomings is the essence of storytelling within the realm of character.  It is among the most critical missions that you, the author, have before you.

It is called character arc.  And without it, your story will fail.

Photo credit: Magnera

Next post: Crafting the all-important Character Arc.

Part 5: Characterization – How to Make Your Readers Love ‘em Instead of Leave ‘em is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Today’s post is the 4th in a 7-part Series on “The Art and Craft of Characterization” 

Part 4: Crafting Backstory

Recently a football player at the University of Oregon made national news – and Youtube – by punching an opponent after a game.  It was an immediate hit – pun intended – on the Boise State stadium’s jumbotron screen, then ad neaseum on the news as it was dissected every which way by sportscasters, and then in the court of public opinion.  None of it pretty.

The verdict: the player was suspended for the season.  Massive approval ensued, except on the U of O campus, of course.  The school had saved its waning reputation.  The coach saved his job.  The critics saved face.

And the player lost his dream, and possibly a shot at an NFL career.  

The closer you look, the better it gets.

Great story, eh?  Know what makes it even better?  Something called the backstory.  The events and dynamics that preceded the event itself, exerting influence on the players in this little athletic soap opera.

Because there was a lot that went into the dynamics of that dark moment.  Just as there is a lot that goes into the dynamics of the key moments in your stories.

First of all, the player came from a culture of conflict — the meanstreets  of the inner city — with a childhood, scholastic and domstic backgrounds that positioned football as his ticket out.   His hope.  Prior to the incident he was a budding star, a tale of triumph over adversity (theme), the next day he was done.

Remember, nothing fuels a story quite like hope.

Then there was the hype leading up to the game itself, in which the player popped off right and left in the press about how Oregon would “whoop on” this opponent, all this trash talk leading toward what he hoped would be revenge against a loss to Boise State  the previous year. 

Then the coach wrote it all off as part of football being an aggressive game played by aggressive young men, all but sanctioning the trash talk and thus fueling the bad blood between the two teams and schools.

This is human psychology at work in this story.

Then there was the kid who got hit, a defensive tackle the size of a small bus, who after his team pummeled Oregon in strong fashion, confronted the guilty player with taunting words and an unfriendly tap on the shoulder pads.  One can almost write that dialogue from where you sit.  He reportedly had a history – a backstory – of mouthing off, and would be receiving a talking-to for his role.

All of this is backstory.  What went down before, and behind, the actual event.

Backstory as a Storytelling Tool

In the previous post we discussed how the actions of our characters need to have psychological validity and, at least, a visible connection to some behavioral explanation with roots in the past.  Backstory is where you make that happen.

Some writers actually write out a backstory for their major characters, often at great length.  The objective of this exercise is to create a linkage between their actions within the story and the psychological roots that fueled it.

So which comes first, the backstory or the actions within the story? 

Doesn’t matter, as long as the backstory is solid and valid before you stamp “final draft” on anything.  Because, even if it’s retro-fitted, major behavioral tendencies and specific actions need to be in context to psychological truth, and if it isn’t there your story will suffer for it.

Beware the Bite of the Backstory

As usual, though, there’s a risk.  By writing out and investing a lot of time and energy in a backstory, you’ll be tempted to use too much of it.  Not good. 

The trick here is to show enough backstory that the reader can intuit where the character is coming from, rather than spelling it out.  Flashback scenes solely for the purpose of explaining backstory are never a good idea, you need to be more artful and subtle in delivering backstory as part of the narrative flow.

The Iceberg Principle

Here’s the primary guideline, called the “iceberg principle” – show only ten percent of your character’s backstory.   Literally.  Show enough to allow the reader to glean and make assumptions about what remains unseen.

Backstory can be too much of a good thing.  Don’t go there.

As it is with many elements of storytelling, the best way to get a feel for execution is to look for and acknowledge it when you see it in other stories.  Pretty much every novel you read and movie you see will have a strategic backstory in play – your job as a writer-in-progress is to notice how it’s done and take what you’ve learned back to your own story.

Photo credit: Rghrous

Next post: The clash of the conflict demons.

Part 4: Characterization – How to Make Your Readers Love ‘em Instead of Leave ‘em is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Today’s post is the 3rd in a 7-part Series on “The Art and Craft of Characterization” 

Part 3: The Psychology of Character

In my ebook, 101 Slightly Unpredictable Tips for Novelists and Screenwriters, I recommend that you watch Dr. Phil.  Really.  Or Oprah.  Or read the latest pop psychology bestseller.

Or better, take one of those seminars on how to get your sh*t together.  I did that, and it was the most empowering thing I’ve ever learned about writing (still working on the sh*t-together part).  Because it showed me why people – characters – think what they think and do what they do.

Even if, on the surface, none of it seems to make much sense.

The more you understand the psychology of human beings, the better equipped you’ll be to write stories in which the behavior of your characters does make sense.  At least for them.

You don’t have to turn into a Dr. Phil to write a bestselling novel or sell a killer screenplay. You only have to know a fraction of what he knows, and you don’t need a post-grad year to get there.

No, at the level at which we writers play, we only need a grasp of the basics of human psychology.  And those basics are everywhere.

The good news is, you don’t actually have to have your own sh*t together to write solid psychology into your stories.  Good thing, too, or there’d be precious few stories out there for us to enjoy.  Writers are some of the most screwed up folks on the planet… but I digress.

Read Silence of the Lambs and take notes.  Both Lecter and Wild Bill are classic studies in human psychology of a very dark variety.  Stephen King’s stuff, too, is mastery of psychology at its best.

What you need to understand about human behavior can be reduced into several real-world buckets, into which you can dump all the details you want.

People are driven by resentment.

Someone pisses you off.  You may or may not have forgiven them for it, but unless you’ve dealt with the issue, chances are you harbor some resentment toward them.  Maybe for years.

We resist that which we resent.  You will resist being completely kind and open with that person, at least until they do something to take away your resentment, like apologize.  You will resist their ideas, their contributions, their very presence.  This can manifest in subtle and insidieous little ways, or it can come right out of your mouth, maybe worse.  Or, it can never manifest at all, but it’s there in your head.

We resent hearing that the CEO of Goodwill Industries takes home $800,000 a year.  True story.  So we resist giving our next garage full of junk to them, calling St. Vincent DePaul instead.  A classic resentment-resistance dynamic, for which we lose not a minute of sleep.

You resent getting dumped by your old boyfriend.  So you resist sending him a Christmas card every year, even though he sends one to you, which you burn without opening.

We also tend to look for ways to exact revenge against those people and things we resent.  You resent your wife for spending too much money when she goes shopping.  So as revenge, you go ahead and splurge on fishing equipment, even though you know she’s not happy about it.  Especially because she’s not happy about it.

Welcome to the common modern adult marriage.  Good or bad, it runs on psychology.

Relative to all of the above, allow me to add – or not.  You may not exhibit any signs of resistance or revenge at all, even though your resentment festers.  Your resentment may manifest in your life as a cardiac event, which in a story is a reasonable and classic application of this dynamic. 

Try this, if you dare. 

Make a list of all the things in your life, both close and at arms-length, that you resent.  Then notice how that resentment influences your attitudes, behaviors and decisions toward those people or things.  Pay attention to how each entry makes you feel.  Which in turn, how it may influence how you act.

Welcome to being human.  Resentment drives us daily.  Hopefully not exclusively.

The point is you, as a writer of characters, have choices to make in this regard , and an understanding this resentment-resistance-revenge dynamic is a valid model upon which to base your character’s decisions and actions.

People are driven by their backstory.

Our behavior is connected to our roots, our personal history.  Which in many cases is just dripping with issues of resentment.

If you don’t think this is true, then ask yourself why doctors have children who become doctors more than truck drivers have children who become doctors.   You can generalize this even further beyond doctors – professionals have children who go into professional-level work more than blue collar workers have children who become professionals.

Statistics show that children of abused parents are more likely to become abusive parents.  Same with children of alcoholics, though in a much more common and complex cycle of rationalization.

Some of us model our behavior after our parents.  Some of us do the opposite.  The consequences of both have huge implications.

Again, the point is to understand the backstory of your character to the extent that it logically and validly explains who they are as adults in your story.   More on this in a later post.

People are driven by their world view.

A world view is the collective values, politics, preferences and beliefs of an individual.  They are usually the product of backstory and culture, and these elements can shift as the character grows and evolves through different experiences and periods in their lives.  For example, a preacher’s daughter goes to school at USC, and all of a sudden she’s a beer-swilling cheerleader dating a drug dealer.

All of this, by the way, are variables you completely control as an author.  In real life, not so much, good luck with your daughter at USC.

This is as deep a well as you want it to be.  But at a minimum, take steps to connect the personalities, world view and core belief and value systems of your characters to accepted psychological principles. 

Some things in storytelling you can and should just make up.  This one you can’t.   If you aren’t sure what explains, with valid psychology underpinning your character’s actions, then hit the internet until you are.

 Photo credit: e v e n.

Next post: How to craft a backstory.

Part 3: Characterization – How to Make Your Readers Love ‘em Instead of Leave ‘em is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Today’s post is the 2^nd in a 7-part Series on “The Art and Craft of Characterization”

Part 2: The True Empowering Definition of “Character”

There are three ways you, as a writer, can define character.  One of them is dictionary-like and completely less than relevant to this discussion.  One is simply a literary adjective. 

And the other is the key that can unlock, perhaps for the first time, your understanding of what the character target really is for writers of fiction.

• The dictionary definition: a character is a person, an individual, who occupies a role in your story.  A one-man play has one character.  An ensemble story has many characters.  Forget it, since simply casting someone into your story does not make them a character in a literary sense.  Literal, perhaps, but that’s not good enough.  At least not if you want to sell that story.

• The literary adjective definition, one too-often adopted by writers without further depth: someone who is funny, unique, clever, unusual, remarkable, the class clown, a cut-up.  As in, that woman was a real character.  That Tom Hanks in Forrest Gump: yeah, he was quite a character.  Your uncle Melvin when he drinks too much at Thanksgiving… man, what a character.

This implies that all those surface affectations, habits and irritating ticks are the stuff of character.  They’re not.  They’re just quirks.  They may be quirks that connect to deeper issues, but unless those deeper issues are in play, then they’re nothing more than distracting frosting.

Pay attention, because if that’s how you are crafting your characters, stuffing them full of quirks and ticks that don’t connect to the next definition, then you’re not going deep enough.

•  The third, and best definition of character, especially for writers: one’s level of integrity, honesty, courage, reliability, strength and beliefs – or not – and how these qualities manifest within the story.

The “or not” tag here is important, because I’m not suggesting that all characters must be virtuous.  It’s the level and nature of these things that defines character, and thus becomes a tool chest for the writer to craft characters with a unique place in the story’s world.

Using the Real World as a Guideline

To further illuminate the critical context of this definition, think of someone you admire in your life.  Chances are they are a person of great character, they hold the qualities listed above to some extent and apply them to their actions in some way. 

With characterization in a story, though, believing and acting are different things.  A person who believes but is afraid to act is one kind of character, a person who jumps in at their own peril is another.  Both display character, but how they manifest it within the story is how the character will be perceived by the reader.

Now think of someone you don’t admire, and you’ll probably agree they are a person who lacks character.  Maybe not across the board, but at least in one area. 

True Character vs. Quirks

This realm of context – what is the nature of their true character? – is something that you, as a writer, need to understand and put to work for you.

It doesn’t matter whether your character chews gum in church, wears loud shorts, clips their fingernails in public, listens to weird music in their car… or whatever quirk you find interesting.  None of that is character, it’s just window dressing, frosting on the character cake.

What defines your character is what they do, what they say, and how they act in key moments of decision in your story.  It is how they make those decisions — the roots that lead to them – in context to what’s at stake.

A person who jaywalks may not be a person of little character, they may be the finest human being ever to walk your city’s streets.  But a person who walks past the victim of a hit and run without helping (that jaywalker, perhaps), is a person who lacks character, no matter how likable they may be otherwise.

If you’ve done your job as a storyteller, you’ve put your main character(s) into tight spots and situations in which there are consequences and stakes.  How you have them respond to those moments is the defining moment of their character. 

Even if they use too much after shave and wear funny hats. 

The Inherent Risk of Quirks

The use of quirks brings risks.  I read a story once where an all-American hero, clean-cut, brave, generous to a fault, the kind of guy  you’d want your daughter to marry, also happened to smoke unfiltered Camel cigarettes.  This might work if the guy was, say, 82 years old.  But his hero was in his early 3os, and it’s fair to say that virtually nobody in the real world who fits those adjectives — nobody you’d want in your story – smokes unfiltered Camel cigarettes, and that no parent with a brain would want their daughter to marry that guy, even if he was Dudley Doright himself. 

Because the Marlboro man, as a role model, is dead.  All because of character.

This is called a wrong note, and too many of them will get your story rejected.  Because, like the proverbial poop in a punchbowl, it ruins the balance of the whole thing.  What was intended to be a quirk ends up sabotaging the story, because the quirk implies a connection to something that didn’t fit the hero’s character.

Sometimes it’s the little things that trip us up.

Juggling the Balls of Characterization

In building our characters, we need to begin with an understanding of who they are, character-wise, and in this empowering, decision-driven context.  Only then can we successfully imbue them with little quirks and foibles for our amusement – making sure they are a good fit when we do – and we should never allow a shallower level of characterization to define and drive our character’s path through the story.  Even by implication.

Bill Clinton was a great and complex character in real life.  Scary smart, brave, charismatic, patriotic, handsome, rich… and, quite willing to look 200 million Americans in the eye and lie through his whitened teeth (as in, “I did not have sexual relations with that woman!”). 

And then there are those who defend him by claiming oral relations are not sexual relations.  Characters all.  None of them heroes, by the way.

All of these traits are issues of character, much less so than his preference for cigars and junk food, though the former did end up playing a key role in his ultimate display of his true character-self.

The surface dressing of characterization through little bits and bites of quirks and habits, if that’s all you do, is one of the great hallmarks of unpublished stories.  Approach the building of your characters from a more informed, decision-based perspective and you’ll find your story richer for it.

Photo credit: benjieordonz

Next post: understanding the psychology of character… because you just can’t make this stuff up.

Part 2: Characterization – How to Make Your Readers Love ‘em Instead of Leave ‘em is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Today’s post kicks off a 7-part Series on “The Art and Craft of Characterization” 

Part 1: An Introduction

I know what you’re thinking: been there, done that.  Because there’s very little about writing fiction that’s more common, boringly predominant and – here’s the rub – blatantly obvious than the vast oeuvre of characterization.

You’re heard it all before.  And still, character stumps and challenges you.

It did me, too.  Until I realized there is a better, clearer and more empowering way to understand the art and craft of characterization.  And that’s what this seven-part series is all about… beginning today.

The Mission-Critical Role of Characterization

Some writing gurus beat the character drum to the exclusion of all else.  They’ll tell you that story is character.  That plot is nothing more than giving characters something to do.  That theme is nothing more than characters living into their humanity.

Not wrong, just… less than filling, and perhaps naïve.  And frankly, pretty much useless for the writer trying to actually understand how to put all these pieces together.

So how do you create killer characters, anyhow?  Not just in theory, but in practice?

There are five key principles — criteria, actually — that you need to get your head around.

Sometimes at the beginning of my workshops I’ll ask people to define “story” using only one word.  Many people offer “character” as that one word.

That’s not the right answer, by the way.  Because you can have a great character in place and still not have a story in place.   If you’re trying to think of an example of that, you may not come up with one quickly, and that’s because those stories don’t get published. (See the end of this post for the best answer to that question.)  But I encounter this all the time in unpublished manscripts.

Character is important.  Critically so.  It’s one of the six sets of skills – what I call The Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling – that you’ll need to understand and master (to whatever extent possible… that’s the nature of the variable called talent) if you hope to publish your work.

Poor, thin or one-dimensional characterizations – no sale.  Which can also be said for all five of the other core competencies.  Which, in turn, puts them on equal ground for the writer seeking to publish.

Write this down: only by fusing your deep, foundational understanding of character with your equally deep and foundational understanding of the other five requisite core competencies – conceptualization, theme, structure, scene execution and writing voice – will you become likely to publish your work.

The key word here is fuse.  Because character infuses everything else in your story.

The Eternal Search for Quality Characterization

I don’t know about you, but I find most of the so-called conventional wisdom about characterization to be obvious to the point of uselessness.  If you’ve been around Storyfix.com long, you know that we’re all about approaching the craft of storytelling a little – okay, a lot – differently, a fresh and clarifying perspective that is anything but obvious.

Very quickly in this series you’ll realize what may be lacking in your characters.  For me, it happened in what I’ll cover in Part 2, which is the very definition of character itself.  That one thing enabled me to write characters that reviewers report are fully fleshed, multi-dimensional and compelling.

And that’s just one of the five primary principles to be learned here.

This series will rip deeply into the heart of the art and craft of characterization, identifying the elements and criteria for execution at a publishable level.

All that no-shit-Sherlock stuff about character we encountger at workshops and in writing magazines?  Well, it’s all good — I’m serious, it really is good – but unless you understand the deeper foundational premises that make those points valid — and there are five of them – it’s all just frosting on the character cake.

If the cake sucks, the frosting won’t save it.  Even it looks pretty.

In this series we’re gonna bake up a cake that will turn you into a bonafide master chef where character is concerned.  Because we’ll look at what makes characters work in your story – not just how they look or sound in your story, a key difference – regardless of how you dress them up or what you make them say.

What’s Lacking in the Conventional Wisdom of Character

In the March ’09 issue of The Writer, a very fine magazine indeed, the lead article was entitled, “Breathe Life Into Your Characters.”  At this point you may be saying, sure, sounds great, who wouldn’t want that? 

After this series, you’ll recognize most of what that and other how-to articles about characterization as nothing more than frosting.  Because you can breathe life into something that is still boring, illogical, less than compelling and completely unheroic… those characters are just lively while they’re at it.

You need more than lively characters.  You need depth and substance, you need relevance, a basic connection to the reader that is as real as it is compelling and entertaining.  You need bonafide heroes, arch villains, complex players on an intricate dramatic stage.

The article goes on to explain things like giving the character a life of their own (a great tip, one I include in my 101 Tips ebook.. good thing there are 100 others)… show your characters’ feelings (as opposed to what?)… assign them meaningful goals (like, that’s not obvious)… give them idiosyncrasies and habits (ouch!… this is a huge pitfall, folks, if that’s all you do)… give them inconsistencies (hmmm… humanity 101)… giving them cool names (please…) and giving them relationships with others (one word: duh).

Wow.  Isn’t your world just rocked by all that?  Insert huge yawn here.

You deserve better.  You deserve a foundational understanding of character, something that is so rarely defined or available.

Over the next six posts here on Storyfix.com you’ll see it all unfold before your hungry eyes.  Five key principles of characterization, all wrapped together into an integrated landscape of storytelling, wherein character becomes plot, plot becomes theme, structure becomes concept and all of it becomes irresistible to your readers.

Next post: the true definition of character.  Sounds boring, but trust me, it isn’t what you think it is, and it can be the most empowering thing you’ll ever learn about crafting great characters.  It was for me.

Note: the one word that best defines story, at least to an extent that one single word is even capable of doing so, is conflict.  No conflict, no story.  Period.

Photo credit: Ron Mueck

Characterization – How to Make Your Readers Love ‘em Instead of Leave ‘em is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com