A Writer and His Characters

My twisted path to four complete novels was educational in all kinds of ways, but better understanding characterization is the nugget most valuable. Long story short: I finished three complete manuscripts before pausing to study the craft of fiction. Therefore, I was the not-so-proud owner of three truly crappy manuscripts. Fortunately, I had received major reader encouragement that the storylines were solid, so it made sense to rewrite the original three rather than launch off on new projects.

In the case of novel number one, first called Geezers, Inc., I had already rewritten once. The new title became Gray Ghosts, Inc., and I had tried a whole new approach to the start, and to the stakes involved in the central conflict. In try number one, I opened with fiftyish pages told first-person by Jim Brantley as he becomes associated with an unlikely band of crusaders. In try number two, I opened with thirtyish pages told in tight third person from the point of view of young Darlene Forrester as she becomes associated with our unlikely band of crusaders.

Then I studied the craft and I realized that Gray Ghosts, Inc. (now Accidental Soldiers) is supposed to be a suspenseful thriller, and you don’t open with 50 or 30 pages of meandering discovery. The story should just start. Action begins. Go team go.

But I had an enormous benefit as I developed try number three. I knew Jim Brantley. I knew Darlene Forrester. I knew about their parents, their hobbies, their goals, their quirks. I knew them, probably better in many ways than I know some people that I call friend. And suddenly whole new scenes could come together in my mind and on the paper. I simply put people I knew in new situations, and they did what they would do. The feeling was both exhilarating and liberating.

Silent Hero begins in the era of my youth and also includes characters that I soon felt I knew. On several occasions, Glenn Sorensen and Amy Rivera made decisions that I hadn’t anticipated in advance. When first they rode off on their own, I asked myself, “What the hell just happened?” And the answer is, in my opinion, one of fiction writing’s great joys: two people, real in my mind, had made the decisions they would make, no longer limited in their scope by my personal thinking. [As an aside, but we’ll blog on this separately, this is also the reason that readers should not declare writers evil, corrupt, or otherwise Satanically possessed when a bad character behaves badly. Of course bad characters behave badly. They did in the Bible. They do in good fiction. They’re real in the author's mind, but they aren’t the author's mind.]

While writing the first draft of The Alphabet Affair, I knew intuitively that I needed reader sympathy for Jackie Billings who stumbles into a helluva mess. That draft included a long chapter that detailed several mini-scenes from early in Jackie’s life. I’ll close this blog with two of those scenes as they appeared in that version. Once again, the scenes had to go because The Alphabet Affair is classic adventure-suspense-thriller, but I felt I knew Jackie as I rewrote, making the process vastly easier.

Some writing authorities advise developing a set of short stories for main characters. At the least, writing detailed bios. I think both make sense, but the short stories make most sense. If you know how your characters behave, you can put them almost anywhere, and they’ll do their thing. [Another aside—I now believe this general idea is the key to avoiding writer’s block. We’ll blog on that later, too.]
Here’s Jackie (unedited since that initial try, so bear with me):

September 28, 1974

By the time she was eight years old, Jacqueline Sue Morris seemed more mature than her mother. Madeline Morris loved to sing; she loved to dance; she enjoyed a drink. Henry was a good man, but fourteen years older than his wife and a bit stern. People said he changed after the Korean War.

Finding opportunities to sing and dance was a problem in Greenville, Ohio, but Madeline did her best. She was active in Little Theater, of course. A pretty damn good Lola in Damn Yankees, in her own opinion anyway, although some scumbag local critic said her legs were too short. There was an annual Kiwanis-sponsored adult review in the high school auditorium. That was a highlight. Dayton was only thirty miles away, so she sang at a couple clubs there – free of course, but it gave her a place to belt out songs like Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey. She wished Henry would come with her, but he never did.

After school one afternoon, she rounded up Jackie and younger sister Mia, who had just turned six. “You’re starting dance lessons next week, girls. It’s all set.”

“Goodie,” said Mia.

“Why?” asked Jackie.

Their relatives would not have been surprised by the reactions. They called Mia a little Madeline. She was petite, fair with curly auburn hair, cute, impish, able to light up a room. Jackie’s hair was dark. She was slender, tall for her age, apparently taking after her dad. People said she’d be pretty someday, but she was gangly and her teeth would need braces.

“Because it’ll be fun, and for a great mother-daughter act for the Kiwanis show,” explained Madeline.

Jackie Morris took her dance lessons and performed with her mom. But it made her feel self-conscious. Mia loved it. With their mother dressed like a third sister, they wore matching blue tutus to sing and dance to Good Ship Lollipop. For Jackie, the only good moment was the last one. After their bows, she could see her dad, the tallest man in the third row, smiling, clapping, focusing on her. She formed her lips into a little kiss, just for him. He did too, just for her.


February 15, 1976

The Morris family lived in a tall two-story house on a wide, tree-lined street. Their house was old, like most of the houses in Greenville, with a roof that seemed to point in all directions. The garage wasn’t attached. Their dad’s woodworking shop was there. He spent a lot of time in his shop.

Jackie was a month past ten years old. Mia was seven. It was eight o’clock in the evening. Jackie was upstairs, at the little desk in her room, reading Jane Eyre, making notes. “Jackie, Jackie, come quick. Something’s wrong with Daddy.” It was a shriek, a shriek unlike anything Jackie had ever heard. Her heart began pounding, hard. She flew through her door and down the stairs. Mia was waiting at the bottom of the steps. Her eyes were wide, frantic, tears were starting to bubble. She seemed to be flapping her arms like an injured bird. “Come quick. Come quick.” She turned and ran toward the kitchen, Jackie close behind. They both skidded on the linoleum floor. Then through the kitchen and out through the back porch.

“Where’s mom?” Jackie gasped.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

The small side door into the garage was open. They rushed through, colliding at the entrance. He was lying on his back beside his lathe. He seemed twisted somehow. His skin was bluish-gray. His face was all wet. His shirt, too. Mia stood by his head, eyes even wider. Jackie fell to her knees by his chest. She shook his shoulder, gently at first, then harder. “Daddy. Daddy. Please wake up…Please…Please.”

He didn’t stir. Jackie tried to remain calm. “Wait with him, Mia. I’ll get help.”

Jackie ran to the phone on the dining room wall and dialed zero. In small towns you dialed zero.

“Operator.”

“Help us. Emergency. At the Morris House. 701 North Howard. My daddy. Oh, God. It’s my daddy. Hurry. Help us.”

Jackie ran back to the garage. There was no change, except that Mia was on her knees now, sobbing. “Wait here. I’ll meet the doctor.” Jackie ran through the garage door, down the side alley. Waited on the front sidewalk. Trying to breathe. Trying not to cry. Praying to the God she heard about every single Sunday.

The emergency vehicle was there in less than ten minutes. He was alive. They let the girls ride with him in the back of the big van. He still seemed too blue. But they could hear his breathing through the oxygen mask. They could see his chest rising and falling, really fast. But then it stopped. It stopped. The men pushed frantically on his chest, blew into his mouth. The van sped up, siren screaming. They reached the hospital. They rushed him inside. Jackie and Mia followed but had to wait in an entrance lobby.

A sad-eyed man dressed in green hospital cotton came through wide double doors. “We need to find your mother.”

At Henry Morris’ funeral, Jackie listened to the prayers and the assurances that her father was in a better place. She didn’t understand it, not any of it. She didn’t understand God, or what prayer was for. The preacher said God must need a brave soldier to guard the gates of Heaven. God already had a million soldiers. She only had one dad.

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