“Character is what we are when we are alone and in the dark.” — M.K. Soni
“Our character is what we do when we think no one is looking.” — H. Jackson Browne
Today I’d like to reflect a little on characters (in fiction) and character (that essence of self, personality and integrity,and the beliefs and actions that accompany them). We agree that characters in fiction should be as fully realized as a real person, that they should have strengths and flaws, desires and fears and needs, habits and manners of speaking and gesturing.
But we have also heard, from many sources, that the other type of character reveals itself most clearly not when we are trying to impress others, but when we have (or think we have) only ourselves to answer to. Sure, our character includes the way we act toward others, and that often includes the way we act around them. But what about those moments where we have the most opportunity or temptation to do wrong — when there is no one around to see how we behave?
Which brings me to the central question of this post: How exactly do the two kinds of character intersect?
In that past, I’ve had writing — a piece of fiction, specifically a chapter from the novel I’m working on — criticized on a basis that, even at the time, seemed a bit arbitrary to me: my character was alone.
Not that things weren’t happening in the story. Quite a lot was happening, actually. And not that pacing was terribly off — it was, a little bit, but the change that fixed the pacing didn’t make the character any less alone.
It was simply that characters, as a rule, shouldn’t be alone.
I understand that, without interaction with other characters, nothing happens to move the story along. I certainly agree that having a character spend too much time alone could kill any momentum in the story. But at the same time, I’m baffled. Why shouldn’t characters in crisis situations be alone? Real people are.
And so this situation — a single character alone in a crisis — happens twice in this story, to two separate characters (21 chapters apart). (A note about my novel: there are two connected stories going on, with two different main characters telling them.) And to be honest, these were some of the deepest, most difficult parts to write so far, and they’ve been some of the most satisfying to read over — because I feel like I captured the characters’ characters (that is, the fictional people’s integrity) just right.
In both of these situations — one character is dealing with fear and extreme physical pain, and the other, in a very bleak situation, has to decide whether or not to go through with a destructive action — the characters need to be alone. Not only does the plot necessitate it — could you imagine the disconnect if, during these moments, a girl scout selling cookies or a meter-reader rings the doorbell and interrupts? — but so do the characters. How could one cope with such a circumstance or make such a decision in the vulgar presence of an unconcerned, uninvolved or ingnorant spectator? In real life, perhaps, we do this; but I’d argue that there are internal and external aloneness, and that in real life, we tend to surround ourselves in that internal aloneness when we create such defining moments.
I’d make another argument here: when characters (plural) are in crisis together, it has the potential to reveal the intimate details of their relationships. When a character (single) is in a crisis alone, it has the potential to reveal the intimate details of that character’s development — their thoughts and fears and desires. Especially if the fictional character is unreliable, or close-mouthed, or deceptive (and to some degree, aren’t we real people all?), we need to see firsthand that other form of character. Who are they alone in the dark? What do they do when they think no one is watching? And why?
At the time I was dealing with this first section, I was urged to find a way to create another character. I could have the main (alone) character imagine someone else was there, or pretend someone else was. I could have an inanimate object be a stand-in for an absent character.
But wouldn’t that break the spell of aloneness? Once the character thinks someone else is with him — watching, helping or even just gawking — doesn’t that change him and change his motivation in the scene?
I’m curious what other people, writers and readers, think of this. Should there be limits on how you show your character’s character? I think it depends on the individual story being told and the way it’s told, but what about you?
krystlelwright 