Character Shorthand, or What I Learned Playing Video Games

In a novel, there are lots of ways to reveal information about a character.  The narrative can get inside a character’s head, show thoughts, emotions and reactions, and then switch to another point of view to show how others think of the character.  Movies have fewer tools – to truly get inside a character’s head requires a voice-0ver, which involves first-person narration, which is always more suspect than an omniscient narrative voice.

But movies have an additional tool: visuals. The written word can describe how a character looks, but a movie can present the visual down to the last detail and do it instantly.

So let’s narrow  it down further to one of the most constraining story-based media I can think of for presenting character, online video games.  Generally, each player creates a character to interact with other characters and the game environment.  There is no real backstory, the character can only take the standard actions allowed by the game, the tools for expressing emotion are awkward at best and interactive dialogue is frequently (although not inherently) limited to things like “Where are we going,” and “Hey! You got me killed!”

So what tools do you have to make your online character stand out? To make him or her a person and not just an icon? And, of course, can these tools be applied back to writing and other media?

There are three major things you have when creating a character for an online game.  First, there is usually some customizability in the character’s appearance.  Gender, apparent age, color, and, depending on the game, possibly species.  Second, there is usually some choice of occupation/role/abilities/archetype.  And finally, you get to name the character.

Is that enough?  Actually, it’s a lot. I’ve created a lot of these characters over the last few years (because I often find making ‘em as much fun as playing them) and I’ve found that the ones that I stick with are the ones where the three elements (appearance, role/archetype, and name) come together well so that you immediately get some feel for the character.

Let me give you some classic movie and TV examples.  Indiana Jones, adventuring archeologist, with his dusty leathers, hat, and whip.  Note the odd name, reminiscent of the pulp heroes of old.  How about James T. Kirk, starship captain, in his Starfleet uniform?  He shares with Indiana Jones the combination of a common name (James, Jones) and and unusual name (Indiana, Kirk).  And Kirk is such a short, sharp syllable. It’s a very strong name.  And there’s Luke Skywalker, who, despite being a farm boy, insists on wearing white.

And I don’t see any reason not to name and describe characters in writing with the same degree of care. For a literary example, consider Miles Vorkosigan, created by Lois McMaster Bujold. He's got a great name (and on his planet, names beginning with Vor are significant,) a great visual and role (he's a dwarf soldier/aristocrat) and he wears a wide degree of uniforms, all chosen carefully for the occasion. There's a lot to him, even before you get inside his head.

Creative Imagination

I’ve been thinking about imagination, about the creative process. I can’t speak for anyone else, but my inner dream life has changed a bit over the years. 

When  I was a child, as the Good Book says, I spoke and I thought as a child.  My daydreams and flights of fancy were very direct.  When I was small, I was the hero of my stories.  In my mind, I rode off on quests, sailed among the stars, rescued the obligatory kids from the burning building (notice how its never adults in the burning building?), and fought the villains personally.

Now, more often than not, I’m not the hero – I’m the narrator.  I think about how I would tell, write, or otherwise present the tale even as it is unfolding in my imagination.  How would I present this in dialogue for a play? What narrative voice would I use for a novel? And for my fellow nerds out there, how would I run this as a game?

It’s true – the story is still interesting, even if I envision it in page layouts.

Some interesting things happened in the transition as I moved from hero to storyteller.  Character diversity for one thing.  Not being the lead allows for characters who don’t have to be me.  Multiple characters, characters with different points of view, characters that don’t have to agree with one another.

And structure: while I am not likely to daydream a full and complete novel, I can extend beyond a single scene, knowing the moment currently in my head is the set up or foreshadowing of a pay off that would occur in a later scene.

And failure: since the hero is no longer an avatar of me personally, it is a little easier to give him (or her, now) failings and incomplete resolutions and less immediate goals.

I don’t know if this is a unique pathology, or if all creative artists take a similar journey, or even if everyone, simply because of our familiarity with stories, follows this sort of path as they grow.  Perhaps, as we grow, we incorporate the lessons we learn into our stories – new ideas like the growing awareness of others as thinking and feeling people in their own right or the knowledge that life isn’t all successes and happy endings.

Or maybe it’s just me.

Something Everybody Wants

In my last installment, we considered a plot structure in which a character desires more than one thing, seeks more than one goal.  It’s a handy trick that not only provides character depth, but also almost guarantees conflict.

It occurred to me later that it might be worth looking at the trick in reverse – what happens when multiple characters all want the same thing?  The potential for conflict is obvious…

There’s a classic American comedy film directed by Stanley Kramer called It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.  The movie revolves around about a dozen characters who are all given a hint as to the hidden location of $350,000 in stolen cash.  (It’s a 1963 movie – that was a lot of money back then.) Do the characters cooperate and agree to split the money?  Of course not.

When everybody wants something at the expense of someone else, conflict is inevitable.  The prize doesn’t have to be cash – it can be love, recognition, a scholarship, a place in the sun. The point is, our hero isn’t the only one striving for the prize. The question becomes not just what does your character want, but what will he or she be willing to compete for?  And how  far will he or she go to get it?

The rule of this type of story is this – only one wins the prize.  You can’t split a gold medal and your audience will feel cheated if you try.

But if we, as writers, can make our readers care about more than one of the characters seeking the goal, if we can make it uncertain who is going to finally win, if we can sympathize with the losers as well as the victors – well, that sounds like a darn good story to me.

Everybody Wants Something.

There is a classic bit of writer's advice you will probably run into if you spend any amount of time looking for that sort of advice -- the story starts with somebody wanting something.

It can be anything, as long as somebody seriously wants it. It can be as simple as a desire to restore honor to the family name or as terrifying and difficult as trying to impress a pretty girl.

It's a basic recipe. The character's desires help define the character. The character's actions to achieve the desire move the plot along. The obstacles to that desire create conflict. Overcoming conflict provides resolution. Character + Conflict + Resolution = Story.

I was recently reminded of an interesting variation on the recipe. I was watching Joss Whedon's short musical Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog. It's a nicely structured little story. But it starts with a clever twist to the recipe above. It starts with a character who wants two somethings.

This simple variation opens up a wealth of possibilities. The two desires can conflict, to start with. Maybe coming closer to one goal moves the other further away. Or maybe a great opportunity to achieve the second goal arrives right in the middle of delicately timed preparations for the first goal. These conflicts force the character to constantly choose which desire to pursue. It becomes a much greater task to achieve both.

This variation also makes the outcome less predictable. The most common resolution of the classic recipe is that the character gets what he or she wants. But when the character wants more than one thing, then our hero can both win and lose. Or both goals can be achieved. Or the resolution can ultimately turn on the making of a choice as the protagonist learns what he or she really needs.

It can be argued that almost all fiction writing is formulaic. Who cares, as long as the story is good? And writers will keep playing with the formula. What comes to your mind if I say the character wants five things? That's a good start on a nested quest -- kill the ogre to get the magic sword to face the dragon to rescue the princess to save the kingdom... But it would also make a good farce. The guy who inherits a million if he gets married before the end of the month but he is juggling five girlfriends, none of which will marry him if they find out about the other women in his life...

So, you want to start a story? Tell me what your character wants.

What’s My Motivation?

I’ve been thinking about character motivation. I don’t think I need to sell anyone on the notion that believable characters act in consistent, understandable ways. That it is not good for a story when the reader says, “I don’t believe that character would ever do that.”

In life, however, we rarely know why anyone does anything. People don’t actually expound freely on their motivations, their decision making process. And some decisions can seem pretty strange.

It has also be noted that it can be good for a story when characters do surprising things.  So if characters can and should do the unexpected and if it is realistic to never truly know the motivations of others, it follows that the author shouldn’t really worry too much about characters behaving consistently, right?

Wrong, unfortunately. It would be a lot easier if the characters could always just do whatever the plot requires, but no. One of the things we do in life, perhaps as a survival mechanism, is try to get to know people. One of the pleasures of reading or watching movies and TV is using our getting-to-know muscles on fictitious people.

Authors have been known to speak about characters taking on lives of their own, making choices and taking actions outside the plot laid out for them. This occurs when the author has taken enough time in contemplation of the character to get to know them enough that certain choices seem, well, out of character.

And what’s really magic is when, through the character’s perspective, the author comes to choices and decisions that would never even have occurred to him or her otherwise.

When your characters want to jump a certain way, let them. Don’t force them in a mold to fit the plot. Because if their actions seem off to you, their creator, how can you sell them to an audience?

A NOTE ABOUT THE BLOG: I write this blog on the bus to work. Due to a (happy!) change in my employment circumstance, I will not be bussing to work much longer. I’m not sure what this will do to how often I blog. We will have to see what works out.

The Unwritten Stuff

It is a truism that writers tend to develop more information about their characters and setting than actually appears in the story.  And, it is said, this process improves the story, even though the missing data is never visible to the audience. That’s the mystery part – the characters and settings become more rich, consistent, and real, even though we don’t see everything they are consistent with. (And yes, I know I just ended a sentence with a preposition. I do that. I also start sentences with conjunctions.)

For my part, I hate working out detailed backstory. I prefer a more generalized origin story that can be summed up in a few sentences. That’s because I like leeway. I know that, as an author, I am not required to stick to the notes that my reader will never see, but I like the feeling of flexibility. I guess, really, I like not having the decision made until I know what the story demands.

Once a decision is made, it feels concrete, even though nothing is set in stone until the story is finished and the final edits are done. And even then you have to be ready for a publisher or an agent to request changes.

If I decide my character has green skin, by way of a simple, ordinary, down-to-earth example, then I tend to think of my character as, well, green. The character is subject to Kermit the Frog jokes and has an excuse not to eat broccoli. Of course I can re-write the character blue, and I will if the story demands, but it is harder than you would think, because in my head, green is the color.

I also find that detailed facts are often less interesting to me than personality. So when I do need a backstory, I don’t generally work out details like Bob enlisted as soon as he turned 18.  Instead, I tend to think what would Bob say if someone asked about when he enlisted. “Soon as I could,” maybe, or “When I was young and idealistic,” or, “If I’d know they’d move me out of Nowheresville, I’d have lied about my age and joined up sooner.” I learn more about my characters that way.

Anyway, that’s what works for me. Some writers used detailed outlines. Some write organically, looking to see what happens next. I think there is some benefit to having a road map, but maybe it should be a new-fangled electronic one that moves the landmarks as new data is entered.

Perspective Matters

A fictitious character walks up to you and says, “The other day I saw two birds in flight, one below the other.  The further from me they flew, the closer together they came, until at last, in the distance, they merged into a single bird.”

How would you respond? My first thought is “You’re farsighted.  You should get glasses.”  But I’m not you and that is very important. 

How would people from other times and places have responded?  Perhaps “You are seeing double.  You should drink less ale.”  Or, “Your vision is  a terrible omen.  You should be burned at the stake.”  Or, “You have seen the bird’s spirit flying beside it.  You should study under the tribal shaman.”

The point that I am so subtly bludgeoning here is that everyone’s answer is based on their knowledge, their culture, their perspective.  This is particularly important for fictitious people, who carry the burden of illustrating their world to their readers.

The culture and perspective of the characters impacts not only how they see the world, but the choices they make and the words they use.  And it is not just something that authors need to consider in terms of character.  It can inform even the word choices and language of the work.

I am told that the use of the word “focus” to mean concentration – focusing on a problem, focusing one’s energies – is derived from the science of optics and is therefore a fairly modern term.  So a Stone Age sorcerer would not focus his magics.

Now, you may be saying, that’s a bit nit-picky.  And you are right, it is.  There is a counter argument that states to be read and understood, the work needs to be in the language of the modern reader.  After all, to be truly authentic, any piece set far enough in the past should be linguistically incomprehensible to all but the most dedicated scholars.  And honestly, you want to sell to a wider readership than that.

But the counter argument should not be used as an excuse to avoid any research or effort in fully depicting the perspective (and the world) of the character.  It’s more of a balancing act.  Accessible language and the portrayal of a foreign or fantastical perspective are not mutually exclusive.  It comes down to making writing choices – will this word choice support my story without confusing my reader?

Hey, I’m sorry, but no one ever said writing was going to be easy.  But oddly enough, it can sometimes be a whole lot of fun.

A Matter of Character

A writing friend of mine recently mentioned the old idea that the difference between story and plot is character.  Really, of course, it’s a matter of how the terms are defined – ask ten writers, you’ll probably get twelve definitions.

But the underlying point is valid.  I recently saw a good example in Disney’s latest princess movie, Tangled.

Without giving too much away, there is a scene where the lead character is emotionally conflicted.  She is happy about something she’s done, but unhappy about how she had to do it.

There is an entire scene devoted to her emotional conflict that does not advance the plot – that is, the sequence of events leading to the resolution of the story – at all.  Just the opposite, actually – the presence of this extra scene slows the advancement of events.

But it is a great scene.  It’s funny.  And it tells us about our princess and helps us care about her.  And it is by caring about her that we give a damn about the story.  ‘Cause otherwise it is just a sequence of events.

So I guess the best plot is the world falls short if it doesn’t happen to someone.  To look at it another way, perhaps a great sequence of events that don’t involve the audience with the characters should be called something other than a story.  Like a history, or a saga, or something.

Where do I even begin…?

Nothing is more daunting to a writer than a blank page. But before you start writing, you need to know what you want to write about. So I was thinking about how I conceptualize my stories.

Most of the time I work in this order: character, setting, plot, theme. I should mention, however, that these are not entirely discrete units. The act of creation is actually very messy.

I start with character because it provides the most points of interest to me. Character, as I think of it, implies a lot of the other points. If I contemplate a dragonslayer who wants to retire and become a ballerina, for example, what does that tell me about setting, plot, and theme?

Well, to start with, we have a setting that has both dragons and ballet. Dragon stories are often set in medieval times, but ballet began sometime in the Renaissance, giving me some interesting dissonance to work with.

For plot, I immediately begin looking for conflicts to my characters stated goal. What are the impediments to retiring from a dangerous and necessary job? What are the challenges in convincing people to accept someone as a dancer?

I usually discover thematic elements as I work. It feels a little like uncovering what was already there. In this case, I suspect I’d be exploring questions of identity and the freedom to choose what to do with one’s life.  Possibly contrast the values of violence and art and parallel the discipline required to do either well.

Your mileage may vary. Perhaps contemplating what the world of dance might be like in a setting with dragons would be your starting inspiration. Or perhaps you have a theme you want to explore.

Writing, like most arts, is judged on the finished product, rather than the process. So whatever works to start your story.  Just be sure you do actually start.

Decision Points

Last time I wrote about the decisions authors make detailing their characters. This time, I’d like to consider the decisions made by the characters themselves.

Stories are built on the actions of characters, and the making of decisions is a core action. Unless a character is somehow acting against his or her will, all character actions inherently include the decision to act.

A great deal of dramatic power can rest on a single decision point. Choosing between two or more marriage proposals, for example. Or a pregnant woman choosing whether to have a surgery that will help her but risk her unborn child. Choosing whether to kill an enemy or show mercy. Whether to attend a funeral where one is unwelcome, because the dead must be honored.

For a choice to have dramatic power, it has to be difficult. Choosing between two bad options, or between two good but mutually exclusive options, or choosing between risks. Easy choices don’t count.

And showing the character making the decision also ties him or her to any consequences that follow. Even the unintended ones.

Character can also be revealed in the decision making process. Why choose one way and not the other? The author can spend paragraphs expounding on motivation, or can simply let the choice stand for itself.

Authors have a lot of decisions to make. Sometimes, so do their characters.

Details, details...

Today’s question: How soon do you reveal character details? When, in your novel or story, does your character get described?

To answer that question, I’d like to consider another. What does an undescribed character look like? Do we as readers just assume the character is some standard, generic person? Do we assume they are like us, our age, our skin color? Do we leave a blank space for them, holding off picturing them fully until we get the necessary data?

Certain traits should be revealed early, I think. It is significant, for example, if the character is a child. The world treats children differently and their capabilities are different. And, as a general rule, you don’t want to surprise the reader by revealing critical information about the character too late in the game.

Unless, of course, that is precisely what you intend to do. A particularly subversive example is Ursula K. Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea. At home among his people, the title character Ged is just another person. It is only three chapters into the book, when he travels to the Isle of Roke, that the narrative happens to mention that Ged had the red-brown skin of “most folk of the Archipelago.”

You have to remember that the book was written in 1968. Starting off with the revelation that most of the characters had brown skin could well have, at that time, made it a book about brown-skinned characters. But it’s not. It’s a book about wizards. It wouldn’t really change anything if they were green.

Which brings up another point -- what is necessary data about a character and what is not? Skin color is very relevant if you are writing a story about the Watts Riots, but might not be important in a futuristic or fantasy setting. A character’s gender is usually revealed the first time a pronoun is used for them, but I’ve seen books where the author has cleverly avoided pronouns all together to conceal this information. The character’s age usually impacts their place in society, but which is important -- the societal status, or the age?

As usual, bringing the questions up for consideration is more interesting then finding any one perfect answer. After all, the answers change with the needs of the story.

The Movie Serial Aside

I have, through some quirk of random shopping, acquired a 1943 movie serial featuring Batman.

I’ve watched about half of it so far. As I expected, it requires a mind shift to get around the 1940’s production values and limitations. What caught me more by surprise was the propaganda – the fighting American, wartime, unapologetically anti-Japanese jingoism.

But what really threw me was the realization that the hero wasn’t really quite Batman yet. Sure, he has the cave and the costume and the faithful butler, but he comes across like a generic masked avenger. He could just as easily be the Green Hornet or the Grey Ghost.

He doesn’t have the brooding, driven personality. He isn’t haunted by the death of his parents. He isn’t overly brilliant or competent. He's just a rich playboy with an odd hobby.

The audience (presumably) follows him for the adventure and the sly nods when someone talks to Bruce about the mysterious Batman. They don’t need the backstory because they know his type. Everyone is the serial so far is a type rather than a character (although Alfred, played for comedy relief, comes close).

Not really sure what my point is, except maybe this: It’s odd to watch a serviceable story with no real character depth. The story has thugs and a mastermind and a damsel-in-distress, along with a notable hero and sidekick, all dutifully playing their roles.

But it would be better if it had Batman in it.

How it Ends

It’s April 29. For those of you in the audience that have not been following along at home, here’s the story: I signed up for the Script Frenzy challenge (www.scriptfrenzy.org) to write a 100 page script in the month of April.

I took as my topic a fantasy screenplay with the intent of writing a better Dungeons and Dragons style movie than the actual D&D movie that hit the theaters. I like attainable goals.

Yesterday, I finished the script. I ran the formatting utility that set it into standard screenplay format. It was exactly 99 pages.

Now if the story is good and tight and complete at  99 pages, then that would be the place to stop. But I know this is only a first draft.

So I went back over it, thinking about what I could do better. One of the things that was weak was the character development arc for my lead. He started out strong and skilled and honorable. I didn’t want a story in which he got worse. That left the question about how he was going to change or improve. Who goes on a quest in order to stay exactly the same?

Now the major thing that happens over the course of the movie is that our team of heroes is assembled. When I wrote the end, I had them laughing and joking together, being friends.

I looked back at the very start of my script, which I wrote on April 2.  I had established my hero, Jon Warder, and his home village, but I hadn’t paid much attention to whether he had any real friends there.

So I went back, 25 days later, and rewrote the opening to show a distance between Jon and the farmers under his care. To show that he didn’t really have friends.

Then I rewrote the ending to make the final scene with the laughing and joking a little stronger.

And now Jon at least has something he didn’t have before his quest started. It sounds backwards and contrived when I explain it this way, but remember, the audience only sees it in the correct order, with the problem before the solution.

The result?

101 pages.

The Protagonist Problem

Each new writing project brings new learning opportunities. My April movie project has brought me a challenge I never thought of before (although a little research shows that other screenwriters have noticed it). The challenge is not overshadowing my lead with more interesting secondary characters.

In my novels I focus on a single, significant hero. No problem there. In my stage plays I have a small cast of characters who are more-or-less given equal weight (not a bad formula for the stage). But for my movie, as I noted in an earlier post, I have an ensemble supporting a lead hero.

To use an extreme example, in the Star Trek movies, the invariably human captains have to compete with the all the aliens and psychics and shapechangers.

In my case, my lead competes with a mysterious thief, a big surly guy, and a know-it-all story-chasing bard. Jon Warder is pretty much the straight man to all these comedians.

So here’s what I’m trying: First, I’ve made Jon an extremely competent warrior. This means that yes, that early fight scene I discussed in a previous post will be rewritten. Any time there’s a fight, Jon needs to be ruling it.

Second, the secondary characters cannot be allowed to resolve all the conflicts. This one is a little trickier, because I want to show their special skills and abilities and I want those skills and abilities to be significant to the outcome of the story. And, you know, I only have so many conflicts.

But ultimately, if Jon Warder doesn’t shine as the hero, I’m doing it wrong.

Adventurers have Parties!

In my last installment, I discussed the design of my hero, Jon Warder. So far, so good, but...

Action movies typically focus on a single hero, or, in the case of a buddy picture, two. Dungeons and Dragons, being a social game, favors adventuring parties. So do I write an ensemble movie or do I drop the D&D convention?

Actually, I get to be a Libra again here and chart a course between the two. When ensemble television shows come to the big screen, they often keep the team but focus on the leader. The Captain (either one) in the Star Trek movies. Mal, in Serenity. Even the real D&D movie had a lead character and a bunch of companions.

Jon Warder is my lead, no question. But he won’t go into adventure alone. Which means I need to make some more characters. Some will no doubt arise in the writing process, but I want to have some idea where I’m going.

I’d like to tell you that I went to the D&D source material for inspiration, planning out my ideal D&D party. But I didn’t. The first thing I decided was that I wanted to accumulate characters through the film, rather than trying to introduce them all at once.

I figure I can introduce one more in the village where the movie begins and the image comes to mind of a musician in the tavern. In D&D, the bard class is the jack-of-all-trades – a little bit of magic, some fighting skills, and a lot of knowledge and lore. Seems useful to me. For one thing, it allows me to have the font of necessary knowledge available without a full-blown Gandalf clone. I picture a slender and elegant man with an easy smile.

I need at least two other party members, met after we leave the village. Since Jon’s past is outside the village, at least one will be someone he already knows. I consider the cliche of encountering someone surly and difficult who turns out to be on the good guy’s side after all. I’m picturing something a bit like meeting Little John for the first time.

So I have Jon Warder, a bard, and a big surly guy. And so far I haven’t actually tapped into any of the characters I’ve made for my own gaming experiences – and I’ve been gaming since the early 1980s. So for fun, I’m going to toss in my very first D&D character, whose name is Tatters.

But she has to make some changes for the movie. The original was a half-elven magic-user/thief with an enchanted talking dagger. The movie version is going to be simplified to the core concept: she’s a street thief. I want the characters – or at least their roles and abilities -- to be quickly understood by the audience. So Tatters will be human, non-magical, and dangerously sneaky.

So far, my D&D party is entirely human, three-quarters male, and has only limited magic. I like that (at least, I like the limited magic part) – but I think I might have the bard turn out to be the half-elf – it suits the little-bit-of-everything concept I have for him.

It’s a start. I'm still pondering whether I need a love interest and whether that role will default to Tatters. And I have no idea what I’m doing for a villain.

Yet.

It All Starts in a Tavern

For those who you haven’t read the previous post, go back and read it now. Then the rest of this will make sense.

There’s an old D&D notion about adventures always starting in taverns. The player characters are all sitting around, doing what they do, and the mysterious figure enters the bar, looking to hire adventurers to rescue a fair maiden or maybe just dropping hints about lost treasure. And the characters all jump at the opportunity because (a) they are heroes and (b) everything sounds better when you’ve been drinking.

Really, it’s just a handy shortcut to get the team assembled and off to the mission.

My D&D movie will not start that way.

But it has to start somewhere and the temptation to start in a tavern, just for the in-joke, is too great to resist. (Well, not really – if it turns out I need to establish more background before the tavern scene than I will drop the in-joke like a rock, but for the time being, it’s as good a jumping off point as any.)

My thought is this: Epic stories often start in small places, allowing the hero to venture out into a broader world. So my hero is in the tavern when trouble rides in to town and things go from there. But I don’t think I want the inexperienced farmboy hero. It’s a classic role and it works, but we’ve all seen it – Luke Sykwalker, Eragon,... I want my hero to be competent from the beginning. More Aragorn, less Frodo. So if the broader world is where adventure happens and the small village is a simpler, more innocent place, then it stands to reason that my hero must not be from the village.

So now I not only have a competent hero, I have one that needs a backstory. This is a man from Somewhere Else.

And whatever trouble comes to town has to engage him. This gives me two ideas. The first is that he’s the local lawman. He’s the guy with the sword that knows how to keep the farmers safe. I like it – it gives him a role, a job to do, a reason to get involved. And no one will be surprised that he knows how fight.

The second idea is that if trouble is coming to our innocent village, it could have something to do with our hero’s mysterious past. After weighing these two options back and forth, trying to decide which to use, I finally decide in my typical Libra fashion that there is no reason I can’t do both.

My lead character, who I’m currently calling Jon Warder, is the city guardian/local lawman for a small farming community. He’s a retired soldier with considerable experience in combat. And something dangerous from his past is coming to town...

That’s a lot of mileage from the simple notion that it would be funny to start in a tavern.

Revealing Character

Character is a tricky bit of business. No two people, even twins, are exactly alike. But often all the characters in a novel or script are invented by a single author, who only has his or her ideas and experience to build from. Making characters unique and distinct is important but it isn't always easy.

Let's take a quick look at the different ways to tell the audience about a character.

Action
One of the ways we judge people in real life is on what they say and do. The conflict in fiction is often based on the choices characters make as well. So it's worth paying close attention to the choices and actions of the characters. If you tell the reader your hero is kind but you show him being cruel, the reader is more likely to judge him cruel.

What Others Say
This one is a little tricky. In real life, we also form opinions about people by what others say about them. The admiration that the people of Metropolis hold for Superman is, in a way, part of the presentation of his heroic character.

The tricky bit comes when the person doing the saying is actually saying something wrong, either due to misinformation or malicious deceit. If the reader knows they are wrong, no problem. But if the reader is drawing the wrong conclusion about the hero, you need to ask -- is this the direction I want to take my reader at this point in the story? How difficult will it be to correct the false impression and how big is the dramatic payoff for doing so? I'm not saying it can't work. Just be careful. If you are misleading the reader, you want to be doing on purpose, not by mistake.

Objective Narration
All written stories, and some films and stage plays, have a narrative voice. Character information can simply be told to the reader: Mary never liked Betty Jo. This is often the least dramatic and involving way to present info, but it has the advantage of being clear and concise. If there narrator is truly objective and omniscient, they should never give false information to the reader.

It is important to note that first-person narrative is never (or at least should rarely be) truly objective and omniscient. First person implies a specific narrator (usually a person) with all the flaws and limits and reasons to lie that anyone else has.

Desire and Denial

So far, I've discussed conflict in terms of meeting challenges and obstacles. But there's another way to look at it: figure out what your character wants and don't give it to him. It's a nice trick because it starts with telling us something about the character, and, if you'll forgive the buzz words, it ensures the conflict will be character-driven.

Everybody wants something. From the basics of food and shelter to the more complex desires like love, respect, power, and adoration, every character has something they fiercely believe they need.

True story: I had been unemployed for months and was in danger of my unemployment payments running out when I finally got called in for a job interview. So naturally, I had a flat tire. I knew it was the interviewer's last available time slot, so I couldn't reschedule. Not enough time to call a cab, the upstairs neighbors weren't home to loan me their car, fixing the tire didn't work... Man, I wanted my shot at getting that job. And I actually did make it to the interview on time, but I had to work for it. See the dramatic tension?

It's a simple formula - don't give 'em what they want. In fact, it's a little too simple. It's fine for a very short story, but in any extended form (novel, TV series, movie franchise), it will become tiresome if the hero never gets anything he wants. It still works, however, if leavened with a little bit of success.

Take a classic romance plotline: Girl meets Boy. Boy is cute (and probably rich), but more importantly, Girl sees something in Boy that others don't -- kindness, perhaps. Boy has no idea Girl exists. Girl pines for Boy. This is stage one - she wants something she can't have. Girl works at getting Boy's attention, or is thrust into an awkward situation where they are forced to work together. Somewhere beyond the halfway point of the story, Girl gets Boy. Their love is recognized, acknowledged, and (depending on the age of the intended audience) consummated.

This is when Estranged Wife shows up. See, a single success doesn't necessarily end the story. Now Girl has to fight to keep what she wants. Or consider that maybe, having gotten it, what she thought she wanted all along wasn't what she really needed. Now we have opportunities for character growth.

And if all else fails, you can always ask -- what does my character want next?

Being Contradictory

Any Doctor Who fans out there? I've observed, on more than one occasion, that The Doctor is the oldest, wisest, smartest, idiot child in the universe. Sometimes driven and serious, but just as often clownish and disrespectful. I love that. I've discovered that I am intrigued by characters that contain contradictions. Gentle killers, shy exhibitionists, civilized savages, whatever.

Characters that carry their own contradictions can be unpredictable. They can take a wider range of actions without being seen as acting out of character. We know what the brave hero does when faced with certain peril. But the coward who sometimes finds his courage? We know what we want him to do but we don't know what he will do. And that creates dramatic tension.

Contradictions may be inherent in the personality of the character, as with The Doctor, or they may be introduced as the characters grow and overcome (or fail to overcome) challenges. A shy, unnoticed, habitually quiet person may find the strength to stand up and take charge when no one else will. A stone-cold assassin my hesitate when a child enters the kill zone.

These movements are tricky and must be handled with care. The goal is to surprise the reader or audience with something unexpected but not totally unbelievable for the established character.

If the character is changed completely, if they don't go back to whoever they were before rising to their particular occasion, then no contradiction is expressed. Their experience is merely a life-changing event. But they can't go back completely, either. They must now carry the potential to contradict their established pattern and the reader or audience must see that potential at least occasionally. Otherwise whatever happened was just an aberration, a break in character that was convenient to the author.

I will not claim, as some might, that characters who are always brave, heroic, steadfast, and true inherently boring. Like all other types of characters, they just want to be written well. At best, such characters can represent what we aspire to be. But characters that have contradictory natures? Characters that can be heroes today and still fail tomorrow, or who can be brave and uncertain, all at once? I think such characters are closer to representing what we really are.