A thought on writing Characters

A thought on writing Characters -

When it comes to writing, we try and describe our characters in such ways that the reader will come to love or hate them.  This description comes in two fundamental forms, physical attributes, and actions. 

As authors, we get to pick and choose how we match up the physical with the action.  It isn’t likely that the portly short man with heavy jowls, will pull Kung-Fu moves on someone.  On the other hand, the lean, chiseled, square-jawed man with the tan you can shine with Brasso doesn’t surprise you when he cleans some’s clock or changes a diaper.  Surprisingly, the tough guy gets a greater range of emotion.

These characteristics we use in our writing come about because of our contact with the entertainment industry that feeds us stereotypes and our connection with the real world by taking in the news and knowing the histories of friends and family.  Thus, to hear Uncle Lewis relate taking up the 50 Cal when the sailor was shot out of the seat on the landing craft rushing onto Omaha Beach, if not surprising, is at the very least fascinating.  Then to hear the landing craft was so riddled with bullets that it barely made it back to the launch ship before it sank was an eye-opener. 

Take all this information gleaned and write your characters.  There is a component implied, that is believability.  In editing, we ferret out all the stuff where we find no one will believe our character would do what they do in that scene.  Although in real life, they might. 

That takes us to the realm of understanding how people work.  Not many writers are psychologists.  We observe, converse about what we see and hear to gain an understanding of how people operate in the world so we can write that into our stories.  Generally, we exaggerate a trait or two for our character to give them a bigger than life persona.  It also helps us to direct the characters believability for the reader.

It helps us to understand what is going on in the world.  As a writer, there is more to understanding than knowing victim number forty stepped forward today accusing Harvey Weinstein of sexual molestation.  As a writer, why number forty?  What happened with number one victim twenty plus years ago?  There is something we need to know if we are to incorporate such a character in our story as to how things are the way they are and be believable.  In this particular instance, here is an article that is well put on the topic.  https://longreads.com/2017/10/23/weinstein-women-and-the-language-of-lunacy/

If we can come to understand the inner workings of stuff like Weinstein’s situation, we are able to translate that into behaviors in other cases.  For instance, see the parallels between the sexual antics of Weinstein, Cosby and Wiener and the political scene with Fast and Furious, Benghazi, Uranium One or Trump Jr. and Russian lawyers or the hacking of the DNC.  Could Bill Clinton gotten away with his sexual antics today or would we be listing his name along with the rest of notable offenders of today?  I don’t know, but when we write our characters, we can use what we see and hear to infuse our stories with the same kind of confusion and tension we see around us.  Makes one wonder, what’s going to happen?  As has been said, you can’t make this stuff up.  But, we can certainly use it.   

Flash Fiction - The Gun

The Gun

James Levitt didn't lift his feet any higher than it was necessary to clear the ground for each step.  It had been already twelve miles today and he wanted to take advantage of the flat high plains to make as many miles as they could.  The foothills were growing larger by the step.

As Captain of the train, he always took the lead and could hear the creaking of the wagon behind him and six more after that.  He didn't need to turn around to know his daughter and wife with ox lead in hand, were trudging alongside.  It was late in the day and the long shadows of the mountains before them were stretching toward them as the sun descended in the west. If they could make five more miles he figured that they would stop for the night in the forest line of the foothills. 

The ruts on this section of the Oregon Trail had been filled in by someone previously.  There hadn't been enough rain to pack down the powder.  Then he heard a loud crack and the ox bray once.

"James!"  His wife called.

The wagon had slipped off the crest of a rut and buried itself to the hub in the dust leaning at a stiff angle.  A chest, blankets and two barrels tore loose the canvas siding and tumbled out on the ground.  The train halted and a gaggle of men stepped up to the lead wagon. 

They put their shoulders to the wagon and pulled on the wooden spokes while James' wife whipped the ox and the daughter gathered up their belongings.  The wagon slowly pulled up from the rut and was level again.

A mile later they entered the tree line.  The James heard a low pitch guttural cry of a mountain lion.  He turned and called to Sarah, "Get my gun from the chest."

A moment later his wife came up to him, "It's gone."

James sighed.  He had traded a piano and a fertile sow in England for that gun knowing they might need it.  "Alright, I'll get Samuel to come up with his long gun until we make camp."

"Samuel, take your rifle and stand vigil as we set camp,” James instructed.  "Also, could you send a couple of the older boys back down the trail where we got stuck in the dirt and see if they can find my revolver.  It must have spilled out there?"

"Sure, thing Captain."  Samuel headed back to his wagon.

The wagons were circled in a large clearing that had been carved from the trees a long time ago as there was no firewood in the immediate vicinity.  The light was subdued as the sun dropped behind the mountains when John, Samuel's oldest boy came up and handed James his gun.

"Was it where I thought?"  James asked. 

"Yes, Sir.  It was just lying there on the grass by the trail."

"Here,” James handed it back.  "Take a few of the other boys and gather some wood.  Might have to go ways to find some.  I heard some big cats.  So, keep an eye out."

Half an hour later, James heard two shots and looked up from the hay he was laying for the ox.  Several more men gathered around looking in the direction of the sound.  A short time later, four boys emerged from the trees, arms laden with dead wood. 

John returned the gun.  "Was a mountain lion threatening us.  I don't think he meant any harm, just curious.  I scared him off with a couple shots."

"Bless you, John.  That was a Christian thing to do."  James clapped him on the shoulder.  "Let's get the fire started and eat dinner. 

Flash Fiction - Wednesday

Wednesday Night

How in the world did I get roped into this?  All I did was tell Steve that I liked Linda.  Well, I liked the look of her because I had never met her. 

"You know what night this is?"  Steve asked me in my mom and dad's kitchen.

I was sure he was going to enlighten me when I gave him a blank stare and then said, "Sure, Wednesday."

"It's the dance at the Rec Center at Raynor Park.  They'll be dancing until ten o'clock."

"Oh, I forgot about that."  Why would I remember?  I'd only been to it twice the whole school year. I opened the fridge and took out an apple.  After fetching a knife from the block on the counter, I started to peel it.  "You want one?"

"Sure, thanks." 

I handed him one unpeeled.  I already knew he liked it that way.  "So, you going?"

"So are you."

"Really, I don't really like it.  I just stand around."

"I called Linda and asked her if she was going."  He tore a huge chunk from the apple and sat down at the table.

"Yep, first she said she didn't think so.  Then I told her you were going to be there.  She said then she would go." 

He looked so smug.  What nerve.  I was amazed at him and pleased at the same time.  "Okay.  What time does it start, six-thirty?"

I straightened my tie and picked a small piece of apple from my tooth I saw in the mirror.  Dabbed a little hair Cream on my cow-lick and headed out the door.

I got there about six-forty-five and could hear the music from the grass.  Inside, the music was blaring.  But, no one was on the dance floor.  I shifted around and headed for the large orange drink container, and there was Linda.

She was nearly as tall as I was with light auburn hair that swept down across her face, over one eye and waved next to her small aristocratic nose.  She wasn't particularly a busty girl, but the deep blue dress was tight, and just above the well-pleated top she had an embroidered red rose that accented her hazel eyes. 

I sidled up alongside the cooler on the other side.  "Hi, Linda.  Would you like a drink?"

Linda locked her gaze on me and smiled.  "Sure, thank you."

I fumbled for a glass and knocked over the whole stack of about ten.  Thank goodness they were plastic as they uncoupled and rolled all over the top of the folding table.  Linda was quick and corralled several as I quickly gathered them up.  "Sorry,"  I stammered.  Then dutifully, I filled one up for her and handed it to her.

We stepped away from the table along the wall, and more kids were starting to get into the Twist.  I lost my tongue.  I was sure I brought it with me.  I had it a few minutes ago, but now nothing would come out of my mouth.  Just pink lemonade went in it.  We stood there watching the other kids gyrate.  

Then, the music stopped.  There was a short pause and then came The Monster Mash.  "Linda, would you like to dance?"

"Sure, I would love to,"  She said.  We set our drinks on the chairs and headed on to the dance floor.  It was wonderful, she was so graceful and somewhat reserved as she bent slightly at the knees and rose like a sinewave to drop again as her head waved gently side to side.  The song ended.

We stood there wondering what was coming next.  Then Blue Moon filled the Rec Center, and I took her in my arms

Flash Fiction - THE LAST CURTAIN

THE LAST CURTAIN

I'm not sure why such melancholy fills my soul.  Perhaps, it is the soaped greeting in the stage mirror, "A Happy New Year 2010."  It's been a fantastic run, 624 performances, rave reviews and my agent has no less than a dozen offers in the queue.  For what reason do I have to be so sad?

The last curtain as dropped on our rendering of Columbus, The Man of the Time.  I've been so comfortable in the skin of his squire that I hardly know who I am.  Night after night, I've transported back on stage to a time of wonder.  I've lived on the elbow of a man of such powerful purpose that his will could not be denied.  Royalty acquiesced to his desire.   I am inspired each night to bolster him in his moments of despair.  In private, he leaned on me, my only skill - to believe in him, in his immortality. 

As I look around at the plastic fruit in the vase, the LED flame in the lanterns and chandelier, the curved Styrofoam bulk of the castle walls and the thin tin mirror with the holiday greeting, I wonder can anything next be finer? 

I am afraid I may be ruined.  How could I ever do a crook or an evil person after having lived in the shadow of such a great man for the past two years?   I don't know that I can.  I'm not famous, I can't pick my roles.  I have to eat and pay the mortgage.  My agent assures me there are characters waiting that are worthy.

All right then, I am a professional.  I will gird up my loins and stride onto the front of make-believe to accost the enemies of righteousness and bring new projections of hope, perseverance, and right choices to those that watch my performances.   

For I am an actor of merit.