Techniques of the Selling Writer

by Swain, Dwight V.

  He can resent this, in terms of a—for you—disastrous lawsuit.

  (2) A real person seldom fits your story needs precisely.

  So long as you write fiction and not fact, you need to work with people exactly suited to their tasks. Create a character, and you can tailor him to fit the situation. Pick one from life, and more often than not reality gets in the way.

  (3) A real person is hard to work with.

  Frequently, your contact with or knowledge of a real person blocks you when you try to write about him. You grope, trying to remember exactly how he does a thing. You draw back from making him behave the way he should.

  These reactions may not even reach a conscious level. All you know is, all at once you just can’t write.

  Therefore, your best approach is to make no attempt to pattern your character after anyone you know, except perhaps in the broadest terms. You should avoid detailed copying, in fact, even if it takes conscious effort.

  f. How do you shape development of your characters?

  Stress is the formative factor; the thing that makes or breaks a man.

  So, plunge your people into conflict. Let pressure strip away the gloss and reveal them as they really are.

  In so doing, don’t hesitate to play the tune by ear. The inspiration of the moment, the heat of your own fervor, may produce results that startle you!

  g. What about character growth?

  Here we have a point much beloved and belabored by the critics. But most stories occupy a brief time span. The action runs no more than forty-eight hours, say; or twenty-four.

  How much growth do you yourself, or your friends, exhibit in such a period?

  On the other hand, in the novel that covers years, your characters do indeed grow. Or, to put it more precisely, they learn by experience.

  Which means that if you show them living through the specific events that teach them their lessons, there’s no problem.

  h. Don’t some writers claim that their characters come alive and themselves control a story’s direction, despite the writer’s contrary wishes?

  They say so.

  What such a writer means, however, if he only realized it, is that he becomes so fascinated with the personality he’s created that he prefers to write about that personality instead of the story he originally had in mind.

  This can be good, or it can be disastrous.

  Fascination with anything makes work easier and, in fiction, results in a more vivid product.

  On the other hand, preoccupation with a character seldom substitutes for sound story structure. The personality run wild too often throws everything else off balance.

  As a general rule, therefore, the character who stays within the framework of his function turns out best.

  i. Doesn’t such a limitation make many characters shallow and superficial?

  Actually, despite all screams of anguish from the literati, many characters have no depth, and need none.

  Such characters start as “John” or “Mary,” and go no further.

  The trick in this is to weigh each character as you build him. Ask yourself how much attention he warrants. If the role he plays is only a walk-on bit, deal with him in the simplest terms. You pay little heed to the man who drives your cab, in life. You pay a great deal to your wife. In most cases, the same principle applies to fiction.

  j. What do you do if a minor player completely captivates you?

  This offers the same hazard we discussed in question h, above. When it happens, you have to decide whether to reshape the story to fit the character; or, cut the character back to fit his original function. There’s no way to avoid the choice.

  This is not to say that you shouldn’t make a bit player colorful and intriguing, you understand, so long as you hold him within the framework of his role.

  k. How much should you flesh out your not-so-minor characters?

  Give them precisely as much attention as their importance in the conflict needs and warrants.

  l. Is it a good idea to set up dossiers on your characters—detailed biographies and the like?

  This too is a matter of degree. Carried too far, it can be dangerous, simply because it’s so time-consuming. If you follow the routine some books suggest, down to whether or not your heroine likes pineapple ice, you may very well end up with fine background studies of your people—but no hours or energy left to write the story.

  m. Should you group characters into such categories as “simple,” “complex,” “flat,” “round,” “in relief,” and so on?

  Such labels are tools of the critic, not the writer. They’re arbitrary, analytical, and after the fact. Slap them on in advance, and they tend to paralyze creative thinking.

  n. How can you be sure that you understand the psychology of your story people correctly?

  Difference of opinion is what makes horse races. Behaviorists work on one set of assumptions, Freudians another. A detective and a social worker and a clergyman may each draw different conclusions as to the motivation of a given act.

  Your ideas about why a man takes a certain path can quite possibly prove as valid as another’s. In characterization, as in anything else, you have to act on the courage of your convictions. If you intrigue your reader with your concepts, he’ll go along.

  How do you bring a character to life?

  “A ’living’ character is not necessarily ’true to life,’” declares poet-dramatist T. S. Eliot. “It is a person whom we can see and hear, whether he be true or false to human nature as we know it. What the creator of character needs is not so much knowledge of motives as keen sensibility; the dramatist need not understand people; but he must be exceptionally aware of them.”

  What do you say about a character and his behavior to make him seem vivid and credible to your reader?

  You make him look and act like a living person. Which is to say, you give him an appearance of life.

  To this end, you use learned tricks and techniques of presentation.

  The key to effective character presentation is contrast. The world’s population today is numbered in the billions. Yet each individual remains different. There still are no two fingerprints alike.

  Story people must be thus differentiated also. Continuously, from start to finish. Otherwise, how can your reader know who’s who? How can he decide which characters he likes?

  Liking characters is vital to your reader. So is disliking, and feeling pity and contempt and respect and tenderness and sexual excitement.

  Why?

  Because without such variations of emotional reaction, the reader can’t care what happens to your people.

  If he doesn’t care, he can achieve no sense of inner tension when they’re endangered.

  It’s to gain such tension, remember, that your reader reads. Therefore, you must give him vivid, contrasting story people . . . men and women who strike sparks in him, and in whose moccasins he can walk.

  To differentiate between your characters, you do five things for each:

  a. Determine dominant impression.

  b. Fit impression to role.

  c. Modify the picture.

  d. Match character to cast.

  e. Assign appropriate tags.

  What does each point involve? Let’s take them one at a time:

  a. Determine dominant impression.

  Consider what happens when, in life, you meet a person for the first time. One way or another, whether you will it or not, he makes a dominant impression on you.

  That is, you find yourself labeling him as a dignified person, or a cruel man, or a sexy woman, or a flighty girl, or a rowdy boy, or what have you.

  Precisely the same process takes place in fiction. So, to shape your reader’s reaction to a story person, you decide what image you want said reader to receive.

  b. Fit impression to role.

  Suppose you’re directing a play. You want to pick an actor for the hero’s part.

  Immediately, the question arises: Sh
ould you cast to type or against type?

  This merely means that, in life and in fiction, each of us has certain preconceived notions as to what certain categories of person are like . . . stereotypes, as it were. Thus, most of us think of a hero, a leading man, as tall, dark, handsome, physically prepossessing, and so on.

  If, as director, I pick an actor who matches this stereotype—a tall, dark, handsome, physically prepossessing man—I’m said to be casting to type: I’m fitting actor to audience preconception.

  If, on the other hand, I choose an actor who contradicts this audience preconception—an ugly man as hero; a gawky, awkward girl as heroine—I’m casting against type.

  It goes on the same all down the line. Maybe I pick Mother to fit Whistler’s picture, complete even unto rocking chair. Or, perhaps I visualize her as a beady-eyed, gin-guzzling, vitriol-tongued old bitch. Child may be sweet innocence personified; or, she make take form as an evil-minded little monster or a ragamuffin tomboy.

  Partly, of course, your decision on such issues will be a matter of personal taste. But there are also a few objective facts you should take into consideration.

  Any stereotype has familiarity on its side. It makes for easy reading . . . demands no thought, no readjustment. Though you run some minor risk of reader boredom, Abie’s Irish Rose and the strong, silent heroes of ten thousand TV westerns stand on your side.

  When you contradict stereotype, on the other hand, you lose familiarity but you add realism and interest. Readers know that not all policemen are Irish, not all gangsters gorillas, not all girls beautiful. They’re excited by the very novelty of a Huck Finn or a Philip Carey.

  Now, back to story:

  When you write, you’re in the position of the director above. You have to decide whether the dominant impression you pick for a given character fits or contradicts your reader’s stereotype of the figure who should be assigned such a role.

  If you decide to contradict said stereotype, you must be prepared also to devise ways to get Reader to accept that contradiction.

  Yes, it can be done—witness Rex Stout’s use of ponderously obese Nero Wolfe as a mystery hero, or the hypocrisy that stands as the trade-mark of Elmer Gantry.

  But thus to go against the tide demands that you attack the task with open eyes and forthright recognition of the problem.

  c. Modify the picture.

  Here stands your character, suited out in the armor of dominant impression.

  Now, ask yourself a question: Is this a true picture?

  Consider the dignified person. Is he really dignified—or is the appearance of dignity merely a mask he’s adopted to hide stupidity? Is the cruel man totally cruel . . . cruel to certain people only . . . or using the appearance of cruelty to hide the fact that he’s really so sentimental as to be a pushover for any appeal? Is the sexy woman in fact eager to go to bed with all comers, or does she hold sex in such fear that she must hide her panic behind lewd talk and pretense of promiscuity? Does the flighty girl’s appearance of flightiness conceal cold calculation? Is the boy’s rowdiness a mask for shyness?

  All of us are, in truth, a maze of inconsistencies and contradictions. That’s what makes man interesting. Capture the paradox in print, and your characters will be interesting also.

  Obversely, the person or character who’s all black or all white, all good or all bad, all honor or all lust or all servility, may do very well in a bit part. But he lacks the depth to hold sustained attention. If you don’t believe me, try reading a year’s Dick Tracy strips at a single sitting.

  The more effective character possesses both strengths and weaknesses. They modify the dominant impression. The scholar, irked at a poor haircut, reveals a human touch of vanity. The drunk turns down a drink because his young son is standing by. The concert pianist cancels an engagement to help care for her sister’s newest baby.

  Of such are actual people made. They don’t want just one thing. They aren’t limited to a single feeling. Despite surface consistency, conflicts and contradictions upon occasion rage inside them.

  Your story people should show the same range of inner contrast.

  One warning, though: Dominant impression should remain dominant; major modifying elements limited in number. Too great complexity blurs the picture for your reader.

  d. Match character to cast.

  Ordinarily, a story involves people, plural.

  Each person should make a different dominant impression. If three characters all pulse dignity at every turn, each will detract from the impact of the others. What you want is variety, not sameness.

  e. Assign appropriate tags.

  A tag is a label.

  You hang tags on story people so that your reader can tell one character from another. An impression, dominant or otherwise, is created by the tags a character bears.

  Black hair is a tag. It helps distinguish the raven-tressed girl from another who’s a blonde.

  A stutter is a tag. It sets apart one character from others who speak without impediment.

  Shuffling your feet is a tag. It keeps people from confusing you with your friend, who strides along.

  Pessimism is a tag. It marks its victim as different from the joker.

  Tags also may translate inner state into external action. Each time the brother in Arsenic and Old Lace shouts “Charge!” and dashes up his imaginary San Juan Hill, we’re reminded that he lives in a private world.

  What types of tags are there?

  Most fall into four categories:

  (1) Appearance.

  (2) Speech.

  (3) Mannerism.

  (4) Attitude.

  Appearance is obvious. Some men are tall, others short; some handsome, others ugly; some blue-eyed, some brown, some black. Women may be well-groomed or sloppy, old or young, with good posture or bad.

  Speech, too, individualizes. Most college professors talk differently than most truck drivers. Most prostitutes have a vocabulary miles apart from that of most preachers’ wives. A Texas drawl is distinct from New Yorkese. Each of us has habitual expressions, from “Well, now . . .” to “Looking at this businesswise. . . .” We fumble, grope, speak precisely or pedantically or slangily or to the point. Our use of language reflects background, experience, occupation, social status, psychology, and a host of other things

  Mannerism? Some men scowl. Some women flutter. You know hand-rubbers, ear-lobe tuggers, eye-dodgers, buttonholers. The doodler, the nail-cleaner, the pipe-puffer, the gesticulator, and the seat-squirmer all are commonplace.

  Tags of attitude—sometimes called traits—mark the habitually apologetic, fearful, irritable, breezy, vain, or shy. Obsequiousness is an attitude, and so is the habit of command. Here, too, are found the men and women preoccupied with a single subject, whether it be golf or babies, business or yard or stamps or fishing. For all preoccupations, in their way, represent habit of thought or view of life.

  The key thing to remember about tags is that their primary purpose is to distinguish . . . to separate one character from another in your reader’s eyes.

  Therefore, it’s important that you don’t accidentally confuse said reader. Don’t duplicate tags. One fat man, one lush blonde, one profane engineer to a story is enough.

  Same way for names. Jack, John, and Joe in the same scene will mix up readers. Likewise for Hanson, Thomson, Johnson. There are worse rules than to check off each initial letter and terminal syllable as you use it, just so no careless scanner goes astray.

  A second function of the tag is to characterize. To that end, fit label to personality. If a man is timid, let it show in handshake and diffidence and speech. A woman who glances sidewise at a stranger and hitches her skirt above her knees as she sits down tells more about herself than a paragraph of author comment.

  Again, names enter. While “John Strongheart” and “Tess True-love” have gone out of style, it still doesn’t hurt to choose John’s cognomen with an eye to its connotations of vigor and/or masculinity. As for
Tess, styles in girls’ names change. “Agatha,” “Beatrice,” and “Chris” each tends to point to a different decade of birth.

  Now, three points of application to remember:

  (a) Do use enough tags.

  Sometimes, one or two tags for a given character are enough. “Now the door opened, and a heavy-set, crew-cut man poked his head in. ’Hey, anybody here drive a blue Buick?’” may prove entirely adequate for someone with only a walk-on bit.

  But if a character is going to play a major part, constant reference to his wavy hair or bulging eyes or grimy nails eventually will get to be a bore.

  Solution? More tags. Often, you’ll find it desirable to use labels of all four types for a single individual . . . maybe even several of each. Thus, our man may be burly, black-haired, and stubble-chinned . . . fumble for words and speak in incoherent fragments . . . lick his lips and scratch his chest and shift from foot to foot . . . combine belligerence with a tendency to beat around the bush whenever he’s asked a direct question.

  (b) Do bring on tags in action.

  “He had blue eyes” is the worst possible approach. “The blue eyes glinted coldly”? Better!

  Often, the best trick is to try to find some bit of stage business on which to hang the tag. Thus, for a proud woman: “She stood there for a moment, the violet eyes ever so steady. Only the slightest trace of heightened color showed in the smooth cheeks.

  “Then, with a quick, deft movement, she snapped the purse shut, turned still without a word and, blonde head high, left the room.”

  An irascible character? “’Get out!’ he roared, jowls purpling.” A haughty character? “Kurt brought up the monocle, studying Frances as if she were some sort of bug.” An awkward character? “A strange, shambling figure, he moved to the chair. But as he reached it, something seemed to happen to the too-large feet, and all at once the drink was flying one way and the ashtray another while he and the chair crashed to the floor together in a tangle of gangling arms and legs and ill-fitted clothing and shaggy hair.”