Is That My Character in the Mirror?

Readers and interviewers sometimes ask, “Is your novel’s main character you?” Or “Which of your characters is you?” Both are variations on the theme: “Is your fiction autobiographical?” The answer is: No. And yes. None of the characters is me. And all of them are me.

An author can, of course, thinly veil herself as her main character. Author Diane Ackerman, inspired by her work at a suicide prevention hot-line, wrote a book about the experience, A Slender Thread. Out of respect for both callers and counselors, she knew she needed to fictionalize. “That meant that, in a fictional sense, I was the main character,” she says. But most authors of fiction are not their characters.

So, no, my characters are not me. My characters come from a variety of sources. For example, I may base a character on a person I know. Even then, I have to change the character enough to protect the identity of the real person. What’s more, for the sake of my writing, I need to give this character the freedom to morph and flow with the story. So in my experience, even if a real person ignites a character, in the end, that character turns out to be very different from the original inspiration.

Often a character first comes to me as a voice – not an audible voice, but my muse serves me a line, like: “Linda Mary never worked with her hands on account of she was gonna’ be a movie star.” This character has a fun voice, though I don’t know who she (or he) is. I haven’t used the line, but you can bet I wrote it down. In fact it led me to the novel I’m working on now, although this voice is not one of the characters.

I also create characters out of a composite of real people I’ve known or characters I’ve seen or read about. I can do this consciously, but usually it happens subconsciously. Characters often emerge from some mysterious place – like a dream does. Wherever or whatever that mysterious place is, I suspect it has been primed by my own experiences and all the people I’ve ever met.

So that means yes, all my characters are me. Even the dreadful villains. That’s scary! They all came from my mind and mine alone. I birthed them. Since they come from me, they have only what is roving around in my brain, even when they surprise me.

In any work of fiction, an author can draw on only what he or she can imagine. We do research, of course. I’ve recently researched cancer, comas, grief, and suicide, all in the interest of discovering how people describe the trauma they go through in those situations. But when it comes to truthfully describing emotions in writing, I link to bits and pieces of my own experiences. I’ve grieved, felt betrayed and been enraged. I’ve reached points at which death looked more promising than life. I’ve been shocked by sudden, unexpected bad news. I’ve also felt love and gratitude, relief, comfort, and joy. So when I create characters – which involves motives and personality and emotional responses – I have, ultimately, only myself to draw on.

So, which character is me? None of them. And all of them. That’s part of what makes writing fiction so achingly difficult and so delightfully rewarding.

(Diane Ackerman’s quote is from “A Messenger of Wonder” in Going on Faith, edited by William Zinsser.)

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Photo courtesy morguefile.com

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Close Enough to Hear the Whisper

Writer Ann Lamott, in her classic book Bird by Bird, counsels writers to trust themselves, especially in the first draft: “… there should be a real sense of your imagination and your memories walking and woolgathering, tromping the hills, romping all over the place. Trust yourself. Don’t look at your feet … just dance.”

So in my current work-in-progress (WIP in writer lingo), as I completely re-visioned a first scene, I “just danced.” When I paused for a breath, I discovered I had written in present tense: “I can tell that Gran has been to the graves.” The previous draft was in past tense, so I changed back to past: “I could tell that Gran had been to the graves.” But I kept hearing the narrator’s voice in present tense, so I finally gave in.

Tense is one factor that determines the “psychic distance” of a scene (a John Gardner phrase). Last week we varied the distance in a sentence from Eye of the Sword, moving from a long shot to a close-up.

1. “In the forest east of the castle, the wind swept through the treetops, whispering to the young man below.”

2. “The newest comain of Camrithia heard a mysterious whisper in the wind.”

3. “Trevin heard a whisper in the wind and froze in fear.”

4. “He froze at the wind’s whisper and wondered why now?”

5. “The hiss shot fear up his spine. Blasted voice! Confounded cowardice!”

We identified three factors that determine distance: character description, formal or informal language, and point of view. Tense is a fourth factor. Present tense can zoom in for a sense of immediacy: “The hiss of a whisper shoots fear up his spine.” Or we can change person: “The hiss of a whisper shoots fear up my spine.” The closer we get, the more intimate the scene. We can be close enough to hear a whisper in the character’s ear – or in her mind.

Why would a writer want to be that close? To create a visceral response in the reader. Or to help the reader identify with the character. Or to create suspense. Why might a writer pull back, perhaps to a long shot? To show a larger context. To establish a distant mood, perhaps historical or mysterious. Or to avoid plunging the reader into turbulent emotions. For example, in a violent scene, a close-up may be too shocking. In a strongly emotional scene, a close-up risks being melodramatic.

Novelists usually vary their focus from long shots to close-ups. The trick is to change the focus so smoothly the reader never notices. That takes practice, but practice is what writers do. Whatever we write today, whether it gets published or not, is practice for what we write tomorrow. For now, in my WIP, I’m about as close as I can get. Which brings us to an interesting question: If I’m that close, is the character my mirror image? Is my main character me? I’ll tackle that one in my next blog.

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Photo courtesy morguefile.com

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Close-Ups and Long Shots

I have a friend whose comfort zone during a conversation seems to be two inches from my nose. I recently met her at a party and did a little experiment. As she talked, I stepped back. She stepped closer. I stepped back, and she stepped closer. I think I could have led her all around the room.

In film, camera work sometimes calls for a close-up. The scene is tight, in-the-moment, and intimate. Not always comfortable. At other times, a medium shot works better. Or a long shot. Directors choose different shots intentionally for their effect. Novelists do the same, but with words. John Gardner, in his classic book, The Art of Fiction, calls this aspect of writing “psychic distance.” The distance the novelist chooses depends on how far he wants the reader to be from the character’s mind. To explain, I’ve taken one passage from Eye of the Sword and focused it at different distances:

“In the forest east of the castle, the wind swept through the treetops, whispering to the young man below.”

“The newest comain of Camrithia heard a mysterious whisper in the wind.”

“Trevin heard a whisper in the wind and froze in fear.”

“He froze at the wind’s whisper and wondered why now?”

“The hiss of a whisper shot fear up his spine. Blasted voice! Confounded cowardice!”

The first, of course, is the long shot. The rewrites zoom in closer and closer until the last, an extreme close-up, takes the reader into the character’s mind. If you dissect the examples, you’ll see several reasons why. One is character description. In the long shot, he’s only a “young man.” Naming him takes us closer. Once we know his name, if we call him he, we move even closer.

A second factor is language. The long shot is more formal. The extreme close-up is casual and uses Trevin’s thought patterns.

A third factor is point of view. The long shot gives us a narrator’s broad view, which encompasses more of the setting. The extreme close-up comes only from Trevin’s point of view – what he sees, hears, feels, thinks.

You may have noticed other factors as well. I’ll point out some more in my next blog. For now, just know that psychic distance is a valuable addition to a writer’s toolbox. So as you read this week, watch how good writers make the lens zoom in and out. Next week we’ll explore why a writer might use long shots, and when close-ups might be the better choice.

Happy Reading and Writing!

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Photo courtesy morguefile.com

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Keys to Unlock Your Story

Writers carry all sorts of tools in their toolboxes. One of the most important tools for me has been a set of keys. Each key is a question that unlocks a door into my story. At first glance, the keys look quite ordinary, because they are questions that most writers automatically ask: who, what, when, where, how, what if, why, and perhaps the more unusual so what? It’s fairly easy to unlock at least those first few doors, but the more I write, the more I’m convinced that the best novelists use those keys not once, but over and over and over again.

The thing is, the first answer – or what’s behind the first door – is often superficial. It may even be deceptive. A writer is wise not to cling too tightly to the first answer that pops into her head, because the first door leads to another. The writer goes deeper, using the same key to unlock door after door until she happens upon the skeleton in the closet or the secret passageway or the king’s treasure.

The WHO key leads to character, of course. But ask again. WHO is worth telling about? WHO has the most to lose or gain? WHO else joins/opposes that character and pushes her story forward?

The WHAT key leads to stakes. WHAT does the character want/need more than anything? WHAT are the challenges that stand in the way of achieving that want/need? WHAT happens if that goal is not met?

The WHEN and WHERE keys deal with the place and time of the setting. WHEN and WHERE serve the story best if they are necessary components of the story and/or they link with WHAT and become challenges or raise the stakes.

The HOW key links to WHO. HOW would the character try to overcome her challenges? HOW do the challenges obstruct her? And HOW does she change in the process?

The WHAT IF key takes a writer deeper. WHAT IF opens all sorts of doors. For example, WHAT IF the character is pressed to do something she’d never do otherwise? Or WHAT IF you replace two characters with one who can take on both roles, creating a surprising link or twist?

One of the most important keys is WHY? This key usually opens doors we find after using another key. For example: WHO is the main character? WHY? WHAT does he want/need? WHY? WHAT keeps him from getting it? WHY? WHY? WHY? This key leads to motive and undercurrent and the bedrock of the story. WHY is the continuing question a writer asks when working and reworking the story.

Then there’s a key more rarely used, because we often don’t want to see what’s behind that door. The SO WHAT? key. Does this scene matter? WHAT does the character want/need? SO WHAT? It is important? I assess what I just wrote. SO WHAT? Is it relevant, or am I just enjoying my cleverness? When I use the SO WHAT key, sometimes what I unlock is an empty room. But even that is good. It shows me that I need to go back and rethink, open more doors until I find the part of the story that really matters.

So if you’re a writer, slip those keys onto your key ring and use them. Every one of them. Over and over again. If you keep unlocking those doors, I can guarantee you that you will eventually unlock your story.

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Photo courtesy morguefile.com

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