Tag Archives: fiction

Speak to Me – Does Your Character Talk to You?

How does a character talk to you?

Some writers claim a character comes to them fully formed, knocking politely on the door and waiting to be invited in and offered a cup of tea and a cream biscuit. All the necessary information about the character is formed in their heads.

Others begin with a basic sketch of the character, then develop the character through notebooks of detailed information, from date of birth, clothing, interests and hobbies, music preferences, even food allergies and the character’s belief as to why chocolate should be considered a breakfast food.

When I am writing flash fiction or a short story, I have a strong sense of the character, his/her internal and/or external motivation and decision making process. The need for detailed character development can be dispensed with in a short story or flash fiction. A few broad brush strokes allows the reader to imagine the character and to understand the immediate conflict they are facing.

I do not think of them as “fully formed” characters in the initial writing. By the end of the writing process the character has hints and suggestions of their past and who they are. The reader can extrapolate more of the character’s background and motivation from the story.

As I was writing a new short story recently, the more I wrote, the clearer the character became. It wasn’t the physical description (which I rarely use in short pieces) of the character that became clearer but the internal motivation and the way the character thought and saw the world.

I found it quite a profound experience coming to an understanding of this character and her reasons for her actions and her way of speaking. In reshaping and reworking the narrative, I have a clearer idea of the shape and form of the story because I understand the character better.

Which leads me to a problem…

A current collaborative WIP has me writing from the perspective of a male protagonist. I have the name, a setting, some background and that’s about it. The development of the narrative and the project depends on my understanding of what the character has been doing for the past twenty years as this impacts on the present.

After lots of thinking and mental composting, all I’m getting is choko vines growing over the fence. (The choko is the blandest vegetable on the face of the planet). I needed a chat with my collaborator to help produce a few tomato plants,  a passionfruit vine and a crop of pumpkins. And some lettuce to make the salad (better not labour this metaphor any longer).

After a chat, I sat down some time later to write my first part of the project. I still only had a sketch in my head of the character, but enough to know his internal motivation and how he would respond to the situation. However, as I wrote, the character became more than a phantom of my imagination and more of a ‘real’ person. I understood who he was and the kind of man he is. I am sure over the next few months he will become a defined person, less two dimensional, trope, caricature or stereotype, and someone the audience can understand and relate to.

I am also in the planning stages of another novel where the characters are beginning to form in my head and in my notebook. They are taking shape, no longer formless and void, but they need to become “real” for the audience.

In extending my writing to novels from shorter flash fiction pieces, I am coming to understand the complexity and depth required in knowing a character. A novel requires greater consistency and development in a character. The character needs to act consistent with the parameters of the world of the novel. Sometimes you watch the character through  CCTV and record your observations. Other times, you throw an obstacle in their way to see how they respond. Character affects plot and plot affects character.

In a YA novel I am working on, the characters are fully formed and I understand their internal and external motivations. They didn’t “speak to me” as such, rather, they developed as the novel has progressed.

This is still the beginning of the journey for me. I’ll revisit my thinking on character development after completing these projects.

How do you create characters? Do they come to you fully formed, sitting on the sofa drinking tea, or do you need to dress them like a child and teach them to speak?

The Reasons Why

The question of “Why do you write?” is fraught with assumptions, expectations, suppositions, hypotheses and inferences. And that’s just from the writer. Does the audience really care why you write, or are they more interested in the story that you have written and are engaging with?

There are two answers to this question: One aspect of the question refers to genre: Why do you write fantasy/horror/sci fi/romance/suburban realism? The other aspect of the question is the philosophical underpinning of a writer’s purpose and their skill in the craft.

I write “suburban realism” (a term coined by @icypop). Therefore, this is why I write:

* I write because I can make the beautiful ugly, the ugly beautiful and because people’s lives matter.

* I write because it challenges, entertains, questions, pushes buttons, makes you laugh and cry, lets you escape.

* I write because it’s the little things about life that intrigue me.

I put the question out there on twitter. Here are a couple of responses.

@texistential (author of Crooked Fang) had this perspective: You know what, to be honest, it’s nobody’s goddamn business why you write. Just that you do.

Whether you’re nuts, desperate, attention whore, drama queen, or just looking to give is your business.

I write the stuff I want to read. I write because it gives this force within a voice and a life.

Writing is the perfect introverts’ pastime.

@icypop weighed in from a writer’s perspective: Always fascinated to hear what makes other people pick up a pen. 

Always curious!! Just don’t think any one person can state why writers write. We’re all different.

Check out her reasons for writing by visiting her blog, Icy’s Blunt Pencil.

The question sparked a twitter conversation between @Dannigrrl5 and myself.

revhappiness (Adam) – Is the reader really interested in why you write or they simply enjoying the story you’ve written? Or is it only writers who want to know?

Dannigrrl5 (Dannielle) – Non-writers always say “How do you come up with that?” but I think it’s a rhetorical question. If you try to answer, their eyes glaze over and they fall into a deep coma.

revhappiness – You see writers blogging about why they write, but I assume they are writing for other writers, not for their readership.

Dannigrrl5 – In general I think this is true. It’s for each other or for people interested in trying to write.

revhappiness – Assume not many readers want to know why. Some do, like I do with music. Others may be curious about the creative process.

From a muso perspective, I like to know why an artist composed a piece, but I also enjoy the music without knowing its story.

From a writer/muso angle, my appreciation deepens when I understand the craft behind it. I also listen/read for the joy of it.

Dannigrrl5 – I’m amazed @ how musicians compose & wonder how they do it, but I don’t want to listen to the explanation, I just want to enjoy it in my wonderment.

But I’m going to leave with this gem of a final statement from my best mate who is not a writer but a musician/computer whiz/all round good guy. More importantly, he’s also a reader. It’s a good summary of what writers are aiming for.

rotassator (Steve D) – I’d say most readers are more interested in *what* you write, and how the experience of reading affects them.

“I write because…” Every writer has their own answer to this statement. I write because it’s the little things about life that intrigue me.

I hope the reader enjoys the experience.

Scrappy Sketches

Writing for eMergent Publishing’s new anthology “89” has proven to be an interesting task.

The brief asks for a retro speculative fiction story based in 1989 with a reference to a significant event from that year, all prompted by a song from the same year. Following? Good, because it’s doing my head in.

Some of us have been slogging through ideas while others have written their story quickly. I am in the former group. What follows below is a sketch I wrote to help get the ideas flowing. It is not being used in the final story but I thought I would share this scrappy sketch with you.

*****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****     *****

“Why does the fat lady get to sing the last song?” asked Claire. “I mean, it’s not like she’s Whitney Houston or anything.” She dragged on the cigarette before extinguishing it. “This songbird’s gonna have the final note tonight. Fat chick be damned.”

The karaoke microphone was vacant, illuminated by a single spot lights. Claire’s best friend, Rachelle, dubbed it The Truth Amplifier. The microphone revealed a person’s ability, she said. If they could sing, it magnified the singer’s competent vocal chords. If the singer was a hairbrush vocalist, it simply amplified their cat-being-pulled-by-a-toddler screeching.

Flicking through the karaoke menu, Claire chose her song. It was 2 am and the bar was emptying. MIDI strains of Bon Jovi clambered out of the speaker. Rachelle whooped her encouragement from the table. Claire pulled the microphone from the stand, feeling its weight, balancing it before winking at Rachelle. In her head she counted off the final bar before the lyrics started. On the last beat she spun the mic in her hand, caught it, leaned forward and breathed the lyrics, “If you’re ready, I’m willing and able. Help me lay my cards out on the table.”

The crowd was caught in her performance. At the first chorus she pushed the vocals, but deliberately held back from giving it everything, “Lay your hands on me, lay your hands on me, lay your hands on me.” She extended her hand towards the crowd. A polite smattering of applause came from the thinning crowd, but Claire knew she had them. The second verse spun from her lips like caramel, despite the MIDI-synth backing track. Perched on the edge of the tiny stage, she could feel herself flying with the music. Grasping the mic stand in her left hand she threw her head back for the final chorus and released the diva within, finding the pure note and producing a sonic boom.

Putting the mic back into the clip, the audience erupted in whoops, cheers and whistles.

Dropping into the chair beside Rachelle, Claire said, “Elvis and the fat lady have left the building. Together. Eating deep friend sandwiches and caressing their arses where I kicked it.”

The Art of Blowing Bubbles

Funerals in the movies tend to have rain in them as a metaphor of grief and sorrow.  At Nanna’s funeral, the day was just, well, a nice spring day.  My brother and sister stood beside me in the front row; our mother and her sister sharing tissues and sorrow.

I’ve come to think of memory as a photo album.  You know those little rectangular ones where you can flip through a hundred or so photos.  In my version I see my Nanna, the high coiffed hair held together by a film of hairspray.  I’m surprised her cigarettes didn’t set her hair alight with all that product.

You hold onto the little things about someone, whether it’s an event, a situation or a scent.  For me, it was something she said.

“You can never blow bubbles when you are angry,” my grandmother intoned. The word changed depending on the situation: sad or scared or upset, but the intent was always the same.

At the know-it-all age of five and full of boyish exuberance, I was trying to blow bubbles through a home made loop of wire dipped into bright pink dish washing-up detergent.

“This stuff is far better than any of that store-bought rubbish,” was her standard refrain.  And I must admit that even to this day I still swear by the bright pink sticky liquid.  It made awesome bubbles.

Try as I might, I could not get the bubbles to form a consistent stream like my grandmother made.  The more I tried, the less successful I was and the frustrations of a young child verged on tearful.  Nanna calmly took the loop of wire from my hand and dipped it.  She raised it to her lips and I watched the quiet exhalation of breath.  The bubbles streamed away, caught by the breeze.

“Slowly and carefully,” she instructed.

I dipped the loop and drew it towards my mouth.  The frustration was simmering but I paused while I took a deep breath.  With controlled focus I released the captured air and it raced towards the skin of detergent.  It bulged and suddenly burst.

“Try again,” was her reassurance.  It was hard to be calm when all you wanted to do was hurl the wretched thing across the yard.  The second attempt proved as futile.

“Slowly and consistently,” she repeated.

On the third try a small stream of bubbles stuttered then stopped.

“There you are.  That’s it.”

Reassured I tried again and watched the swirl of bubbles get pushed along by the wind.  We laughed trying to fill the air with as many bubbles as we could.  Little spheres popped noiselessly.

It became her sage advice for every occasion, should something go wrong.  She kept a bottle of solution and a wand on the kitchen windowsill.  Sometimes it was better than any headache tablet or cough medicine.

Nanna’s coffin slid through the curtain to the crematorium.   My father led my mother by the arm outside the chapel.  The mourners congregated in sombre two’s and three’s.  I stood aside in the shade of the alcove.  From my jacket pocket I removed a small plastic bottle of bright pink washing up liquid and a loop of wire.  A libation in honour of the dead.

Grief disrupted the rhythm of my breathing. A short, sharp inhalation held to stem the tears.  I drew the wand to my lips then methodically, deliberately exhaled. A steady stream of bubbles rushed forward settling in the hands of the breeze.  I watched them rise and dance, fade and disappear.

Snap, Crackle, Blergh.

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #151 for April 16th, 2010

While digging in a cereal box for the toy surprise, a child makes a grisly discovery.

Jackson rubbed the sleep from his eyes and padded down the hallway towards the kitchen.  The morning had ticked over into double digits, which was the prescribed time that an almost thirteen year old boy should emerge from his hiding hole.  He still wore his flannelette Superman pyjamas and matching slippers.

From the kitchen he collected the necessary utensils and cutlery to make breakfast.  He sat down at the table across from the television and surfed for Saturday morning cartoons.  He moved the cereal box between himself and the television and looked at the proclamation at the top right hand corner.  Contains one “Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge” said the packet.

Jackson had a rule, slightly unorthodox as it was.  The rule was that the surprise toy or gift must not be scrummaged for; it must fall from the box during the pouring of cereal.  Only that way would it truly be a surprise.  Scrummaging was for those who had no discipline, like sisters.  Especially his sister, Celia.

Today’s the day, thought Jackson, calculating how many bowls he had consumed, their relative volume and what was left in the box.  He chanced a peek and saw the plastic edge jutting out like a shark’s dorsal fin in a sea of cereal.

Out of the box tumbled golden flakes of sugar-encrusted breakfast-y goodness.  Jackson waited and poured.  And poured.  The bowl filled half-way.  Three-quarters.  Edging towards full.  It was almost at Jackson’s Point of No Return where the adding of milk would cause an overflow onto the table.  And you didn’t want to get Mum offside if you spoiled her clean tablecloth.  One final shake.  Light caught the plastic and reflected like a diamond as it dropped in slow motion.

Jackson looked down as his prize with the anticipation of Indiana Jones.  He even licked his lips.

Option A

Jackson let fly with a string of invective that would have made the school bully blush.

“Jackson, what caused you to say such a thing?” said his mother.

“All week I have been waiting for my Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge and all of a sudden I find I have a girl’s doll dress up set.  I’ve been had.  I’ve been swindled.  I’ve been set-up.  I am going to email the breakfast cereal company and demand to know why my breakfast cereal box contained a Belle of the Ball Dress Up Set and not my Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge.”

His mother nodded, “Just don’t use that type of language.  You can help me with the washing as punishment this afternoon.”

In her bedroom, Celia tried on her Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge and thought it looked rather nice with her fancy dress ensemble for Stephanie’s party that night.

Option B

Sitting atop his sugar crusted flakes was a small vacuum-sealed bag.  A long finger pointed accusingly at Jackson.  Just above the cleanly cut stump was a simple gold band.

“Mum, I think you need to come and see this!”

His mother came into the kitchen with a questioning look, which suddenly brightened up.

“So that’s where I put it.  I must be more careful when disposing of ex-husbands.  How careless of me.  Let me take that from you.”

She scooped it from the bowl and put it into the pocket of her apron.  Jackson stared at his bowl before pushing it away.

Ashes to Ashes

Josh clambered up the high stool in the kitchen and sat down with a bemused look on his face and directed a question at his mother, “Mum, what did the priest mean when he said ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ at Grandpa’s funeral last week?”

His mother dried her hands on a tea towel, to give herself time to think of an answer to satisfy a five year old’s need for information.

“Do you remember from Sunday School, when you learnt that God made Adam out of the dirt of the Earth?  Well, it means that when we die, we go back to dirt and dust, just like where we came from.”

Josh nodded vacantly as he began to process this new information and wondered if he should store it in the category marked “Science” or the one labelled, “Weird Stuff Mum Says.”

“Does that help you dear as it looks like you have another question to ask?”

“If that’s the case I need you to have a look under my bed at all the dust and tell me if someone is coming or going.”

Horror Movie

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #150 for April 9th, 2010

A child walks in to a resident haunted house and is transported to another time.

Jake loved the idea of being able to escape into other worlds.  The back of wardrobes and any hole in the ground was explored on the off chance that there was something else behind the veil.  Even though he knew there would be nothing there, he always wanted to believe that there might be something.  When he couldn’t find that magical doorway, he created them on paper.  While Jake preferred exploring the recesses of his mind, his best friend Peter was more enthusiastic about just being outside.

“Let’s go check out the old abandoned Jenkin’s place.  They say it’s haunted.  We’ll pretend it’s just like a horror movie.”

Two torches, a length of rope, two comics, two apples and a backpack later, the boys traipsed through the vacant block of land adjacent to the creek.

“Scared?” said Pete.

“Nah.  You?”  lied Jake.

“Nah.  What you been up to this week?”

“Dad just gave me The Talk last night.  It’s just wrong; you know what I’m saying.  He was all um’s and ah’s and awkward, but at least he got the mechanics right.  I think I understand more from watching Desperate Housewives or nature docos.  And he kept humming this tune to himself and smiling.  Just so wrong.”

They stopped talking as they trekked through the long grass at the back of the Jenkin’s place until they stood at the back door.  The handle was brass and gleamed like it was brand new, despite the decrepit nature of the rest of the house.  Jake took hold of it and pushed down on the lever.  The hinges whispered as the door swung clear.  Jake snuck through the gap.  Pete heard a quiet sucking sound, followed by a distinct “pop.”  He pushed the door fully open and saw nothing but empty space.  The dust on the floor showed Jake’s footprints but they only went as far as two steps in.  Not even a shadow of Jake remained.

Jake stumbled blindly in darkness until his nose made a connection with something solid.  He ran his hands along the surface until his hands found purchase and he pushed.  When it didn’t work, he tried moving it to one side.  A door slid open, exposing Jake to this new world.  Through the window to his left he could see he was some way up in an apartment block.

Everything looked vaguely familiar yet looked a little bit older than he was.  It was a plain coloured room with a desk and computer opposite the door he had exited.  Jake looked behind him from where he had come and jumped at his own reflection in the mirror of the built-in wardrobe.  Sidling over to the desk he marvelled at the age of the computer; a translucent purple Apple desktop.  He picked up a mobile sitting beside the computer.

“This is so old it doesn’t even have a camera in it,” said Jake.  Putting it back down, he noticed the desk calendar, like his father had at home.  It was a daily flip calendar, with the date boldly stating, November 25, 1997.  He turned and scanned the adjacent shelves for anything to corroborate what he saw.  All the CDs on the shelf confirmed the date.

“Spice Girls,” he sniggered.  “Where’s all the new stuff?”

The door leading out of the room was closed.  He listened intently for any sound and when he was convinced there was no one home, he ventured out.  The apartment was not overly spacious, but roomy enough.

“Where’s the flat-screen telly?”  Jake saw no evidence of there being children.  The sound of laughter and a key in the lock sent Jake scurrying for cover.

A young couple entered and headed for the kitchen where the woman began unpacking takeaway food containers from a plastic bag.  The setting of dinner was interrupted by the young man sweeping the woman off her feet and carrying her passed Jake’s hiding place into the bedroom.

“But the food will go cold,” said the woman.

“That’s why there are microwaves.”

The strains of Foo Fighters “My Hero” pumped out of a stereo.  That’s Mum and Dad’s favourite song, thought Jake.  They always smile whenever they hear this song.  In adolescent curiosity he peeked towards the room and saw a writhing tangle of nakedness, but quickly averted his eyes.  Trying to find something else to look at he scanned the room he was in and saw a framed portrait on the dresser.  He recognised the couple immediately.  His parents’ wedding photo.

Jake’s eyes widened like dinner plates as his pubescent mind began to join the dots and draw for him a picture that was something that nightmares shrink away from.

Jake took off back into the wardrobe from where he had come and knocked Pete clear off his feet.

“Dude, where have you been?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nah man, something far worse and hideous than you can possibly believe.  I.  Saw.  My.  Parents.  Having.  Sex!”

The Carousel

He watched the carousel spin in its own orbit piping its merry tune; the harmless monotony of its circular motion and gently cascading horses appealed to him.  Heaven forbid the turmoil and plummeting depths of the rollercoaster that writhed like a cut snake behind him.  He took comfort in its pattern and metronomic rhythm; a pace that offered no surprises or challenges.  Enthusiastically he waved at his wife and children as they came around again and again.  The music lilted and rose as the steam whistle blew and the carousel wound down to a stop before two small bundles dashed through the gates and asked for ice-cream.  Catching the squeals of delight from the apex of the first drop of the arched metal track above, he paused and wondered if he dared but try.

The Hagiography

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #149 for April 2nd, 2010

An April Fools prank gone too far.

In Mr Gorman’s Year 9 History I learnt a new word: hagiography.  I forget the two Greek words that it comes from, but I remembered that it was the writing of saints’ lives.  They made wonderful reading for a pubescent lad, like a Boys’ Own Adventure.  In the name of piety they lived high up off the ground on poles or in remote caves like bats, or ate random bugs and insects.

My school had its own hagiography: the holy scriptures of the boys’ toilet block.  History is written by those with a permanent marker.  The disciples and zealots wrote in indelible ink the actions and statements of their saviours.  I remember sitting in a cubicle in my first year of high school, amazed at the profundity of adolescent thought: “Here I sit all broken-hearted, tried to crap but only farted.”  From time to time a persecution would take place and the toilet block would be repainted.  In time, new scriptures would replace the old.

The ghosts of boys from ages past were immortalised in gold letters on tablets of darkened oak.  They hung above, in the shadows of the hall, ranged along side pennants of long won tournaments of the paddock.  For some, this was the path to righteousness, the whispered legends of past old boys who had become bigger than their exploits.  These were the heroes and legend of old, stored in the apocryphal gospels of yearbooks and school photos.

For others, status was born out of unbuttoned collars and half-slung ties.  Years of indeterminate rebellion characterised by subversive acts or a single moment so inspired it was without peer.  I wanted it.  That moment.  That glory.  I wanted to walk the footpath to the front gate of the school with a swagger and nonchalance.

After Mr Gorman’s history lesson I started to look for Greek and Latin phrases.  Fortes fortuna adiuvat – “Fortune favours the bold” became my motto as I chalked my way around the school, boldly proclaiming my intentions.  My other favourite was “luceat lux vestra,” let your light shine.  I was going to be the brightest candle that burned, even if my time should be cut short; there was to be no pastoral retirement.

My final year.  I planned for April 1, Holy Thursday, to engage in an act that would make me immortal.  Six hundred boys filed into the assembly hall for the term’s final liturgy.  I was poised, waiting for the moment.  After the priest’s homily, in that moment of quiet reflection, I set off my mobile phone.  It rang once and all eyes darted to find the culprit.  Twice.  Eyes focused in.  Thrice.  I had their attention.

“Hello.”  Pause.  “Yes, I shall pass a message on.”  I stood to my feet.  “That was God.  He says that we should have girls at our school next year.”

The laughter teetered, but I knew I had them.  I had my moment.

The priest leaned forward.  “It seems that there is no need as we already have one in our midst.”

The jeers and hollers rang as loud as church bells.  I had been trumped.  The nearest teacher stormed down the aisle and I obediently followed.  The aftertaste was acrid, bitter.  I couldn’t spit enough.  Status, legend; all illusory onanism.

Puberty Blues

[Fiction] Friday

Friday 26th March “Shhh… did you hear that?”

Andy had stumbled across a discovery that excited and startled a ten year old and he had to show his best friend, Pete.  The two paused briefly before the open office door.  Looking back down the hallway they heard the strains of the afternoon football match and the sound of can being opened in the lounge room.  Andy led the way into his father’s office and pulled the door partially closed behind them.  He sidled over to the built-in wardrobe and slid back the door.  Thrusting his head into the semi-darkness he rummaged around while Pete kept watch on the door and listened for approaching footsteps.

“Here it is,” said Andy holding a magazine like a holy object.  The front cover was emblazoned with by-lines that screamed of eye-popping full frontals, “the best you’ve ever seen” and other saucy secrets.

They stared in wild-eyed wonder at the burlesque strip tease performed on the pages.  Breasts fell out of lingerie and bottoms were exposed from all angles.  They had never considered there could be so many variations on a theme: size, colour, shape, pubic hair landscaping, piercings and tattoos.

“Shhh… did you hear that?” said Pete.  The boys paused and waited.   Each could feel their heart thumping a frantic ostinato.  A cupboard door closed shut and the crinkle of fast food packaging joined the sound of the game.  They returned to their investigation of masculine curiosity and perversity.

Pete couldn’t believe his eyes when Andy reached the centre of the magazine.

“That’s almost life-sized,” he said.

Andy unfolded the pages to show the curvature of breasts and buttocks and a finely manicured lawn with the staple as a secondary bellybutton ornament.

They flipped backwards and forwards through the magazine stopping to read the articles that made them giggle with words like “throbbing” and “pulsating” and they were unsure why there was a constant reference to cats.

Caught up in their surreptitious discovery, they didn’t hear the door open behind them.

“There you two are.  Been wondering what you’d been up to; thought it was too quiet.”  Andy’s father suddenly stopped when he saw the naked panorama.

Andy and his father locked eyes.  Andy just stared, shamed in his guilt.  His father bored down on Andy in parental displeasure but broke contact first.

“That’s not something that you should be looking at,” his father chastised.  “It’s not appropriate for someone your age.”

“But why do you have it hidden away in the cupboard?  Don’t you want Mum to see?”

His father rattled his brain for the appropriate parental response and grasped at the first one that would get him out of answering the question.

“Give me that.  You two go outside and do something.”

Andy’s father took the proffered object of indiscretion and watched them walk ashamedly from the office.  He looked at the rolled up magazine and sighed deeply.  Checking that the boys were indeed outside playing, he dumped the magazine into the garbage.