Years ago I was reading a book that had been recommended by
a friend. It was supposed to be part mystery, part thriller. I got about halfway through it before disgust
took over. While the story itself was
interesting, the main character completely turned me off.
The problem?
It was too unbelievable. Every time this guy got into a
situation, it was magically revealed that he knew how to do everything.
Hand-to-hand combat? No problem.
Expert
marksman with a variety of weapons? No problem.
Able to speak half a dozen languages? No problem.
Gourmet chef? No problem.
Fly a plane? No problem.
The real problem for me was that this author had done
nothing to set the stage that this character had all this prior knowledge and
training. There was no foreshadowing, no details of his background shared
during lengthy conversations with others or self reflection. There was nothing he couldn’t do.
And
he never made a mistake.
That’s when I chucked the book into the pile that gets
donated to the library. No mistakes! How can that be believable?
When creating characters, one of my goals is to make
someone that readers can relate to. Whether it’s difficulty with relationships,
a drinking problem, a couple of divorces, conflicts with authority or sibling
rivalry, there needs to be an aspect of your character that your readers can
identify with.
Because deep down, we all
make mistakes. We’re only human.
Last week a colleague at the college mentioned that when
another professor stopped by her office, she thought it was me and made a
couple of jokes utilizing my last name. It was only after the confused prof
didn’t respond that she realized her error.
She explained and they shared a laugh. When I saw her a day later, she
was still laughing about it. Neither I
nor the other professor were offended.
It’s human nature. We all make mistakes.
As writers, so should your characters. Because that makes
them real.
*******************************************************
Here’s an excerpt from “Devious” the first Jamie Richmond
mystery. The story line is that while doing
research for a character in her next novel, Jamie rides along with Herman
Kleinschmidt, a state police trooper. During the course of the evening’s
patrol, Jamie witnesses him get shot. When the police investigation
stalls, she becomes obsessed about the case and wants answers.
In this scene, Jamie has been working on her computer for
several hours when she decides to take a break and get out of the apartment for
some fresh air and a quick bite. Only
when she returns does she realize her mistake.
There's a little
bakery down the block from my place, where they take huge chocolate chip
cookies out of the oven and surround them with a heaping scoop of French
vanilla ice cream. Then add gobs of hot fudge and more chocolate chips. So
sinful. They even let you sit in the back, away from the store window, and
devour it. I hadn't indulged in one in months.
I washed it all down
with a cup of coffee and waited for my system to explode from the sugar shock.
Surrounded by the aromas of bread baking and cinnamon rolls, I probably gained five
pounds by osmosis. I wondered how long I could continue to eat like this before
my figure went to hell. I’m not scrawny like a fashion model, but I am slender.
I like the shape I’m in. And apparently, so does Malone. One of these days,
I’ll get back to my yoga classes.
After the feast I
went for a long walk, bundled inside my down coat. Yesterday's heat wave had
been Mother Nature’s cruel trick. Today was typical November weather, cold and
blustery with a snappy wind. Even in the frigid air, it felt good to stretch my
legs and let my mind wander. I walked about two miles, circling back toward my
apartment. As I approached my building, two people came out of the entrance and
trotted over to the parking lot. I froze.
One of those two was
Herman Kleinschmidt. Even if I hadn't been close enough to see his face, there
was no mistaking his bulk. The right sleeve of his jacket flapped loosely at
his side. His arm was still in the sling. The other person was nondescript,
smaller than Smitty, wearing a nylon parka with a hood.
Don't ask me why I
didn't hurry after them instead of stepping back behind an oak tree. Maybe it
was something about the way they moved, or the way Smitty kept looking back
over his shoulder. Either way, it made me uncomfortable. I waited until I saw
them drive away together before I went inside.
My apartment
building isn't fancy. It's part of a complex where six rental units make up
each three-story structure. I've got the east side of the top floor, with a
nice view of the park. I'm the only person who works at home. Chances were nil
that Smitty was visiting one of my neighbors.
I'd been gone over
an hour. Since I hadn't taken my car, I hadn't taken my keys, which meant I
hadn't locked my door either. My heart was thumping erratically as I reached
for the doorknob. The door swung open at my touch and I remained in the hall,
afraid to go inside. Where the hell was Ace Richmond, Private Eye when I needed
her?
When no one jumped
out from behind the towering pile of magazines in the corner, I took a cautious
step inside. Everything looked the same as when I left. The handmade quilt from
my cousin Linda remained draped sloppily off the bentwood rocker. Someone could
have been hiding inside the sofa, but it would take them ten minutes to struggle
free of the cushions. Okay, so I’m not Holly Homemaker.
I went down the hall
to my bedroom. The blankets and sheets were in the same twisted clump I'd left
them in after attacking Malone's naked body over the dirty breakfast dishes. My
clothes from the New York trip still protruded from the closet door.
"Anybody
here?" I whispered foolishly. I
don’t know what I would have done if someone had answered.
That left the bath
and the spare bedroom. It's not really a bedroom, since there's no bed in
there. I use it as my office. A desk, two file cabinets, a bookcase and some
plants make up the majority of the furnishings. My computer dominates the room,
with cables running everywhere. Printer, monitor and keyboard are perched
precariously on various parts of the desk.
If I hadn't already
been nervous, I certainly was now. My computer was on. Not just the hard drive
or the monitor, but the entire system, even the printer. I never leave the
system on. Call it being economical or superstitious or environmentally
concerned, I don’t care. I never leave the system on, because I never know how
long I'll be gone. And I hadn't been using the printer. There’s an independent
switch for it, used only when needed.
"You
bastard!" I slammed my hand on the desk. Too late now, I ran to the front
door and latched the bolt. Then I grabbed the phone and started to call Malone.
I got through six numbers before hesitation settled in. Nothing was moved.
Nothing was stolen. What exactly did I expect Malone to do? Swoop over to protect
me?
I went back to the
computer and began checking the data. Every file I could remember was still
there. I'd been working on the revisions earlier and all of my changes were
intact. Nothing had been disturbed. What could he have been doing? I keyed in the
directory and scrolled through a list of all my files. At first I didn’t notice
anything wrong.
I sat back and closed my eyes, concentrating.
Like most writers, I use code names for the files in my computer. Since there's
no master list that will reveal to anyone what each file actually contains, the
only way to discover the contents to any particular file is to call it up on
the screen. For the project I was considering about the state trooper, I had
named the file Licorice. There's no connection between that and the story, it's
just what popped into my head. Beside the file name is the size of the file in
bytes, and the last dated entry. My system automatically creates a backup
whenever a file is changed, sort of a fail-safe system. I hadn’t been in the
Licorice file recently. My first and only entry had been on Monday, before my
trip to New York City.
But the directory
showed activity today. The main file showed a slightly different number than
the backup file. I swallowed hard and punched in Licorice.
Four pages of notes
lit up the screen. There was my own unique style of speed typing for rough
drafts. No care with regards to spelling or punctuation, just rambled lines of
words with an occasional break for a new paragraph or thought. My notes ended
in the middle of the fourth page. There
was a gap of five or six lines then this message appeared.
LEAVE IT ALONE
BITCH! IT'S NOT WORTH DYING OVER.
Buy links.
The musical interlude this week comes
from Billy Joel. Enjoy!
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