Can you take one more post about characters with flaws? It's a fascinating topic, but one that risks becoming a cliche. How many reviews and blurbs begin with the phrase "a flawed but likeable hero"? It seems as if nowadays the main character MUST have flaws in order to be weighty enough to carry a story or a series (not to mention land an agent or publisher). Those flaws are supposed to give them a uniqueness and humanity that sets them apart from the million other heroes striving to solve mysteries and save the world on the shelves of fiction. Sometimes in addition to flaws, the characters have "quirks" bestowed upon them by authors hoping to make them even more unique. Some quirks are endearing, such as feeding homeless cats, whereas others are more serious, like giving a character OCD or autism, for example, which somehow gives them special powers.
A relatable character with depth and flaws that give them humanity and create a quiver of tension –as in, "Oh no, is he going to screw this up again?"– is the centre point of a good story. If the reader doesn't engage with the hero, they will not engage with the book. But there's a risk that writers are using flaws and quirks as a substitute for real depth. Making the character an alcoholic or an abuse victim allows the writer to push certain well-worn buttons that create an instant, but superficial connection. Moreover, many of these standard flaws have themselves become cliches. In fact, the alcoholic, divorced, embittered cop is one of the most overused cliches in the business. It takes a very skilled writer like Rankin to get beyond the cliche. Unfortunately as standard flaws become cliches, writers are forced to forage farther afield in search of bigger and better flaws.
Real depth means layers of ambivalence and past experiences that inform how the character reacts on the page, even if the writer never tells us about those underlying influences. It means knowing your characters as well as you know your family; knowing how they will react, knowing how they feel in every situation you put them in, however mundane, and then allowing them to surprise you by doing something unexpected from time to time. Real people are often but not always consistent, so characters need that freedom too.
Some writers achieve this by creating detailed backstories and character sketches before they begin. Others get to know their characters along the way and then add depth and nuance in later drafts. I suspect most good writers do a combination. The experiences the character goes through at the beginning of the book will change them and affect how they react in later scenes. That's one reason I have trouble with outlining ahead of time. When I write a scene, I try to slip into that character's skin so that I feel, see, and experience that scene as they would. That's why I always try to walk in my character's shoes and experience the things I'll put them through, including subjecting myself to winter camping in order to write THE TRICKSTER'S LULLABY.
This "walking in their shoes" feeling doesn't occur during outlining, at least to the same depth. Only once I'm in that character's skin can I truly imagine how they will react, and that will inform how the scene unfolds. I may end up the scene in a very different place than I had planned (in that hypothetical outline), but if I've done it right, it should feel real, credible, and human to the reader.
My characters end up being flawed – Amanda Doucette can be reckless and infuriating, and Michael Green is always forgetting his family obligations – but those traits grew out of my constantly asking "what would they do next?" as I am writing. It allows me the most delightful surprises along the way and helps the characters to evolve and grow. Michael Green in NONE SO BLIND (tenth in the series) is a very different person from DO OR DIE. Amanda is also growing. I think this evolution is one of the strengths of a series. Readers want to engage with an interesting character, and they want to follow along in their life and watch not only what happens to them, but also how they change.
Inching towards perfection, but never attaining it. That would be the end of the series, not to mention boring.
A relatable character with depth and flaws that give them humanity and create a quiver of tension –as in, "Oh no, is he going to screw this up again?"– is the centre point of a good story. If the reader doesn't engage with the hero, they will not engage with the book. But there's a risk that writers are using flaws and quirks as a substitute for real depth. Making the character an alcoholic or an abuse victim allows the writer to push certain well-worn buttons that create an instant, but superficial connection. Moreover, many of these standard flaws have themselves become cliches. In fact, the alcoholic, divorced, embittered cop is one of the most overused cliches in the business. It takes a very skilled writer like Rankin to get beyond the cliche. Unfortunately as standard flaws become cliches, writers are forced to forage farther afield in search of bigger and better flaws.
Real depth means layers of ambivalence and past experiences that inform how the character reacts on the page, even if the writer never tells us about those underlying influences. It means knowing your characters as well as you know your family; knowing how they will react, knowing how they feel in every situation you put them in, however mundane, and then allowing them to surprise you by doing something unexpected from time to time. Real people are often but not always consistent, so characters need that freedom too.
Some writers achieve this by creating detailed backstories and character sketches before they begin. Others get to know their characters along the way and then add depth and nuance in later drafts. I suspect most good writers do a combination. The experiences the character goes through at the beginning of the book will change them and affect how they react in later scenes. That's one reason I have trouble with outlining ahead of time. When I write a scene, I try to slip into that character's skin so that I feel, see, and experience that scene as they would. That's why I always try to walk in my character's shoes and experience the things I'll put them through, including subjecting myself to winter camping in order to write THE TRICKSTER'S LULLABY.
This "walking in their shoes" feeling doesn't occur during outlining, at least to the same depth. Only once I'm in that character's skin can I truly imagine how they will react, and that will inform how the scene unfolds. I may end up the scene in a very different place than I had planned (in that hypothetical outline), but if I've done it right, it should feel real, credible, and human to the reader.
My characters end up being flawed – Amanda Doucette can be reckless and infuriating, and Michael Green is always forgetting his family obligations – but those traits grew out of my constantly asking "what would they do next?" as I am writing. It allows me the most delightful surprises along the way and helps the characters to evolve and grow. Michael Green in NONE SO BLIND (tenth in the series) is a very different person from DO OR DIE. Amanda is also growing. I think this evolution is one of the strengths of a series. Readers want to engage with an interesting character, and they want to follow along in their life and watch not only what happens to them, but also how they change.
Inching towards perfection, but never attaining it. That would be the end of the series, not to mention boring.
