Category Archives: Writing

Five Tips for Creating Character Personalities

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Like I mentioned in my post about everygirls, I crave stories in which the characters have distinct personalities: traits and behavior patterns that make them different not only from the other characters in the story, but from other characters (and people!) in general.

So how do you come up with a character’s personality, and how do you make it unique? Whether you are a discovery writer who comes up with characters as you write, or a planner who designs your characters in advance, it helps to have a few strategies for thinking about what kind of person your character is. So here are five of my favorite strategies I use for character creation…

  • Use systems for describing personalities that already exist. Humans have created lots of ways to describe different personalities over the centuries. Some of my favorites are the four humors, the Western Zodiac, the Chinese Zodiac, the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, and even a Japanese theory about blood type. These systems are great reminders of the range of personalities that exist in human beings. Plus, the more systems you use to define a character, the more complex that character will be. (And remember, you don’t have to believe in the accuracy of these systems to use them for character inspiration!)
  • Create foil and complementary characters. If you already have the personality of your protagonist in mind, use it as inspiration for the other members of your cast. Does she have a friend who’s the complete opposite of her (a foil)? Does she know someone who is similar, but different in a crucial way (a complement)? Foil and complementary characters serve a literary function in stories, but they also ensure a well-rounded cast of characters, personality-wise.
  • Go against type. Occupations and hobbies are important. But people tend to assume things about characters with certain occupations or hobbies. Take doctors, for example, who are usually portrayed as kind and nurturing. (That’s why a misanthropic doctor like House feels so unique.) All types of people can be found working in any profession. Consider giving a character a personality that goes against stereotype (and better yet, consider how that quality could be a strength or a weakness in that occupation).
  • Add layers. Even if you create a character who fits a certain trope or stereotype, you can still make him or her unique by considering other aspects of the character’s personality and background. For example, maybe the character’s hobbies don’t match up with the stereotype of someone with that occupation, or the character’s background is unusual for someone with that position. Just be sure that these aspects of the character appear in your story (and preferably matter to the reader, in one way or another).
  • Go deeper. Consider what it would feel like to actually BE this character. How does he or she really think? What drives her or her? The deeper you go, the more individual your character will seem to the audience. Ultimately, everyone thinks about things a little differently. People have contradictory desires. They go against their “type” sometimes. Figuring out when and why a character does that can really make him or her feel distinct, and help flesh out the character’s full personality.

I hope these tips give any writers out there some inspiration, for different ways to think about a character’s personality. I really want writers to succeed in this aspect of storytelling, and even excel at it, because ultimately it gives me more interesting stories to read.

That’s it for today! See you on Tuesday for teatime.

The Problem of the Everygirl

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This post was difficult for me to write, because I didn’t want it to sound overly strident. Turns out, I hold some strong opinions when it comes to fictional characters. (No surprise there, really!) In the past, I’ve talked about how I tend to read with a focus on character, rather than plot. When I open a book, I want to read about fascinating people who do amazing things. However, I care more about who they are as people than about what they’re able to accomplish.

This can be a problem.

In bestselling fiction, protagonists tend to be “everymen.” In the case of the YA genre, where the protagonists are usually female, they are “everygirls.” Often struggling just to survive, these protagonists inspire our sympathy because, even though they are caught up in extraordinary circumstances, deep down they are just like us. They care about their families and friends, and they want to survive and find love and all kinds of relatable desires.

This is not a bad thing, in itself. But all too often, I find these stories difficult to enjoy. The protagonist’s name becomes a challenge for me to remember, because she resembles too many other protagonists in YA novels. When I finish the book, I am unable to describe the heroine in detail to my fellow readers. Instead of having a distinct personality, she reacts like most people would in her situation (especially if they had her background/upbringing).

Contrary to what you might think, this does not mean that these stories are poorly written. Often the protagonists have complex motives and realistic emotions… But they are still forgettable, and while their circumstances are highly interesting, they are not. At least, not to me.

Now, let me pull back for a moment and confess that my standards for ‘interesting’ are high. (Perhaps too high!) Based on reviews I’ve read, plenty of people can read a story about an everygirl and be satisfied with it. But then again, readers love to encounter a character who is unique, who has a distinct personality and voice. So why not satisfy everyone? A main character can have a unique personality and still care about many of the same things readers do. She can be sympathetic and an individual.

Unfortunately, I think one reason why protagonists in YA don’t always feel unique is because they’re trying to be unique in the same way. Many YA heroines are closed off emotionally because of tragic events in their past. In expressing this part of themselves, they tend to be sullen and antisocial and a bit caustic. (Again, this isn’t a bad thing in itself! It just blurs together with other YA protagonists who possess these traits.) They are untrusting—but given their circumstances, they should be. They are survivors, and many of them are skilled with weapons—but again, given their circumstances, they need to be.

In other words, Katniss is a cool character, but I’ve already read about her. (Also, I think a lot of people in Katniss’s situation would act at least a little bit like Katniss.) So it’s important to try to make a protagonist unique, to differentiate her from other YA heroines. But how exactly do you create a character with a distinct personality?

Well, a character with personality has patterns of behavior that are specific to her. Those patterns should contrast starkly with those of the other characters in the story, so readers can see the difference. Most stories get that part right—but I believe a heroine who is truly unique will behave in certain ways regardless of her background and current circumstances (i.e. whether she’s rich or poor, whether her home life was good or bad, whether her life is being threatened or not).

Basically, I want to read about a protagonist who has specific and definable traits (hot-tempered, energetic, shy, a goofy sense of humor, etc.), but not just because her parents got divorced or she lives on a farm or something like that. Those things are still a factor, of course; our circumstances and background affect us. But it shouldn’t be the only factor, the primary thing I know about her. I want to know what a protagonist would be like if I met her in high school. I want to know which result she would get in one of those silly personality quizzes in magazines, the ones that don’t have a category for “damaged by a dark past” or “just trying to survive.”

Most of all, I want to be able to describe a protagonist in enthusiastic detail to my friends, when I go on to recommend the book to them. (“Oh, you’ll love her. She acts like this most of the time, but then she does this crazy thing when she’s stressed out, and also she reminds me of this person we both know, because…”) I want to feel like I’m introducing my friends to an interesting person, not a generic character who gets tossed around by the plot—no matter how thrilling that plot may be.

In the end, I want to read about all kinds of protagonists, not just “everygirls.” Having a unique protagonist makes a story more entertaining, and besides, it makes me care more about the heroine and her journey. And isn’t that something all writers want?

Note: I may follow up with more on this subject later, with tips on how to create/define a particular character’s personality.

Story Logic vs. The Laws of Physics: Part Two

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Last time, I talked about how speculative fiction frequently defies the laws of physics, and how fans sometimes like that and sometimes hate it. So how can writers break the laws of physics without irritating their audience? Like I said, it seems to vary from person to person (a phenomenon I call the Personal Logic Threshold). Based on my experiences as a fan, however, I believe a few guidelines can maximize a storyteller’s success in this area, where most fans are concerned:

  • When breaking the laws of physics, do it in such a way that it matches the overall tone of the story. If you’re writing a silly space opera that resembles fantasy more than hard science fiction (i.e. Star Wars), fans are more likely to forgive technological inaccuracies or physically impossible action scenes.
  • Generally, resist the temptation to defy physics in order to give your characters an easy out from conflict. Remember, this also depends on what kind of story you are trying to tell (see #1). Are you George R. R. Martin, who writes gritty realistic fantasy in which people facing death cannot hope to escape by, say, using magic martial arts moves? Or are you Brandon Sanderson, who writes such RPG-inspired action scenes as part of the fun? The latter will have more leeway.
  • Any way in which a story world defies physics (as we know them) can be improved by foreshadowing it, long before it becomes crucial to the plot. If you show a character flying when the fate of the world is not at stake, then the audience knows that human flight is possible in that particular story world, and won’t get confused or angry when it happens during the climax. Picky fans with a lower PLT might quibble about the specifics, like Sheldon does in the clip from my last post. But they won’t be surprised or befuddled, which is worse.

There is one more aspect to this topic that I should mention. In the end, like with Superman, story logic matters the most. Being faithful to story logic means the writer must satisfy the audience’s needs for a good story, and understands that those needs may trump certain physical realities—and that, especially in the case of speculative fiction, defying those realities may be a selling point for a large portion of the audience. But this doesn’t mean the characters should be able to defy physics at will with no foreshadowing whatsoever, especially as a way to escape the conflicts they face. In fact, it generally means the opposite. (Refer back to guideline #2, as well as my post on Story Structure.)

In the end, since everyone has a different Personal Logic Threshold, you’ll never be able to satisfy everyone in the audience when you defy the laws of physics. From what I can tell, you can please the most fans by trying to tell a satisfying story, and not breaking physical laws without any sort of foreshadowing or explanation for doing so.

To conclude, I am now going to contradict everything I just said, and point out that sometimes, this whole conundrum doesn’t really matter. Back in my college days, I was a fan of a sports anime called The Prince of Tennis. (I still am, in fact!) The story is about a twelve-year-old tennis prodigy who moves from America to Japan and joins a middle school tennis team. It starts out as you would expect: the main character meets a lot of talented tennis players, and they play a ton of tennis matches. Some of these characters have “special moves” that stretch a tennis expert’s sense of disbelief, but nothing too major, at first. By the time of the show’s second incarnation, however, the characters are hitting tennis balls so hard that they shatter concrete walls on a semi-regular basis.

This, as I hardly need to point out, is not physically possible.

So do I care about this, as a fan of the show? Not at all. For me, the absurdity is part of the fun. I will admit that, as a former tennis player, I often burst into laughter during certain scenes. Sometimes, the “upgraded” versions of the characters’ moves cause me to raise a perplexed eyebrow. But in the end, I love the show because it’s campy and ridiculous. I enjoy it because they shatter those concrete walls. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to watch it.

(In case you don’t believe the part about concrete walls, or how closely this show can resemble Dragon Ball Z at times, here’s the opening sequence from the newest season, which aired last year. I offer no justifications for the saxophone, the pirate, or the glowing tennis ball, either.)

This brings me to my final point: if your audience is having fun, they are much less likely to care (or even question) if your story defies the laws of physics.

Why, exactly, do I enjoy the absurd parts in a show like The Prince of Tennis? I’m not sure. For one thing, I expect a sports anime to be over the top. More importantly, I’ve grown to have so much affection for the characters that I don’t care how many times they twist the laws of physics. I just root for them to be awesome, to grow and change during the course of the story’s conflicts. If they do that by playing supernatural tennis, I don’t mind.

But that’s me. I know plenty of people who don’t like the show, for exactly that reason. The show is really popular, though, especially in Japan—to the point where it’s still ongoing, even though it started as a comic book all the way back in 1999. (Clearly, then, I’m not the only one who doesn’t mind!)

So as a writer, I always try to keep in mind what sort of audience I want, and what their needs might be. Am I writing for a guy like Sheldon, or someone more like me? Would I overlook a certain story development, if I read it in someone else’s novel? (Would Sheldon overlook it, if he’s a part of my target audience?) Does it match my story’s tone? And if all else fails, is it awesome in a story sense?

If the last answer is yes, my target audience will probably overlook a moment that breaks the laws of physics—even if it’s not foreshadowed or explained. They might even love it. Meanwhile, fans with different needs will look for stories that satisfy them elsewhere.

Story Logic vs. The Laws of Physics: Part One

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As I’ve said in the past, I love speculative fiction in all forms, especially stories in the fantasy genre. I also love to discuss them with fellow fans. Lately, I’ve been wondering why many fans (including me) can accept certain unrealistic elements in speculative fiction, but not others. I also wonder why those boundaries seem to be different for everyone—and if writers should worry about this balance when they’re writing, and if so, how.

But first, a clip from The Big Bang Theory that illustrates exactly what I mean…

So why does Sheldon accept that Superman can fly, yet go on to complain about the fact that when he saves Lois Lane from a fall, his success doesn’t conform to the laws of physics? The logic of the story dictates that Superman must rescue Lois, or the ending won’t be as satisfying to the audience. (Unless the audience wants a dark or genre-defying Superman story, which is another discussion entirely!) Since Sheldon didn’t mind one violation of physics (a man flying), why does he care so much about the second violation?

You could argue that this is due to Sheldon’s career as a physicist. But then how he can accept Superman’s impossible abilities in the first place? Besides, this kind of conversation happens constantly, not just among fans who are physicists. I’ve overheard plenty of heated debates exactly like this one, while standing in line at comic conventions. So, why? Why do some fans dislike certain scientific inaccuracies in their speculative fiction, while letting other inaccuracies slide?

Honestly, I don’t know the answer. But it may have something to do with what I like to call the Personal Logic Threshold (PLT).

Basically, the Personal Logic Threshold refers to the point at which an individual can no longer suspend their disbelief while experiencing a story. Many times, the occurrence is distracting enough that the person can no longer pay attention to the story at all. Instead, they fixate entirely on the moment that bothered them. Usually, it happens because the story broke the laws of physics in some way, or because some kind of logical fallacy or plot hole occurred. The trouble is, this threshold differs for everybody. I’ll give an example.

(Spoiler warning for The Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies up ahead!)

The final movie in Peter Jackson’s version of The Hobbit features a lengthy battle. At one point, Legolas is fighting some orcs atop a mountain, around the crumbling ruins of a fortress. He starts to fight inside one of the towers, which falls over and wedges between two cliffs. Unbelievably, he continues to fight, as though the tower has simply become a bridge. In the end, the tower begins to break apart. Legolas then proceeds to jump across the falling rubble like it’s a staircase, in order to reach solid ground and avoid a deadly fall.

After we saw the movie, several of my friends pointed out that this moment defies the laws of physics. Which it does. In the real world, Legolas wouldn’t be able to push up from those falling bricks in order to step across them like that. It’s physically impossible. My friends disliked this moment; some of them were even angry it happened. As for me? I didn’t love it, but at the same time, I felt it wasn’t completely out of place in a Tolkien story. Here’s why:

Legolas is an Elf, part of a magical race. One thing Elves can do—which Legolas demonstrates in both the book and movie versions of The Fellowship of the Ring—is walk on top of the snow without snowshoes, when no one else can. (Not even hobbits, who are smaller and move quietly.) This implies that the way an Elf walks doesn’t conform to our laws of physics. Tolkien never wrote anything about Elves being able to float across falling rubble. But Legolas, like Superman, already defies physics in that respect. So from my point of view, I didn’t think that him jumping across falling rubble was entirely inconsistent with the setting. I thought it was cheesy, but not so implausible that it truly bothered me (especially when compared to other problems I had with the film).

My friends, on the other hand, acknowledged that they could accept a Legolas who walked on snow, but they could not accept a Legolas who floats over falling rubble. For them, it broke their Personal Logic Threshold. The idea bugged them too much for them to accept it as a part of the narrative. Clearly, this is a subjective phenomenon, and varies from fan to fan.*

So should writers worry about this? If nothing else, I think it’s useful to acknowledge that it happens, and try to understand why.

From what I can tell, this break happens in one of two ways. Sometimes, individuals in the audience are concerned with accuracy in a specific area of a story. This usually happens because they have expertise in that area, so they tend to fixate on it. (Like Sheldon with physics, for example.) However, this can also happen when a story goes too far for the audience’s tastes, breaking the rules in a way that doesn’t fit with their idea of what the story was supposed to be like. In the case of Legolas, my friends felt the falling rubble episode was a cheesy “action” moment, which undermined the serious tone of Tolkien’s setting.

(Also worth noting: the Legolas example comes from an adaptation of a beloved author’s work, not from the author himself. This is another factor that can affect a fan’s ability to accept such a moment as a valid part of the narrative.)

So what can those of us who are interested in stories and writing learn from the Personal Logic Threshold? I’ll deal with that in my next post.

(Note: for this reason, Teatime Tuesday will be Teatime Thursday this week!)

*The question of whether stories that conform to the laws of physics are “better” in some way is another subject entirely.

Rising to the Occasion

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It’s no secret that I’m a writer. I’ve been writing stories as a hobby since I was ten. (Arguably earlier, but I started writing fantasy at that age, so I like to count from there!) Since that time, it’s been my dream to write a published novel. I’ve pursued publication for some of my manuscripts, but so far, that particular goal remains just a dream.

I finished one of my favorite manuscripts a few years ago. This particular story went through tons of rewrites, because I loved it so much and wanted to make it as perfect as possible. Sadly, my skills weren’t quite up to the job, and I ended up moving on to the next story. I haven’t abandoned that manuscript completely, but it remains on the back burner for now.

Some of my closest friends fell in love with that manuscript, though, much to my delight. They begged to read the sequel, which remains unwritten. Unfortunately, I can’t justify writing a sequel to a manuscript that might go through more edits in the future. But it did occur to me that I could try telling a new story, set in the same world. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that a particular character from that original story would make an excellent protagonist. She also happens to be a favorite character of my readers, so I knew they’d like to read a story about her. As an added bonus, the process will help me flesh out this world that I still love so much.

I’m about 5,000 words into the manuscript, and having a great time. So why did I want to share this? For one thing, yesterday happened to be this character’s birthday, so I’ve had her on my mind a lot. (Yeah, I’m the kind of writer who knows my characters’ birthdays… At least I didn’t bake a cake?)

More importantly, though, I wanted to assure my fellow writers that none of your writing time is wasted. Maybe the manuscript you’re slaving over won’t be published right away. Maybe it will later on, when you have the tools to revise it, or the energy to do a major rewrite. But either way, you can use what you’ve learned in your future stories. And maybe you’ll come up with some ideas–or a particularly persistent character–who can be featured in a story of their own someday.

On a related note, I sometimes joke with people about this character. I call her my taskmaster, because I can easily imagine her scolding me for not getting my work done. I distinctly remember one day, when I was really worried about the story I was writing. It was too complicated, I thought, and I didn’t have the skills or the talent to pull it off. (Well, if I had said this out loud, it would’ve sounded a lot more like whining… “Why is writing so hard?” “I’ll never be good enough to write this story!” And so on.) Then I heard my character’s retort in my head, and it was so perfect I wrote it down.

“Well then, we’ll just have to rise to the occasion, won’t we?”

This is probably the best writing advice I have. Writing is hard. It doesn’t get easier, as far as I can tell. But good writers keep writing, and keep trying to rise to the occasion, no matter what.