Whose Line is it Anyway?

Zoë Sharp

 

I’m up to my neck in edits at the moment, so I thought you might like to take another look at this blog I wrote a few years ago. (Back when we were allowed to go and do readings—in real life, in public, with an actual audience!)

 

In June, I was invited to take part in several events in libraries around the UK in celebration of National Crime Reading Month. It always fascinates me, when I do these, the kind of questions that come up at the end. This time around it seemed to be one particular comment that sparked people’s curiosity.

 

I’d said, in a jokey kind of way, that although one would expect that the author had absolute control over the world they create, in my experience that usually isn’t the case. Yes, I invent the framework, the location, and the situation, but once I’ve put my characters down into those events, all bets are off. They have a tendency to take their own route and ignore whatever plans I might have had for them at the outset. And the more I try to force them into a preconceived course of action, the more uncooperative the character becomes—as anyone would, if forced to do something they really didn’t want to do.

 

It’s normal, at this point, for me to see frowns among the audience, and it’s a tough one to explain. The only way I can do so is to liken it to sitting on a bus or a train and watching the other passengers. This is no hardship, as people-watching tends to be a hobby for most writers, I think. If someone gets onto the train and sits down near you, you instantly form an impression from their clothes, their manner, the way they move.

 

There is a tendency among people asked to write a description of a character to attach hair and eye colour first, but unless someone has very startling or unusual eyes, I rarely notice that feature right away or even at all. Likewise, I’m more inclined to notice the cut rather than the colour of their hair, body type, and whether their shoes are polished.

 

But until they strike up a conversation, you only have a partial idea of who they are. I no longer try to write huge great character biographies for new characters, because I find that until they sit down next to me and utter that first sentence, we haven’t really been properly introduced.

 

This goes, too, for their backstory. Not only does it come out in their attitude, what they say, and how they say it, but also in what they share with you right from the off. If someone’s opening gambit is to tell you half the story of their life, you tend to edge away from them—make an excuse to get off at the next stop or take a trip to the buffet car and find a different seat on your return. Yet if they start slowly and make interesting conversation, then you’re intrigued and that encourages you to find out more about them.

 

Of course, there are times when a character is not being forthcoming and then it’s handy to have some kind of mechanism for persuading them to talk. I came across this one recently, which is very useful. It involves the writer asking several questions of him or herself: 

What does your character do to show their personality?

What does your character say to show their personality?

What does your character look like on the outside, and how does this show their personality?

How does the character change or what lessons do they learn?

Given a choice, I would also add to this:

What does your character want in the context of this story/scene and what’s preventing them from getting it?

How do they set about getting it?

How do they react to victory or defeat?

I’m still not sure if I managed to get this across to my audiences, but at least they waited politely until the end of the talk before they made their excuses and left. And many more stayed to ask further questions, which is always a good sign… I think. Either that or it shows I failed to explain myself to any degree whatsoever.

 

Now, where’s the buffet car…?

This week’s Word of the Week is misophonia, meaning to find everyday noises—such as chewing, slurping of drinks, cracking of knuckles, etc—unbearable. It comes from the Greek misos, meaning hate, and phonia, meaning voice. It was coined in 2000 by audiologists Pawel and Margaret Jastreboff, to differentiate the condition from other forms of intolerance to sound, such as phonophobia (fear of sound) and hyperacusis (hypersensitivity to certain frequencies and range of volumes).