The Psychology of Characterization: Writing Characters We Love and Hate

In our last writing chat session, Jon Stars and I discussed characterization, and the psychology behind it. Tune in Mondays at 7:00 to see the next live session. If you'd like to be a part of the next discussion, send in your questions about the new topic: WRITER'S BLOCK.

The best characters in fiction feel more real to us than some real people, and sometimes they are. One of the things that I love about writing, perhaps the thing I love most, is writing characters. Perhaps because it’s sometimes difficult to be genuine in real life. That’s where the psychology of characterization comes in.

Many writers--whether you're just starting writing or you've been at it for years-- wonder how to write real characters in fiction, and what makes the best characters. These people, animals, entities, come out of nowhere with feelings, thoughts, actions, that drive your story. If they’re not consistent, the story starts to feel like cardboard. Fellow author Jon Stars and I sat down to discuss characters in our last writing chat video. Watch the video to listen to the chat, or read below for some takeaways. 

How do you know if your characters are consistent? Three-dimensional? Interesting? What if readers don’t like your character? 

How to Write Characters We Love 

What People Really Care About

“If it’s not the characters, you might as well have a camera going across landscapes.”

The importance of characters must be understood. And cannot, I don’t think, be overstated.

(4:40) When people describe a book they really like, they may tell you about the plot, but they attach to the characters. That’s what drives the thousands of pages of fanficiton produced every day. Characters are what people really like to read, what keeps them turning the page. Why is this? Why do we care about these made-up entities springing from other people’s brains?

Relateability. We love movies, shows, books, plays because we can see ourselves in them.

And this doesn’t mean that every person sees all of themselves in every character. But a reader may see a part of themselves, or something they wish they were, or fear to become. They may see their friend in a character. Or their enemy. And, little by little, they become engrossed in the story, wondering as the character wonders; what do I do? What should I do? What will happen if I don’t do the right thing?

“For me, if the idea doesn’t have a strong character, it doesn’t go anywhere.”

Snape knows a thing or two about being the star of fanfiction.

The moral quandaries, the uphill battles, the tests of strength and patience are as thrilling to us as they are tests to the characters. And as we read (or watch, or listen), we approach the edge of challenges that we may only know a small piece of.

Relateability is a part of the reason why diversity is so important in storytelling. If you never see yourself in the stories around you, if everyone is always different than you, what hero do you find? Can you approach the challenges these heroes approach? Sometimes. But you’ll never have a hero that is your hero. And everyone needs a hero. 

Tune in Mondays at 7:00 to see the next live session. Leave a comment, or send me a message on Instagram @stemlersam about our upcoming topic, WRITER'S BLOCK!

A Stand-In for the Reader

(9:00) How much do you want your reader to know? This partly depends on how you want them to feel. Tense? Certain? Outraged? Your characters can help you do this.

In a first-person narrative, we look directly through the character’s eyes. From third-person, we oten look just over a character’s shoulder. Even with the knowledge of an omniscient narrator, readers know what is happening around a character, or several. The information this gives us tells us how to—or, often, makes us—react.

Your central character, in this sense, is the reader.

This, however, presents a challenge. Your reader knows nothing about the story, other characters, setting, and conflict. Your character may know all about them. To create a realistic knowledgeable character—a sensei, wizard, king, commander, captain—they can’t easily repeat their knowledge for the reader without sounding obvious and redundant (maybe even a little brain-damaged). So how do you tell the reader about the story without being obvious? There are several ways to deal with this conundrum.

“You don’t want your readers to be in the dark. But you don’t want your characters repeating things, either.”

The Beginner: The Beginner character archetype has spanned genres and time. They’re the apprentice, padawan, young cop, new doctor—they know just about the same amount as the reader knows. And reiterating their knowledge—perhaps with confidence, perhaps with fear—can make sense for the reader and for story. Be careful not to make this character ask too many questions, or explain too much. They should still be a character, they should be a person, not a prop. This is the part of your reader that doesn’t know, but wants to.  

“Make sure your character isn’t a sounding board for readers. They shouldn’t say ‘Oh my God, what’s over there?’”

All-Knowing Sensei: Your knowledgeable character knows what’s going on. The more they know, the more power and authority they have. Put the camera on this character’s shoulder, in their mind, and you can give your reader the knowledge—and the power, the authority—your character has. As the character reviews the situation, the past, considers the future, and their options, they do the same for the reader. The way in which the character considers these things (Bitterly? Cynically? With control and certainty?) also invites the reader into their personality, and make the exposition less obvious. 
 

This is clearly a very mysterious book...

“What’s he up to? A big part of the mystery is what IS he up to?”

Dark Mysterious Leader: This is, admittedly, a character archetype I can’t stay away from. The Dark Mysterious Leader (DML) may know everything, but conveys very little. This is, of course, the key to their mysterious charm. This also makes room for exposition in a number of ways. The other characters wonder—and can sensibly expound upon—the DML’s motives, past, actions, and intentions without being redundant. The information the DML does decide to give away can also serve as exposition. Again, the way in which they do this (Begrudgingly? Annoyed? Frustrated? Regretful? Deceitful?) will show the readers who they really are.

I Don’t Like Your Main Character Very Much

(12:00) Ouch. That’s a tough one to hear. 

 

Everyone wants to write a main character that is likeable. And this doesn’t always mean they’re good. But they must be interesting.

It’s tempting to write a perfect person, especially if this character is a big part of you (and don’t we all write ourselves into our books in some way?). It’s even therapeutic to write characters the way we would like to be, or hope to be. However, can you think of a character in a book or show you related to, who was perfect? Probably not. If you’re like me, they irritated you. You wanted something bad to happen to them, just so they weren’t so damn perfect.

It can be equally tempting (and, oddly, equally therapeutic) to write a character who’s 110% evil, one who is the worst of ourselves. There’s something peaceful about hating a character who absolutely deserves it. But this evil incarnation suffers the same effect as the flawless hero; the reader wants something bad to happen to them.

“You can create unlikeable characters both ways. When readers want the character to fail, they don’t like them.”

This returns to the psychology of character-building, and how we, as readers and writers, relate to these characters. All writers know that complex characters are essential. Readers quickly become bored with characters whose existence hinges on one attribute (Writers of the Uber Macho Female Warrior, I’m looking at you). But what really makes a character three-dimensional? Where is the line between consistent and simplistic?

Weaknesses and flaws, in storytelling, are not the same. A hero has a weakness so the villain can defeat them (or hope to). A character’s flaw is one that they must confront in themselves. A weakness is an avenue to move the plot forward. A flaw is the road to character growth.

Fully-realized characters often carry opposite, but equal flaws and strengths. This may be conveyed through Competence, Actionability, and Likeability. The Sensei character often knows too much and has become too detached or cynical to aid in the story’s conflict. They are the reader’s still knowledge. The Beginner character often moves too fast, with obvious and laudable good intentions, but too little knowledge to be effective. They are the reader’s impulse to action. Characters that are both competent and effective are often isolated, either too strong, proud, unpleasant, or even afraid to ask for help. They are the reader’s personality flaws.

Another way to visualize this continuum is through behavior and circumstance. A passionate lover, for example, might be beautifully loyal when adored, but vicious when spurned. A confident leader may pull the characters through a tough situation, but lash out when questioned. A shy friend may be a good listener and reliable shoulder to lean on, but little good when push comes to shove. The lively partier is fun and dynamic, but won’t let the party stop.

The same traits that make a character good can, in other circumstances, make them bad. But these traits together make them human.

“If you have flaws in a character and people see themselves in that character, they can’t help but like them…. Even if they hate themselves, they’ll like the character.”

Flawed characters—especially flawed heroes—reassure us that we don’t have to be perfect, and we can still be heroes.

Was this helpful? Interesting? Ridiculous? Feel free to share! And don't forget to Tune in Mondays at 7:00 to Facebook live to chat about a dreaded topic—writer’s block. What is it? How does it happen? How can we solve it? If you like, write questions in the comments, send me one on Instagram @stemlersam, or send your question during Facebook live. 

Writing Evil

My standards about most things in general aren't exactly stringent; when someone won't eat something, I'm the one stuffing it in my face.

So, when I sank my insouciant teeth into a new library book—praised on the cover by Stephen King—I was surprised to find I didn't like it. 150 pages later, bored and frustrated, I had to put it down.

The book is popular, though; rated well, the author a beloved horror novelist. Later, trying to figure out what enthralled so many others that didn't interest me, I described the book to a friend (the same sharp-witted friend I spoke with about The Drop in my last blog).

“I didn't get it,” I complained. “There were all these mundane details, and then someone finally died and I still didn't give a shit. The killer—was he a vampire? A robot? Garden variety psychopath? And why was he killing people? What did he want?” After I decided to give the book up, I flipped to the middle to find some answers and . . . sigh. I still couldn't find anything. My insouciant teeth were so unsatisfied.

“You wanted a motive,” my friend answered. “Villains are more complicated now, it's not just 'good and evil.' Even the new Joker is complicated, he talks about his messed up past, and he's a comic book character. They're not just monsters in shadows anymore. We expect more from our villains now.”

 She was exactly right! What once were unthinkable beasts—more plot points or parts of the scenery—are now actual characters. Even the most famous monsters—Frankenstein's Monster, Dracula, even Satan—are now real characters. Frankenstein's Monster became a character lead (I, Frankenstein), Dracula's story was told (Dracula Untold) and Satan is now Fox's newest primetime hunk (Lucifer).

We want to understand our villains. What does this mean? Are we simply looking for more depth of conflict? Are we examining our own umbra? Are we becoming more empathetic? Where we even seek to understand our killers and criminals?

I'm not sure. Maybe all of the above. In any case, villains are now as important as the heroes. Maybe even more so.

Lastly, a shameless plug; if you want to investigate this villainous complexity more—a concept that continues to absorb me— read my books. Soldier Sons 1: The Ghost of Red Fields is going on sale (FREE!) very soon!

The Drop and the Gray Character

I love Tom Hardy. And not just because he’s Bane. Though that does play a factor.

Come again?

 I was recently talking to my friend about The Drop (Tom Hardy, Noomi Rapace, James Gandolfini). I love bouncing opinions and ideas off of this friend of mind, because she has this uncanny ability to pick out impressive points an sum them up in a way so sharp it sometimes makes me dizzy. I told her about my favorite part of the movie (which I may have mostly memorized) at the end (Spoilers! Ye be warned);

"It’s like the Devil’s just waiting for your body to quit, because he knows he already owns your soul.

Then I think maybe there is no devil. You die and God says ‘No, no you can’t come in. You have to leave now. You have to leave and go away and you have to be alone forever.’"

I told my friend that the striking ending of the The Drop is actually made more impressive by the fact that the events leading up to the climax are somewhat mundane. Tom Hardy plays an adorable, mumbling Bostonian barkeep caring for an abused puppy, with a quiet nature that appears generally good, though with something strangely unsettling in his demeanor. And then . . .

“I shot him in the face, twice. Then I wrapped his head in a towel, and I stabbed him in the chest, in his heart, so he would bleed out, and I put him in my bathtub and watched him drain. Then I put him in an oil tank with laundry detergent and lye, and I sealed it back up.”

Yes, I killed him. Absolutely. He was gonna hurt our dog.

            Then quiet, unsuspecting Tom Hardy shoots a guy in the face. Whoa.

I told my friend about all this. 

                “I get why you like that movie,” she said, nodding. “He’s like Zensor. He’s the guy that does bad things that you want to believe is good.”

                Whoa. And all this time I thought she didn’t really read my books.

                She was 100% right. I’ve always been strangely draw to that character archetype; the “gray” character, the hero who does bad things and the villain who tries to do good things. Zensor is a bit of both, just like Tom Hardy. 

Soldier Sons the movie: starring Tom Hardy as Zensor

Why are the gray men so appealing? They’re people we can relate to. They’re gentle, they’re protective, they’re loving and loyal. They’re violent, they’re mean, they’re capricious and cruel. They’re guilty, they’re remorseful, they’re bad and they wish they weren’t.

               Aren't we all?

              "Nothing is easier than denouncing an evil-doer. 

               And nothing more difficult than understanding him."

              --Dostoevsky

5 Exercises to Strengthen Your Characters

Every fiction piece I write is character driven.  Many authors start with a plot and bend their characters to fit into it, generating a fascinating storyline with actors that can be difficult to relate to.  Strong, real, genuine characters—like their realistic human counterparts—will build a compelling story on their own with minimal guidance.  Readers have often asked me where I get ideas for my characters, but what they’re really asking is how to make them feel real?  

Every OC (original character) is an amalgamation of thoughts, ideas, beliefs, inspirations and idiosyncrasies the author contains and witnesses.  When it comes to characterization, there is no more rewarding and therapeutic exercise than seeing the shadows of your imagination come into their own.  But where do they come from?  How did they start?  How do they maintain their own personalities on paper?  There are a variety of ways to make your fictitious crowd as real as the people you see.  Your OC is all in your head—here’s a few exercises to help you get acquainted: 

1. (Extra)Ordinary Lives  

While I was sitting in uncomfortable chairs in uncomfortable pants suits in office after office sweating for work, I found myself visualizing a different outcome for my job interviews than the typical “thank you for your interest, but…” letter.  I took the familiar grey scene, threw in the rich, mysterious employer in my head and made it the start of my second book, The King of the Sun, before I knew anything else about it.  The same works for any everyday situation you’d rather skip; your characters probably would too, but you have the power of infinite possibility to make them more interesting.  Whether it’s part of your story or not, putting your character in an ordinary setting will relate them to you and you may discover something about them.  And wondering how your serial killer antagonist or dragon-slaying hero would react to the DMV might make taking a number an iota more interesting. 

2. Channeling Emotions

...Like Anger

While I was attending business school, myself, professor and cohorts would debate the significance of a few percentage points in gross margins and a few pennies in shipping overhead endlessly—it was so ordinary I wanted to die. I was frustrated with it because I couldn’t see any point, and I felt small and alone because no one else seemed to share my views.  I felt like I didn’t belong; sometimes the whole anthill ensemble made me feel downright insane.  The twisting in my soul forged a deep, familiar connection to The King of the Sun’s Cinder Slade.  I stared emptily at walls listening to a suit drone about cost analysis and I found Cinder doing the same.  I got to realize my outrage through my sometimes capricious OC as the vapid rat-race wore us down—Cinder cracked so I didn’t have to.  Forcing your feelings through your characters will feel like conducting string puppets; instead, put them in the armchair you collapse in after a long, horrible day or sit them at your desk and see what happens next. 

3. Dear O.C.,

By: http://created-by-monsters.deviantart.com/

Letters, emails, phone calls and notes tell fragments of history in brief, glinting glances.  They’re alluring because they’re a mystery speckled with truth: they’re telling someone about something, but it isn’t you and you’re not supposed to know about them.  Who would your character take the time to write to?  What would they say?  Is it a love letter?  An over-due Happy Birthday?  A bail plea?  A good-bye?  A threat?  The letters or phone transcripts may never make it into your story, but the little glimpse of your OC’s lives and their feelings in a familiar form will reveal and entice their inner selves.  In my last novel, I pictured a prickly phone conversation between Cinder Slade and his older brother.  Ash Slade came into focus as they talked, and I saw a jealous, overworked family man who still picked on his younger sibling to alleviate stress.  The fact that Cinder would call him at all made me realize he was loyal, guilty and desperate for love.  I had no intention of using the dialogue at first, but the exercise became very important later on.

4. Getting into Character

Putting your OC on paper makes a connection between your image of them, your plot and your end product, the story.  It’s a tenuous line that often trembles under monotony and breaks when your image or plot weakens under writer’s block.  Drawing on another artistic medium to channel your character gives them a more distinctive image, shakes up your creative juices and pulls on new connections in your mind, other than literary. Try sketching your OC.  If you’re not an artist, try another talent; make a poem of a particular emotional moment, photograph a landscape or building they might frequent, sew a garment or make an accessory that expresses their own je ne sais quoi, or try acting out a particular scene as your character.  The quality of the art is secondary to feeling your OC; gravitas, exuberance, spite, joy?  I have done all of these for either published or unpublished OC’s, but a bit of amateur acting works best for me.  Voicing your favorite OC in the privacy of your home will help truly explore the scene and personality—just don’t take it to the streets, or you might be in trouble. 

5. Making History

Your story encompasses a group of segmented events in your character’s history, but this is only a blink of their life.  Events in their past often break through in flashbacks or memories, but, like all people, every instant of our history shapes who we are, and 90% of those instants will never make it into the story.  To make your OC feel real, give them a full identity and past that you can draw on.  Sometimes these are singular moments, sometimes they are whole chapters in their lives.  Did they have brothers or sisters?  Were they close to their parents?  What was the turning point of their adulthood?  Were they bullied as children?  Were they the bully?  Did they go to college?  Military school?  For a gallant, kind protagonist or a cunning, diabolical antagonist or a murky, dark anti-hero, the question is how did they become who they are?  If you want to bring it home, ask yourself what moments are most distinctive in your own life and why their impacts are so clear—then ask the same of your characters.

Some characters certainly have more history than others...