Dynamic Characters (25 page)

So now you have a character. On to the next step.

GETTING TO PLOT FROM CHARACTER

Probably some plot elements have already occurred to you at this point; it's hard to picture a character in a total vacuum. Most likely he's doing
something.
But it's possible the plot is still rudimentary, fragmented or unsatisfactory. Now what?

You need something to further direct and focus your thinking. One way is to go to the source: the wellsprings of human behavior. Concentrate on those universal drives that power all of our actions, in all times and all cultures. Here lie rich motherlodes of fictional gold.

Let's illustrate how you can mine them using two of the strongest human emotions: fear and love. Psychologists tell us that these drives directly or indirectly motivate much behavior. They can also motivate your story by weaving together character and plot.

FEAR: THE BOGEYMAN WILL GET YOU

Human infants come with a few fears built in: fear of falling, fear of very loud noises. During the first year of life, the number of fears grows: fear of separation from Mommy, fear of strangers, fear of dogs or vacuum cleaners or elevators or lightning or dozens of other possibilities. Babies differ (a few aren't afraid of anything, which makes their
parents
afraid). In coming years, children will add fear of failure, fear of ''looking dumb,'' fear of being different, fear of not being unique, fear of being unlovable, fear of death.

Over time, rather than face fear directly, the mind will also learn to fear
symbols
of its real anxieties. Thus, by the time we're adults, we're capable of fearing almost anything, for buried and twisted reasons of self-protection. And I mean anything. There are people who are morbidly afraid of spiders, or thunderstorms, or driving a car, or leaving their house, or comets or forks or asphyxiating constriction by their own underwear (really).

What does all this have to do with plot?

Knowing what your characters fear is a wonderful way to generate plot ideas and story resolutions. Think about two things:
what
your character fears, and
how
that fear is likely to make her react. You do this on not one but two levels: the immediate situation and her subconscious terrors. The latter drives the former.

This is getting complicated. Let's clarify it with some examples.

FEAR AND REACTION IN THE MATERNITY WARD

Suppose you are writing a story about a couple searching for a name for their new baby. This doesn't sound like a very dramatic or fearful situation—certainly not the equivalent of, say, a detective faced with a serial killer. Yet even in the quiet of a hospital maternity ward, fear can help you understand your characters and develop your plot.

What is the wife afraid of, deep down? Perhaps she's the kind of person who has always been afraid of being abandoned. She reacts to this fear, which she doesn't even know she has, by constantly trying to please other people. Do you know anybody like this? I certainly do. They're accommodating to the point of being doormats. People take advantage of them all the time. They just cling harder.

How is this likely to make her react to the search for baby's name? On the surface, such people react by saying, ''Oh, I don't care. You choose.'' But perhaps the new mother is clinging to more than one person (this is common). She doesn't want to displease any of them. And her father wants his grandson to carry his name, since he has no sons to bear it. His only son was killed during Desert Storm.

The husband, meanwhile, has his own deep fears. He's afraid of not being in control. This is, in fact, why he married such an accommodating wife. His fear leads him to react by insisting on his own choice of names. First name
and
middle name.

Do you see a story shaping up here full of conflict over issues of family, identity and power? It could, in fact, be quite a good story. And all generated by fear.

Note that it doesn't really matter
why
the wife is afraid of being abandoned or the husband is afraid of being not in control. If you want to, you can invent childhoods for each to account for the persons they became. But you don't need to do this. You only need to understand what buried fears drive them. Nor do you ever need to name the fears in the story itself. In fact, you probably shouldn't. A story is not the same as a psychological case study. It's enough that you yourself understand your character's way of reacting to fear, and that you
show
it to us in convincing action and dialogue.

FEAR AND REACTION IN SCOTLAND YARD

''That's all right for quiet, subtle, character-driven fiction, you may say. But I write mysteries. Or science fiction. Or techno-thrillers. Or romance. Deeply buried fears aren't necessary for my characters. What I need is an exciting plot.''

Deeply buried fears can help generate exciting plots.

Consider a few examples from the best-seller list. Granted, I don't
know
how Michael Crichton or Terry McMillan or P.D. James think up their plots. But I can easily imagine arriving at the plots of
Jurassic Park, Waiting to Exhale,
or
Devices and Desires
through thinking about what the characters fear and what they do to quell those fears.

Start with John Hammond,
Jurassic Park's
billionaire founder. What might he fear? Aging, dying. How does he react? By building a monument to himself, a stupendous theme park in which he, like God, has (re-)created an entire species. And he won't let anything convince him to limit the park, this proof of his God-like immortality—not warnings from scientists or technical danger signs or even an escaped Tyranno-saurus Rex. From Hammond's megalomaniac drive spring all the plot events of the novel.

McMillan's
Waiting to Exhale
reflects its characters' fears in the very title. All four protagonists are holding their breath until they can find someone to love. They are afraid of being unloved, alone—even though some of them do learn during the course of the novel how to do that.

Adam Dalgliesh, P.D. James's detective, at first glance does not seem like a very fearful man. But consider. Detectives are driven— some of them maniacally—to solve crimes and catch criminals. Why? Many of them fear not being in control. Others fear authority, and so deal with it by
becoming
the authority (this is especially true of those detectives who are in constant conflict with their own superiors). Others fear failure, and so are driven to test themselves against a problem—a juicy murder—over and over. How would such a character react to frustration by a wily killer? Perhaps with a sense of personal anger, carefully controlled—or not.

What does
your
character fear, in the deepest level of his soul? How does he deal with his fear—through avoidance, compulsion, acting out, anger, depression, desire to cling to someone stronger? Is his way of dealing with deep fears constructive (catching criminals, fighting disease, raising children) or destructive (beating his wife, shoplifting, spending money he doesn't have to impress others)? And can his characteristic way of handling fear be used to generate plot ideas?

I'm betting that it can.

LOVE: I'D DO ANYTHING FOR YOU

So can love.

The reasoning here is the same as for fear. Human beings are a social species. We're hardwired to form attachments to others. This can be expressed constructively: loving a partner, being loyal to a friend, sacrificing gladly for our children. Furthermore, the attachment drive can be elaborated in labyrinthine ways. We can love a country; an idea; a pet; a stamp collection; an object that, to us, symbolizes something
else
we love. Just yesterday, for example, I saw a newspaper article about a man who ran back into a burning house to try to save his grandmother's Bible. In fact, said essayist Charles Lamb two hundred years ago, the human mind is capable of falling in love with anything at all.

And what we love, we act to gain or keep. (Witness all those newspaper ads: LOST: School Ring. Great sentimental value. Reward.) This can generate all kinds of plot ideas.

Who, or what, does your character love? What is she willing to do to gain or keep it? What are the limits (if any) to how far she'll go? How does she react if something interferes with her gaining or keeping the thing she loves? (Consider the movie
Fatal Attraction
.) Plot galore.

Not to mention characterization that touches readers in a vulnerable spot—their own attachment to whatever it is that they love.

FEAR
AND
LOVE: THE TWISTED SKEIN

Finally, love and fear can be tightly intertwined emotions. When you love something, you fear you'll lose it. A mother, for instance, may go to enormous lengths to safeguard her children—lengths that ultimately may interfere with their ability to function well in the world without her. Is the mother driven by love of the kids, or by fear of being left alone?

Another example: A doctor goes to tremendous, heroic lengths to save a patient's life, expending great amounts of time, energy and ingenuity. Is the doctor driven by love of humanity or by fear of personal failure in not saving a life? Or both?

Out of these kinds of questions can come some truly complex characterization, and some very interesting fiction. So the next time you're trying to turn an idea into a plot—or are stuck in the middle of a story—ask yourself some questions. What does this character really fear, deep down? What does he love? In what ways, direct or indirect, does he behave to assuage his fear, express his love? Do these habitual behaviors intensify under stress? How? What kind of stress can you give him? What is he likely to do then?

"When I have fears that I may cease to be,'' wrote John Keats, ''then on the shore/Of the wide world I stand alone, and think.'' Well, that's one way of reacting to fear. What does
your
character do?

SUMMARY: FROM CONCEPT TO CHARACTER TO PLOT

^•
 A story can begin with anything: idea, image, character, setting, problem, technological breakthrough, natural disaster, etc.

^•
 Go from the beginning point to the character by choosing someone with a stake in the action.

^•
 Think about, feel your way into, fill out a dossier about this character until you understand him.

• Figure out what he would consider a conflict, how he would react to it, how he would affect the resolution and how he would feel about the events after they're over.

^•
 Base this figuring-out on his deepest drives, such as fear and/or love.

Sex and violence.

Got your attention, didn't I? It seems that everyone, from the president to my grandmother, has an opinion on these two burgeoning aspects of modern storytelling. Not, of course, the same opinion. One subset of critics maintains that sex and violence should not be coupled together in the same debate. Sex and violence, goes this reasoning, are entirely different things, and one of them (take your pick) isn't even a problem at all.

There is one way, however, in which sex and violence definitely
do
belong in the same discussion. They're both natural outgrowths of those two conflict producers we examined in the last chapter, fear and love. Violence, especially, is implicit in many plots. Conflict escalates until it turns physical. And so Tybalt stabs Mercutio, Bill Sykes bludgeons Nancy, Costa Rica bombs Jurassic Park.

How
much
violence should your story's conflict lead to? That depends on the story. One critic famously remarked that there are ''no brutalities in Jane Austen's novels—except the verbal,'' and that those are quite enough. In her context, they are. You, however, may need more physical fighting.

If so, what makes a fight scene work? Five things: necessity, detail, accuracy, plausibility and surprise.