Character Creation and Arcs

Creation, both the act and the art, involve myriad details, but one that is frequently critical, but often overlooked, is change. Change, whether purposeful or unintentional, is a hallmark of most art. We say we are "moved" by art for a reason. Not only does it inspire an emotional, cognitive and spiritual response, but it also serves as a vehicle, to transport us from one place to another.

I think this is why character arcs matter so much in fiction. Characters that don't change over the course of a story are incapable of moving the reader. Inert characters inspire inertia: they are a form of anti-transport.

Jeff Gerke's Tips #3 and #4 (scroll down) go into the "how" of this in greater detail, but I think the why is important to remember. I think, if I get the chance, I'll intentionally take a look at the arcs of some characters and see if I can find the turning point of each, and determine what that means for the reader/viewer.

Penrose-Carter Diagram of the Finite Observer Looks A Lot Like Einstein

Einstein didn't know the guy, but he loved his work.

Great little sidebar: A mother brought her son to the rabbi, and the rabbi said to the boy; “I will give you a guilder if you can tell me where God lives.” The boy thought for only a moment and then said, “And I will give you two guilders if you can tell me where he doesn’t live.”

Character Creation: A Man in Third Heaven

I know a man in Christ who fourteen years ago (whether in the body or out of the body I do not know, God knows) was caught up to the third heaven. And I know that this man was caught up into paradise and heard things too sacred to be put into words, things that a person is not permitted to speak. On behalf of such an individual I will boast, but on my own behalf I will not boast, except about my weaknesses.

Paul writes this to the Corinthians, almost as an aside.

"Oh, by the way, I know this guy who went to heaven. So, how's life going? Did you see the big game?"

This is a great example of introducing the supernatural to a story. Paul isn't writing fiction, but relaying a history, of course, but the principle he employs applies to storytelling.

Heaven is separate, real, experiential and unique, and Paul nails all four qualities in a short passage. Third heaven is a state wherein the witness was "caught up" (separate), either in the body or out of it (real), heard things too sacred for words (experiential), and whose experience was worthy of boasting (unique.)

Readers of the supernatural who have no real interest in spiritual things will be drawn to the realness and the experience, but have little thirst for separateness or uniqueness. Both Stephen King and Neil Gaiman are masters of the first two qualities. Their strange gods/heroes will have dirt under their nails, and can navigate a fistfight or a brothel with all too humen acumen. They have little use for separateness, for a uniqueness that might be considered pure or holy.

On the other hand, writers like Peretti have a hammer lock on the more subtle qualities. They get separateness. The understand uniqueness. Their strange gods/heroes may lack in a physical reality, but they are endowed with a special sort of clarity - a defined, clean isolation that should be unique to mythic figures.

Then, you've got the rare few who are able to bring forth all four effects into one good character. When a writer can do this, he (or she, although, I've got to admit, all you humans look the same to me) has achieved a glorious thing.

Shelley does it with Frankenstein's monster. C.S. Lewis accomplishes it several times, as does O'Connor (Lewis' best example can be found in the Unman Weston in Perelandra, and I'll just take a stab at O'Connor's iconic Misfit). Lee does it in Demon: A Memoir with Lucian and his ilk. Rice strangely achieves this in Interview with A Vampire and then "over-realizes" Lestat in the Vampire Lestat. Stoker does it with Count Dracula in the abstract.

Somehow, all four cylinders have to hit in rhythm. St. Paul does it here with ease. I haven't done it yet.

Tosca Lee Chernobyls Her Underwood

Just to finish off the invasion of words that Tosca Lee launched on her editors (previous posts here and here):

Her first run-through hit 160,000+. Considering the target was 100,000, I'm thinking that she met her mark. Then punched it in the face. Then kicked it when it was down and rolled it off a cliff.

Poor mark.

Sorry for all the violence, but I've never been one to tack toward the Isle of Appropriate Social Conduct.*

In case you didn't know.

* This also applies to my disgusting disregard for the victims of bureaucratic failure and improper oversight in the old Soviet Union from whom I carelessly appropriated for my title. Also, I lied about Lee and her Underwood. At least, I think I lied. I don't actually know how she first writes her words, but the two things I'm pretty sure she doesn't use are a clay tablet or a manual typewriter. But a clay tablet would be cool. Especially if that's how she wrote Demon: A Memoir.