Midway through the process of creating The Great American Novel 2 (GAN 1 being Huck Finn...or Gatsby...or Wrathful Grapes…or...), the realization strikes the writer that the story lacks something, that the story which should stir a nation can barely stir a weak cup of coffee.
Consequently, you examine the developing plot: Exposition? Check. Conflicts? Check. Rising action? Yep. Complications? Planned. Climax and theme? I know where I'm going….
Then the truth bubbles over and threatens to drown you in its obviousness. “The characters are really...meh.” Yes, you have a clear protagonist (the perfectly adorable, abused waif), a recognizable antagonist (the really rotten, evil-personified underling of Beelzebub), and a boatload of supporting characters on both sides.
Somehow, though, they’re not what you want nor are they what the story needs.
You search your library of writing manuals. You google article after article, blog after blog. How can you make the characters better?
Nothing.
You call your ninth grade English instructor away from his reruns of Wheel of Fortune. You call your yoga instructor. You call the guy who fills the bins of oranges down at the grocery store.
They are all sympathetic and very helpful. Each has concrete constructive answers, but none of them gives you the solutions you want to hear. They all make sense, but...
There's the problem!
Somewhere, somehow, you’ve developed that dreaded debilitating disease Massive But Syndrome (MBS) where each suggestion from accomplished writers, teachers, and plumbers is met with a defensive “but” statement that turns off your spigot of inspiration. Three of the biggest BS (but statements, not the other BS. Then again...) “But sap sells,” “But reality bites,” and “But this is fiction.” Each of the three excuses has the disadvantage of being partially true.
One need only look at the financial success of romance novels and inspirational books featuring o shallow idealized characters, wildly optimistic resolutions, and selective favorable advice/outcomes to realize that indeed sickeningly sweet sap sells.
Secondly, with over 7 billion people on earth, it’s safe to assume that the overwhelming majority lead quiet, undramatic lives that are as engaging as broccoli flavored oatmeal. Henceforth, it is logical for writers to avoid mirroring this reality.
However, authors can take reality avoidance too far by creating the ultimate protagonist, dauntless and fault-free, and pitting him/her/it against the supreme villain who is so evil she/ he would make Lucifer blush.
The attributes that raise a character from meh to MY! are not what set him apart from the reader, however. No matter the conflict, no matter the situation, no matter the person, the traits that most engage the reader are those that make the character human.
“But my character isn’t a human.”
Please note the following: To be human, the characters don't have to be humans.
However, a human–the reader–must relate to the characters on a human level. For example, the way one can with one of literature's most moving protagonists, Jack London's Buck in his novel The Call of the Wild. A dog. Canine. Not homo sapiens. A dog with amazingly human feelings and reactions.
Portraying humanness is the key to developing great characters, not listening to your contrary but voice.
For example, it’s not Jane Eyre’s sappiness that makes her memorable. It’s not the reality of Forrest Gump’s existence that endures. It’s not the perfection Anne Lamott achieves after her conversion that captivates her fans. It’s not Buck's canine body that appeals to human readers.
It's that every person can recognize him/herself in these characters' victories and failures, emotions and reactions, inspirations and aversions. In every case, the writers find the link between fiction and life. In every case, the writers got off the buts that weighed them down.
They got up, shaped up and developed their characters, like going to a literary Snap Fitness. Before long their buts wore down to nothing. No more MBS.
Okay. Enough but jokes. I’ll be better next time, or you can slap my ... never mind.
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