Invent a Character

[dr_mabeuse]

I hate exercises and rarely take part, but I've been reading these and have to say that most of them are not descriptions of characters, they're descriptions of plots. We know more about the circumstances the person finds themselves in than we do about the person, and that's not what I think of as a character description.

Where are the descriptions of the things the person does and the way they do them that gives us a glimpse into what they're really like?

---dr.M.

 

[Guest]

Give a bunch of writers a chance to post some of their stuff and stand back for the response. Here's something that may not be exactly what Lou had in mind.

Rumple Foreskin

Indeed! Works every time.

This is exactly the kind of thing I had in mind, Rumple.

Her dreams were back. So were the eyes; hovering in an angry sky just above the horizon, seeing everything but focusing on nothing. Amy knew those eyes—knew a time when they’d been filled with happiness and a love of life.

She was young, naked, and skinny--standing alone and vulnerable on a hill surrounded by flames. Everything was changing.

A thin, blonde-headed guy appeared. They embraced and kissed. He ran his hands over her body, it wasn’t quite as skinny now, and she responded. But when he tried to pull her down, she resisted and he melted away.

So why was she now stretched out on the ground? And where did the dark, handsome man come from? He was covering her nude body with kisses. Every touch sent her reeling. She wanted to please this man and stretched out her arms for him. But then he wasn’t there.

Spooky, chilling, sexy and very intriguing. It makes me ask, what on Earth is going on?

I got a sense of what Amy is about, enough to make me care about her in a very short space of time, that's for sure. You've got me hooked, where's the rest of it?

Lou

 

[Guest]

I hate exercises and rarely take part, but I've been reading these and have to say that most of them are not descriptions of characters, they're descriptions of plots. We know more about the circumstances the person finds themselves in than we do about the person, and that's not what I think of as a character description.

Where are the descriptions of the things the person does and the way they do them that gives us a glimpse into what they're really like?

---dr.M.

Show us how it's done then, Doc.

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Show us how it's done then, Doc.

Yeah, hit us your best shot, Doc. (whadda ya know, I'm a poet).

Rumple Foreskin

ps: Lou, thanks for the warm fuzzy. The rest of it is chapter three of my yet-to-be-published novel. RF

 

[Guest]

His hair was shoulder-length, waved dark blond and golden streaked. His eyes might be found in icon portraits of orthodox saints. His crooked nose was long, pointed in profile like a little sail. A pale complexion set off a large mouth of fully fleshed lips, the rose-mauve hue covering the pulp of them like on a thin-skinned fruit.

He looked tall due to a slim angular frame enhanced by his all black costume—an old trapunto-textured coat and loose cotton trousers, wrinkled and frayed above white socks and black linen Chinese slippers. It was obviously a cultivated look, but suited him perfectly, dramatizing his thinness, paleness and odd physique.

His head hung forward like an adolescent as he moved languidly and awkwardly, with a queer grace. I thought it was simply the languor of youth. In another century he would have been called consumptive, a Chopin to fit a girl's poetic dreams. He fit mine perfectly.

156 words, Perdita

 

[Guest]

His hair was shoulder-length, waved dark blond and golden streaked. His eyes might be found in icon portraits of orthodox saints. His crooked nose was long, pointed in profile like a little sail. A pale complexion set off a large mouth of fully fleshed lips, the rose-mauve hue covering the pulp of them like on a thin-skinned fruit.

He looked tall due to a slim angular frame enhanced by his all black costume—an old trapunto-textured coat and loose cotton trousers, wrinkled and frayed above white socks and black linen Chinese slippers. It was obviously a cultivated look, but suited him perfectly, dramatizing his thinness, paleness and odd physique.

His head hung forward like an adolescent as he moved languidly and awkwardly, with a queer grace. I thought it was simply the languor of youth. In another century he would have been called consumptive, a Chopin to fit a girl's poetic dreams. He fit mine perfectly.

156 words, Perdita

That hit me right there *points at heart.

This was very skillfully done, because the whole time I was reading your piece, right up until the end I thought the character being described was him. But, correct me if I'm wrong, I got more of a sense of her - the first person's - personality, than I did of his. Her wishes, her desires; seeing him through her eyes.

Very well done, there's a lot of depth to her, I'd love to read more and find out if she got her man.

Lou

 

[Guest]

the whole time I was reading your piece, right up until the end I thought the character being described was him. But, correct me if I'm wrong, I got more of a sense of her - the first person's - personality, than I did of his. Her wishes, her desires; seeing him through her eyes.

Loulou, I was taken aback by your comments. I really was only describing 'him' but obviously my ending comment said something about the narrator (and 'their' relationship). Thank you, P.

 

[Colleen Thomas]

His hair was shoulder-length, waved dark blond and golden streaked. His eyes might be found in icon portraits of orthodox saints. His crooked nose was long, pointed in profile like a little sail. A pale complexion set off a large mouth of fully fleshed lips, the rose-mauve hue covering the pulp of them like on a thin-skinned fruit.

He looked tall due to a slim angular frame enhanced by his all black costume—an old trapunto-textured coat and loose cotton trousers, wrinkled and frayed above white socks and black linen Chinese slippers. It was obviously a cultivated look, but suited him perfectly, dramatizing his thinness, paleness and odd physique.

His head hung forward like an adolescent as he moved languidly and awkwardly, with a queer grace. I thought it was simply the languor of youth. In another century he would have been called consumptive, a Chopin to fit a girl's poetic dreams. He fit mine perfectly.

156 words, Perdita

For me, the great part about this one is that it describes the man so implicitly, but dosen't read like a laundry list of traits.

You paint a very complete picture with very few words Dita, Bravo

 

[McKenna]

I hate exercises and rarely take part, but I've been reading these and have to say that most of them are not descriptions of characters, they're descriptions of plots. We know more about the circumstances the person finds themselves in than we do about the person, and that's not what I think of as a character description.

Where are the descriptions of the things the person does and the way they do them that gives us a glimpse into what they're really like?

---dr.M.

Right, but doesn't a situation mold a character? Isn't it within a situation that a personality evolves? And isn't it better to show rather than tell? If you tell what a person is like, it's not quite as exciting as showing them. Come on Doc, lighten up. I'm not sure you realize it, but when you write stuff like this you come off sounding like an holier-than-thou ass.

I'm with Lou, show us how you think it should be done instead of just telling us we're doing it wrong.

 

[Colleen Thomas]

Give a bunch of writers a chance to post some of their stuff and stand back for the response. Here's something that may not be exactly what Lou had in mind.

Rumple Foreskin

Her dreams were back. So were the eyes; hovering in an angry sky just above the horizon, seeing everything but focusing on nothing. Amy knew those eyes—knew a time when they’d been filled with happiness and a love of life.

She was young, naked, and skinny--standing alone and vulnerable on a hill surrounded by flames. Everything was changing.

A thin, blonde-headed guy appeared. They embraced and kissed. He ran his hands over her body, it wasn’t quite as skinny now, and she responded. But when he tried to pull her down, she resisted and he melted away.

So why was she now stretched out on the ground? And where did the dark, handsome man come from? He was covering her nude body with kisses. Every touch sent her reeling. She wanted to please this man and stretched out her arms for him. But then he wasn’t there.

Surreal, and leaves you wanting to know more, even if it's just to know what the heck is going on. Strong hook Rumps

 

[Colleen Thomas]

OK, I'll give it a shot:

---------------------------------------------------

“I’m gonna kill her.” Jessica muttered to herself as she walked along slowly. “If she’s not already dead, I’m gonna kill her.”

She stopped for a minute to readjust her backpack and survey her surroundings. She noticed with no small degree of alarm that the sky was starting to turn from a light blue to a deeper purple and that the shadows under the tall pine trees were getting pretty dark. Turning her head she looked up and down the dirt road she was walking on, it seemed to stretch to eternity in both directions.

After the first few hours of walking Jessica had decided that her Sketchers were much better suited to the mall than long walks in the woods. Her feet were killing her and she just wanted to stop but there were no signs of civilization anywhere. She figured she had better keep walking. She didn’t want to be alone in these woods at night.

I see someone prety young, probably not experienced inthe woods and either a victim of a pratical joke or at least thinking at this point that she is.

Good one Cd

 

[Colleen Thomas]

Here's my shot:

Cassie tugged the tight red shorts from the crack of her ass and adjusted the bra strap that simply refused to stay in place. Late again. She took one more quick glance in the mirror -- to tossle the hair, press the lips together -- before heading out the door. He was really going to be pissed this time. Her cats wove around her ankles as she sat on the bar stool to put on her sneakers. The spike heels went into a tote. She’d put those on later.

Breathing a sigh of relief when the ancient Dodge Dart actually started, she dug in the pile of detrius on the floor for a cassette tape. The music of Aerosmith filled the car, and Cassie's apprehension lifted considerably. She tried not to think about the suitcase in the trunk and the shitload of cash it contained. Her future housed in Samsonite.

I tend to get the feel here of a working girl who has crossed the line into more dangerous ilegal activities.

 

[McKenna]

Colleen:
What can I say, I'm a sucker for a good Western, and given the description of your man, I'd continue reading. The fact that he cares more for his horse than himself says a lot about his personality. Good was of showing us who is rather than just telling us.


Cheerful Deviant:
I get the feeling she's young, impressionable. It reads a bit like the beginning of a slasher movie. All is well until WHAM!


Rumple:
My impressions of your character are that she's troubled, young, and certainly left wanting for something she either can't have or shouldn't have.


Perdita:
"His head hung forward like an adolescent as he moved languidly and awkwardly, with a queer grace." This was the line that stuck with me, that drew my attention more so than the list of descriptive words. I think it's the "queer grace." That says more about him than anything else. The rest is just details.

 

[tolyk]

He was late, very late. Lost track of time, he told himself, but he knew within himself that he had simply forgotten. Walking hurriedly, yet still with strong, confident strides, -- head held high, smiling at those he passed by -- in an attempt to try to make up for the lost time, as if he could turn time back by being hasty.

Flowers! They were always helpful when one sought forgiveness. There is a flower shop on the way, he recalled, just pick up a nice bouquet.

Knocking gently at the door he began to fidget as he awaited her scolding. An elderly lady opened the door, stared at him accusingly. Before she had a chance to speak, he pulled the flowers out from behind his back, and then wrapped his arms around her. “Hi Mom, sorry I’m late.”

 

[CrimsonMaiden]

Heart hammering in her chest, she ran as if hounded by the hosts of hell. Her ebony hair flew upon the wind as her feet pounded a staccato beat against the smooth pavement. Uneveness sprang beneath the soles of her sandals and she tumbled headlong, scraping hands and knees as she sought to break the fall. Without taking the time to assess the damage, she was up, from crouch to run in a matter of seconds.

A loud crack echoed in the inky darkness and she turned towards the amber lights in the distance behind her, a scream tearing from her throat as her petite body skidded to a dead stop. Sudden brightness flooded across her face, and she clenched her eyes shut against it.

"It's all right dear. It was just a dream."

She lay trembling in sweat soaked sheets, her eyes opening to slits to see a woman all in white leaning over the bed. Her nurse... it was her nurse. Everything came flooding back... which meant nothing came flooding back. She didn't remember anything. Only the flashes of dreams... nightmares... gave any clue to who she was.


Okay, so it's 190 words, but I couldn't find any spots to pare down, lol.

 

[tolyk]

The only thing I can say about everyone elses character descriptions is that you all make me feel like a very amature writer Great work all of you.

 

[impressive]

I tend to get the feel here of a working girl who has crossed the line into more dangerous ilegal activities.

Oh, good! That means my undercover cop on her way to a sting operation has an effective cover!

 

[impressive]

This was very skillfully done, because the whole time I was reading your piece, right up until the end I thought the character being described was him. But, correct me if I'm wrong, I got more of a sense of her - the first person's - personality, than I did of his. Her wishes, her desires; seeing him through her eyes.

Yup. Agree with Lou. I wanna know HER. He doesn't really intrigue me at all.

 

[millennium_bard]

Call me Ishmael.

No, I ain’t after no damn white whale. My parents just had literary pretensions and a warped sense of humor.

What I was hunting after last night though, was feminine companionship for the evening.
A month of no nookie and I was horny as hell and determined to get laid even if I had to pay for it.

I knew that with the temperature down around zero, the neighborhood bar would be packed with shivering hookers and just a few hard-core drinkers.
I took my time looking around, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light of the bar.
Girls of all shapes and sizes to choose from, ranging from fugly to just passable.

A smorgasbord of rent-a-twat just trying to keep warm.

A hooker faced with a night of freezing her ass off on a corner is likely to be less picky about her tricks.
As homely as I am, this can make all the difference between getting laid and another night of jacking off.



*It's nowhere near as good as most of the others I have seen on this thread, but about the best I can do and keep it around 150 words*

 

[Edward Teach]

Muggsy

"Hey, Muggsy, she ain’t gonna give you any. Hurry up and gimme another blast. I’m gettin’ dry here," Tommy T laughed tossing a ten onto the counter.

"Coming T," Muggsy called out over the din of mingled voices and the sharp clack of billiard balls colliding throughout the pool room. "That drink’s on the house, Mavis," he said to the skinny prostitute wearing gobs of makeup in a futile attempt to cover her cut lip and black eye. "Take your money back."

"Thanks, Charlie," Mavis said, calling him by his given name. She never called him Muggsy and hated it when others did. Years spent in the ring may have marred his exterior but she saw what he looked like inside and it was a hell of a lot better than most. If he would have an aging alcoholic whore with a drug problem, she would be his in a heartbeat. But while his brain may have been banged up a little, he wasn’t crazy.

"Keep the change, Muggsy, I’m winning," Tommy T said loud enough for everyone to hear before he drained his bourbon in two swallows, turned and went back to the tables.

"Thanks, T," Muggsy replied, then used his tip to pay for Mavis’ drinks. He might have to work for a crook who beat up prostitutes, but he didn’t have to be one.

 

[impressive]

*It's nowhere near as good as most of the others I have seen on this thread, but about the best I can do and keep it around 150 words*

Oh, I don't know about that! I found it very entertaining, although the character himself didn't draw me as much as the colorful language and interesting scenario.

 

[impressive]

Re: Muggsy

"Hey, Muggsy, she ain’t gonna give you any. Hurry up and gimme another blast. I’m gettin’ dry here," Tommy T laughed tossing a ten onto the counter.

"Coming T," Muggsy called out over the din of mingled voices and the sharp clack of billiard balls colliding throughout the pool room. "That drink’s on the house, Mavis," he said to the skinny prostitute wearing gobs of makeup in a futile attempt to cover her cut lip and black eye. "Take your money back."

"Thanks, Charlie," Mavis said, calling him by his given name. She never called him Muggsy and hated it when others did. Years spent in the ring may have marred his exterior but she saw what he looked like inside and it was a hell of a lot better than most. If he would have an aging alcoholic whore with a drug problem, she would be his in a heartbeat. But while his brain may have been banged up a little, he wasn’t crazy.

"Keep the change, Muggsy, I’m winning," Tommy T said loud enough for everyone to hear before he drained his bourbon in two swallows, turned and went back to the tables.

"Thanks, T," Muggsy replied, then used his tip to pay for Mavis’ drinks. He might have to work for a crook who beat up prostitutes, but he didn’t have to be one.

Hmmmm ... we've three developing characters here. It's Muggsy/Charlie that interests me the most. WHY did he have to work for a crook who beat up prostitutes? He intrigues me.

 

[dr_mabeuse]

Right, but doesn't a situation mold a character? Isn't it within a situation that a personality evolves? And isn't it better to show rather than tell? If you tell what a person is like, it's not quite as exciting as showing them. Come on Doc, lighten up. I'm not sure you realize it, but when you write stuff like this you come off sounding like an holier-than-thou ass.

I'm with Lou, show us how you think it should be done instead of just telling us we're doing it wrong.

Okay, okay. As I said, I hate exercises and I'm not very good at them. I kind of have to take a running start to write anything, and exercises never give me the warm-up room I need.

This is the start of a story about a guy redeemed by a sexual affair. It's a bit thick, but I guess this is the way I do character description:

----------------
There came a time in his life when he one day looked up and realized that he wasn’t driving anymore, and in fact, no one was. He never remembered giving up the wheel, but it was clear that no one had been steering his life for a long time now, and while the country around him was completely familiar, he had no idea of where he was. His job, his apartment, his failed marriage and dissolved family were still there, recognizable as spots that ached whenever he tried to touch them, but they seemed to have become permanent. He no longer expected them to ever heal. The hurt became a part of him.

On a particularly dark day in late October he made himself dinner in the microwave, and as he washed his plate and cup in the kitchen sink he happened to notice the bird feeder outside the window. It was empty again; only some loose pin feather frozen to the white-splotched perches and some scattered sunflower shells. It must have been empty for some time now; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d checked it. He quickly brought in into the house and filled it with the last of the seed and set it back outside, but he didn’t think it would do any good. Once they left, they were gone forever.

The next day he found himself in a gun shop talking to a young clerk in an orange vest with a shaved head and goatee. The clerk seemed to have other things he’d rather do and was impatient with his ignorance. There were muffled shots coming from the target room in back and an occasional shout of triumph that kept on distracting him.

“You want something for sport shooting? Or for protection?” the kid asked.

He picked up the silver 38 the boy had laid on the glass counter. It was surprisingly heavy and satisfying to hold.

“Protection,” he said. He wanted something that could bring down a man.

“Thirty-eight’s good,” the kid said, ducking down to rummage inside the display counter. “Course if you want more stopping power…”

He turned the gun around so that it was facing him and put his thumb against the trigger. He wanted to see if he could fire it that way.

The kid looked up at him and his eyes went wide. He stood up quickly, untangled the pistol from his hand and held it back and away from him, as if he were afraid he might lunge for it.

“Course you’ll want to sign up for our firearm safety course first,” the kid said. “I mean you have to. That’s the law.”

“Of course,” he said. “Of course. Safety first.”

---dr.M.

 

[McKenna]

Okay, okay. As I said, I hate exercises and I'm not very good at them. .....snip....

Thanks for playing Doc. It's good to know you're human like the rest of us.

Now then, to comment on what you wrote:

The first paragraph is poignant. The language is a bit rough, but the ideas you express and the metaphor you weave throughout it is very nice.

I'm intrigued with why he wants to be able to pull the trigger with his thumb... hmmmm....

This fella seems dispondent, perhaps suicidal. Or maybe it's homicidal? It could go either way. I'd guess he's middle-age, perhaps older. No mention of wife or kids, so I'm assuming he's alone. The entire bit leaves me a bit cold, but curious. I want to know more about what is motivating this gun purchase. The whole bird-feeder bit really lends to the "despondent" and desolate feel of it.

Good job. But then, you already know I'm a fan of yours.

 

[impressive]

There came a time in his life when he one day looked up and realized that he wasn’t driving anymore, and in fact, no one was. He never remembered giving up the wheel, but it was clear that no one had been steering his life for a long time now, and while the country around him was completely familiar, he had no idea of where he was. His job, his apartment, his failed marriage and dissolved family were still there, recognizable as spots that ached whenever he tried to touch them, but they seemed to have become permanent. He no longer expected them to ever heal. The hurt became a part of him.

On a particularly dark day in late October he made himself dinner in the microwave, and as he washed his plate and cup in the kitchen sink he happened to notice the bird feeder outside the window. It was empty again; only some loose pin feather frozen to the white-splotched perches and some scattered sunflower shells. It must have been empty for some time now; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d checked it. He quickly brought in into the house and filled it with the last of the seed and set it back outside, but he didn’t think it would do any good. Once they left, they were gone forever.

To attempt to level the "playing" field, I stopped reading at about 150 words ... essentially the first two paragraphs. It is engrossing (as expected). However, I don't see a lot of difference between what others have written (a la descriptions of plots). We might be splitting hairs -- as plots and characters (as McKenna pointed out) are so intertwined.

I think everyone who's participated has done a great job. Nice exercise, Lou!