Learn About Your Characters Through Their Complaints and Regrets

Many writers have a hard time acknowledging their characters’ dark sides. This can weaken their stories because so much—including character arcs—is built on flaws. When I’m teaching, It takes more than a gentle nudge to move writers toward spotting the imperfections. Usually, total immersion in the Seven Deadly Sins is required.

But here’s a gentler way: get the characters complaining. This is almost too easy for comic characters, But it’s only really difficult for the strong, silent types —the ones you can imagine Clint Eastwood playing. I think it works most times because writers like to complain and don’t feel especially guilty about it. Yes, there are a few Saints out there, but most people would look for opportunities to complain about lousy service at a restaurant. Or aggressive drivers. Or rude neighbors.

Obviously, it can be legitimate, even courageous, to bring notice to injustices or suggest ways systems can be improved or to stand up for people who are being oppressed. But, like gossip, telling a story to add to the toxicity of the world rather than to aid in creating positive change is usually a revealing vice. If the story pays you back because you let off steam or gain sympathy or get a moment of feeling superior, it’s probably just complaining and not done for noble reasons.

I remember my dad once saying, “You know, I’ve been offering critiques of these other drivers for over half my life, and they aren’t getting any better.”

That statement was both hilarious and insightful. Note - I have not personally benefited from that insight.

As a starting point, don’t worry about your characters. See if you can get yourself complaining with a few prompts. You might want to warm up by singing along to Gilbert and Sullivan’s politically incorrect, "I've Got a Little List."  (Warning: Here's an especially rude updated version. Watch at your own risk.)

Okay. You are looking for answers that are stories. Not just, I got root beer itnstead of cola. If there is a conversation or escalating interactions, you’re probably in the right place.

Has everyone taken their blood pressure medicine? Good.

    ▪    What’s the stupidest exchange you’ve had with a bureaucrat? This can be government, insurance, electric company… your choice.
    ▪    Which work (or club) activity was the worst waste of time?
    ▪    When were you appallingly disappointed? It’s likely to be something connected to leisure — seeing a movie, going on a date, joining a friend at his or her favorite dive. Recommendations that lead to bad experiences may be memorable.
    ▪    When were you not properly thanked? When you went out of your way, worked to make something perfect, or sacrificed your own joy and pleasure, only to be met by a shrug or a quibble?
    ▪    When were you not justly rewarded? No raise or bonus or recognition for exceptional work?
    ▪    When were you disproportionally punished or singled out for no reason? Given the lousy task? Stuck with the unpleasant duty or person?
    ▪    When did cruel fate afflict you? When did luck fail you? When was something wonderful missed that would have been possible if someone else had made the slightest effort?

I have a much longer list, but I hope one of these jogged a memory that really mattered. And that you captured the whole experience for analysis.

If you got emotionally involved, that’s good. Something is there. Especially if your suffering was not life changing. The more trivial, the better. Because these are the sorts of things that reveal a dark side, something that may be difficult to admit to. If “honor” is involved, in may be almost impossible.

If it doesn’t seem like your answers offer much, even after some time has passed, start keeping track of your complicated complaints (as above, conversations and multiple interactions). Write them down as if told to a friend who’s willing to put up with your worst whinging. Then give it some time and see if there are lessons about flaws you might have. Chances are better with captured complaints than remembered complaints because these are likely to be easier to see objectively over time. Memories can weave themselves into who you are.

Here’s when things get good. If you can do this for yourself, you can probably take questions like those above and get to the truth with your characters. That offers the possibility of raising the quality of your stories dramatically.

But what about Clint Eastwood? Grunts and single word answers don’t offer much. For these stoic folks, it’s better to pursue regrets than complaints. Regrets often are part of the same cloth, but include a level of accountability. And that ownership and acceptance is why the strong, silent types, flawed though they are, provide some of the best loved heroes.

The Right Story for the Moment

 I grew up on”classic” stories. Dickens and Poe and Wharton and Tolstoy all grappled with human nature and our conflicts. In different ways, for sure, but novels and epic poems and short stories and theater seem, to me, to be timeless when they are done well.

But in the past few years it has come into vogue for editors, agents, producers, and managers, during a pitch, to ask two questions:

Why you?

Why now?

The former question is clearly valuable. Answering it demonstrates passion, reasoning, experience, and credentials.

Why now? is trickier. Especially if you aspire to creating timeless stories, not newspaper articles or blog posts. Still, the question is unavoidable if you want to get past the gate keepers. I have some suggested areas to explore that might be more interesting than ”It’s ripped from the headlines.”

The story exposes an unrecognized need. We are so enmeshed in our own culture, that often what’s needed to make for a better society is hidden. Sometimes voices are not being heard. Perspectives might be unexpected. Conventional wisdom and all the stories may be covering up the real truth. Or scientific understandings might be new, altered, or need popularization.

Technology, power shifts, or new interactions between cultures might open up new opportunities. Microphones made more expressive songs possible because singers could be more intimate. Wealth and education opened up “legitimate” theater and Hollywood to the Irish. The blues and bluegrass found expression in rock and roll. (These could take the form of new capabilities or changes in value. Knowledge can hybridize to create novel pursuits or explorations.)

A story can become timely because the situation has become urgent. Spy stories and television shows like Mission Impossible became a way to understand the Cold War. Some stories prompted needed discussion. Others offered options for exploration. Or helped people get a sense of risks and benefits. Often stories made important by urgency can expand decision-making and add perspectives and do so agains tight deadlines.

Or something may become visible on the horizon. Emerging trends or indications that something significant is coming together in an unexpected way and might deserve the attention of a larger audience. Poets are supposed to be the antennae of the race. ”If this goes on…” has long been a sub genre of science fiction. Population control, automation, the arms race, and many other threats or coming changes were worked out in this context.

On occasion, “why you” and “why now” merge. Someone whose voice is distinct and necessary may retell a traditional story in a way that catches the moment.

And, yes, topical stories are welcome. But I’m suspicious writing to what is blossoming in social media. First, saying something fresh becomes difficult when everyone is talking about the subject. Second, there is a temptation to propagandize and support specific solutions. (I call this tractor theater, comrade.) Third, there is the danger of the work being too shallow. For many issues, especially those that are wrenching for society, ideas need to ferment — often for years. The less disposable answers — the deeper answers — come with time.

Not all of these need to be approached head-on. During the McCarthy era, social stories that would have been banned in the mainstream found their ways into science fiction (as happened with many episodes of The Twilight Zone). Or hidden in historical fiction (like High Noon and Arthur Miller’s The Crucible).

Of course, you don't have to choose just one of the approaches is above. In combination, they may be powerful. That can impress the gate keeper, but more importantly, it can provide guidance in creating a work of lasting value.

Putting Characters at Risk

Most stories include conflict and struggle. The character wants or needs something and faces obstacles and opposition. Classically, there are external challenges, like climbing a mountain or dueling with a villain, and internal challenges rooted in the character’s flaws. Flaws are powerful because they can be exploited by the villain and, In meeting the challenges, the protagonist goes through a character arc —learning to manage the flaw or undergoing growth.

While I would argue that character flaws our essential four showing a character changing for the better—except in tragedies—there are other challenges that can drive a story.

I would categorize disadvantages distinct to the character about which he or her can do nothing as vulnerabilities. While they can grow out of it, children are all vulnerable and need protection. They do not have the strength or knowledge or cognitive skills that adults generally do. While societies often make reasonable accommodations for people with physical limits (hearing impaired, limited mobility, genetic variations like sickle cell anemia and Down’s Syndrome, And debilitating diseases like cancer), there are many instances where this can create vulnerabilities. In one of my favorite movies, Wait Until Dark, the villain takes advantage of the protagonist’s inability to see.

People often get reduced to their worst moments in their lives. A mistake can have repercussions even if it doesn't exemplify a moral lapse or malice. This is one reason why the criminal records of juveniles are sealed. But consider a parent whose child is lost because of a moment of distraction. Or a soldier who mishears a command, leading to disaster. Or someone whose slip of the tongue offends a community. Both just judgments and disproportionate judgments can mark a person and mar a reputation forever. A woman in my neighborhood was backing her car down her driveway and a child in a Big Wheel scooted into her path, and he died. She and her family were, thereafter, known for this. Ultimately, they left town to start life afresh.

A wound can also create challenges that are difficult to overcome. People bitten by dogs often have lifelong phobias. Those were abused can have a variety of debilitating responses. It may be difficult for them to connect with others and establish real trust. They also may have associated triggers that cause them to self-exclude or may be manipulated by others. While some of these may be managed with therapy, deeper wounds may be difficult to heal. Worst of all, some people wounded by others may blame themselves and carry guilt and shame.

Society may disadvantage groups of people at risk through traditions, stereotypes, and systems like law. Think of bigotry or the caste systems that reign in schools. Appearances can make a big difference on whether someone and train a jewelry store is immediately offered assistance or followed by security personnel. I know someone who went to a dentist in what he called ”country clothes” hoping he’d be charged less. As it happened, he was asked to pay in advance for the services. Even something like celebrity can lead to inequalities. Not only do they have little recourse when their privacy is violated, but the legal requirements for proving defamation are more onerous.

Beliefs, including codes we live by and how arguments are framed can also push us into bad choices and actions. Everyone, to some extent, is susceptible to propaganda and hoaxes. Our emotions can be manipulated. Humans have cognitive glitches, Such as confirmation bias, that overwhelm critical thinking and logic. None of us ever has the full picture, And the lack of experience and knowledge can shape what we notice and accept.

These are not character flaws and don’t work very well in terms of individual character arcs. But they can be used for heightening conflict and attention. They can make challenges more difficult. In some stories, like To Kill a Mockingbird, they can present social issues in powerful ways. And all of them can be used by antagonists to make the protagonist more miserable. And writers can take advantage of these to make readers and audiences worry more. In fact, it’s usually easy to make this more acute by increasing the gap between the antagonist and the protagonist. Notch up a villain’s power in terms of influence, knowledge, social standing, wealth, alliances, physical ability, and intelligence, and his or her threat to the main character grows stronger. Which may not be great news for the hero or heroine (or us in real life), but it’s wonderful for the writer.

Mastering the Story Scene

 A good scene is one of the beauties of great fiction. Ideally, it pulls readers in with a hook (which can be a soft hook, based on what came before). The protagonist’s purpose is clear. There’s hope and disaster with escalating jeopardy throughout. And, at the ending, there is a clear indication of how the purpose pursued turned out. (Usually, not well.)

In other words, a good scene is a good story, all by itself.

When a scene opens, it could be a continuation of what happened before (particularly if there was a cliffhanger), but it’s more likely to be occurring  in a different place at a different time. And who is present matters, too. If it becomes unintentionally confusing to a reader, it’s likely they are disoriented.

This is all essential information, but it tends to drag the story down if it is pure narration. This can be dodged if an arresting image (a prison wall, the Emerald City) or action (plane crash, kiss) is used to carry valuable orienting information. Poetic language and quotes can also be used to make the information more palatable (less easily in the 21st century than it was in the more patient 19th century).

The most common and one of the best ways to orient a reader or an audience is through the eyes of a character (especially the protagonist). Whatever the character notices, responds to emotionally, and sees as important becomes valuable to the reader. So, adding humanity to the job of specifying time and place makes the information difficult to skip by or ignore.

Mastery of Story Scene 1: Orient the reader as efficiently as possible.
Practice: Find a way to get the point of view character emotionally involved in the setting. Looking for danger. Being flooded with memories. Feeling awe at the beauty of a palace. Setting a scene outdoors can make this exercise easier because most of us have a relationship with Nature. If the main character pauses to enjoy the setting of the sun behind snow capped mountains, a lot of orientation is done. If the hero slows his pace as he steps off the path to enter a dark forest and listens to catch the growls of predators over the pounding of his heart, the reader is there with him, and not skipping ahead. 

Why are we here? Obviously, so the protagonist can achieve the story’s overall goal. (If the antagonist is the point of view character, it’s his or her goal, probably to foil the protagonist.) But the specific scene has a specific task that contributes to the overall goal. Readers have to know: 

• what the task is,
• what success would look like,
• what the obstacles are,
• what the current risks and consequences of failure might be, and
• what the price of achieving (or failing) the task is expected to be.

My favorite example is the Cliffs of Insanity scene in The Princess Bride. Vizinni and his gang have the goal of leaving their pursuer (Westley) behind. The task is climbing the Cliffs. Vizzini imagines Wesley losing time finding a port, ensuring an escape (and using the Princess to achieve their major goal, starting a war). No such luck. He follows them up the cliff. Westley could catch up and stop them. Fezzik is berated and directly threatened with losing his job. But there is more than a hint that Westley might be personally, physically dangerous to all of them (except the Princess) because he seems to be a force of nature.

So, Vizinni’s almost-monologue narrates the need for success and the consequences. Also, Vizzini shows his desperation with the tone of his remarks and the speed with which he cuts the rope (beginning even before Fezzik is safely off the cliff face). The visuals of the Cliffs and Westley pursuing and gaining on them shows the obstacles and implies risks (failing, being slain, falling). The presence of the Princess is a reminder of the larger goal.

Of course, a real dialogue can occur (including warnings and premature fantasies about success). Things can be set up in a previous scene. (“Tomorrow, we rob the bank.” The next scene begins with the banker opening the door.) Reactions of multiple characters (usually with differences) can be good indicators. (“This will be easy.” His partner frowns.) Irony can be used. Think of the ending of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid where they have no idea that they are up against, not a posse, but an army.

Mastery of Story Scene 2: Make it clear why this scene matters.
Practice: Find three scenes you love. See when and how that task is presented. (It may be that part of this was presented at the end of the previous scene. If all your chosen scenes use the same devices, try to find a scene that uses a different approach.

To begin to develop your skill, write the beginning of a scene from your story in at least two different ways that communicate the purpose of the scene within the larger context.

Since you know the purpose of a scene in terms of information presented and how things will end up plot-wise, it’s easy to get that down and feel like the job is done. No. Not true. A joke fails if the punchline is revealed before the end. Scenes need to be journeys, not destinations. The pacing matters. The energy matters. The moments matter. The tension matters.

Fundamentally, a scene is built up of beats (even in prose, where a scene and sequel structure may be used). The meaning of beat has been blurred and used for a variety of purposes, but I find it useful in this context to refer to power shifts. Throughout a scene, there are points where power moves from one character to another or the powerful person becomes relatively more powerful.

Imagine a fight. The hero gets clocked and staggers backward (opponent has more power). But when the opponent charges, the hero slips to the side and trips him so he’s flat on the ground (hero has more power). As the hero goes to finish him off, the opponent pulls a knife and slashes his Achilles tendon (opponent has more power. When the hero falls, the opponent slides over and holds his blade against the hero’s neck (opponent has even more power).

Of course, a battle does not need to be physical. And it need not involve intrinsically bad things happening. Humiliation, threats, and dark revelations can shift power, but so can bribes and flattery. Even advice and warnings can shift power, with Iago’s lie-filled counsel to Othello being a horrifying example.

A good rule of thumb is to have three to five beats in a scene. Too few can make a scene feel trivial or incomplete (recognizing having things unresolved may be good at times). Too many can make it feel redundant or static.

While beats are the primary means for managing the energy in a scene, there can be more than power shifts. The reader can be brought in personally (and not just exploiting empathy with a character) through raising questions and exciting curiosity. The main character may reveal a secret that explains and even twists what came earlier (Vader: “No, I am your father.”)
 

Set pieces, like car chases, may intrude (real risks to managing energy). Comic relief may interrupt tension, allowing for greater emotional impact in what follows. French scenes, where another character enters, can dramatically shift some elements or everything about a scene. Or they can add excruciating delays as when one character asks a vital question and someone who can’t or shouldn’t hear the answer breaks in. And we wait.
 

Generally, a scene grows in intensity by escalating in terms of risk or what’s at stake. I always end up shifting scenes in a story to avoid plateauing, but it’s sometimes necessary for me to stack beats so they escalate.

Most scenes begin with a hook (or an answer to a previous scene) and end with a cliffhanger (to keep the reader or audience engaged and eager for the next scene. These may modulate the energy of the scene or reach past the single scene to shape tension of the larger work. Story logic reflects the larger work as well, but the scene beats can’t violate that. One thing leads to another.

Mastery of Story Scene 3: Manage the energy of the scene.
Practice: Explore scenes in stories you love and identify the beats (power shifts). Note your emotional response to each beat. Do the beats escalate? Are they interrupted by comic relief, set pieces, or French scenes? Do the beats in the scenes you love or your favorite genre come at predictable intervals? Now see if you can find beats in a scene you’ve written and use what you’ve learned to better manage the energy.

Scenes require so much to be successful, that a good test, during revision, is seeing what parts fail to do more than one thing. Dialogue with subtext reveals the on-the-face concern while indicating the real concern inside. Exposition in dialogue is used to battle an opponent. (As Robert McKee says, exposition as ammunition.) A character handing over the map to the expedition’s leader may do so eagerly or with great reluctance.

Readers and audiences can absorb more than they’re given credit for. In addition to doing more than one thing at a time, there may be opportunities to skip moments, condense, and direct focus. Don’t strive to reflect reality as it is. Make choices. Degas said, “Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.”

Note: The more challenging the scene is for readers and audiences, the greater the likelihood of confusion. Write complex scenes with confidence anyway. Begin by trusting the audience and yourself. Clarity is king, but it’s much easier to add clarity than it is to make a scene more elegant.

Mastering Dialogue

People quote dialogue from movies and TV shows. People race through or skip description and narration to get to the dialogue in novels and short stories. Great stage monologues capture us and standup comedians, especially those who are storytellers, live or die (mostly) by words alone.

Characters speaking are stand-ins for real people — the writers and the readers. We want to listen to them, but the bar is set high. Characters who do not reveal themselves through their words. We may identify with them for traumas suffered or though familiar situations, of course. But usually, we know about these events because of the answers they give — like Clarice in Silence of the Lambs telling Dr. Lecter about the lambs. We may enjoy a characters sense of humor, but — with the exception of silent films — that usually comes across through wit or goofy remarks.

Sometimes  characters start yacking at me before I have a story for them. For most, I just write and they become themselves about ten pages into the introduction. But for a significant number, I get to know them well enough so they speak in their own voices and (usually) interrupt my daily life because I dedicate some time to interviewing them.

I plan the interview strategy (sometimes having the antagonist or best friend ask the question instead of me, sometimes getting the character drunk first, sometimes pulling them aside after a key scene), and I ask rude questions, intended to reveal what I need to know to create a good story. I want to hear the truth, but, from the point of view of hearing their voices, lying is fine.  

Some writers achieve the same thing by working from familiar models (people they know or celebrities). Other can make the jump from character work, listing everything from backstories to physical characteristics to social standing. There is no wrong way.

The advantages of locking in voices (of at least the main characters) is that it makes for clarity (no who said what problems), it adds interest (variation), and it naturally restricts what issues characters talk about and how they present them. A lot of getting the voices right comes with rewriting. Anything that sounds off stands out. Since there’s a real temptation to put words in their mouths to do the work of a scene (and it’s fine to do this in a draft), having voice as a way to spot where dialogue is off is a real benefit.

Most of all, when the voice fits the character, the character comes to life in a special way and becomes more memorable. Whether the character is as familiar as a neighbor or as mysterious as an alien, the right voice can create a connection, engage empathy, and make concern about the character stronger.

Mastery of Dialogue 1: Give each character a distinctive voice.
Practice: The process of created a distinctive voice is alluded to above. Interviews, character sketches, listening, and modeling after real people are all valid approaches. But before getting to work on the voice, it’s good to get a broader perspective of voice in fiction.

A great starting point is to turn to the work of a writer whose voice captures you every time. See if you can list some of the reasons why the character voice comes across so well. Sometimes writers take a short cut with a catch phrase or an accent.

That’s fine, especially with minor characters, but look for cases where a character explains him or herself — particularly if values are cited. (Often this happens when either a past trauma is mentioned or another character is confused or concerned about a decision.) Then see if this pivotal moment of dialogue is reflected in dialogue elsewhere in the story. In may even be possible to see dialogue in a new light after learning about what a character values.

Finally, writing dialogue and letting the characters talk builds the capability. It’s easier to work with characters who differ in age, social standing, education, etc., but the best writers can take peers with similar backgrounds and differentiate them. It’s likely that your first drafts won’t measure up. I believe revision is the critical step where most voices become true to themselves.

People often don’t say, directly, what they mean. There is a classic bit in Annie Hall that provides a great example. Annie and Alvy have a conversation on an early date, mostly about intellectual issues. But, underneath, the titles show what the thoughts, concerns, and intents were something else.

Most often dialogues are power duels conducted with words. But, as in real life, quoted words can lead to consequences or reflect badly on who speaks them. So the points are made indirectly, by implication, and by illusions. The classic subtext line is “Nice restaurant you have here. It would be a shame if something happened to it.” A gentler form of this, and my favorite, is from The Princess Bride. Instead of saying “I love you,” Wesley (and later the Grandfather) says, “As you wish.”

Writing guru Robert McKee has said one test for subtext is, can the actor interpret the lines? If it can’t be acted, it’s on the nose. And that means an opportunity has been missed to reveal more of the character and engage audiences in filling in the blanks.   

Mastery of Dialogue 2: Find ways to say the most important things indirectly.
Practice: Chances are your favorite dialogue scenes use subtext. There are many of these to study. You may even have some of these committed to memory. It’s helpful to write out the lines to make their intentions explicit. (Going further, it’s interesting to discern why the truth is veiled and see what the approach chosen says about the character.)

The more difficult exercise is to go through your own work and see where opportunities for subtext have not been taken advantage of. And to see how they might be revise. As a half-step, look at a peer’s work and see if you can find opportunities. Personally, I became more sensitive to subtext and where it belongs through critiquing the work of peers. If you have the chance to do that, I recommend it as part of your education as a writer.

The best advice I ever got on writing dialogue was include only what you’d want to eavesdrop on. The duel, mentioned above, grabs my interest. I don’t mean fighting. Many times, people in real-life conflict engage in bickering. They repeat their points. Things plateau. Power does not shift. And the other person often does not listen and respond. In the best of circumstances, there is escalation. More is at risk. Consequences go up. And the end of the dialogue leaves increases power for one of those conversing or moves the power from one to the other.

Shifts in power intrigue. Bickering is boring. No one wants to be around bickering.

Eloquence, even poetry, also gets people to lean in. some of this was covered in the last post. Dialogue, especially because it’s valued, is a wonderful place to take advantage of the music and lyrics of great lines. Wonderful monologues, if not overdone, can enhance the storytelling and the reader/audience experience. Often, the best character to give a monologue is the major character who has said the least in the story to that point because that will be the character people most want to learn about.

Mastery of Dialogue 3: Make the words engaging.
Practice: One of the best pieces of advice I was given was to put three to five beats in a scene. It took me awhile to understand that meant power shifts in most cases. Since every scene should have a purpose, usually tied to what the character wants. Now often, the beats are physical (as with a fist fight). But they can be purely verbal, with threats, revelations, offers, trades, promises, and more being used for one person to persuade the other. Identify the power changes (one getting more or a shift to the other). Then see if they can become more consequential each time.

Oh, and generally, you want your character to end up in worse shape after this duel. Either losing, or coming to realize a new, worse challenge is on the horizon.

Dialogue is a big issue. This post is not comprehensive. My hope is that is suggests ways to understand and improve key approaches. In practice, I find dialogue can be improved in many ways just by editing out lines that aren’t needed (hello, goodbye), removing explanations no one would make (“as you know…”), and cutting back on exposition that exists for readers, but don’t fit the character situations. The suggestions here are about going beyond these shabby practices and making a story’s dialogue more powerful.