When I story-tell well, a reader will come to inhabit a
character, seeing and feeling as the character does—identifying. This is a good
thing because, as discussed in a previous post, if a reader cares about what
happens to a character, they are compelled to read more (as long as interesting
things happen, of course). This includes agents and acquisition editors.
For this writer, to generate narrative that draws a reader into a character I have to go there first, although it’s not easy for me to do. During the first draft I tend to be a camera recording what happens. True, a great deal of character is revealed by action and dialogue—but that’s because action and dialogue derive from what’s happening inside the character (at least it does in the good stuff).
To get at that, I have to shoehorn myself into a character’s head to truly “see” so actions and reactions correspond to that reality. I first learned to apply this technique when I needed to introduce a new character and setting in my current novel-in-progress.
Going into that scene, all I knew was plot material: the character’s name and role as an antagonist, but not much more about him; and that he was inside a vehicle in which he traveled and lived. I knew the outside of the vehicle was wooden, and that he was in a forest preserve outside of Chicago in wintertime. That was about it.
When I inserted myself into my character’s head and looked around, the first thing that I discovered was that the vehicle interior was paneled with oak, and that Oriental rugs covered the floor. Why? Because that's the way this character would want his living space—rich and opulent. As I looked more closely, I saw that the oak paneling bore carved scenes from the history of the character's people. And that led me to how to describe the setting and character in ways that helped the reader feel something.
Drago slides a curtain aside and peers out his quarterdeck cabin porthole at barren trees and snow-covered forest floor. He would rather be far to the south, basking in the sun like two thirds of his clan, not skulking in a forest preserve on the outskirts of Chicago. But his task demands access to university research libraries, so there is little choice. It has been worth it, though; he is near a solution, he feels it. Perhaps this day.
Within view are the tall, curved hulls of three of his clan’s twelve galleons, those willing to stay with him rather than cruise south for the winter. Sixteenth-century Spanish ships gone badly astray, their glossy wooden flanks are a warm contrast to the dull, gray-brown bark of the trees that surround the snow-bound meadow. Like the legs of a daddy longlegs spider, long supports angle out from lower decks to hold them upright while their keels rest on the forest floor.
Drago shivers and closes the curtain against the draft. Warm light from kerosene lamps gives the impression of comfort but, despite woolen oriental carpets insulating the hardwood floor and the heavy oaken planks that panel the walls, the cabin is unpleasantly chilly.
He applies his palm to a wall panel to test its coldness. A master craftsman has carved each with a scene from elven history. Drago traces his favorite with his fingertips, a portrait of his direct ancestor, Merlin, deep in conversation with King Arthur. The artist portrayed Merlin as tall and lean, with a handsome beard that reaches his chest. Drago sometimes wishes he looked like that instead of sporting the short, balding, plump appearance he associates with a ruddy-cheeked butcher in a small-town grocery store. He suspects, though, that the real Merlin looked much like he does, and the majesty portrayed on the panel is no more than imagination at work.
The one thing he has in common with the carving is a full moustache, still dark brown, as is what remains of his hair. He strokes his moustache, wishing he had found his key to renewal before he had reached his thirties and his scalp had become a pink dome rising above a low hedge of hair, as barren as a mountain’s snowcap above its forests.
Drago shakes his head; Merlin’s was one of many brave but hopeless attempts to guide people to a rational civilization. Merlin’s blood runs true, though; Drago is close to creating his own cure for a sick world, if he can just breach the last barrier...a shiver again shakes him. He looks wistfully at the cast-iron stove in the corner. He longs for a fire, but a column of smoke couldn’t be hidden, and the danger of discovery is too great this deep into a city, all acrawl with people like maggots on a carcass.
None of this detail and cognition existed before I started to write the scene from within the character’s head (some has been added in subsequent polishing, but the meat of this is what came to me then). This character has become very human, with strong desires and a wistful wish that he still had his hair.
I believe that, from this point on, the reader will want to know more about what happens to Drago. I plan to create within the reader empathy for him even though he does nasty things. A tough task, but I think it’s possible if I can get the reader to inhabit Drago and view the world as he does.
Inhabit your characters so I can too.
For what it’s worth.