What Your Characters Want

You're safe. No Spice Girls references ahead.

Instead of feeling like I had found a golden ticket when I ran across this gem at Script about creating characters that actors will want to play, a writing fog lifted and I realized that this was something I already knew, something I had heard before, and something that shines a harsh light on the wrinkles in my writing complexion.

I hate wrinkles.

The Script article challenges writers to know their characters beyond the adjectives we use to describe them and suggests that characteristics do not define character because characters are, themselves, an action verb. While the analogy doesn't work for me (adjectives describe nouns, not verbs), the point being made does. Characters are not a handful of descriptions.  Those are characteristics. Who characters are is demonstrated by what they want more than anything --- at that particular moment.

In this Wordplay column, Situation-Based Writing, Terry Rossio explains it this way, "Circumstances come from the world and impose onto characters from the outside, so to speak. Character wants come from inside the characters and push out at the world." He also says that once you know a character's "want", the situation exists. Be sure you read the entire column because he first discusses creating situations and how situation relates to character by being (1) immediate - somebody wants something or will be forced to want something right now and (2) imperative - somebody wants something badly.

Unknown Screenwriter once advised me to know the basic wants of each character before I ever put my fingers on the keyboard so their behavior in their circumstances will be consistent and logical, regardless of the situation. See what he did there? He, too, tied situation to character.

Our screenplays should reveal character by the characters' pursuits of what they want. In this way, there is no need to ever create a scene for the sole purpose of establishing character. Furthermore, in every single scene, somebody should want something.

So I ask you --  do you know in every scene what every character wants?

Reading through my Nicholl submission (just a few more days before the deadline), I am not only looking for typographical errors but I am also checking each scene to see if I've made it clear to the audience what my characters want. I know what my characters want but will a reader?

I hate wrinkles.

Make me! Make me! Make me!

You can't make me. Ever say that as a kid? Well, I'm saying it as an adult. You can't make me. Or maybe you can. Can you?

This is one of the most difficult posts I've ever written. I'm typing on a computer the size of a mousepad and while the keyboard is about 90% the size of a regular keyboard, it gives the illusion that it's about 50%. Don't care. I want 100%.

Hence I'm already cranky as I begin my rant.

Maybe the most efficient way to illustrate my recent film pet peeves is to go to the mattresses where my oldest son engages in performance wrestling and regularly endures some of the worst story weaving imaginable. The offenses go like this:

• Too much too soon.
• Vague conflict.
• Same ol' thing again and again.
• Shouting instead of drama.
• One dimensional characters.

Obviously, through the course of a 15 minute match, we're not going to see three acts, character arcs, and plot resolution because these storylines drag on week after week. I get that and in some venues where my son wrestles, it actually works. But most places? Yikes.

The difference lies in the person who controls the storylines. Does that person consciously or instinctively understand how to make the audience take a ride?

Performance wrestling should be more like Tom and Jerry. These guys beat each other up every episode but each ride is unique. Characters are clearly defined and periodically arc. Then the Indian givers take back their arcs and it works. They make us love them.

Now. On to film.

My boys and I recently saw a much anticipated new release. My wrestler son is the quickest to point out bad exposition, cliche lines, and inconsistency. For this particular film, he simply barked in his soft voice that carries a big stick, "This sucks." Basically, the film did everything he was accustomed to enduring in poorly written matches.

• Too much too soon - The protagonist's pain is over-sold and his heroism is nothing to cheer about. Why? Because it's way too early for me to empathize. Don't rush me. Even a roller coaster gives you a few seconds to anticipate a fall. Make me realize I'm ON a roller coaster before throwing me off of it.
• Vague conflict - Don't assume the audience gets it. Don't. I may not have read the book or seen the headlines the story was ripped from or ever been to other installments of the same series. Whatever. Don't expect me to get it. Make me get it.
• Same thing - Picture the last time you saw a person running in the woods and she falls down. Big fake deal. Now the murderer is closer. Now she has a twisted ankle. Yeah. It's the same ol' thing. There was a time when it increased the tension. No more. Make me feel the tension. Scare me. Thrill me. Anger me. Whatever. But don't use the same ol' devices.
• Shouting is not drama - Making your character yell is not the same thing as giving him something to say. He can yell and say nothing. Or, he can yell and say something. Or, he can just say something without yelling. It's not the yelling. It's the line behind it. Make me hear the line behind it.
• One dimensional characters - Here's your hero. Now love him. Here's your villain. Now hate him. Really? Is that how it works? MAKE me.

So that's that. Make me. Make me love your character. Make me hate your villain. Make me understand the conflict. Make me feel the tension. Make me listen to the lines. Make me!

My original plan was to purposely fill this post with ridiculous typos and then explain my easy bake oven computer to illustrate that I needed to MAKE YOU understand what was going on - not just expect you to assume from the beginning that there was a logical reason for all the typos. Most readers would ditch this post, though, after the first paragraph and I had to make you read it.

My boys and I didn't ditch the movie. We stuck it out even after my son said "who wrote this crap, I want to punch him in the face," and I had to remind him that he wasn't inside the ropes. We stayed. But we didn't stay because the film made us want to stay. The ticket prices kept us from walking out, not the film.

Turning Up The Heat

That blog title could refer to the stinkin' freezing temps that forced me to bring my son's equally stinkin' Corgi in the house overnight, but no. It means cranking up the pressure on our protagonists and making their conflicts, challenges, defeats, and victories more effective.

A friend of mine gave me permission to refer to his screenplay in vague terms for the purpose of this post. He liked my comments and said I should share my diagnosis with posterity. Yeah, okay. I'll give it a shot but I'm no expert.

Here's the deal. He has a good story that would, if I were the protagonist, be full of adventure, angst, and nail biting scenarios. I'm a wimp. So, if I were living out the story, the drama and uncertainty would be intense and the viewer would be doubting that my chubby legs (I've been working to shrink them for over a year now) could actually sprint across that wobbly rope bridge, much less stay on a horse or leap from a moving train. The threat of my sudden demise would be real.

But I'm not in the story. His character is. And, that character is more than qualified to run across a wobbly bridge, stay on a horse, and leap from a train.

Instead of helping the story, the character's invincibility hurts it. There's no tension. No fear. No anxiety. We know from the beginning that this character is a conqueror and the sky is the limit.

No fun. He can't fail. We need the threat of failure.

What to do.

The way I see it, this writer has a few options and this works for all genres, not just action films. This writer must find a way to turn the heat up on his character. That means either finding his character's Achilles tendon and exploiting it, amping up the challenges to fit the character, or making the character more vulnerable and human so the challenges feel greater and the viewer can relate to them. Or, all of the above. We need to know the character can fail at something.

Find his weakness. Turn up the pressure. Make him human.

John McClane (Diehard) could swing from a skyscraper on a fire hose. He's invincible. How the heck do we turn up the heat on a guy like that? Find his weakness. It's his wife and kids. Put the pressure on him. He's already fighting international terrorists so make him do something more personal like save his wife and hundreds of people from an exploding building. Then make him human so the viewer can relate to him. Let him walk barefoot through broken glass. We can all squirm in our shoes watching his feet bleed.

Indiana Jones is one of the most vulnerable action heroes ever written. That's why we love him. We love that he's terrified of snakes - weakness. We love that he's an ordinary professor saving humanity from a cursed Ark - pressure. And, we love that he's intimidated by his father but fearless in the face of Nazis - human.

Find his weakness. Turn up the pressure. Make him human.

One. Two. Three. Simple to diagnose. Much harder to go back and rewrite. Good luck, writer friend. You'll get there.

Suspension of Disbelief

One of the very few negative comments I've heard (and read) about The Dark Knight is that it stretched the suspension of disbelief just a little too far. This puzzles me. Batman is a comic book. That's what comic books do. Suspend disbelief.

So, I pose this question - how far is too far? Where is the line? Is the line Stretch Armstrong far for animated films and slashers but only to the edge of your elbow for every other genre?

Perhaps it's an occupational hazard that screenwriters must analyze everything we watch, but really, this comment about the suspension of disbelief has never made sense to me - ever - because it's one of those things that writers control by the reality they establish in the story. As a screenwriter, I decide what the reality of my story is. You don't get to choose reality. I do.

What I really think is that when people talk about stretching the suspension of disbelief too far, they're really saying one two things: either the reality of the story doesn't sustain certain story elements which means somebody didn't do their job well enough OR a circumstance in the story would never happen in real life which is just plain silly.

• The reality of the story doesn't support certain elements of the story. That doesn't mean the film suspended disbelief too far. It means the film didn't clearly establish its reality. It's still a development flaw but from the ground up. We wouldn't expect to see a duck lay golden eggs in a film like Liar Liar but we have no trouble believing that a little boy can make a birthday wish that supernaturally comes true. Why is that? Because the film firmly establishes the whimsical reality that the protagonist lives in.


• That would never happen in real life. Of course, it wouldn't. We go to films to escape real life. I've never seen a single person laugh hysterically in the cemetery after burying a daughter but that's my favorite scene in Steel Magnolias. I doubt many people could get away with stealing their dead father from a hospital but Little Miss Sunshine pulled it off.

There may be a third possibility here, too. Maybe a role was miscast. The actor or actress gave a performance that was too subtle, too over the top, or they just didn't get their character at all and that weakened the credibility of the suspect story element.

Asking an audience to suspend disbelief is kind of what we're all about, isn't it? You've heard what I have to say so now I ask you -- how far is too far?

What Does Your Audience Want?

Do you know what your reader expects from you when he picks up your screenplay? Can you be unpredictable without being erratic? Can you be erratic without seeming accidental? Screenwriting lessons come from the most unlikely places. The latest? Don't laugh. Wrestling. Go right ahead and roll your eyes but there are real and effective object lessons in our everyday lives. All we have to do is watch audiences, not just in movie theatres, but wherever we go.

From east Texas to west, my camera and I follow my oldest boy every week as he pursues his dream to beat people up for a living. I marvel as men envy and women worship my baby dumpling. They reach out to touch him, scream in rapt pleasure when he brushes by, ask for his autograph, and beg him to pose for photos. All the while, I remember how fearless he was as a toddler only until there was a cricket in his shoe or a lizard in the bathtub. It's the same time-in-a-tornado mixture of pride and post adolescent nostalgia all parents endure as they realize their children no longer are.

This MAN's goal (yes, he is indeed a man and I choke as I say it) is to one day join the likes of Steve Austin, the Rock, and a bunch of other WWE'r's whose names I don't find interesting enough to bother recalling. I loathe wrestling. But, it's my son's dream, not mine, and he's doing an impressive job of chasing it down. No stage parent help. All I did was pay for his first gym membership eight years ago.

So what is this Odyssey of his teaching me about screenwriting?

Sure, the success of these wrestling extravaganzas which take place in only the finest warehouses, abandoned retail districts and ag barns across Texas are also dependent on clever marketing (bright colored poster board) but once the butts are in the seats and the cracks are sufficiently exposed, it's much like any other live entertainment. If the audience is bored, they don't come back.

In stage plays, the story and characters are the same performance after performance. No so in this combative form of entertainment. The dramatic storylines evolve week after week much like in a soap opera. The execution of that drama is in the form of drop kicks, body slams, and moves with all kinds of masculine catch phrases which, again, I don't bother to remember.

The circuits where the drama works well are the ones with clearly defined characters - good, bad, ambiguous - it doesn't matter as long as it's clear which ones are good, bad, and ambiguous. These people want you to paint it on their foreheads-- cheer for this guy, boo that one, and beware of Frank Poncherello. We don't know what's up with him. Having done that, it's easy to shock them later with a transformation or character flip.

The organizations that don't execute the drama very well are the ones that make audiences figure out things for themselves or they flip their characters from hero to heel and then hero again too fast and too soon. They can't decide on the dramatization or they perform inconsistent dramatizations. These shows are so unpredictable that shock value is diminished (non-existent) and audiences are forced to learn everything anew every single week. You can take Popeye's spinach away and cut Samson's hair but the audience won't give a rip unless they've come to appreciate the full import of spinach and hair.

What does your audience want?

The wrestling audience wants the adrenaline that comes from being surprised, enraged, enraptured, sympathetic, and horrified. They want to feel every human emotion you can possibly cram into one evening of leotards, speedos, and men dressed as Power Rangers. Any Sybil-like herky jerky characterizations leave audiences unsatisfied and their seats empty the next week.

Last night, my boy worked the opening of a new "arena". Aside from the giant dead fish on the gravel parking lot and the lady breast feeding on the front bleacher, it was an okay place. This audience had never seen any of the wrestlers before. Event runners did a brilliant job of guiding the audience and introducing the good, the bad, and the "oh my gosh, when did Ringo Starr start professional wrestling?". They didn't make the audience figure it out for themselves and they understood that dramatization and characterization are critical in this performance sport. Even if they didn't KNOW that's what they understood, that's what they understood.

Okay, so what have I learned about screenwriting and what do I hope to share with you from all this?

1. Know your audience. You probably don't write for a wrestling audience but your audience has specific needs. Those who know their audience are working it. Those who don't are sinking.



2. Clearly define your characters. If you don't, nobody will appreciate it when characters change.



3. Story elements must be well established before they change. Otherwise, who cares?



4. Dramatization must be consistent. Don't drop a storyline without resolving it first. The audience will hold it against you.



5. Chase your dream. People who think it's silly probably don't have a dream of their own. All progress is good. Kiss your mother. She's your biggest fan even when she's not.



6. If you need bizarre characters for your screenplay, attend a wrestling match and watch the audience. Bring tissue. There's probably no toilet paper or paper towels in the bathroom. Flick cayenne pepper at that brat who keeps kicking you and he'll spend the night rinsing his eyes out in the bathroom with no paper towels. Make sure you pee first.

Writing the Ethical Dilemma

“Based on a true story that was based on a lie.” I haven’t seen Resurrecting the Champ so I don't know if it delivers the ethical dilemma it promises but that one line sums up a quagmire of conscience better than any eleven words I could pound out. It's a great line. First it's white ( based on a true story) and then it's black (based on a lie). But from what I've read, the story is supposed to be about shades of gray.

Shades of gray. We amateurs often have a hard time writing convincing moral and ethical dilemmas. The situations feel pale and the stakes unrealistic. The problem? Shades of gray. There's more than one shade of gray in our ethical crayon boxes but many of us new writers use only one shade so our dilemmas are unconvincing, stagnant or downright boring. Dilemmas need hues, tints, and contrast. They're multi-dimensional and there's always more than one perspective or version even if there's seemingly only one solution.

Issues of the conscience are inherently difficult to film because they occur in the heart and soul and mind. This flies in the face of the "films are visual so action is king" rule. You can't film thoughts (unless you get Tom Hanks in the starring role) so you need action to demonstrate a story and portray character. But action is not THE dilemma. We only use action scenes to set up, carry along, demonstrate, complicate, and perpetuate the dilemma.

A note of caution about using gray crayons. Remember how my grandmother used to say that you only show a man a little ankle? While we need to demonstrate the dilemma to the audience VERY CLEARLY, we don't need to give them every nuance and possible retribution of the dilemma. We must give the audience room to feel for themselves. Give them enough information to empathize with the character, feel his dilemma, and feel the full impact of the weight of the situation but there must be some "what if" that the audience can fill in with their personal feelings or knowledge or experience to make it more meaningful for them. I'll come back to this in a minute.

What kinds of ethical dilemmas are we talking about? Let's take lying for example. Everyone has had experience with liars. Liars are occur when three things happen:

1. a person knows that a fact or circumstance is false, illegal, wrong, or a risk to somebody



2. that person represents the circumstance as truth, legal, right, or safe



3. that person allows others to believe the misrepresented information

Ta da! Introducing one of the most frequently confronted ethical issues in the corporate and personal lives of people today. A liar.

This may seem overly simplistic and not enough to build a story around (Liar, Liar anyone?) but remember that the cheese doesn't usually stand alone. When you've got an ethical dilemma going on in a film, there's more to the story. Somebody has a career in trouble, a strained relationship, a broken down business, etc. But let's put it to the test in a business situation.

The fact is that every business environment eventually develops a system of morality and ethics acceptable within itself that may or may not differ from societal standards and that three step "liar litmus test" would fail in many corporate "greater good" scenarios. Not only that, it would be okay! What the??

Basically, the ends justify the means in business. Businesses exist for the end, not the means so if the means are not hurting anyone in the short term and we're doing something beneficial for the corporation, a fudge on the rules (which we all know are bad anyway) or a lie here and there is only going to help our stockholders, readers, public, or whomever it is our corporation is held accountable to. Why not stretch the truth and bend the reality just a little for the benefit of the greater good? Guess what? You're a hero for it! Furthermore, anyone who would OPPOSE such a plan for the greater good is an enemy of the company. Hence the honest person becomes the villain and the liar becomes the savior.

How did I get all that out of a simple lie? Well, it's not just a lie. It's a moral dilemma if the character has a standard of right and wrong in his life and it's an ethical dilemma if the character has a standard of right and wrong in his business dealings.

The important thing is to make sure we identify what our characters' standards are. If we don't establish what a character's moral or ethical standards are in our stories, how can the reader understand the full impact of a dilemma on that character? In Chariots of Fire, a Christian athlete will not compromise his beliefs to achieve his goals. If that concept had not been clearly established in this film, the character could have easily been blurred into a zealous guy who just refused to run on Sunday.

Now, let's go back to what I said earlier about leaving room for the audience to feel something personal. Using Chariots of Fire as an example again, one of the brilliant things about this film is the wiggle room for people of other religions to relate to being asked to do something that contradicts a core belief or risk losing a once in a lifetime an opportunity.

But it's not just about religion. Economic, political, social, religious and cultural forces are competing in our lives and any combination of these forces may lead our characters to feel powerless to oppose them. Going along with group is troublesome. Speaking up may be even more troublesome. Yet, each person must face a mirror every day and weigh the cost to their own personal lives, professional lives, and personal values while balancing whatever their organizational obligations are. As writers, we've got to find a way to convey that feeling of powerlessness without weighing down our stories, robbing the scenes of their action, or turning our screenplays into 120 pages of preachy soliloquies.

By the way, whistleblowing is a cop-out answer. It may sound like the easy way to resolve your corporate issues but come on. If the corporate world was that elementary, somebody could have tattled on Enron from a bottom rung in the early stages, my uncle would have been spared about $4 million in retirement, and who knows how many lives would be changed. Whistleblowing is complex and comes with a set of retributions that may be worse than looking in the mirror and knowing that you're party to something dishonest. Keep that in mind before you make whistleblowing your silver bullet.

Remember, too, that more than one person may be struggling with the same dilemma or even opposite sides of the same ethical dilemma. There may not be a right and wrong. It may be a right and right or a wrong and wrong. Master and Commander uses a powerful "lesser of two evils" dilemma that affects every person on board the ship when Captain Aubrey has to let a sailor drown to keep the whole ship from going under. That's a very dark gray crayon. Time after time, the Captain makes decisions that are neither black nor white, but variations of gray as he breaks a promise to a friend to pursue a nemesis in service to the British Navy and then postpones that service by breaking off chase in order to save that same friend's life.

I'm curious to see whether the ethical dilemma in Resurrecting the Champ is "black and white", "shades of gray", or "one shade of gray". But I've heard the Creative Screenwriting podcast with co-writer Michael Bortman and director Rod Lurie so I'm looking forward to the film. But the podcast got me thinking about the vast array of crayons at our disposal to use in our ethical coloring books. Steel gray. Mousy gray. Iron gray. Pearl gray. There's no need to choose a single shade and stick with it.

Moviegoers aren't afraid to think. Let's give them a kaleidoscope.

Access Characters

First of all, who decided “abstruse” is even a word? Did somebody merge “abstract” with “obtuse” and then slip the editors at Websters a few hundred bucks to stick it in the dictionary?

I can make up words, too, ya’ know.

Stupidiotic.

How’s that?

Let’s go with it, shall we?

Some of my favorite characters in film are deceptively stupidiotic.

I’m talking about certain "access characters". For some reason, my favorite access characters are buffoons who save the day. Accidental heroes. But whether nincompoops or brainiacs, access characters exist to ask questions that we would ask if the film could talk back to us. These characters open doors, pry, call attention, snoop, interfere, assist, get in the way, and often launch the entire story. To the untrained eye, access characters often look superfluous when, in fact, they are essential to the story.

Access characters serve a function. They aren't a particular character role or personality type. They have a job to do and the writer decides where, when, and how well or poorly that job is performed. Access characters are facilitators of a sort. Conduits.

The R2D2 and C3PO droids in Star Wars are frequently compared to Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, or Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Star Wars doesn't work unless the droids are there to provide everyone access to the information about the princess in the first place and, ultimately, the death star plans. These characters are critical to the story and to the other characters. But they're critical to the viewer, too, because they also ask our questions.

C-3PO: Master Luke, sir. Pardon me for asking, but what should R2 and I do if we're discovered here?
Luke: Lock the door.
Han Solo: And hope they don't have blasters.
C-3PO: That isn't very reassuring.

They want to know what we want to know. What are they supposed to do being left behind like that?

Similarly, the Murtogg and Mullroy characters in the Pirates of the Caribbean films, while clown-like and bumbling, give us access to story information (history of the Black Pearl) and they ask the very questions, we're asking.

Murtogg: What we doin' 'ere?
Mullroy: The pirates come out, unprepared and unawares. We catch 'em in a crossfire... send 'em down to see Old Hob.
Murtogg: I know *why* we're here. I mean, why aren't we doin' what - what Mr. Sparrow said? With the cannons and all?
Norrington: Because it was Mr. Sparrow who said it.

But access characters don't necessarily come in pairs and they aren't always fools who accidentally save the day. Those just happen to be my favorite ones to watch.

I have a list of access characters that I had planned to discuss in this post - some more clever than others and some better executed than others - but to "get them" requires the reader to have seen the film and still retain substantial memory of the character.

Or, I would need to write a very long post.

Not gonna happen.

Instead, I challenge you to look for characters serving as conduits in the next few films you watch. What access are they providing between you and the story? Who would you compare them to? They can't all be Rosencrantz and Guildenstern so who are they? What investigating are they doing on your behalf and would the story work without them?

One last example and then you're on your own. This one is from National Treasure:

Powell: How do a bunch of people with hand tools build all this?
Ben Gates: The same way they built the pyramids and the Great Wall of China.
Riley Poole: Yeah. The aliens helped them.

Okay, maybe that one was too abstruse.

Better, Stronger, Faster

Why are there no reruns of the Six Million Dollar Man? "Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world's first bionic man. Steve Austin will be that man. Better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster."

That's my screenplay. I can rebuild it. I have the technology. I have the capability. It will be better, stronger, faster. But it's taking forever! And, while it may not cost six million dollars, rewriting this thing does feel like it's burned six million brain cells.

One day, this blog may chronicle the screenwriting journey and the learnings of a Nicholl Fellow or produced screenwriter. Or, it may remain what it is right now -- the blog of an, as yet, unproduced screenwriter. Notice I did not say unsuccessful? Whatever becomes of this blog, its present purpose is to help me become a more disciplined, and consequently, better writer. Maybe in the future, it will help somebody else become a better writer.

My season of rewrites began in December. I had barely thrown out the leftover turkey when I was already re-evaluating my outline with the full knowledge that an enormous amount of time and work on my part would be required if I wanted to get my Nicholl entry where it needed to be in order to advance further than last year.

Since then, I've taken a look at not only the old research I've done (the word "research" here equates to "junk I've written about screenwriting, much of which is filed for your convenience in the right hand navigation column of this blog") and a few other screenwriting subjects which pertain to my Nicholl entry including:

Pan Fried Characters
Sidekick Stories
Symbolism and Foreshadowing
Weak Verbs and Pansy Words
Contrived Conflict
What Closers Look For
Identifying Problems
Formulaic Writing
Screenwriting Structures
Identifying the Scene's Purpose
Using Reflection Scenes
Scene Consistency and Transition

To those of you who write positive replies to my posts and send me encouraging emails and to those of you who have helped me with my screenplay, I owe you -- lunch, a stripper, or a kidney. I don't which. We'll see where this screenwriting thing goes. Maybe I'll buy you all corvettes. Maybe you'll buy me one. Maybe we'll just get a beer.

That's good, too.

But it's not all good.

Somebody recently mentioned that I seem "obsessed" with the Nicholl Fellowship this year. I prefer words like "passionate" and "committed" and I regret that I didn't seem obsessed last year. Otherwise, I may have advanced further.

Another email said that I'm far too nice to ever make it in Hollywood. I need to curse and it's obvious I won't sleep around since I'm reluctant to move to California. Uh huh. Thank you for your candor. Your email address is now blocked.

One wet blanket emailer warned me that my chance of advancing in the Nicholl gets slimmer with each passing year as more and more wannabes flood the business. He went on to say that I'm in for a giant disappointment when I lose. First of all, you can't LOSE something you never had so it is impossible for me to LOSE the Nicholl Fellowship. Secondly, the passing of time seems to be increasing my chances of advancing since the number of entries has decreased over the past three years --

2004 – 6,073 entries
2005 – 5,879 entries
2006 – 4,899 entries

Don't mess with me, pal, because I've known since I was a nine year old girl pulling rate sheets in my mother's advertising office that you can manipulate numbers to say whatever you want them to say and in this case, I say they work in my favor!

Another charming and encouraging email said that my blog is just no fun to read anymore and has lost all its humor. What humor? Since when have I had humor? The sheep in my driveway were real, fella. Real sheep eating my geraniums. Oh, and the monkey in the pink dress really did jump on my windshield on the highway during rush hour traffic. These things happen from time to time. I think the peeping Teletubbies were hallucinations brought on by seizure reducing medication WHICH by the way also prevents migraine headaches so ask your doctor if this medication may be right for you. Certain side effects may occur.

But humor? I write drama, ya moron!

And, there goes my reputation for being nice.

Pan Fried Characters

Remember the anti-drug commercial that shows you an egg and says "This is your brain," and when the egg cracks open into a hot skillet, the voiceover says "This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?"

That's the mental image that kept coming to mind as I read through Unknown Screenwriter's posts about character depth. It was as if he held up an egg and said, "This is your character," and then dropped it into a scorching pan of scrutiny and said, "This is the depth of your character. Any questions?"

Oh yeah. I had questions. My yolk splattered everywhere.

Ouch.

Certainly, there is truth in the notion that writers can over-think individual aspects of their craft to the degree that spontaneity and creativity suffers, but character development is critical and SHOULD be overthought. Read these posts and remember the egg:

Depth Charging Your Characters
Depth Charging Your Characters Part 2
Depth Charging Clarifications

Any questions?

The Sidekick Story

Remember those brutal notes I wrote on the screenplay I reviewed the other day? Well, not only did the characters lack some very basic differences that would make the conflicts come naturally, but my sidekick had story problems.

Every character has a story. While the viewer may not need to know the whole story, the writer most certainly should. Since the sidekick is usually a sounding board or voice of reason for the protagonist and often helps shape a conclusion or define the theme or morality of the whole film, his back story is sometimes critical.

Common sidekick problems I've noticed in amateur screenplays:

• The sidekick is just there. No story at all.
• His back story conflicts with his character's behavior.
• His back story is a superfluous waste of time
• His back story is a poorly executed red herring
• We learn too much about his back story
• We don't learn enough about his back story
• His story is too big for the role he plays in the film

My story notes told the author that her sidekick had a back story that was bigger than his role in the film AND her sidekick was entirely too wimpy for the back story she'd given him. Double whammy. Something had to change. My opinion was that not only did her sidekick need to grow a pair, but she also needed to adjust his back story.

As usual, she took it well.

The trick is knowing how much back story is enough. Where's the balance? Well, that's like asking how long to cook a turkey. You need to know the oven size, altitude, turkey weight, and whether it's a standard, convection or microwave oven. Or, you just figure it out as you go. (yeah, I know, bad analogy)

The point is that if the sidekick is gonna be handing out advice and sewing a moral thread in the story, we need to know a little something about what he's basing his opinions on. Is he telling your protagonist that home is in the heart because he grew up in an orphanage or because he read it in a Hallmark card? Is he a minor sidekick with major consequences in the story or a major sidekick who is basically only there so the main character has something to throw humor at?

It matters. It's a balancing act.

The best comparison for my sidekick problem I can think of is Forrest Gump. Bubba Blue is a relatively minor character who leaves early in the film, but he's there long enough to make Forrest want to buy a shrimp boat. Why? Because Bubba knows shrimp. We know that Bubba knows shrimp and that's about all we really need to know about his background. Forrest and Bubba become fast friends and that's the rest of Forrest's motivation to begin the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company. But the beginning? It's because Bubba knows shrimp.

Now, back to me. What did the author decide to do with my brutal notes? Well, I set my ego aside and realized that my sidekick problem would be the equivalent of giving Bubba a huge overblown family history. So I'm working on a "fruit of the sea" type solution.

In case you don't know what a "fruit of the sea" solution is --

BUBBA: . . . shrimp is the fruit of the sea. You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, saute it. Dey's uh, shrimp-kabobs, shrimp creole, shrimp gumbo. Pan fried, deep fried, stir-fried. There's pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup, shrimp stew, shrimp salad, shrimp and potatoes, shrimp burger, shrimp sandwich. That- that's about it.

Yup, that's about it.

Contriving Conflict

Yesterday, I reviewed a screenplay that had problems. Overall the screenplay was decent, but some of the character conflicts felt contrived. The writer had gotten so wrapped up in the theme and execution of certain plot elements that she tried to re-invent the wheel and created more work for herself than was really necessary.

My notes were brutal. The characters lacked some very basic and inherent differences that would make the conflicts come naturally. Instead, those differences were built-in after the fact so the conflicts felt contrived. They felt contrived because they WERE contrived.

Stupid Example (because I'm too jacked up on black eyed peas to come up with a good one): Four people sit at a table and argue about what appetizers to order. Simple scene to stage if you already know who likes what. Difficult if you have to figure it all out at the table.

AA - Character one is allergic to shellfish and hates mushrooms
BB - Character two loves shellfish and loves mushrooms
AB - Character three hates shellfish and loves mushrooms
BA - Character four loves shellfish and is allergic to mushrooms

That same character grid creates natural conflicts over more relative character issues like love interests, career goals, sexual orientation, religion, politics, and child raising.

Oh, and the author took my notes very positively. After all, the screenplay was my 2006 Nicholl Fellowship application.

Repugnant Protagonists Part Two

My current writing project demands a grasp on how to engage the audience in a character who is less than noble. I touched on this briefly earlier this year, but hungered for a better understanding of how to write repugnant protagonists as compelling and sympathetic characters. This required studying films where the primary protagonist is a thief, scoundrel, murderer, or rogue.

What did I find out? You write sinners the same way you write saints.

Karl Iglesias did a series for Creative Screenwriting that broke character development into three elements and suggests that a writer must use a combination of these elements in order to craft ANY character that an audience will invest in.

Recognition - Understanding and Empathy
(1) We care about individuals we feel sorry for
(2) We care about individuals who display humanistic traits
(3) We care about individuals who have traits we all admire

Fascination - Interest and Intrigue
(1) We are interested in individuals who contradict themselves
(2) We are interested in individuals with internal conflicts

Mystery- Curiosity and Anticipation
(1) Plant unanswered questions about the past, present or future
(2) Create uncertainty about the past, present, or future
(3) Build anticipation about the future

Recognition, fascination, and mystery can invoke the same interest in villainous characters as laudable ones. The difference in not in the result but in the how you there. If we want to use recognition so our audience can identify with the character, we still need to get the audience to feel sorry for him, have him display some humanistic traits, or give him an admirable trait that the audience can hang their hat on. Throw in some fascination and mystery and you've got a compelling character. It's not harder, just different.

What I did notice, though, is that villainous primary protagonists fall into one of these categories. As usual, there may be more, but I've only identified these:

Hereditary bad guy - it runs in the family and he pretty much doesn't know any other way

Justifiable bad guy - he has a good reason for being bad like vindication or rescue

Misunderstood bad guy - he's not really bad, he just looks that way

Involuntary bad guy - he was forced into it, had no choice but to participate

Accidental bad guy - he didn't mean to enter into the lifestyle but is now trapped

Understandable bad guy - he had a choice but the viewer can easily understand why he took the less noble route

Lesser bad guy - our protag is the least bad of a whole community of bad guys

Loveable bad guy - yeah, he's unscrupulous and chooses to be that way but we don't really care

I wondered if Bourne Identify and The Long Kiss Goodnight might qualify as some kind of amnesiac bad guy, but they were bad in a former life, so they aren't villainous characters. Or, are they?

My favorite all time evil protagonist film -- Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? I'd say she's "involuntary" since she's mentally ill.

What have I missed? In your favorite film where the primary protagonist is villainous or dastardly, does he or she fit into one these categories or does the list need work?

You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore

Remember that thrill that fluttered up your chest when you made eye contact with your first love? Mine was a sports writer who sat two rows over in journalism class. He was an excellent golfer and reminded me of Bruce Jenner. This guy would occasionally hum "Rainy Days and Mondays" or "What the World Needs Now" and to this day, I think of him every time I hear the Carpenters or catch a whiff of rubber cement.

Hey, does anyone know if there is a connection between rubber cement and migraines?

Anyway, that amazing first love euphoria is the same for me in that moment, that very special film moment, when I get a glorious shot of cinematic adrenaline straight to the heart and realize that I care desperately about a character and what happens to him.

When I was a kid, mine was an easy heart to win. I was in love with Speed Racer. Shallow me. He drove a hot car. I also flirted with Batman's sidekick for awhile. Who didn't? But, hello! Robin didn't drive and let's face it, he wore pantyhose.

But the older I get, the more cautious I am with my cinematic affection. I'm a fan of very few. Yet, I can tell you the exact moment I fell in love with Indiana Jones. (now that I've had days to think about it with a damp rag over my eyes) It was in the first act. And, I know precisely when Egon Spengler won my heart. First act. Michael Dorsey? Sid, the Sloth? Captain Jack Sparrow? All in act one.

That's the way it's supposed to be, right? Don't writers craft characters to reel us into their stories just as soon as possible?

But something odd happened to me with Dead Man's Chest and please keep in mind that I love Dead Man's Chest. The first act came and went and there was no thrilling flutter. Jack Sparrow was hysterically funny to watch and of course, I still loved him in a "leftover from the last film" sort of way, but why didn't he thrill me anymore?

I've had waaaaaay too much time to think about this so feel free to stop reading right now, go get a beer, check the fridge, take a potty break, or just find another blog to read. Also, consider this your obligatory Dead Man's Chest spoiler alert.

Jack Sparrow, in the first Pirates of the Caribbean film, took smart action without thinking and had a cocky assurance of his own invincibility despite being a terrible escapist. Jack had a fearlessness about him that stemmed from believing that no matter what, things would ultimately go his way if he could just hang on long enough.

His believing it made us believe it, too.

The Jack Sparrow in Dead Man's Chest is a fraidy cat and never once says, "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow" as if uttering his name carried the same weight as that of the king himself. But in this second film, everyone already knows Jack and there are no strangers for him to announce his fame to. Jack's quiet and sneaky self assurance is gone and so is our confidence that if we hook up with him, no matter how weird it gets, ultimately everything will be all right.

But the moment DID come when I fell utterly and totally in love with Captain Jack Sparrow all over again. It wasn't in the first act or even the second, but at the end of the film! What is up with that?

Elizabeth has been dragged across the deck by a giant tentacle, lost her firearm, and is desperately trying to retrieve it so she can shoot the barrels of gunpowder and rum that Will is about to release from a net.

Will dangling. Net breaking. Squid attacking. Elizabeth failing. And suddenly, he appears --

There he is, Captain Jack Sparrow, shining like Apollo with the sun on his shoulder as if the heavens themselves opened up and placed him on the deck.

Flutter.

There his is, taking the same smart, quick action that made me love him in the first film when he dove from the Interceptor to save Elizabeth from drowning.

Flutter. Flutter.

There he is, saying nothing but announcing by his very presence, "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow" and assuring us that if we hook up with him (or cling to his leg as Elizabeth does) that no matter how weird it gets, ultimately everything will be all right.

Flutter. Flutter. Flutter.

But why didn't he flutter me in the first act? Or, did he?

Pirates of the Caribbean is a trilogy. The first act is Curse of the Black Pearl. The second act is Dead Man's Chest which sets up the impossible situation that Jack cannot be extricated from. At World's End will be the resolution.

Duh.

The more about screenwriting I learn and the more films I study (or evaluate in my imagination while heavily medicated), the more I know how very little I really understand about this craft.

Hey, did anyone else feel strangely empowered by the giant squid that looked like an enormous vagina with teeth?

Why Characters Say No

Ever had a comprehensive outline with fully developed characters but got halfway through the first draft and realized a character can't possibly perform the task you've assigned him? No? Lucky you.

Happens to me all the time.

Writing a reluctant character feels like I'm dragging my whimpering dog into the vet's office as he's bracing himself with his front paws. When that doesn't work, his last act of defiance (or sheer terror) is to defecate at my feet.

Nothing quite like realizing your words are no better than dog poop.

I don't know if this phenomenon is something unique to amateur writers, multi-taskers, or people with mild ADHD tendencies, but for me, it doesn't matter how well I outline, how thoroughly I research, or how detailed my character sketches are, most of my characters are never fully fleshed out until I start writing the first draft.

Why won't they just do what I tell them to do?

Characters aren't obedient creations that I can always manipulate and control. That sounds utterly ridiculous to me even as I type it. But my characters have instincts -- my instincts. They know when something doesn't feel right because somewhere in my gut, heart, or head, I'm telling them so.

Why won't that little girl use a public restroom? Why isn't that woman afraid of spiders? Why won't that man take off work and go play golf?

Somewhere during development of these characters, they've exhibited behavior that doesn't jive and even though I can't necessarily verbalize the reasons, I know what I want them to do won't work. It's not in their nature or it contradicts previous behavior in the story.

How do I know this if I don't know why I know it?

I know my characters for the same reason I know my kids -- not because I gave birth to them but because I'm a witness to their entire lives. My middle son, the distance runner, would no sooner get run down by bad guys than my youngest would if there was a nearby tree, pole, or wall he could scale. And the oldest? He wouldn't run from bad guys at all. He's training to be a professional wrestler so he'd just beat the crap out of them.

We writers know our characters better than we may consciously recognize and yet, we're still capable of writing accidental inconsistencies. But I can't knowingly fool my characters into doing something against their nature any more than I can fool my dog into going to the vet's office. Well, not without cleaning up poop.

How Many is Too Many?

I write screenplays with a lot of characters. Can't help it. It's a requirement of the story premise choices I make. I haven't figured out how to write an orphanage, City Hall, golf tournament or tribe of natives with only five characters. I'm sure it can be done and done well, but not by me.

The core of my stories does always involve only one to five primary characters but as yet, I haven't written a story where everyone outside of my circle of "agonists" are extras or prop people. What are prop people? A term I just made up (or maybe I only think I did) for cast members who amount to little more than a prop. Sure, I have some prop people, too, but there are usually several other minor characters who contribute to humor, exposition, etc. They are important.

So we have major characters, minor characters, extras and prop people (non speaking extras). Did I leave out any others?

Seven deadly sins of multiple characters:

(1) reader/audience confusion
(2) unnecessarily long screenplay
(3) spreads story too thin
(4) characters with overlapping purposes
(5) repetitive characteristics
(6) too much dialogue
(7) accidental side streets

Is that all of them? Well, what if you can write multiple characters without doing any of those things?

As a followup to How Good is Good?, I looked at some of my favorite screenplays to figure out just how many characters is too many.

Back to the Future managed a high school, small town, and senior prom while maintaining its focus on about five characters. There are a lot of extras and prop people. See? It CAN be done and done well. But is it the only way or even the best way?

Twelve Angry Men - Obviously, this wouldn't work with fewer than twelve characters and while there is only one primary protagonist, each member of the jury is a necessary part of the story. Are all characters equally weighted in importance? No. How many character conflict combination opportunities is that? I can't do the math. But it works.

Pirates of the Caribbean - This was a big cast with two pirate ships and a navy vessel to staff but the story is about three primary characters. Sure, you could ditch the governor, but why would you want to? And although Norrington & company aren't THE main characters, there wouldn't even be a story if Murtogg and Mullroy didn't pipe up at just the right time because of a chance meeting with Jack Sparrow. Lots of characters AND we even know their names. It works.

A League of Their Own - We know that we need at least nine characters to make a baseball team. The story centers on one player, her sister, and the coach, but not only do we know the names of each of the other seven players, but they each have a storyline to some degree. Shirley can't read. Betty loses her husband. Alice never washes her socks. Mae gets around and Evelyn is the launch for "There's no crying in baseball". It works.

So how many characters is too many? I'm thinking any character that commits one of those deadly sins is one character too many regardless of the number of characters in the story. But, don't take my word for it. This is an amateur hypothesis, not a professional conclusion.

Inconsistent Characters

Chris Soth referenced McKee in response to Fish With Feet and this prompted Sal (that voice of doubt/reason lurking in my psyche who periodically rears his imaginary head) to do some research on inconsistent characters.

Real people are inconsistent -- true. Can anyone forget that they are afraid of snakes, allergic to bee stings or over forty? I can't. However, inconsistent dialogue and behavior can be a good thing when --

Inconsistency is part of the character - and as long as it's clear that inconsistency is part of the character's composition. Don't have an animal rights demonstrator wear a fur coat and dismiss that as a quirk in her character without prior or followup justification. Maybe she's a flake and doesn't make the connection or she's a wannabe, poser, or apprentice activist.

Inconsistency is explained away later - the coat is a fake or she thinks it is or maybe it's a sentimental gift from a dead relative or she wears it out of revenge because rabid minks killed her poodle or she made it out of the beloved poodle when it died of rabies.

Inconsistency is used as a subtle reveal - maybe not every reader or viewer will catch it but later on, they can look back and say "ahhh, that should have clue'd me in".

Inconsistency is used an an obvious reveal - we need the audience to learn something before the other characters, the inconsistency triggers the big reveal or is the big reveal.

Inconsistency is a red herring - either on the part of a character or the writer.

Inconsistency is a deliberate unanswered question - In Pirates of the Caribbean, Mr. Gibbs curses pirates at the beginning of the film but ten years later is Jack Sparrow's go-to man to get a pirate crew. We're never told what makes Gibbs jump sides but we're given clues -- we know he has a drinking issue and doesn't appear to be overly fond of Norrington. But it works. Why? Because it's designed to.

Sometimes, inconsistency is not something the writer can control. Maybe the director or producer insists on changes during production and writer rebuttals are disregarded. All kinds of things happen once other people put their fingerprints on the script. But purposeful inconsistency can be a good thing.

So perhaps McKee is not opposed to orchestrated inconsistency and maybe, if we asked him, he'd object only to unintentional or sloppy inconsistencies.

Then again, I could be wrong. Sal just said that I'm not a day over thirty. And, am I really afraid of snakes?

Fish With Feet

Proofed my rough draft the other day and found something very disturbing -- fish with feet.

Many of us amateurs don't really understand when somebody says our characters aren't well defined. Our characters seem defined to us. We've transferred their attributes and flaws to paper. Therefore, they must be defined. Fatbottomed Fred is a male floozy and Penthouse Pamela is a self important jerk. See? They're defined.

There are countless varieties of floozy and jerk and there are countless ways to portray a floozy or jerk. The method we choose to demonstrate the floozie-ness or jerky-ness of our characters conjures up different mental images for different people. We have to define them more specifically than just calling them a jerk or floozy.

I DID define them specifically, you argue with your critique. Penthouse Pamela has road rage, cusses out waitresses, steals cookies from Girl Scouts, and pinches babies to make them cry. She's defined. She's a jerk. Fatbottomed Fred wears Daisy Dukes stuffed with Jimmy Deans. How much more defined can you get?

A couple of minutes ago, the title of this post planted a mental image in your head. Now, what kind of fish did you picture? Is it a catfish? A goldfish? A pirahna? Did I mean one fish? Two fish? Red fish? Blue fish?

"Jerk" is a very broad and subjective term. One person's jerk is another person's savior. Maybe that waitress needed a good scolding because she never washes her hands after her potty breaks and her supervisors' reprimands fall on deaf ears. And, do tight shorts and breakfast sausage really make a man a "floozy"? Maybe the sausage is an outward display of inward insecurity over being born with one testicle. The reader needs a little more than lumpy shorts to agree that Fred is a floozy.

No, says you, I didn't write them that way. Okay, then, show the reader how you wrote them. Don't give your character a lot of random bad behaviors just so you can say she's a jerk. Pick a specific kind of jerk and demonstrate that in your situational environment but don't stop the story by tossing in haphazard jerky behavior. Show the character as a jerk within the story taking place.

For example, maybe Penthouse Pamela is a jerk because she thinks her time is more valuable than anyone else's. That's a specific kind of jerk. She's a time hog. She hogs up your time for her benefit. Don't have her simply flip the bird at people on the highway because she's in a hurry. Even non-jerks have been known to do that. Instead, give her a combination of actions that individually might mean nothing, but combined demonstrate her wreckless disregard for other people's time and her own self importance. And yeah, maybe flipping people off is one of them. But maybe she also --

Skips appointments to shop for shoes

Makes her 11:00 a.m. appointment wait in the corridor until Noon with nothing to do but count ceiling tiles and the receptionist's assaults on the English language

Forgets people she put on hold but complains if she, herself is ever put on hold

Has a dummy in her passenger seat so she can drive in the HOV lane

Cuts in lines - grocery stores, banks, drive throughs, blood drives

Pays $35 for next day delivery when standard shipping would have been free

Cuts out of work early and leaves her secretary working late to finish a project

Doesn't cancel restaurant reservations

There was a time when I didn't see the fish with feet in my own drafts. So, while I'm disturbed that I have so much character defining still to do, at least I know my skills are improving when I look at my own words and the fish with feet jump out at me.

Guess that makes them flying fish.

Mysterious Characters

The most recent Creative Screenwriting magazine has the third and final part of Karl Iglesias' exploration of character development. Each of these three techniques is demonstrated in the articles by using a case study of As Good as it Gets. Read them.

PART ONE was on using empathy as a means of connecting the viewer to the character through recognition and identification. This was an easy no-brainer concept for me to grasp.

PART TWO was about creating fascination by using conflict and contradiction in characteristics. I never did figure out whether one of those conflicting characteristics has to be something that people recognize and "empathize" with. Thoughts?

PART THREE is about setting up questions to develop mystery.

Iglesias asserts that novice writers are more inclined to fill the reader with information than arouse their interest with questions about plot, character and opportunities for resolution that evoke curiosity and anticipation. Seriously. That's what he says. Arouse your reader!

* Mysterious Past - My grandmother once said about men that a little tease is more effective in the long run than a full reveal. Show a little flesh and a man will hang around to see what else you've got. Show it all and there's nothing new to see. No more secrets. Iglesias says that slowly revealing characters' backstories, skills, origins and secrets makes us hang around to see what else they've got. Clever granny.

*Mysterious Present - This is about creating mysterious behavior and reactions. Don't explain quirks and overreactions right away. I once dated a guy who shed a tear every time he put on his golf shoes. A tear! Why? It's just golf! What the heck is there to cry about before you even tee off? Were the shoes a gift from a beloved dead relative? Were they too tight? Did he steal them? I don't know. I don't even know why they need special shoes for golf. It's a glorified game of kick the can only they use a lumpy little ball instead of a can, a hole in the ground instead of a storm drain, and a skinny stick instead of their feet and it's no wonder. You can't run in those dorky shoes! I hate golf. But I kept tagging along with this guy and every time he donned those shoes, I watched to see if he'd cry -- he always did. That was twenty years ago but if he wanted to see me right this minute, I'd drop everything and say, "sure, lets get re-acquainted over a game of golf" and did I mention that I hate golf? I gotta find out what was up with those shoes!

*Mysterious Future - Create crossroads, dilemmas, excruciating choices and powerful predicaments that make us worry, guess, or wonder just which fork in the road a character will take. Would I cancel the golf game that might give me the answer to my twenty year old question about golf shoes if it conflicted with a Nicholl interview? Duh! See? No mystery. Very boring.

So, that's that. Karl Iglesias' three techniques for making character connections --

Recognition (empathy)
Fascination (conflict and contradiction)
Mystery (planting questions)

Oh, goodie. Mail truck. Gotta go see if my Golf Digest is here. Why am I reading Golf Digest if I hate golf, you ask? Well, that's a mystery. But look. Here's my ankle.

Character Motives

So to follow up my questions about "fascinating" characters which nobody attempted to answer, by the way, probably due to "fascination" with my photo which I've since removed in response to my irrational fear of stalkers and affinity for identifying with Underdog, I'm -- what? Where was I? Oh yeah, I'm now wondering what good a complex character is if we don't have the faintest idea about the character's motives. Isn't that something you learn the first day of screenwriting 1.01?

I read a script this weekend about a road trip. The characters were complex, although at times I believe vagueness was being used as a substitute for depth. Hate it when that happens. But the road trip was fun, the adventures were fun, the people the protag met were fun, and the whole thing was fun -- but pointless. I had no idea why the heck our educated white collar hero was on this trip scrimping for money, digging in trash cans, doing odd jobs and putting himself deliberately in harm's way. Did he crack at work? Was he nuts? Did he catch his wife in bed with another man? Was he a fugitive on the run or on hallucinative drugs? The question is never answered.

Perhaps "motive" is not one of those things that many readers need spelled out for them but I really need to know why a good looking educated guy is living a nomadic road life.

Fascinating Characters

Stole this pic from Snobsite. I love the Hollywood sign looming over the apartments like Zeus on Mount Olympus and how the sign is seemingly holding up a great blue sky the way Atlas, the Titan, held the pillars that separated the heavens from the earth. Okay, moving on --

In part two of Karl Iglesias' exploration of character development in Creative Screenwriting, he discusses "fascination" as a means of drawing an audience into the character. Last issue, he gave us some input on "recognition" or character empathy. Good stuff. But, as usual, I need clarification and, for some reason, Karl doesn't answer me when I talk to his picture in my magazine. How rude.

The basic crux of Karl's position is that fascinating characters are those that contrast or contradict themselves. Again, he uses the Melvin Udall character from As Good as It Gets as his example. Unlovable Melvin, who hates just about everybody, writes romance novels. That's his character contrast and what makes him fascinating. Okay, I'm clear on this. But the "unlovable" part is because Melvin is so compulsive, so disagreeable, so difficult for people to understand, and ultimately this makes him lonely. Melvin's character is "fascinating", but parts of his character are "recognizable" and inspire empathy. Karl's basic truths about characters we empathize are --

(1) We care about individuals we feel sorry for
(2) We care about individuals who display humanistic traits
(3) We care about individuals who have traits we admire

In order for a character to be "fascinating", does one of his conflicting characteristics have to be something that people recognize and empathize with? Melvin is certainly somebody we feel sorry for (number one) and he certainly displays humanistic traits (number two).

Parts of Melvin's character fall into the "feel sorry for" category and he displays "humanistic traits". Would the fascinating part of his character work without the empathy part? Can characters be fascinating if we don't identify with them at all? Does fascination stand alone or must it be paired with empathy?

Greek mythology has always held a fascination for me. While I can't possibly relate to being master of the universe like Zeus or goddess of love like Aphrodite (unless she was a short, demi-butterball with a Texas twang), I can certainly identify with the Greek gods' feelings of jealousy, pride, love, anger, and vengeance. Even mythological gods have characteristics people identify with. Goodness knows I pity poor Atlas who groaned at being used as a great packhorse for mankind. Wonder if that Hollywood sign groans under the weight of a similar burden?