Tag Archives: Character

Sufferings and Joys

by Andrew | 2 Comments

Today’s the day that the days get longer than the nights, and the sun is shining, and my hyacinths are smelling sweetly, and it’s time to sow seeds, and all over social media people are celebrating the joys of spring.

But – and I don’t want to spoil the party – for some reason lately I can’t get away from the idea of suffering. Maybe it’s taking a meditation course, where we’re paying attention to such things. Or maybe it’s hearing yet another story of someone’s sickness, or reading another story about war. Or maybe I’ve just become a winter person. But just because the sun is shining a little longer today, it doesn’t mean suffering is going away. The cycle is just turning.

Also, I’ve come to feel suffering is probably a more substantial and authentic driver for story than conflict. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: conflict is a primary engine in certain sorts of stories (war stories, crime stories, etc.). And it probably features somewhere in most stories in some fashion or other. But conflict feels overemphasised as the core principle of stories, and especially in cookie-cutter creative writing classes. No wonder there’s so much conflict in the world! And no wonder so much writing feels a bit formulaic. Let’s defer to St Ursula (again):

Conflict is one kind of behavior. There are others, equally important in any human life, such as relating, finding, losing, bearing, discovering, parting, changing. Change is the universal aspect of all these sources of story. Story is something moving, something happening, something or somebody changing’
– Ursula K. Le Guin, Steering the Craft

So how does change take shape in our stories? Experiencing change – or impermanence – is, after all, one of those facts of life that Buddhist teachings say we can’t avoid, and change usually leads to joys as well as suffering, major and minor.

Buddhist teachings also acknowledge suffering as a basic fact of existence; sometimes the idea is translated in a less catastrophic and more everyday fashion as dissatisfaction.

Much suffering is attributed to three ‘root poisons’: hatred, greed, and ignorance. So if we want to avoid suffering for ourselves and others, how might we reduce their presence in our lives?

And to prove I’m not a complete misery-guts, let’s note that these afflictions also have opposite virtues identified as the ‘beneficial roots’ of joy: love, generosity, and understanding. By contrast, how might we nurture these qualities?

Because my default mode is to think about writing and stories, I began to consider the ways in which these descriptions of suffering offer story arcs for our characters, and used these for writing experiments in the masterclass on Character earlier this month.

So for hatred and its related qualities:

  • How might anger feature in the lives of characters?
  • How might they have been pushed away or rejected?
  • And what might they themselves push away or feel aversion towards?
  • What might they be running away from?
  • How might they be driven by fear?
  • How might self-loathing, shame or guilt drive their actions?
  • What pain have they experienced?
  • What wounds do they carry, and how might they have injured others?

And thinking about the opposite quality of love:

  • Where does their open-heartedness begin?
  • And where might it be challenged?
  • What acts of kindness do they perform?
  • And what sort of benevolence has been shown towards them?
  • How might they show compassion in relieving the suffering of others?
  • And how might compassion be shown towards them at times of need?
  • How do they show love to others, and how do others share love with them?

Thinking about the root poison of greed:

  • How might your characters be defined by attachment?
  • What are their desires, and how do they shape their stories?
  • And how are they affected by the desires of other people?
  • What do they crave or grab or grasp for?
  • And what do they cling on to?
  • And thinking about attachment in a more positive way: what might characters in fact gain from holding on to, or committing to?
  • It occurs to me that too often in less successful stories characters’ commitments or desires don’t really feel earned: so: how do characters earn whatever they gain or lose?

And by contrast, exploring the idea of nonattachment:

  • What is the role of generosity in their stories: what are they given, and what do they give to others?
  • What freedom might they enjoy in letting go or giving things away?
  • What sacrifices have they made in the past, and might they have to make in the future?

And to consider the root poison of ignorance:

  • How are your characters’ lives numbed out by what they don’t know?
  • How do misunderstandings cloud their relationships and experiences of the world?
  • How might your characters be deluded, or held back by illusions?
  • How might indifference or inertia shape their lives?
  • How might their stories be driven by doubt or uncertainty?
  • What foolish decisions do they make?

And on the flip side of understanding:

  • What might characters gain from knowing?
  • How might their stories be informed by their increased awareness of the world around them?
  • What do they come to appreciate?

I recently realised that hope doesn’t really feature in these reckonings of suffering! Which begs the questions:

  • What is the role of hope in the story?
  • And also its opposite: despair? Which can be crippling?

This gives me food for thought – about happy endings, which might be hoped for, but which in stories can so often feel trite: unearned or lazy, or simply not set up adequately. In fact, might the clinging and illusory aspects of hope stand in the way of characters seeing the simple joys in the world around them? And the happy ending is already here, and a character finally sees this.

‘There’s no place like home,’ says Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, whose journey takes her from doubt and ignorance to understanding and appreciation. It turns out her suffering and joy are actually bound up together in the same place – they just needed some unravelling and a bit of growing up, which of course required those adventures with the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion.

I don’t know that it’s necessary to use all of these frameworks: in fact, that might get overly complicated! But these are ideas that might help in developing clear narrative arcs or resolutions for what might at times be subtle storylines. The move from hatred to love, from attachment to freedom, from illusion to understanding: these are journeys that touch on all the big themes and deepen characterisation, and properly explored can bring depth to characterisation and storytelling. You could explore some of these questions in the manner of the notebook practice of Field Work or filling out a Character Questionnaire.

And a final question: how about doing a loving-kindness meditation for your characters: May you be free of suffering. What would that involve?

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My next masterclasses are on: Setting and Situation on 8 April, Story and Plot on 13 May, and Form and Structure on 10 June.

And I’ve blogged about suffering before in another context: Suffering for Your Art, aka Pull Yourself Together.

I Want (A Dyke For President)

by Andrew | 4 Comments

 

The idea of want crops up so often as a basic driver of stories – in defining a character’s motivations or yearnings, or in getting down to basics in a memoir.

I often suggest that wants have an inner dimension, which can be broad and abstract (love; a place to call home), but that they work best if also grounded in tangible and specific objects of desire that are located externally in our material world (two old shirts; a little ranch, or maybe a trip to Mexico).

I also relate the idea of want to the idea of intention. When working with writers, I often start by asking them what they intend their writing to do, and direct them to discussion of the subject in Susan Bell’s The Artful Edit (a book I recommend to all writers). Among other things, she asks simply: ‘Why do you want this piece of writing to live? Your intention lies in how you answer.’

We can take the ideas of want and intention further, into the idea of manifesting. I am thinking of the creative desires expressed in Octavia Butler’s notebooks. So bold, so powerful – and eventually so prophetic!

I’m also thinking about Bernardine Evaristo’s memoir Manifesto. Which I’ve yet to read – only just out. The idea of the manifesto is such a good way of making your wants real in the world. I’ve posted a writing experiment about this in the past: Write! A Manifesto.

The text that excites me most when I think of want in writing is Zoe Leonard’s I Want A President. Leonard was inspired to write this poem when her friend the poet Eileen Myles ran for president of the US in 1992, as discussed in this video. I always think of its title as I Want A Dyke For President, because: yes, so do I, and ALL of the rest of that fierce and brilliant poem too.

Oh! It’s so good and so powerful. The power of the simple repetitions, the power of the simple syntax of Subject-Verb-Object, the stark imagery of nouns, the simple expression of want. Also, the clever variations – the patterning, the emphasis created, the reinscribing effect of the repeated want. And of course its content – its transgressions and taboos and what it reclaims, its urge for social justice. And its eternal truths: those last lines speak to us even more strongly thirty years later. Above you can see it displayed as a huge poster on the Highline in New York during the 2016 presidential election season (though a lot of good it did then! Which does beg questions … Another time).

Perhaps more than anything the power of this piece lies in its VOICE: strong, direct, uncluttered. Back in the olden days, at a Fire workshop with Words Away, we had great fun with theatre maker Kate Beales running us through drama studio exercises in which we acted this poem out in different styles and voices. Modestly, sarcastically, quizzically – defiantly, fists in the air, we all cried out in unison: I WANT A DYKE FOR PRESIDENT! What a rush that gave us – what a charge.

So: as a writing experiment, let’s charge ourselves up by writing about our own wants.

* First read I Want A President to yourself. Here is another version. You might want to print it out – such a fantastic document to hold in your hands.

* Then: read it aloud to yourself. Try it in a few different styles – timidly, boldly, with curiosity, with rage, with love.

* After reading it, watch performers who’ve interpreted it too, e.g., Mykki Blanco, activists in Washington, Zoe Leonard herself.

* Now, right away, write for ten minutes using the prompt I want. Maybe write about who YOU want for President (or Prime Minister). Or write more freely, seeing what arises for your wants. When you stop writing about one want, carry on writing about a new one. Harness those desires, and let your voice ring.

* You could adapt this for other wants. What you want your book to do. What you want as a writer, professional wants, personal wants.

*  You can use I want within a programme of fieldwork for a larger work too, also exploring, e.g., what characters Can and Can’t do, what they Must and Mustn’t do, and what they Remember. Writing in their first-person voices, or adapting for third-person He/She/They. Or even try second-person you: you want. How might your characters’ wants conflict with each other to create drama? It works for fiction, and it works for real-life stories too.

* And try reading your pieces to friends/family/colleagues – it is a good one to share for its directed energy, even if it’s just as a voice note in a message. Get them to join in too! This is a fun and powerful form for writing.

 

Must and Mustn’t

by Andrew | Leave a comment

 

Once you’ve established what your characters Can and Can’t do, you can make things more interesting by feeling your way through what they must or mustn’t do. This might even be the starting point for a character.

Personal obligations and legal boundaries that define what we must or mustn’t do introduce constraints and possibilities to our stories. Duties observed – or disregarded? Promises kept – or broken? Laws respected – or disobeyed?

The Oxford comma, telling instead of showing, misgendered pronouns. Thou shall not kill, wearing white shoes after Labor Day, making an illegal crossing into another country. Rituals, niceties, taboos, transgressions: what we must or mustn’t do brings energy and thrills to plotting in fiction, layering in complexities, seeding conflict, and launching change in the world. It can also draw out the urgent matter if we are writing about real-life experiences.

As a writing experiment: For ten minutes, and following the list format of I Remember or I Can, use I Must as a prompt for a character or for your own personal experiences.

For another write, use I Mustn’t for that character or yourself.

Another variation: using the list format, alternate I Must with I Mustn’t sentence by sentence (or paragraph by paragraph).

Use these prompts for different characters in your story. You might also want to play around with tense forms and perspectives, e.g., I had to, He had to, She had to, They had to.

Do your prompted writes in ten-minute sprints, without stopping, feeling the energy as it travels from gut to heart to shoulder down your arm to your hand and on to the page. Each Must or Mustn’t is as long as it has to be: a couple of lines, a few words, a whole paragraph. And when that’s done, on to the next Must/Mustn’t. Let the pressure of timed writing force stuff out of you.

You can also use these prompts for brief free writes if you get stuck at any time in your writing. A ten-minute dash of mustn’ting might free something up for your work. As fieldwork for a novel or short story, you could work with these prompts for a set of different characters across the course of a week – you could also apply this to different players in a memoir or a real-life story.

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In other news: I’m reorganising and refocusing my work and also space online. Welcome to the Andrew Wille Writing Studio!

I like the word studio, because I feel writing is a studio practice that gains from trying things out. I also feel that writing belongs as much to the art school as it does within the English department – if not moreso.

More to come, but for now I’m concentrating on: launching a few Zoom classes (coming later in the autumn); developing structured mentoring programmes tailored to writers’ needs; and building online community on Instagram, where I shall be posting tips, guidance, news, and reviews.

I’ve also added a page with a few testimonials from people I’ve worked with: Endorsements.

See you on Instagram, I hope! It’s where one of my better selves resides.

Can and Can’t

by Andrew | 1 Comment

I often suggest that writers who are looking for fresh perspectives on their manuscripts take a bit of time away from their drafts and instead devote a little energy to some writing on the side: the same characters and settings and concerns, but approached in new ways.

Something that can be useful is a block of time devoted to I Remember exercises for different characters, using their voices or points of view. Stick with one character for a whole week, perhaps, adapting the prompt every day, e.g., I Remember School, She Remembers Her Mother.

I also suggest variations on this form of the list. A good One is I Can … or I Can’t …

Can: to be able, to have power to, to know. In this case, the simple verb form stresses a character’s powers – or limits. What strengths and talents or knowledge is the character endowed with, and what might that lead to? Or what is a character unable to do, and what are the consequences of that?

The cumulative energy of this form of writing, gathered at a pace in list form, sometimes like a chant, often taps into the unconscious mind and draws out powerful material. What surfaces is often surprising, or reaches whatever’s important quickly. It’s not always/often writing that goes directly into the project word for word, but it can help with focus, and also energise your writing with purpose when it is flagging.

As a writing experiment: For ten minutes a day for a week, use the prompt I Can for characters in your book. The following week, use I Can’t for the same characters. You can also try this as a one-off, when you get stuck.

Try the prompts as ten-minute sprints of free writing, without stopping, preferably writing pen to paper, connecting hand and shoulder and brain and heart and gut. Each Can is as long as it has to be: a couple of lines, a few words, a whole paragraph. And when that’s done, on to the next Can. Quick, quick – keep the pen moving, don’t stop; it’s just for ten minutes. Often some really juicy stuff comes around minute eight or nine – to be continued … Write for longer, if you wish.

And above: cookbooks, because I can cook. Sometimes I can follow a recipe, and sometimes I can’t. And sometimes I am successful, and sometimes I am not, and sometimes it’s related to being able to follow that recipe. But other times I can trust my instinct to, e.g., add add a pear but also less milk to pistachio-oat pancakes, and judging by this morning’s efforts I can safely say that trusting your own ability is a good thing to do.

I Never …

by Andrew | Leave a comment

As a writing experiment, use the prompt I never … to write a list-based piece exploring the inner and outer lives for a main character, starting every sentence with the phrase I never. Write for ten minutes, making this a free write, keeping the pen moving and seeing what comes up; if you find yourself halting or drying up, just write I never … again and let a fresh association surface for your character. Try to include specific and concrete references: project inner feelings on to physical objects, introduce particular settings, make detailed references to other characters, create complications.

I do recommend writing by hand for that organic connection between pen and paper and body and soul. But too sometimes a keyboard works better for some writers – comes naturally. And sometimes we get cramps in our hands, or our writing is slower than our thoughts – though too there’s no harm in slowing down occasionally. Explore, perhaps, and do whatever works for you.

In this instance, think about the choice of the word never, which is often used in contexts related to regret or loss or lack or failings or yearnings on the part of character: super plot drivers. You could even make the nevers a list of blatant denials (lies). What surfaces often goes to the heart of your character’s plottings.

Also: the list form has distinctive effects.

It comes easy, and has a cadence and a rhythm.

It enjoys the simple forward-moving power of the right-branching syntax of everyday speech; variations in the patterning of the sentence can add emphasis and curiosity.

The repetition has a powerful insistence that digs deep into your character’s basic drives, subconsciously drawing on instinct instead of depending on overly thought-out writing.

The list is a straightforward form to write, too – once you run out of something to say about a particular never, you can start a new sentence and find something else. Lean into the scaffolding you have created.

I have posted elsewhere about the particular charge of the list as a form: Variations on the Form of I Remember.

You can also use similar power prompts such as

  • I remember …
  • I don’t remember …
  • I want …
  • I don’t want …
  • I know …
  • I must …
  • I should …
  • I need …
  • I will …
  • I can …
  • If I …
  • When I …

Some of them (I never, I don’t remember, I don’t want) have a tendency of drawing on darker material – what Natalie Goldberg might says ‘pulls in the shadow’, which as Natalie says can be the real ‘juice’ in writing.

Repeat variations of this exercise for your character on different occasions. Maybe try these for ten minutes every day for a week. Let this character’s urges and insistences inhabit you for the whole week. Then, making this a practice, in following weeks repeat these exercises for other characters. See what surfaces. Then take this material into your story.

You could also do simply for yourself as personal writing that might – or might not – feed another creative project.

This is a useful exercise to carry out as part of your planning or alongside your drafting, or perhaps if you are getting stuck in your writing. It’s helpful with plotting – I used this in a couple of plotting workshops for The Literary Consultancy this week. Such simple prompts can really help with the sorts of primal work that writing often needs, that digging for fossils that Stephen King describes in On Writing.

I also think about Anna Burns talking about her instinctive writing process and discussing it in this interview.

And another powerful use of the list structure is Zoe Leonard’s remarkable I Want A President, which I used recently in a Finding Your Fire workshop for tapping into and expressing our intention in writing. Note the effects of repetition and variation – the emphasis, the accumulations; the POWER.

I always love to hear about those ways into writing that come natural, come easy (well, I should qualify that: we do have to do the work of showing up, which isn’t always easy). Prompts such as these often raise things that nudge our characters into the sorts of situations that make for good plots.

Meanwhile, on an entirely other note: pictures of tulips, above, as it’s already time to think about which ones to order for delivery in the autumn … I think that is Ballerina with, I think, Queen of the Night?