An epic-fantasy computer game which The Missus and I play every now and then lets your character acquire any of a variety of cool, vaguely medieval-magic weapons. One property which some of these weapons have is called “vampiric regeneration”; while I’m hazy on the details, I think this means (for example) that if you shoot an opponent with an arrow of vampiric regeneration, his or her strength goes down and your own goes up.
Which, in a roundabout sort of way, is the theme of this post.
If you’re a writer, you’ve probably seen a bumper sticker or shirt which reads, “Careful, or you’ll end up in my novel.” Maybe somebody who worries about that prospect has given you one.
(And maybe you’ve repaid them by doing just that, you vindictive little sneak.)
I don’t know, though. Unless you’re doing non-fiction (or more or less non-fictional “memoir”), putting real people in your work not only risks getting first-hand lessons about libel or defamation; it also is just duller than making up your own characters.
Okay, at some level you can’t help “creating” characters who resemble real people — some (most?) of them people you don’t even know. Say you’re sitting in an airport bar, absolutely savoring the interminable freaking wait for your plane’s spare part to be FedExed from Bangalore and feeling murderous about the world in general. Suddenly on the other end of the bar some horse’s ass breaks into song and you realize: He’s singing along with the commercial jingle on the bar TV. At the top of his lungs. You notice that his hairline is receding almost to the point that it’s simpler to say his head is ballooning, and that he’s blinkingblinkingblinking the optical semaphore which says, repeatedly, New contact lenses at work. Mentally you turn back the clock to view this yoyo at age 16. You take pleasure in giving him some grotesque skin condition. You invent a bully who’s tormented him since first grade and is now the student-government president, assigning him menial tasks at pep rallies (like mopping up the gym floor after the sweating masses have left). You picture his first kiss, with the Homecoming Queen at that — or rather, with the Homecoming Queen’s yearbook picture.
Yeah. That’ll show him. That’ll teach him to have been interesting, here and now, to you, a writer armed with the deadliest of weapons: a vampiric imagination.
Not that I know anybody like that guy myself, of course. And if I did, not that I’d ever reward such a flaming idiot by committing his picture to the Web’s permanent page. No. (No.)
In general, as I said, it’s much more fun to simply make up characters out of (as the expression goes) whole cloth. There are limits; the English language has only so many adjectives to describe hair color, for instance. But when you say “Her hair was brown, cobwebbed with the gray of early middle age” that doesn’t mean you promise that such a woman, with such hair, does not exist. You’re not even promising that you’ve never met such a woman yourself.
No, you’re just playing around with words, within the limits of language, and you’re bound to use words which describe somebody, somewhere and at some point in time.
But one real person fascinates every writer, a real person whose very interestingness becomes at some point simply unbearable. You must put this person into a story, you realize. You can’t waste the opportunity.
You know who I mean, right?
Yeah. At some point, you yourself will probably show up in a story of yours — probably as a featured character, and probably as a writer.
This sort of story takes many forms. In the classic one, a teenager writes a story centered around the angst and/or anger of a young man (or woman) banging away at a computer keyboard or scratching the surface of a sheet of foolscap with a nearly dry fountain pen or quill. The protagonist is secluded in a barely furnished upper-floor room in some romantic and possibly tragic city. Paris, say. Vancouver. Birmingham, Alabama. Singapore. He or she — the character, like the character’s creator — dreams of his or her words going out into the world. Touching the heart of a reader. And suddenly the character bursts into song at the top of his lungs, a commerci—
No. Stop right there.
You know what I’m driving at: we fascinate ourselves. And almost nothing fascinates us about ourselves so much as the compulsion to write. Almost certainly, we sooner or later create a character who writes, too. And then the fun begins…
Because the created writer never writes well enough, correct? The created writer’s life will probably be glamorous or poor, tragic or comic, more noteworthy, in short, than the humdrum everyday life of the creating writer. But the latter always holds the trump card: the next key to be pressed on the keyboard or letter scratched out on the paper and, when all else just doesn’t work, the Backspace key. (Which is why fiction writers’ complaints about doctors playing God rings a little hollow.)
For good or ill, I wrote such a story myself some years back. As you’ll see from the excerpt, it begins with the “a writer intrudes on his fictional world” premise but then inverts it (in a way which others have done as well). Maybe, in reading it, you might wonder where the hall of mirrors stops — how much of the writer in this story is John? I’ll certainly never tell. I’ll just be sitting over in the corner, singing at the tops of my lungs…
Anyway, here’s the opening — 4,000 words or so — of “Ivories.” Enjoy!
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P.S. Belated tip o’ the hat to Kate Lord Brown, whose post yesterday must have lodged in my head even though I wasn’t explicitly thinking of it while writing this one.
marta says
I’m always in my blog–I don’t think I could stand myself in my fiction.
I’m working on my synopsis now (on a real hard part which is why I’m over here commenting) or I’d read and say more. But I’ll be back later to procrastinate more and then I’ll try to work how much of you I find left in the corner.
Eileen says
I haven’t read the opening, but regarding everything else you said: I find myself constantly in my fiction. Not as meta-fiction (writer writing about writer writing) but as the filler. Any time I have a “gap” in a character I plug myself in. It’s a dangerous trait because I make awkward and often not logical amalgams.
In non-fiction/memoir, it’s clearer for me. The “I” is me and everyone else is renamed, and mushed together unless they’re very very very important. Several people appear as the same “character” because the reader won’t tolerate on the page the same pantheon of friends, acquaintances, coworkers and assorted family members as they will gladly gossip about in real life.
Either way, it’s fun mushing people together like playdough.
Jules says
Ooh, thanks. Looking forward to reading that (when children aren’t jumping around me).
Yes, we do fascinate ourselves. There’s no more proof of that now than Facebook, right, with all those My Five Favorite Books/Shows/Etc. and the ever-popular (but waning?) 25-Things thing. Don’t all of us just love to take personality tests, too? Meyers-Brigg and such.
marta says
Not that it is good to be overly fascinated with oneself, but the flip of that is to be bored. And if you can’t find something interesting within you, why should anyone else?
And maybe facebook and the like is not just being fascinated–it’s being fascinated and needing to share.
John says
marta: But can you imagine writing a storyline in which a writer puts in an appearance? It needn’t even be you, as you — it’s hard to imagine the character’s nature (and work habits, etc.) not being informed by what you’ve gone through in writing.
(Good luck with the synopsis.)
Eileen: Using yourself as “filler” — bet that’s an experience familiar to a lot, I mean a lot of writers, writing about writers or not.
How do you feel about the notion of “composite [or representative] characters” in what is otherwise understood to be journalism? Haven’t heard much about it recently, but it used to be a controversial topic. I think a Washington Post reporter had won a Major Award (presumably not a giant leg lamp) for a series profiling the life of a drug addict, something like that, and it came out that there was no REAL person profiled — the addict was really (as you say) an amalgam, presumably reasonable, of several addicts the reported had followed and interviewed.
Jules: Personality tests. Meyers-Briggs and so on. (Thank you for not mentioning Facebook’s “Which Supreme Court justice are you?”-style quizzes.) You’re right: NO ONE would be nearly as interested in those things if they just told us about somebody else!
marta says
So far I’ve tried to avoid using a writer as a character–makes me feel too self-conscious. But I do like to write about artists, photographers, and dancers. They’re my writer-characters.
kelly says
This may very well be the damn most interesting post I have ever read on a blog.
Everyone jacks their family memebers, the guy with the thick black turtle-neck and dandruff trying too hard on a date at Starbucks of all places, their lovers, their exes, the neighbor who walks her dog with saggy panty-hose, into their stories. If forced everyone to shake out these stolen characters from their pockets, we would all be exposed.
The worst writing, and I see this a great deal on blogs, is when the writer writes themselves as fiction that has no capacity to reflect on real flaws.
John says
marta: Okay, I won’t press the point. :) (Well, except to say that I bet those artists, photographers, and dancers have more in common with you than you may intend!)
kelly: *blush*
With you on that last point. Actually, one of the most annoying traits I can think of in anybody, writer/blogger or otherwise, is self-unawareness. Leads to all kinds of trouble. (Although there’s such a thing as being TOO self-aware.)