Narration: |
And check out my novels and other writings here: |
ON THE ORIGIN OF CHARACTERS
An interesting question came to me in a conversation with a friend. That is, the conundrum of “Where do story characters come from?”
I say that it is interesting because I quite candidly don’t know the answer. The arrival of a character is almost as enigmatic as the character is themselves. Characters are, in a materialist’s opinion, figments of the imagination. They are merely creations of the engine of the mind put forth for the writer’s use in a story. But we know that’s not all there is to it, though the above opinion is partially correct, of course.
But it is not wholly correct.
Characters are human; they are just as human as you or I. They have personalities; they have quirks and nuances; they laugh, and they cry. And most human of all, they possess the most remarkable resilience.
But their origins are unknown. Perhaps they are mere figments, ghosts of the psyche that are conjured for the very purpose of slaving to a plot. Or maybe they are a stroke of providence, a unique piece of “somewhere else” (if you believe there is somewhere out there that one could consider “else”). Of course, both explanations seem fitting on a philosophical spectrum, I believe there is more to it than that, and my beliefs come from a particular part of my writing process.
I do not brainstorm characters. Honestly, I rarely research name meanings to fit a character’s personality. Though there is no correct way to make or name a character (just as there is no correct way to write a story), I personally believe this takes away the sense of organism that the character possesses in my mind.
So, what do I do when I need a new character, you might ask? Well, I’m a bit careless. I clear my mind and simply ask:
“What’s your name?”
I say that it is interesting because I quite candidly don’t know the answer. The arrival of a character is almost as enigmatic as the character is themselves. Characters are, in a materialist’s opinion, figments of the imagination. They are merely creations of the engine of the mind put forth for the writer’s use in a story. But we know that’s not all there is to it, though the above opinion is partially correct, of course.
But it is not wholly correct.
Characters are human; they are just as human as you or I. They have personalities; they have quirks and nuances; they laugh, and they cry. And most human of all, they possess the most remarkable resilience.
But their origins are unknown. Perhaps they are mere figments, ghosts of the psyche that are conjured for the very purpose of slaving to a plot. Or maybe they are a stroke of providence, a unique piece of “somewhere else” (if you believe there is somewhere out there that one could consider “else”). Of course, both explanations seem fitting on a philosophical spectrum, I believe there is more to it than that, and my beliefs come from a particular part of my writing process.
I do not brainstorm characters. Honestly, I rarely research name meanings to fit a character’s personality. Though there is no correct way to make or name a character (just as there is no correct way to write a story), I personally believe this takes away the sense of organism that the character possesses in my mind.
So, what do I do when I need a new character, you might ask? Well, I’m a bit careless. I clear my mind and simply ask:
“What’s your name?”
Photo by William F. Burk
It’s curious to me how I will always get an answer. Of course, I have planned characters, but most are happy surprises.
And because of this, I cannot say that they are mere figments for a story. Many of them don’t have a story yet. And as for providence, I don’t believe any of them are given to me.
No. Characters are something entirely other. Perhaps they are real? And I believe I love the mystery of it. They are blessings to the writer. They teach us; they surprise us; they show us the beauty in the world when they overcome
adversity. They are unique and wondrous little voices that speak to our hearts and minds…
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
And because of this, I cannot say that they are mere figments for a story. Many of them don’t have a story yet. And as for providence, I don’t believe any of them are given to me.
No. Characters are something entirely other. Perhaps they are real? And I believe I love the mystery of it. They are blessings to the writer. They teach us; they surprise us; they show us the beauty in the world when they overcome
adversity. They are unique and wondrous little voices that speak to our hearts and minds…
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Happy writing.
Thanks for reading! For more writings by me, visit the "My Writings" page!
If anything in your life is more important than writing—anything at all—you should walk away now while you still can. Forewarned is forearmed.
For those who cannot or will not walk away, you need only remember this.
Writing is life. Breathe deeply of it.
— Terry Brooks, “Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life
For those who cannot or will not walk away, you need only remember this.
Writing is life. Breathe deeply of it.
— Terry Brooks, “Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life
A friend disagreed with me once about the blessings of art in contrast to the curses of the artist. It is a fascinating subject indeed. And those who are not a slave to the muses have difficulty understanding the yoke the artist wears around their neck.
Art is the most beautiful burden, and that does not necessarily make it a bad thing.
In a conversation with my wonderful editor on if writing my second book will be easier than the first, I replied that, for a writer, ease is the enemy. Ease is the sign that you have stopped; ease is the sign that you have become comfortable with your writing ability, and that—well--that is a most dangerous position to be. If you ever believe that writing is “easy,” you must know that you are simply fooling yourself:
Danger! Danger! You must turn back!
Art is the most beautiful burden, and that does not necessarily make it a bad thing.
In a conversation with my wonderful editor on if writing my second book will be easier than the first, I replied that, for a writer, ease is the enemy. Ease is the sign that you have stopped; ease is the sign that you have become comfortable with your writing ability, and that—well--that is a most dangerous position to be. If you ever believe that writing is “easy,” you must know that you are simply fooling yourself:
Danger! Danger! You must turn back!
Side note: This is an amazing book. You should read it!
So how do these two topics amalgamate? How does the burden of writing keep us from the dangers of ease?
Burden is the sign of growth; hardship is the sign of progress. Triumph over burden means that your passion is true, and true passion is the crux of good Art.
So, let me broaden the words of the great master above me...
Burden is the sign of growth; hardship is the sign of progress. Triumph over burden means that your passion is true, and true passion is the crux of good Art.
So, let me broaden the words of the great master above me...
“[Art] is life. Breathe deeply of it.”
Enjoyed this post? Found it helpful? Leave me a comment! :)
And don't forget to check out my new dark fantasy novel: The Heart of Hearts! Now in ebook and print! |
"Carcass of a Star" is one of the first pieces I wrote when I began to seriously pursue writing as a lifelong endeavor. Since its conception in 2016, it has become one of my favorite works, and has even, to my surprise, won an award.
Anyways, enjoy. :)
Anyways, enjoy. :)
Carcass of a Star
Eli stood as he stared straight up into the night sky. He viewed a great beyond, dotted with subtle freckles of light here and there. Silence was the accompaniment of the occasion, and every now and again it seemed his mind could place patterns in the way the stars hung, creating the illusion that the vespers were connected by faint lines. He knew, however, this was merely his eyes playing tricks on him. The sky was a black canvas, and, the longer he looked, the deeper it appeared. He remembered his teachers in high school science class saying that some stars had died out millions of years ago and that the light we see in the sky simply hasn't reached Earth yet.
It was a melancholic moment; to think the brilliant light of a star could merely be the grandeur of a glory long gone.
Eli lowered his head.
It was a melancholic moment; to think the brilliant light of a star could merely be the grandeur of a glory long gone.
Eli lowered his head.
Photo by William F. Burk
He told himself he wouldn't think of her; he told himself he would forget. He would come outside, look at the stars—put it in “perspective.”
No.
It was futile.
Eli sighed deeply as he walked across the weathered boards of his back porch to the door. Locking the door behind him as he entered, he sunk into the recliner. The old cushions seemed to swallow him whole, casting him into an abyss shadowed by the darkness of the room around him. He had no words; loud emotion enveloped a silent man.
Turning on the TV was useless; he couldn't focus. He tried calling her. Once. Twice. Four times...
Nothing.
Even the stars live in the past, he thought to himself, remembering how close they were at one time. His stomach tore and writhed; her smile made him anxious. Her hazel eyes were akin to the stardust illuminated by a distant sun. She was a spectacle: a marvel that danced around him when they walked the historic district. Nothing about her was commonplace, but everything about her absence was. The days without her voice were deafening.
The air was stagnant.
Eli raised from the chair and walked down the hall. The scuffing of his feet made a scratching sound as the rubbed against the aged carpet. He changed into more comfortable clothes, then went to bed. Another day had gone; another day had been wasted. He lay for a while, then slumber took him. A chilly autumn night, once more: alone.
But even worse: once more, mundane.
No.
It was futile.
Eli sighed deeply as he walked across the weathered boards of his back porch to the door. Locking the door behind him as he entered, he sunk into the recliner. The old cushions seemed to swallow him whole, casting him into an abyss shadowed by the darkness of the room around him. He had no words; loud emotion enveloped a silent man.
Turning on the TV was useless; he couldn't focus. He tried calling her. Once. Twice. Four times...
Nothing.
Even the stars live in the past, he thought to himself, remembering how close they were at one time. His stomach tore and writhed; her smile made him anxious. Her hazel eyes were akin to the stardust illuminated by a distant sun. She was a spectacle: a marvel that danced around him when they walked the historic district. Nothing about her was commonplace, but everything about her absence was. The days without her voice were deafening.
The air was stagnant.
Eli raised from the chair and walked down the hall. The scuffing of his feet made a scratching sound as the rubbed against the aged carpet. He changed into more comfortable clothes, then went to bed. Another day had gone; another day had been wasted. He lay for a while, then slumber took him. A chilly autumn night, once more: alone.
But even worse: once more, mundane.
Like this story? Check out my other works! :) |
“In the cave you fear to enter lies the treasure that you seek.”
- Joseph Campbell
- Joseph Campbell
There is a deepness and unsung clarity to this quote. Over the past few weeks, I have been reading Joseph Campbell’s magnum opus, “The Hero With A Thousand Faces,” and it is odd just how much this single book has caused me to grow as a writer and overall as a storyteller.
I have always been a lover of stories; I have always believed in their power. They move us, teach us, and cause us to grow. Stories are inherently and inextricably human, and you probably couldn’t imagine your life without them.
So what makes a story “human”? And just what does it mean for a story to be “human”?
When you read a tale of heroism or extravagance, you might read this and think “How am I anything like this hero? They’re so larger than life!” And if I told you that these heroes are not so different from you or me, would you believe me? Would you believe me if I said that these heroes and heroines are all a part of the same archetype—the same human spirit and psyche?
I have always been a lover of stories; I have always believed in their power. They move us, teach us, and cause us to grow. Stories are inherently and inextricably human, and you probably couldn’t imagine your life without them.
So what makes a story “human”? And just what does it mean for a story to be “human”?
When you read a tale of heroism or extravagance, you might read this and think “How am I anything like this hero? They’re so larger than life!” And if I told you that these heroes are not so different from you or me, would you believe me? Would you believe me if I said that these heroes and heroines are all a part of the same archetype—the same human spirit and psyche?
Photo by William F. Burk
I must admit that, as a writer, I do.
Stories are things that have the power to transcend the contrived boundaries between humanity and yet, deep within them, they hold the keys to our very essence. All peoples, when moved by a tale, will weep at its beauty.
The above quote is a favorite of mine, simply because it captures the message of Campbell’s book so well, and I think it's so wise because often times we don't strive for the things we desire because we're afraid of failure. In a sense, our lives aren't so different from that of the hero who journeys into the cursed cave to find his sacred treasure. No. The heroes of myth and legend, in many ways, are not so different from us everyday people. While we will indeed never journey to obtain the Golden Fleece or wrestle the wild man Enkidu, we still have two things that the heroes of ancient tales possess: We have the fear of the unknown and the proclivity for courage.
Indeed the unknown faces us, its visage abysmal and grim. We know that our desires lie within, but darkness is daunting, isn’t it? But with only a little courage does the hero solve the riddle, escape the trap, slay the beast. When one’s virtue supersedes their self-preservation, that is true courage.
So, then, how are you like the heroes of ancient myth? Easily put, you are kin in that all humans struggle, and all humans possess desires, loves, romances. The heroes of ancient times may seem so alienated from the common day, but the truth is that they are not. The protagonists of these age old epics are merely hyperbolic archetypes of what it means to be human.
Go, bravely into the cave, for there is thunder within you.
Stories are things that have the power to transcend the contrived boundaries between humanity and yet, deep within them, they hold the keys to our very essence. All peoples, when moved by a tale, will weep at its beauty.
The above quote is a favorite of mine, simply because it captures the message of Campbell’s book so well, and I think it's so wise because often times we don't strive for the things we desire because we're afraid of failure. In a sense, our lives aren't so different from that of the hero who journeys into the cursed cave to find his sacred treasure. No. The heroes of myth and legend, in many ways, are not so different from us everyday people. While we will indeed never journey to obtain the Golden Fleece or wrestle the wild man Enkidu, we still have two things that the heroes of ancient tales possess: We have the fear of the unknown and the proclivity for courage.
Indeed the unknown faces us, its visage abysmal and grim. We know that our desires lie within, but darkness is daunting, isn’t it? But with only a little courage does the hero solve the riddle, escape the trap, slay the beast. When one’s virtue supersedes their self-preservation, that is true courage.
So, then, how are you like the heroes of ancient myth? Easily put, you are kin in that all humans struggle, and all humans possess desires, loves, romances. The heroes of ancient times may seem so alienated from the common day, but the truth is that they are not. The protagonists of these age old epics are merely hyperbolic archetypes of what it means to be human.
Go, bravely into the cave, for there is thunder within you.
Enjoyed this post? Sign-Up for my monthly newsletter for the latest news on my writings and other projects! |
And be sure to check out my writings here! |
Details
William F. Burk
Award-winning author of fantasy, flash fiction, and poetry. Author of "The Heart of Hearts," a debut fantasy novel. Always writing, forever and ever.
Archives
November 2022
March 2022
February 2022
December 2021
June 2021
April 2021
March 2021
January 2021
November 2020
October 2020
April 2020
November 2019
June 2019
April 2019
March 2019
February 2019
March 2017
August 2016
June 2016
Categories
All
Adventures
Bipolar Disorder
Book Reviews
Stories
Writing