The Undisclosed Lives of Fictional Characters

how much do we need to know about them ...

I tend to get impatient with plotless stories—you know, the navel-gazing literary kind where nothing happens—but I don’t like squeaky neat endings with everything resolved and wrapped up in a box with a pretty bow either.

When I read a book or watch a movie where the threads come together at just the right moment, and line up without a hitch at the end, I think “that’s too pat.” The writer/director clearly obsessed about not letting any plot line drop and overworked the resolution. That kind of ending usually comes with a carload of explanations. Better make sure the reader/viewer gets it!

I think that’s wrong. I believe people can make narrative jumps, and leaving them with a few questions to chew on is a good thing. The story sticks in the mind longer. Die Hard (1988) doesn’t resolve John and Holly’s marital problems (will they get together, won’t they), as it nails down the big plot quite terminally, free fall anyone? And it doesn’t tell you if the cool cop gets promoted, or if Nakatomi Plaza will be rebuilt. I think the answer to both is “no”, but that’s just me.  

I didn’t realize I was writing my own pieces with a lot of untold elements until the subject popped up in a conversation with a writer friend.

I’m familiar with the film/TV rule that urges to come late, leave early. I’m all for it, excellent advice. Avoid unnecessary exposition and get in the thick of things as fast as possible. It’s key in short fiction, where the space is limited and every word counts. So yes, I deliberately drop the reader in the story from pretty much the first line and provide background, as needed, in the course of the narrative. The ending, for me, comes naturally. I close the story when it feels right, not necessarily when all the hanging threads are resolved. And I’ve indulged in open endings at times—this one is a case in point: Carla. I might have let some readers hanging a wee bit much in that one; I regret nothing—but I’ve weened myself off blatant hanging finales in crime fiction. As Chekhov said, more or less, when there’s a gun, it better be fired. You can leave motivations, or the ultimate fate of the characters in the mist when writing crime but there has to be a clear win or loss, even if it’s fragile, unearned and temporary, and yes, calculated ambiguity comes with the territory, especially in noir.

What I was not conscious of (and I want to keep it that way) was what the story implied about the lives of the characters before the story begins and after it’s over. It is hard to define and the reader brings as much to the table as the writer. Which means it’s unpredictable.

(What were the lives of the women in this picture, I wonder. Could they inspire a story someday?)

If my character goes on a blackberry picking expedition, it evokes childhood images for me that are not likely to be identical to the experience of the readers. I might remember the white worms squiggling out of the fruit when washed in salty water (a metaphor for hidden sins?), while the reader might remember the scratches or the poison ivy or a sun burn on the back of the neck. Or a pie. None of this will be made obvious in the text but it will color the story, and give it depth. That’s what amazes me in storytelling, the unexpected world that words generate, in my head first, then in the mind of the readers, and what takes place there will forever be an enigma to me.

Magic, right? Some things are better left clouded in mystery.

I know very little about the private lives of my fictional characters. They appear in a short story, have their moment in the limelight, and exit the stage.

The recurrent ones get more flesh on their bones with each iteration. After a dozen short stories and a novella, I feel I know Tom Keegan, my 1950 San Francisco Homicide cop, pretty well. He’s a college grad, fought in Europe with the 101^st, became a cop after the war, his parents are still alive, he has a younger sister, a reporter girlfriend, smokes too much, notices when a guy wears a sharp suit (it reminds him how much it costs and how much the department pays him), drives a clunker car, and doesn’t care for black and white expressionist movies. Among other things … Each story adds a dab of color to the canvas.

It’s a leisurely way to build a character, one brick, one story, at a time. Learning to know a stranger. Like we’re on a sequence of slow moving dates.

When you’re writing a book, with a main character that has the wingspan to lift a series, the stakes are different. Even if the background doesn’t make it into the narrative, except in flashes, it needs to be nailed down. Writing is not unlike acting, in that regard. Absorb all that stuff about the character that will never be used directly but will seep to the surface when under stress, during lovemaking, while drunk. An exercise in shapeshifting. It helps when writer and character share some of the quirks. I guess you’ll have to wait a bit to figure out what these are. Pardon the teaser. More to come …

Meanwhile …

Here’s a recent cool story, if I can say so myself …

In A Thin Thread, published by Yellow Mama (free to read), I rewind the clock to Dallas, sixty-one years ago. Sam and Anna play minor roles in a tragedy. Chilly. Have a cautious read, and watch your back.