Characterization is Worthless

My friend Jacob asked if we could talk about writ­ing fic­tion over pancakes.

“Sure,” I said. “Just don't make many for me. I'm not a vora­cious break­fast eater.” I rode the 50-year-old ele­va­tor up to his down­town apart­ment. I won­dered if I would make it up to the fourth floor, the thing was so old, or if it would crash me to my doom. It smelled like dust.

I arrived safely though, and Jacob and I got to work.

“I know it's impor­tant to cre­ate really well-developed char­ac­ters,” he said. “Do have any advice about how to do that or any resources?”

Characterization. It's one of those top­ics they teach at the begin­ning of writer's work­shops and cre­ative writ­ing classes. I, of course, could have given him a text­book answer about char­ac­ter devel­op­ment. I could have sent him along brain­storm­ing back story and cat­a­loging the tics and traits of his as-of-yet non-existent protagonist.

But I didn't do that.

I'm about to say some­thing provoca­tive, some­thing that may alien­ate me to writ­ing pro­fes­sors every­where. Here it is. You ready?

Characterization is Worthless

Worse than worth­less, char­ac­ter­i­za­tion might even be harm­ful to the writ­ing of your story. Let me explain.

Good char­ac­ters are the rea­son we read sto­ries. We develop a rela­tion­ship with Elizabeth Bennett, Holden Caulfield, and Harry, the boy who lived. Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy become our best buds, and when the story ends we're sad they have to leave us. Have you ever heard of fan fic­tion? Some fourteen-year-old from Iowa wants to hang out with Harry after Hogwarts so they write a story and post it in a forum.

Good char­ac­ters are why most peo­ple read, I think. However, in order to cre­ate a char­ac­ter peo­ple want to be BFF with, the char­ac­ter­i­za­tion is sec­ondary. In fic­tion, plot reveals character.

Case in point, Curtis Palmer's cap­tion says, "Having fun at the Disney MGM Studios with 18 of our clos­est friends."

For exam­ple, this is what my screen­writ­ing pro­fes­sor told me about the three act struc­ture: your pro­tag­o­nist climbs a tree, you throw rocks at him, and then she gets down. You have to throw rocks at your char­ac­ters. You have to find elab­o­rate ways of mak­ing their lives hell. You have to stymie their desire and fail to meet their basic needs: food, shel­ter, com­pan­ion­ship, significance.

Why? Because that's how you reveal their character.

You don't start writ­ing a story with char­ac­ter­i­za­tion. You do what Allie Fox did to his son in Mosquito Coast, you push them into the dark, scary bow­els of Fat Boy. You send them up the sails of a ship toss­ing in a hur­ri­cane. You take them to Belize. You make a man out of them, against their will and bet­ter judgment.

If, instead, you start with char­ac­ter­i­za­tion you inevitably fall in love with your char­ac­ter pre­ma­turely. This is a real dan­ger. How will you do the nec­es­sary work of tor­tur­ing them until they cry out in agony if you empathize with them too much too soon? Better to pun­ish them before you know who they are yet.

Joy Comes From Pain

Jacob told me more about his novel. It's a good idea. I'm excited to read it. The punch­line is a wise and sel­dom heard truth: joy comes from pain. The advice I gave him about how to do char­ac­ter­i­za­tion was his own idea. Life comes from death. Clarity comes from con­fu­sion. As your char­ac­ter reacts to and deals with the pain, we'll see who they are.