The other day I was reading online reviews of a novel and one caught my attention. It complained that the book had too many “named characters.” It made me wonder, does it really matter whether you decide to name a person in a manuscript?
It does.
To name or not to name this character? That is the question!
Photo by Natalie Maynor
Giving a fictional person a name bestows upon them a certain degree of importance—it’s what turns them from an unidentified human being into a character. And if you have too many of them, you run the risk of creating unnecessary distractions or making it difficult for readers to keep them straight.
When To Identify A Person By Name In Your Manuscript
So, how does one know when to identify a person by name? Obviously, the main characters, the sidekicks, the bad guys, etc. need names, but what about the people who are just sort of there? Should they be called “the chauffeur” or “Henry”? “Two co-eds walking across campus” or “Julie and Sara”? “The security guard” or “Frank”?
To help you figure it out, below are seven questions to ask about any named character in your manuscript:
- Is the person someone the reader should remember?
- Does he or she provide a clue to a mystery?
- Does his or her presence or interaction with others reveal something about the protagonist?
- What does the character add to the manuscript?
- Does the person return later in the story?
- Is he or she just part of the setting?
- Why does the reader need to register the character?
Note that you don’t need multiple reasons to name a person in your novel. One good one should be sufficient.
When do you think a character should be identified by name?PRACTICE
Write a scene that includes both named and unnamed characters considering the questions above. Share with us below!
Did you really just use the dated and sexist term “co-eds” to refer to female college students? Or was that some kind of convoluted typo?
Hi Gdap- It’s a hypothetical example from a work of fiction, which could have any of a number of POVs. This includes the POV of a character who would use the term “co-eds” even if you wouldn’t–hope that helps!
Suka fends the bandits off. They would not steal her money. Never! Their rogues garb, sharp and sleek and her robe, long and dirty. Her staff was carved with runes to help channel the elemental forces. The thieves’ knives were bland and unadorned. Suka summoned a tidal wave which washed the bandits away.
Thank you Monica for this insight. I have a series with a large cast that I’m working on, and my critique group always asks why certain characters are important. I’m going to print out this list of questions and tape it to my desk so I ask myself every time I feel like including someone in a scene.
Nice! I think that this is a relatively minor issue in the grand scheme of things, but it’s still worth thinking about. I hope the questions help you figure out how to manage your characters!
“Their died then?” He asked. “Yes.” I said shame riddled my voice like the tinkling sound of the wind chimes that rang though wind outside. “Good less mess for us to deal with.” He said coldly. My green eyes stared at him. At the monster the simply looked at death unblinkingly.
“That’s it then? They were just a mess a piece trash that had to be thrown away. Nothing more to you then a chess piece in your sick twisted game.” “Isa calm down.” “No I will not calm down. they were humans just like you and me.” I choke back tear’s.
The cold night wind wrestled with my red hair as I moved closer to his face. His breath felt warm yet his skin was cold to the touch. I grabbed his arm a”Isa this isn’t going to help.” “I killed them! You tricked me I thought they were the enemy but your really the one!” I breathed in deeply letting it flow though me the power to end his life.
I grabbed his throat and held him in the air his lanky body struggled against my grip. His face turned a ghastly shade of purple. His breath came in short struggles like a beast.
“Your gonna face the same pain they did.” I tightened my grip. His body soon became limp and he was on the brink of death. I stared into his cold lifeless eye’s and let go right before he died. I threw him on the ground in disgust. He crawled on his knee’s gasping for air. I looked at him with hatred unknown to any other human. “You didn’t know them Isa.” “I know they were living being’s.” “They were my parent’s.”
Hi Monica, good post. Curious you should bring up named characters… one of my novellas, “Verse in Arabic” has no named characters. Not one. Not the principal character, not the journalist interviewing him, not the girl whose life is in danger, no one. And most of the story is told via dialogue. Here’s an excerpt:
—-EXCERPT—-
I stared at her and she stared at me and I thought by God if neither one of us moves we’ll stand here forever. So I took the first step, not out of capitulation but resolute determination, and walked head on into the darkness of the corridor, plunging into an odor of old rotting wood and dusty oil portraits and forgotten mold that had eaten into the crevices of antique knick knacks. My eyes not yet having adjusted to the utter blackness, my instinct told me to hold out my hand to guide me, but my ego dug in and I, unsure of my way, continued on with the woman of the house behind me, the two of us silently plodding along what seemed to be a corridor without end.
There was apparently a door somewhere ahead, for suddenly the housekeeper brushed past me and knocked on it. No answer came and none was needed; her knock was a mere formality. She led me inside. A solitary ray of light cut the room into pieces. In the far corner, a figure sat hunched over a desk.
There was no question who it was.
The doctor turned around with the first step I took. And I, the most loquacious of journalists, found myself sans mots. Far from the unshaven, stark-eyed madman he had so often been painted to be in popular media, he was the epitome of the kind, wise family doctor you’d want to take all the kids in the neighborhood to see. Rich, jet-black hair that had resisted the stress of age and confinement, eyes warm with the compassion and knowing only true medical doctors possess, skin of rich olives ripened in the Spanish sun.
“Mr. —,” said the doctor. His voice was clear and sound and offered no evidence of latent insanity.
“Pleasure to meet you, doctor,” I said. The doctor rose and held out his hand. I must have seemed rude, for I stared at it an instant. I took it and found it exceptionally warm, kind—if hands can be kind—and somehow understanding. I strained to see his face.
“I’m very pleased you could come,” said the doctor, inviting me to a chair by his desk. “Do you need paper?”
“No, that’s fine, thank you.” I was struck by his demeanor.
“I’m sorry about the light,” he smiled, picking up on my squint. “I’m so used to low light, you know”—and he paused emphatically—“but here, let me open the shades a bit so you can write.”
He moved to the window and pulled the curtains aside. But I did not want to see to write—I wanted to see to see him. (“him” is in italics)
(for more info see http://www.birgitterasine.com/works/books/verse-arabic
Nice – and terms like housekeeper give the reader enough information without pulling out of focus – if you had written the housekeeper, Susan, … it would be more distracting. I like the images, One statement “I’m sorry about the light,” he smiled, picking up on my squint – how would you in first person know that’s why he said that. Might want to say, something like he probably saw me squint, or something like that.
Hi Heather, being a journalist myself, I can tell you that we are trained to be highly observant. An interview is not simply about the words your interviewee speaks, it’s everything about him or her, and everything about the circumstance or situation in which you both find yourselves. This particular story takes place in the Spain of the 1960’s, during Franco’s time, when EVERYONE was hypervigilant. It’s natural that the narrator (the journalist) would intuitively understand why the doctor was apologizing about the light. There’s a non verbal exchange going on that I don’t describe… it’s the dialogue that hints at it.
That’s really interesting!! Why did you choose not to name any of your characters??
I felt giving them specific names would interfere with the depth and complexity of the story and the bizarre events that envelop the doctor… and ultimately also the journalist.
This narrative is also based on a true story that was recounted to me, and I never knew the person’s name. That’s the second reason. 😉
I really enjoyed that excerpt, thanks Birgitte. I understand your reasoning and also like that you didn’t ‘fill in the gaps’ and make up names, you went with the more mysterious option. It’s very easy to follow who’s who, I can’t imagine that would have been easy.
Thanks Candace. There are only two principal “active” characters throughout most of the novella so yes it’s very easy: the doctor and the journalist. Everyone else is in the story the doctor is telling.
But if you’re writing in deep point of view (totally from the perspective of a character), and they’re interacting briefly with someone they know by name, they’re not likely to say/think “The girl behind me tugged my hair.” Wouldn’t they say, “Susan tugged my hair.”? Because otherwise it creates distance … (I’m struggling with this with my WIP because it’s in DPOV, and occasionally a main character interacts with someone who never shows up again, so technically their name is not important, but the MC wouldn’t be thinking of them in generic terms, but by name.)
I know, I’ve thought about this as well. I think it’s a judgment call. I have one my character’s only refer to his sister as “my sister,” because she’s not important to the story even though she’s clearly important to him. That said, if you believe his knowledge of certain people’s name is important and says something about the character, I think that’s a legitimate to reason to name them!
I have the same problem, but with dialogue rather than thought. My WIP is situated in a small, rural town where everyone knows everybody. For a character to say something iike “I called the dispatcher” when the dispatcher, Mary Alice, is a member of her Sunday school class, her next door neighbor, and a third cousin would sound weird, even if Mary Alice is not important to the story.
Under the Dome by Stephen King, comes to mind with some hundred characters all with names.
In my memoir, Tell Me What He Did, I describe a pagan Candlemas ceremony from the POV of a seventeen-year-old girl who’s never seen such a thing before. In this there was a group of people – some I knew, some I didn’t. Here’s part of the scene depicting the ceremony”
While the basket of little candles is passed around and everyone takes a candle, an older
woman reads from her black folder. “This is the sacred feast of Candlemas. The ancients call it Imbolc and it means in the belly of the Mother, the womb of Mother Earth. This feast is mid-way between winter solstice and spring equinox. Seeds planted in Mother Earth’s womb quicken as the light of the new year grows.”
The powerful scent of frankincense wafts across the room. Good energy flows between all of us in the circle. I can’t believe I’m a part of this.
A guy reads, “The days are growing longer and we want to keep the fires of creativity burning. This is the time when we see the stirrings of new life, which has been hidden in the womb during the cold, harsh winter.”
Others read from their black folders. There’s so much to take in. Tim and Martha look so regal. I’d love to do a ceremony like this with Tim at my side. Would it be possible for me to learn this stuff? Can someone as damaged as me even think to do this? Maybe. Probably not. I cringed when Tim said Mother Earth and Father Sun. That kind of bothers me. Don’t want any god in my life, even a pagan one. God’s abandoned me big time. Don’t want a mother or a father. If you have to believe in Mother Earth and Father Sun to do a ceremony, I’m sunk.
“Some call this Brigit’s Day,” Beth says.
I bring my focus back to the ceremony.
“Brigit was the goddess of fire, poetry and healing. At her altar a fire was kept burning all year round.” Beth stacks her folder on top of the others under the altar and comes back to stand next to me.
Tim picks up a little candle and lights it from the big one on the altar. “In honor of Imbolc and Brigit, we share the light. Tim turns and lights Martha’s candle. “The light of Brigit.”
Martha lights a guy’s candle, “The light of Brigit.”
All around the circle candles are lit until everyone holds a flickering taper. The room glows with the special warmth of candlelight.
Tim says, “As we have passed the light from one to another, may our light shine to bless ourselves, each other, and Mother Earth. Let nothing dim the light.”
We stand in silence.
“Pull the warmth and the light within you,” Martha says. “When you are ready snuff out your candle and keep it so, when you are away from our circle, you can light it whenever you need to remember the fire of Brigit.” Everyone puts their candles on the floor near the altar. I use my fingernail to etch three lines on the candle and place it near a corner of the altar so I can find it later.
This sounds interesting so far, but there are a couple of “Guys” in there…was there anything unique about them? Something to distinguish them from the rest? Long hair, short legs, nasally voice, deep voice…sometimes that’s enough to give a character individuality without having to name them or give a reason for their presence. But on the flip side, I could see how as a teenager, these things might not be noticed among the other surreal qualities of the experience. I’m curious about what happens next.
If the character is a walk-on, yet important to that scene, I’ll pick up on a characteristic that both sets the character apart from being “important” yet also reminds the reader of her role. For example, I use “Miss Suit” to describe the first operson my character encounters when she walks into a police station for an interview:
The woman in the clunky shoes and tightly buttoned pantsuit gestured to a generic plastic chair. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” I tried to smile, but since both of us knew it would be insincere, I gave up trying. She went back to her big metal desk, the kind you could hide behind secure in the knowledge that if someone came in guns blazing, the bullets would ricochet back on the shooter. Miss Suit was only the first line of defense, beyond her, desks sprawled in island groups, some inhabited, others not…
In my WIP there are several meetings the MC listens in on. There is a specific group of men but only two are truly important. I always struggle with who to name and who not to name.
I saw some brighter lights off to my right and when I got closer I could hear several deep voices; two of which I recognized as John and Mr. Hightower.
“Dead,” said John.
“How does an entire air force base get taken over?” That was Mr. Hightower.
“I have no idea. These Inmanis are not exactly leaving us with much to go on. We keep finding any sort of major resource dead. Anyone with any sort of military experience is dead with no sort of explanation. The bodies had no sign of trauma and there were no signs of a fight.” John went quiet for a few minutes.
He spoke again with a little more pep. “Richard, these men who were trained to defend us were found dead with no sort of fight whatsoever. How is that possible? And why are people disappearing? What’s the connection there?”
I heard rustling of papers and scooted further down the tunnel to where there was a small dugout. A long table covered in papers was surrounded by several men including John and Mr. Hightower. “I’ve been searching for reasons as to why some people disappeared rather than were killed. The Washingtons were taken. From what Charlie has told me, they came in the middle of the night. There were bright lights and she said the floor was covered in water,” said Mr. Hightower.
In my mind I could still see Mom rushing me to the back of the closet. I had to swallow the lump in my throat and take a deep breath so I could listen to John who had started talking again.
“It won’t be easy but we’ve got to figure out what’s going on. I don’t know about all of you but I cant spend my last days doing nothing and then go to Glory and try to explain myself.”
“Then what? We just up and move all of these women and children to go fight some giant things we know nothing about?” This was the voice of a man I didn’t recognize. His voice was deep and scratchy; like he had a sore throat.
“Observation and knowing the area are going to be our biggest weapons. The one thing all of the abducted had in common was rebellion. Michael Washington was very open about his dislike for the Inmanis. So were a lot of other political leaders that were taken.” Mr. Hightower was circling different spots on one of the large maps on the table.
“We’ll form a team and head east. We’ll need plenty of supplies,” said John.
“More importantly we’ll need to leave these people with a leader and plenty of supplies themselves,” said one of the other men.
“Gentlemen, I’m glad ya’ll are ready to take charge and get control again, but the pentagon is one of the most protected buildings in the entire country with millions of places that have never been made public. We won’t be able to go in there and simply remove people.” Mr. Hightower looked up from the maps at John.
“That’s exactly why we have people on the inside. The Inmanis kept some of the employees of the Pentagon, two of which are Anthony Geiger and Gary Watson,” John answered.
My feet were starting to get restless from staying so super still. I took a few careful steps backward and smashed right into something that went “umph.”
“Davis!” He quickly put his hand over my mouth.
“I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. What’s going on?”
“They think the Inmanis are kidnapping some people and killing others—lots of others. I think my parents were taken. I think Mr. Hightower thinks that too.” Davis didn’t say anything after my explanation. I guess he was trying to hope that his parents were some of the taken and not some of the dead. He nodded his head toward where the men were meeting and we got closer.
“We need you, Richard. If anyone knows the Pentagon it’s you. We need you to work as our navigator and lead us through the place,” John said. He was watching Mr. Hightower with a hopeful look on his face.
“And the kids? They’ll be safe here? Taken care of?” Mr. Hightower asked.
My heart sped up. He was planning to leave us here. He never planned to let us help find our parents. He planned to help take back control. Before my mind would tell my heart and body to shut up and chill out I was standing in plain view of the men around the table with Davis right behind me. “No!”
I love names, and love naming characters, but get that it’s not necessary all the time. I’ve noticed that my preferred scenarios often include little or no naming, partially because I tend to wait until the perfect name comes along, and then realize that I like the way it reads as is. It suits certain styles of writing well.
This is my first time posting something on here, so all hints and tips are appreciated! This is a fantastic site, a true pleasure to read.
—
Footsteps fought to be heard through the sludgy darkness; the footstepper didn’t sound concerned about being observed, and continued confidently down the alley. They came closer and slowly became louder and more distinct, a greasy splash occasionally reminding Edie that she was soaked through from the thunderstorm that had just passed. She wasn’t sure how long she had been crouching in that litter-strewn doorway; time had stretched and danced sideways out of all sensible understanding. Her knees were throbbing and scratched, and her palms dimpled with dirt and gravel. Her fingernails felt like she had dragged them down a rock face. She didn’t know what had happened to her bag or why her vision was cloudy; she only knew that she didn’t want these approaching footsteps to stop in front of her. She pressed back into the doorway, cloaked in the stinking dark, and trailed her fingers over the pavement around her; the streetlights didn’t illuminate this far down the alley. Broken glass, then some fragmented pieces of plastic told Edie why her vision had decreased – her glasses had abandoned her face and taken a suicidal leap for the ground. Violently encouraged, she guessed. The footsteps were almost at her recess in the brickwork, clipping along steadily. Edie still had no desire to be seen. However she had ended up in that position, it would not pay to draw further attention from frequenters of the citys dingy back streets. She tasted iron in her mouth, and her roaming tongue discovered a loose incisor. Suddenly the bile was rushing up her throat, burning her uvula, forcing itself out of her mouth, and into the path of the oncoming footsteps. The red-tinged vomit bloomed across the oily pavement, and halted the feet.
“Fuck! Fucking drunk! Disgusting bitch – there’s an AA around the corner, go knock on their – shit.”
The feet were shouting at Edie, angry at being interrupted in their journey. Her distraught, mangled face stopped the words as suddenly as her vomit had halted the steps.
Hi Monica,
Welcome! I have been following The Write Practice for a while now (it’s a fantastic site) but often don’t post either. I know I should do it more often. It’s great to read what everyone else has to say though.
I’m like you—I love to come up with names for characters. I even think of what their nicknames could be! But often, I find I end up changing them when the character develops. I think ‘no, she doesn’t sound like a Beverley anymore.’
The joys of writing, I guess 🙂
Sorry, Kira. My bad. I think I just saw Monica’s name and the day got the better of me!
Haha, no worries – at first I thought it was in reference to Monica, the author of this article. Thanks for the welcome! I hear you, the days can be altogether too much sometimes.
The sun shines above the battlefield, hiding the death and filth that voers the land below. Screams and grunts of pain escpae the soliders’ mouths as the metal hits their armour. The maces break their ribs and the swords slice through their flesh, blood dancing through the air.
Galahag is lost amidst the battle. Blocking and slicing and kicking and thrusting, he makes his way through countless nord warriors and into a clearing. Breathing for just a moment, he glances back at the slaughter, because theres no other way to describe it. They had surpirised the Derilian army,, luring them into a slope, their own forces surrounding them efforeffortlessly. This should have been an easy victory, the Nords should have been subdued swiftly, but they weren’t going down without a fight.
This had been a waste of resources, Galahag thought, for both sides. The Derilians had no chance of winning, so an early surrender would have prevented needless deaths. And yet they had killed so many.
Nameless bodies lay on the ground, their faces covered in blood, dirt, and fear. Galahag could recognise a few of them. There was the young fire-born who had joined the 1st regiment a fortnight ago, his hair still glinting under the sun. A few feet away a man held his guts on one hand. He was long since dead, provably killed in the fist onslaught. Galahag remembered talking to him once, he was a charming lad, so full of joy. He couldn’t quite recall his name, something among the lines of Jeremy.
The worst of it all, Galahag thought, was how he didn’t feel any kind of sorrow or grief, just…disappointment. Being a seasoned general, he had had his fair share of difficult battles and heart-breaking loses. But now, after so many years, he couldn’t get himself to feel nothing but frustration at so many loses. Because that was what they felt to him: Numbers, faceless pawns one could move so as to achive victory, they weren’t people, they weren’t sons and husbands and friends, it just hurt too much when they were.
Trevor and Bobbi jumped up along with most of the fans in the stadium, screaming themselves hoarse as the winning touchdown was scored. As things settled down again Trevor threw his arms around Bobbi and gave her a big kiss.
“Hey, my turn?” The fan next to Bobbi threw an arm around her. She leaned back into Trevor.
“No, no. Hands off,” said Trevor with mock sternness, pushing his arm away. “I’ve got all the kissing privileges reserved here.”
Bobbi was glad for Trevor’s spunk. She took this other fellow to be thirty-something and his breath told her the swigs he’d been taking from his Thermos weren’t just fruit juice.
“Aw. I think a last-minute goal like that should pre-empt all other privileges.” The man reached down and grabbed his jacket from the seat.
Right then two other young women carrying team flags made their way down the aisle toward them. Trevor nodded toward them. “Here come some other enthusiastic fans. Why don’t you test your theory on them?”
The fellow turned toward the young women, both sporting State U jackets, and beamed as they approached. “Hey, sweeties, how about a kiss to celebrate the victory? Any after-game parties up?”
The girls grinned and each gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Great game,” one of them said, leaning away from his open arms. “Party at Montana’s, I heard. We’re joining the sorority crowd at the U.”
The other tugged her elbow. “Yeah. Come on, Jaz. We’ve still got to pick up the pizza.”
It is hard for me to know who to name sometimes and who not to name, so this is definitely interesting. Thank you.
~~~~
The woman with chestnut hair rocked her head and her hair flew up and she turned to face me.
I wondered if I was dreaming because she looked like she was smiling.
I made my way towards her, pushing through herds of people, but falling back. As the sound of the speaker calling for boarding of such and such flight. And she got up and went into a forming line towards a square tunnel that would lead her to the plane. And then they boarded. Her purse clanked at her side as she left. And I stood there and watched the doors to the plane entrance close behind the people.
I looked down at my ticket and went on further, pushing past the crowd to get to my correct gate, before I would be stuck at an airport waiting for the next flight so many hours later.
I made it just as people were boarding and went through the square tunnel and down the corridor to the plane. Found my seat, near the middle of the plane, by the aisle.
I sit next to a man who is reading his paper. Hi I say.
Oh hi, how are you. He has a british accent.
Oh I am alright.
Oh good and he quickly returned to his paper. I grab a book I had brought. Some mystery I picked up at the airport shop and paid a fortune for just to make sure I’d have something to read. I always do forget to bring a book and get it when I have to shell out premium prices. Same with snacks. I come to the airport in a state of missed meals and I have to shell out top price for average fair.
I pull out the book, smell it’s pages and look at the first page.
But I can’t focus on the words. All I see is her face looking back at me.
When the plane takes off I can feel the muscles in my stomach clench. It’s kind of pleasant, the feel of take offs are super butterflies. But as we rise into the air I realize that girl is growing miles and miles apart from me and that we will never meet.
Half an hour later the man folds his paper and looking out the window says, “Wow it sure is beautiful.”
“Yeah.” I offer.
“I’m going to visit my sister for the first time since she had her daughter. I am pretty excited.”
“Oh that sounds nice. How long since you have seen her.”
“Five years.”
“Sounds like my family. I mean we don’t see each other that often either.”
“Just get so busy you know?”
“Yeah.” I say sincerely.
“Say where are you going?” he asks.
“Nowhere special, I travel for work.”
“So do you get to see the world?”
“No not exactly, it’s more like I go between two cities often. So I have two homes. It is kind of unique I think, but I come to Seattle because since this is where work’s headquarters are.”
“How do you like it?”
“It’s alright. I have job stability. And my family doesn’t mind.”
“That’s good, I don’t know how my family would take it if I were gone all the time.”
“Well my wife is real laid back, she wouldn’t care if I were gone longer I think. It’s good, I get a lot of freedom.”
“Well then you are a bit lucky eh?” I look down at my lap because I have run out of things to say. I feel the fabric of my jeans in my fingers as I look at the pocket on the front seat. It has an airplane magazine and a brochure for emergencies.
“So tell me about your sister and her kid.” I look up and ask.
“Well there is no father. She doesn’t know who the father is. There are two possibilities but she doesn’t want to tell them. So she is raising the girl by herself. She is living at a friends house.”
Interesting. It didn’t bother me at all not knowing the names of the characters. I really like the pause in this piece, “i look down at my lap…” it makes the conversation seem real. A natural pause when talking to someone new and not sure whether to keep chatting or not.
Interesting post, now I’m trying to recall characters I named in my manuscript. You make some valid points. I must admit I get annoyed when I read a manuscript and think a character is introduced for a reason, only to reach the end of the novel and realise they were completely insignificant.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Can i hold your hand?”
“Ok.”
“Thanks.”
He took her hand and carefully wrapped his fingers around hers.
“You are warm.” She said.
He nodded.
The floor tilted and water sloshed away from them. A deep creaking drowned out the alarms.
He smiled. Lips tight. Squeezed her hand momentarily.
“Is it your birthday today?” He pointed at the paper party hat perched at an angle on her head.
She shook her head and pointed across the cabin. An upturned table bobbed in the water. Ribbons shimmered in the waves. A girls body drifted through the tentacles.
He nods. “Oh.”
The metal shifts beneath them and their already wet sneakers are filled again. They shiver.
He leans closer to her and whispers”I think i know how we can get out.”
“Ok. I’ll try it” she whispers back.
“OK. What shall i call you?”
“Daphne.”
—
thanks for the interesting post.
it made me realize i very rarely use any names for my characters.
Your post was really cool. You didn’t “tell” us what was happening, but at the same time, you told us exactly what was happening, which is what writers should do. : )
I don’t always use my character’s names, either. I mean if there’re only two people in a scene, you don’t really have to say their names more than a few times. If it’s two people of the same sex, it’s harder, but if they’re the opposite sex, you can often just use “he” and “she”. That’s what I usually do when I can.
Will you critique my post if you get time? It’s just a few posts up. Thank you and keep up the good work!
I really appreciate this topic, as naming my characters is brutally tough for me. In fact, in my current writing project, I have a meeting with attendees from various departments and it is critical to introduce their departments (far more than their names), and I use an around-the-table to start the meeting for introductions. Any tips on how to dodge the naming? It is the only part of the book where I used numerous underscores because I am avoiding making up names.
Hi Monica,
Thanks for the post—I love any discussion about characters. I am one of those writers who loves to name her main characters (see my reply to Kira below) but I tend to be over the name by the time I reach the end of my story and I change it to something impulsive.
This time I decided to challenge myself and name the secondary characters, leaving the primaries nameless. It was a lot of fun. Not really compelling reading, but the focus wasn’t on plot so I can live with that 🙂
He sipped the decaf coffee with a dash of soy from his favourite red mug. It was still a little too hot, and he made a slurping sound as the liquid met his mouth.
“That is not a coffee,” she scoffed. She always knew just what to say to rile him.
“’It is too, it says so on the bloody jar if you don’t believe me.”
She opened her mouth for an unnecessary rebuttal but Alison clicked at Myra, the happy-to-do-anything intern, to go and slap a bandaid on the problem post haste.
“Now come on you two, you know how important it is to look like you’re happy. Especially when you’re about to go on air. The viewers can always tell.” When Myra spoke, her voice sounded sing-songy. It just served to frustrate them both—perhaps the only thing they
agreed on was their mutual dislike for preppy little Myra.
Jackson moved the first camera into place and prepared to get the second ready.
“Make sure you get my good side Jackson, it’s the left remember? Last time you filmed the right and my mother phoned to apologise for ever giving birth to me.” She was so vapid it made him sick.
“I didn’t realise you had one.” He slurped his coffee again, just to spite her.
“Action in 3, 2, 1,” Danny snapped the clapper board and the nightly news bulletin commenced.
Character naming is my nemesis. Or I am my own nemesis – I haven’t decided yet. I’m an utter perfectionist when it comes to names. They have to be perfect. I’ve been known to squander a whole day on finding the perfect name for just one character. Shameful, I know. Probably some form of procrastination, who knows?
So this post was like it was written just for me. And I am totally going to copy/paste these questions right into my outline for an easy, in-your-face reminder.
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Her eyes bore into mine. Reflections of the campfire danced in them and for a moment, I imagined there was real fire inside her, dying to come after me. But I refused to back down and let her win again. Claire wasn’t used to admitting she was wrong.
“Janelle,” she spat, finally breaking the silence, “This isn’t about me. This is about you. You are incapable of caring about anyone but yourself!”
“Fine words coming from the woman who has spent the last three years shutting out every single person who cares about her.”
“You don’t know what I’m going through. You don’t know anything.”
“And whose fault is that?” I shot back. My pulse drummed in my ears.
“Don’t-”
“Excuse me?” A timid barista approached us carefully. “If you could, please lower your volume.” She paused a moment, and then fled like frightened wild animal.
Claire and I looked at each other. “What a baby.” we said in unison. She smiled.
The mood had passed.
“This isn’t over.” I said.
“Oh I know.” she replied with a smirk.
We sipped our lattes, easing into a comfortable silence.
Your scene is awesome. It flows very well, and the characters seem real and consistent with their actions. Keep up the good work!
If you have time, would you mind giving me critique on the short scene I posted? It’s just a few posts above yours.
Thanks!
Hi Monica, your post is very helpful. It helps me get good tips for writing. Thanks a lot.
—- My Scene —-
Last week, I and my wife, Huong, was walking on street, we saw the old woman that stood on pavement. She seems to want to go across the road but there was a lot vehicle. I and Huong helped her. She said thanks to us.
Julia sat on the stone bench to wait for Shadow. She inhaled the clean scent of freshly cut grass mixed with pine. Two women jogged by her on the sidewalk. She scanned her eyes over the park. No sign of Shadow yet.
Her eyes passed over a man leaning against a tree on the far side of the park. She was about to dismiss it when she realized he was staring directly at her.
Hi,
I like the way the scene slowly opens up. Focusing on Julia’s senses then slowly expanding. There is something mysterious about the name Shadow that makes me wonder if that is their real name, and why they are called that. Nice.
The “her eyes passed…” line feels a bit repetitive but the nameless character at the end adds some great menace to the situation.
Thank you so much for your critique! I really needed that feedback.
I see exactly what you mean now about “her eyes passed”. I said “she scanned her eyes” over the park, too. I’ll have to think of something else and rewrite the scene. Thanks again!