Good things supposedly come in threes, right? Whatever your numerical fave is, grab all your literary vitamins because today's Theme of the Day is STRENGTH.
Do you like your characters strong or weak? Powerful or vulnerable? Invincible or push-overs?
The answer lies, as in so many things, on the golden middle path.
Photo by [R.O.]
Should You Have Characters With Physical Strength?
Superheroes sure are sexy. They can (literally) sweep you off your feet, hoist a furious elephant over the shoulder with one hand, and stop a high-speed train with their broad shoulders angled just so.
Characters that are physically strong have a certain charisma, attraction, a perceived power that comes pre-wired with our still-evolving biology.
They're also completely one-dimensional (romance writers listen up!).
This is not to say you can't have a physically powerful hero or heroine, antagonist, or any other member of your dramatis personae. Just mix it up a little. Weave in a little weakness, a hint of disability, just a touch of frailty right beneath those bulging muscles, that towering stature. It will make your characters so much more human, so much more complex. So much more real.
Note I didn't say “realistic.” You could be writing about faeries, trolls, or zombie robots on another planet. If you want your characters to have real substance, real dimension, give each one the varied levels and types of physical strength and weakness that will bring out their internal conflict and rev up their role in the narrative.
Should You Have Characters With Psychological Strength
It may seem harder to go to the gym or hit that trail every day to build up your physical strength and stamina, but in most real-life situations, it's the psychological or emotional fortitude that can take a lifetime to refine, shape, and master. There's just so much more to it than practice, healthy eating, hydration, sleep, those sorts of things that you can generally control to attain a healthy, strong body.
Think about how challenging it is to change the way you react to situations. The way you think and feel about yourself, your beloved others, or the people or things you rather dislike. The way you cope with the tougher—and plushier—sides of life. The way you deal with rejection, fear, guilt, violence, or abuse—as well as acceptance, fame, abundance, support, and comfort.
And then there is the factor of TIME. It's one thing to withstand a certain type of difficulty or burden for a day, a week, even a year… quite another to deal with it for decades or an entire lifetime.
This is what gives a character true grit.
(Hmm. Sounds a bit like writing itself, doesn't it… we writers need to be psychologically resilient just to write about some of this stuff, nevermind live through it!)
These are just two types of strength your characters can have—or lack. What are others? What kind of strength/s, or lack thereof, have you employed in your work, why, and with what results?
One More Thing
It is said the Aztecs could walk an entire day on just one cup of xocolatl—chocolate. That's strong stuff! Given some of the pure dark chocolate bars being crafted today, I totally believe it. It's good and it's healthy. So if you'd like your kids to grow up knowing the difference between the real cacao deal and the adulterated, sugar-injected candy mislabeled as “chocolate,” sign them up for my “Story of Chocolate” program taking place this Saturday, May 10, at Hidden Villa organic ranch in Los Altos Hills, California.
(We'll have other events like this one, so no worries if you can't make it!)
PRACTICE
Be strong. Be firm. Write complex shades of strength (but please, not fifty) into your characters and their life stories. Create multicolored tapestries of fortitude. Feed conflict into force, and resolve into resolution.
Post your powerful writings here, and be sure to critique your fellow chest-beaters. As always: praise feels great, but critique makes you stronger.
Enough strength to overcome in the end, but not strong enough to be certain of the victory… we are only as strong as we believe we can be. I think most of us resonate to characters with some doubt or uncertainty.
True, but the very concept of victory also depends on context, personal background and experience, and whether we need a “victory” per se, at all.
definitely. I think the reason why too much strength is not interesting is because people inherently know the person isn’t being real with themselves. Like putting up a mask of over confidence to hide the real vulnerability underneath.
The One I Love Is Gone
I called Dr. Korman the next morning and asked if I could come and see him. He agreed to meet me at the office, right after his last class. I was waiting for him in the parking lot when he drove up.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I don’t feel good,” I sobbed like a four year old.
We went inside and sat there together in silence. I guess I was hoping he’d tell me what to say.
“You do realize that I can’t tell you what to say,” he reminded me. Well, so much for that.
“I’m sad,” I told him.
“I know,” he replied.
The minutes dragged. They moved so slow, I could almost see them.
“I think maybe I’m done.” As soon as the words left my lips, I regretted what I’d said. It felt like I was jumping off a building in slow motion.
I drove to my first AA meeting that evening. The people there were nice. When it was time to introduce ourselves, I could barely say my name without crying. I compared my situation to each of theirs. No way, he’d understand what I’m going through. I’m definitely not like her. I judged everyone. The whole while, I kept wondering, How the fuck am I gonna get out of this?
I went home and policed up some of the empty wine bottles and beer cans I’d stashed throughout the house. Dave held open a trash bag, and I kept filling it. He looked dismayed and somewhat relieved. “I’m not gonna drink no more,” I swore to him.
I waited until he went to bed, and then, I got super high. As high as I could, short of stroking out. Everything about it sucked. My life had officially turned to shit.
*******
The next morning, Dr. Korman called to check on me.
“Did you get to the meeting?” he asked.
“I did.” I was absolutely miserable. I was the unhappiest girl in the world. Still, I felt like I did something different for the first time in forever.
“Good. Go again today. Look for a sponsor.”
“But I don’t know anybody.”
“It doesn’t matter. They know you,” he reassured me.
I hung up the phone and gave myself a boost. Getting high was really unpleasant without the drink. Needless to say, I missed the noon meeting but managed to make it to the one at 7:30. On the way there, I realized that I was coming up on two whole days without being drunk.
I’d been drinking for 20 years. Daily for at least ten, but more like thirteen. Every single day, there was a reason to get loaded. Without fail, I consistently had to put booze inside my body. We needed to be together, and I never questioned why. I didn’t want to know. That night at the meeting, it dawned on me. Holy shit. It’s because I’m an alcoholic. It was that easy. One simple admission.
This time when they went around the table, I told everybody my name and said something really important for the very first time. “I’m Mary, and I’m an alcoholic.” It was the saddest I’ve ever felt in my whole life.
So I’ll sigh, I’ll cry. I’d even wanna die.
For the one I love has gone.
My blog is here at: http://www.highwiregirl.blogspot.com.
Nice, I really felt the vulnerability in having to be weak (admit weakness in admitting she’s an alcoholic) in order to be strong.
My Dear Lizzy,
I do hope you are yet at Pemberley. I wished to write you before we take our leave of Bath and journey to London. I know I can be assured to see you there and look forward to it greatly.
Charles and I are very happy indeed Lizzy. We are of one mind constantly regarding daily that which we shall do as well as where we might go. It is so easy between us that it seems as though we have always been together. Not one word is ever spoken that we both do not agree upon. We are so very happy indeed. I have the same wish for you and Mr. Darcy that
your days are filled with the happiness of being together.
Bath is a wonderful place and I would be happy to stay here if it were for the demands of society only that determine our removal, However Charles has business matters that summon him to town and therefore we must go. Of course since you will also be there my dear sister, it is a great consolation to the loss of this lovely place. I have Charles assurance also that will will return as soon as it is possible, to taste its delights anew.
We love to stroll he adorable little shops and elegant coffee houses when the weather is warmer and dry and even when the weather is more inclement my clever husband has arranged for us to enjoy a carriage ride in the park of an afternoon.
There is nothing Charles is not agreeable to if I wish it. So much so that I must occasionally stay silent on a matter for it is just an observation I mean to say and not a direction. That we have funds aplenty is true, however I do not wish it spent entirely in our first month of marriage. Mama would of course laugh at such a notion and perhaps it is the truth. I would rather enjoy the company of my husband without the constant flow of gifts that are unnecessary in my mind. Perhaps it is the more simple life I have been accustom to at Longbourne that gives me this way of thinking, however I have observed that having many material things does not always find its owner happy and content. I am content with only the company of my husband.
I like the old timey feel to this piece. And I see a blissful strong woman in a perfect marriage. Because of the assignment, I’d like to see more complexity to the characters and resulting conflict. We see that Charles is very agreeable. Maybe he’s too subservient. Or maybe his wife is domineering and that creates conflict. Or maybe she doesn’t want to move but is trying pretend she’s OK with it (in the current story, it’s obvious she’ll miss her old home, but because of her happiness in love, I don’t sense any real tension). You don’t have to bombard us, but I’d be interested to see this piece with a little conflict/disharmony sprinkled in. It might add a whole new level of depth.
Thank you for the critique.
I did actually post this in the wrong section, it was supposed to be in the “letters and diary” entry so the strength factor is a bit misleading for you. My novel I am writing is from the characters in the book pride and prejudice and this particular couple are blissfully happy… There is plenty of angst in other relationships that offset this one,
Thank you again I’m new at this and find it interesting to hear what others think if my work.
Ahhhhhh LOL OK that makes sense 🙂 I’m excited to read more from you!
Thank you.
It’s weird. When I was a kid, I thought my dad – and virtually all grownups – were the epitome of cool. I thought, at some point, people magically understood each other and a utopia ensued. Gone were the popularity struggles and fighting to look cool and talking about this or that person to make yourself look better.
As I walk into the meeting room, full of adults, it’s obvious how very naïve my perception was.
In the back corner are the interns. They’re talking quietly to themselves and trying to laugh as if they’re not nervous. They keep staring at a proofreader, a man in his fifties, and I can’t help but imagining the “old” jokes they’re throwing out.
The finance group sits next to the interns. They’re mostly women in plain clothes who like to talk about their children.
Next to the interns is the account team, in their pressed shirts and trendy pants. They’re the jocks of the bunch.
The web development team typically sits next to them. I’m the development team.
It’s disgusting, but part of me feels I’m not worthy of sitting there. I don’t have enough friends here, and my shirt, while current enough, isn’t from Express and it’s not fitted.
With such invading my head like poison, I puff out my chest, telling myself I’m being ridiculous; I’m not fourteen anymore. We’re all mature adults with jobs to do. Our commitment to the work is what makes us different.
I nod to myself and walk over. I grab the lush leather of the tall-backed chair and rolled it away from the table.
“Um, yeah. That seat’s saved,” says one of the account team members. “Sorry.”
I freeze, hand gripping the seat so hard, the leather squawks. I’m in a middle school cafeteria again.
These people don’t even know me. I’ve been here three months, and haven’t been asked to lunch once. I still remember the day I brought it up to the girl in the cube next to mine. Her classic response was, “Well you know how you developer types are.”
“FUCK YOU,” I wanted to say. “I swam in college. And there isn’t a person here who could touch me in tennis. I love to go out and can drink with the best of them.”
But I didn’t say it. And I don’t say anything now. I left a tech company to meet different types of people and broaden my horizons, and a part of me won’t give up on them, not yet. One of these days, I’ll get into an actual conversation and that will start the first domino.
I nod at the account guy and walk around the table looking for an open seat. I hope I don’t end up sitting on a toilet in the bathroom with my brown lunch bag.
There is an epic that I once read which I was gripped by instantly, and haven’t let go of it yet. It is an intense analysis of human character even with superhuman elements in it. One of the characters, a female one was what appealed to me the most. She was the wife of five men, as bizarre as that sounds. She had to endure several things in her lifetime such as public humiliation, exile, loss of her father, the murder of her five children and many other such tragedies.
And yet, she continued to push on, to motivate the five men to do the right thing, to follow the right path. She never lost that inner strength. On the outset, the fact that she was a woman might have made her physically weak, but psychologically, she was stronger than all of her extremely masculine husbands combined. The sheer strength of her resilience, of her tolerance has me in awe of that character. This inner strength made her one of the lead characters of the story which everyone could not help but admire, even though the heroes are supposed to be the five men. It is extremely beautiful the way the writer has subtly emphasised the capacity of the character and made the readers admire her so.
I sat on a bench of a church. She was walking up the alter. Her face glittered with joy. And while watching her in her dress of white, thoughts of purity and goddess come to my head.
And I remembered the day in summer when we used to play, the spray of water touching the sky and kissing it.
And the day she cried in my arms when her boyfriend left her, and I suggested maybe she was looking at all the wrong guys, and maybe there was someone else nearby that she never even thought of.
And then the next year, I remember waiting for her to stop by but she had gotten so busy with college. And I had her picture in a frame by my bedside and I would tell her goodnight each night, and pray for her wherever she was.
Then one day she was back. She had grown quite a bit, in more ways then one, and I couldn’t speak much. She asked if I was alright. I excused myself to wash my face. I was fine I said as I returned to the room. “It’s been so long. You look great.” I told her. She smiled appreciatively, politely.
“This is important,” she paused, “I am getting married.”
“Oh.. you are?” My voice shot up in pitch anxiously.
“Yeah. I want you to be there. ”
“Oh well I would, I would do anything for you, you know that, but I can’t make it.”
“You’ve been my best friend for years. I really need to know you are there.” I give her a sulking look of a depressed dog but she persists.
“Okay. okay, I will.” Ever the sucker.
Her future husband had walked up to her. They were looking at each other and making lifelong promises to each other now. He held out a ring in front of her finger and her face shined.
I remember brushing aside her bangs and squeezing her tight when it was raining so hard that day, and we found a place to hide out in the alley. And she looked at me in the eyes. Her eyes staring me down, questioning me. Her fingers touched my shoulder and I kissed them and looked back at her. Then I kissed her hard. Her plump lips fell into mine for a second.
And then the break, she suddenly pulled from me, “What are you doing?” she asks. “I have a boyfriend, you know that.”
“I know I’m sorry I don’t know what got into me.” I say.
“I gotta go.”
“No no you can’t it’s raining so hard right now. Just come back please. I won’t do it again. I thought you wanted me to, you were looking at me like that.”
She shook her head, confused. Got up backwards, and tripped back and turned. Ran into the rain.
I started to get up and jog after her. My hand reaching out for her. Rain drenching me. “Please.” I called.
She turned her head and looked at me. “Please don’t follow me.” Her voice became cold as the rain.
After that I stopped hearing from her, I stopped hearing about how her days were, or what school was like.
6 months later she calls me out of nowhere. We start talking, as if nothing ever happened. I tell her I am so glad we are talking again. She get’s tense, “You know this wasn’t just hard for you.”
“What do you mean, this isn’t hard for you? It’s always been easy hasn’t? Cause you never really cared.”
“No no, it was never like that. You don’t know anything.”
“No I guess I don’t”
“Goodbye.” Her voice was bitter and she hung up.
I guess I was never good enough for her. This is for the best I guess. I don’t know why I even came, I twist my foot on the hard floor. She was never such a nice person anyway. I think.
Anyway I stopped having female friends. Tonight I am hanging out with my guy pals and getting completely wasted at a bar or two. Here’s to no more being around women who don’t even notice you.
They kiss and the room is filled with clapping.