by Ally Carter
Finally, remember that no two people are the same, and no one person is representative of an entire group. There is no way that this group talks or that group thinks or acts or dresses. Characters should always be people, and people are always unique.
DEAR SOMAN CHAINANI,
How do you write a character who’s not like you?
You really have to know a character in your bones to make them live on the page, so if I’m going to write a character who’s not like me, I have to really have someone in my life or someone in the culture I’m thinking of as I write them. Otherwise, it’ll come off too much as a stock character or a series of gimmicks. But the more I write, the more I realize that every character in the world is somewhat like me. As an author, I’m responsible for empathizing and understanding the entire range of human emotion, motivation, and behavior.
DEAR DAVID LEVITHAN,
How do you write a character who’s not like you?
As a gay writer and a gay reader, I love to read stories about gay characters. Some of my favorites are by authors who are writing from their own gay experiences and other favorites are by authors who are not gay themselves but have a deep empathy for and connection to what a gay teen might be going through. When writing outside your own identity, I think it’s important to ask yourself many questions. I’m going to use a non-gay author writing a gay main character as my example here, though I believe these questions hold no matter what the identity is.
1. Why is this character gay? In other words, why do you want to write from this point of view? If the answer is “Well, they could be straight or gay, so I decided to make them gay”—that’s not a good answer. It can’t be arbitrary. Or done because you think it will draw more readers. It has to be that being gay is important to the character’s story, and to the story as a whole.
2. What is your connection to the character? Pinpoint the parts of yourself that you’re putting into the character and/or the parts of other people you know that you’re putting into the character. What is making them feel real to you? What are the parts of this character’s life that this connection will not allow you to see? If there are gaps in your knowledge, you’ll have to do the research to fill them in. Read other books to fill in the gaps. Talk to people with firsthand experience to fill in the gaps. Try to know as much as you can about the intersectionality of the identities you’re writing about, getting as specific to your character as you can get in your research.
3. Are you defining this character solely by their gay identity? If the answer here is yes, then alarms should be going off. The moment you define any character by a sole aspect of their identity, then you are not creating a well-rounded character … you’re creating a stereotype. Nothing infuriates me more than reading a gay character whose sole purpose in the story is to be gay. That robs them of their humanity—which is the opposite of what fiction should do to a character. So make sure when you’re writing that you know more about the character than the fact that they’re gay … and then make sure that the multifaceted portrait ends up on the page.
4. Who can tell you if you’re getting it wrong? If you’re not gay and your book with a gay main character goes out into the world without a single gay person reading it first, that’s a problem. Because you don’t know what you might not know … and the only way to correct this is to get other opinions. You still have final say over your work, but a book is always stronger after feedback from other readers, especially if you are writing outside your own experience and/or identity. When I wrote my novel Two Boys Kissing and had it narrated by a chorus of gay men a generation older than me, my first reader was my uncle, who was of that generation and had lived with AIDS for over three decades. I would not have published the book if he hadn’t said I got it right, because I needed a reader who was able from his own experience to tell me if I’d gotten it wrong.
I don’t know that this is a gender-specific question. Because when you think about it, we’re always writing characters who are different from us. (Or we should be!)
I’ve never been a student at spy school. I’ve never robbed the greatest museum in the world or broken into the Iranian embassy. I’ve never been kidnapped in Alaska.
Writing is the ultimate exercise in empathy, so the best advice I have is to try to put yourself in all of your characters’ shoes as much as possible. What are they thinking, feeling, wanting? Also, look around. Pay attention to how some of the guys in your class talk. Sit. Move. Make note of some of the mannerisms or quirks that you might see, then go ahead and incorporate those into your writing.
But most of all, remember that not all guys move the same, think the same, crave the same things, or have the same fears. You don’t have to write guys well. You just have to write That Guy well. And you can do it.
You might as well ask me which came first, the chicken or the egg!
Some authors—and some books—will clearly start with a character (a girl who goes to a boarding school for spies!). Some will obviously start with a plot (what if you were kidnapped in Alaska?). Some will even start with a world (what would it be like to live on a street where every house is, technically, a different country?).
But no matter which question lands in your brain first, the other aspects of that story shouldn’t be far behind.
If you give a plot a different character, you get a different plot.
If you give a character a different world, you get a different character.
For me, worlds, plots, and characters are so intertwined with each other that it’s almost impossible to separate them from each other.
I mean, what would Harry Potter have been like if Neville Longbottom had been the chosen one—or if Harry had been raised by a magical family instead of by Muggles? Can you imagine The Hunger Games if Katniss’s father hadn’t died? Would Lord of the Rings have looked the same if Aragorn had been tasked with taking the ring to Mordor?
These stories may very well have had the same villains, and these very different characters might have had the same goals, but with different characters at the center of the stories, those stories are bound to have played out quite differently.
All I know for sure is that none of these things exist in a vacuum, and as you write, you’re going to be almost braiding those three things together to make your story as strong as possible.
DEAR ZORAIDA CÓRDOVA,
What comes first for you: character, plot, or something else?
My characters have always made themselves known first. They sort of just show up, sometimes unannounced, sometimes a little late, but they always seem to be very loud. Loud enough that they demand attention and say, “This is my story, please write it.”
Characters are hard. Sure, people talk about plot twists and they get obsessed with world building, but at the end of the day, none of that matters if your reader doesn’t have characters to root for and worry about and love.
There’s a reason fans talk about “the feels.” People read to feel, and characters are how you make them do it. So give your characters quirks and pet peeves and friends who support them—rivals who test them. Give your characters ups and downs, highs and lows, and make sure they’re different at the end than they were at the beginning.
And finally, don’t worry if your characters don’t feel real to you when you’re starting. The more time you spend with them, the better you’ll be able to write them. Even if they start out as pencil sketches or archetypes, know that you have as many drafts as you need to make them the kinds of characters that will give your readers all the feels.
People frequently ask me if I outline and the answer is no, not really. I know authors who write massive, detailed outlines. They know before they ever write a word how chapter 20 will open and what characters will be in the scene that ends chapter 32.
That is their process. That might even be your process. And honestly, you won’t know until you try.
But I’ve learned that that isn’t my process.
I’m ju
st not capable of outlining in that way. To me, everything sounds good in theory, and I won’t know if an idea is a dud or a winner until I actually put it on paper.
So I don’t really do outlines.
What I do do is STORYBOARD.
You know that big list of scenes that you wrote down in the introduction? Well, imagine if you wrote every single one of them on a notecard or a Post-it note and then hung them on your wall or laid them out on your bed. If you did that, you’d have the storyboard for that book.
This is an old screenwriting technique (more about that in a moment), and I’ve used it for every single book that I’ve ever written. I love it because you can move those cards around, take some out, put some in—really play with all your options while visually “seeing” the entire story.
It’s like turning your plot into a giant jigsaw puzzle, and you can experiment with all the different ways that the pieces might fit together.
This is especially helpful for me, because when I start a book, I usually know a few really big things, like my book is a road trip and I know I’m going to drive from New York to Los Angeles. I know along the way I’d like to see the St. Louis Arch and go to the Grand Canyon and drive down the Strip in Las Vegas.
So I know where I’m starting. And I know where I’m going. And I know a few stops that I’d like to make along the way. But I don’t know where I might find a diner that serves awesome pie. I don’t know where I might get a flat tire and have to go part of the way on bicycle. I don’t know all the little things that might happen—both the good and the bad. The storyboard allows me the freedom to mark out the big things but also leave room for surprises.
Another advantage of storyboarding is that it really helps me see what I do—and do not—know. Specifically, it helps me figure out not just what’s going to happen but how it’s going to happen. You see, a lot of times when I start a book, I’ll know most of the story, but I won’t know the scenes, and—let me tell you—that is a huge distinction.
For example, I knew my book I’d Tell You I Love You, But Then I’d Have to Kill You was going to be about a spy in training who meets a “normal” boy—that she’d fall for the boy, and that the pressure of living a double life would put a lot of strain on her grades and her relationships until, finally, she would have to make a choice about whether she really wanted to follow in her parents’ footsteps or lead a normal life.
That’s the whole story, but it took a lot of time and bad drafts to find the scenes in which all of those things would become evident.
Where would Cammie be? Who would be with her? What would she want? How would it go wrong?
I have so many Post-it notes on my whiteboards with heroine realizes it’s been a lie … which is great. That’s conflict. But how does she realize that? Does she overhear people talking? Does she hack into a computer? Is she tipped off by a person in a hooded cloak?
The hardest part of writing, for me, isn’t figuring out what’s going to happen—it’s figuring out how it’s going to happen because, for me, getting the scenes right is the same thing as getting the book right.
Storyboarding helps me figure out some of it before I ever write a word, but honestly, a lot of it I just have to figure out as I go—take a look around when I get there and try to figure out the best way.
Maybe you’re the kind of writer who is going to figure out all of those things before you write a word. Maybe you’re the kind of writer who is going to figure it out as you go along. You know what? It doesn’t really matter which type you are, just so long as you do it.
Every time I start a book, I tell myself that this is going to be the time when I figure out all the perfect scenes before I start—that this is going to be the time I make it all the way through a first draft without making any big mistakes.
But here’s the thing I’ve come to realize: The mistakes matter. The pitfalls sometimes show me the way.
When asked about his thousand failed attempts at creating a light bulb, Thomas Edison famously said that he didn’t fail a thousand times. He just found a thousand ways not to build a light bulb.
Maybe your first draft … or second draft … or tenth draft might just be ten ways not to write your book.
Even by taking steps in the wrong direction, you learn which way the right direction may be.
When I was in high school, I decided I wanted to become a screenwriter. I’m not sure why—probably because I’d always been a reluctant reader, but I loved stories—which meant I loved movies. And the idea of writing movies for a living seemed way too good to be true.
So my mom, being awesome and supportive, bought me my very first writing craft book, Screenplay by Syd Field. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that that book changed my life.
That’s where I first learned about storyboards (see above).
That’s where I first learned about acts and plot points and that all stories have beginnings, middles, and ends.
When I read about story structure for the first time, it was like being shown a magic formula that could turn all the stories in my head into real live books and movies. That’s when stories started making sense to me—when I could actually look under the hood and see all the moving parts and understand exactly how they were working. And why. And it’s a lesson I use pretty much every single day.
Because here’s the thing: No story is ever really written from scratch. There is, to some extent, a formula that’s as old as time, and even though people toss around the word formulaic like it’s a bad thing, it doesn’t have to be. In fact, it could be your best friend.
Because knowing the secret of story structure—knowing the formula—means you never truly have to start from scratch ever again.
So let’s start with the basics.
Every story is composed of three parts: Beginning. Middle. End.
I know, I know. That’s not exactly mind-blowing stuff, but it’s important to keep in mind. Because those are the building blocks upon which all stories are built.
For most modern, commercial stories (think books and movies), the beginning is about one-quarter of the story. The middle is about half. And the end is the final quarter.
Obviously, there’s wiggle room and none of this is set in stone, but that’s a starting point you might want to consider. Your three parts may go something like this:
Beginning: Get your characters up a tree.
Middle: Throw rocks at them.
End: Get them out of the tree.
You’ll often hear the parts of a story referred to as ACTS.
When most people think of acts, they probably think of plays, but in truth, almost all books and movies are comprised of acts, too. An act is simply a segment of the action where the character (and story) is moving in a particular direction.
Then something happens to change that direction.
That’s called a PLOT POINT.
Maybe that means telling the hero he’s been chosen to save a magical world and sending him off on a quest. Maybe it means turning Fluffy the Hamster into a flying, fire-breathing killing machine that your heroine has to track down and turn back into the class pet.
Your first major plot point is the point where the story really starts going—where we know that, from this point on, your character’s life is never going to be the same again. The beginning is officially over, and the middle has begun.
So how many acts should a book have? Well, it depends. And forgive me, but this is where it gets a little confusing because, for a lot of people, Beginning, Middle, and End translate into act 1, act 2, and act 3.
But I think that’s a little misleading because that can leave people with the impression that you need only two plot points—two major turns in the story—and that’s not true at all.
Stuff is going to have to go right—and wrong—throughout the story. You’re going to have to give your characters lots of ups and downs.
This is where storyboarding really helps me.
I never
know how many acts (or segments … or set pieces … or whatever term you want to use) my books will have when I start out, but it generally ends up being eight or so.
When I storyboard, I consider every line of Post-its to be an act.
The very first Post-it on the top line will usually be where we meet the main character or we get introduced to the world—maybe both! Maybe you have a few scenes like that. Then something happens. I call this the “inciting incident,” but it’s really just a small plot point and it usually comes within the first chapter or two.
For example, my book Not If I Save You First starts with our hero and heroine, Logan and Maddie, living in Washington, DC, where Logan is the president’s son and Maddie is the daughter of a Secret Service agent. The first line of the storyboard is about Logan and Maddie in DC, living their regular lives. But then Logan’s mother is attacked and Maddie’s father is injured and neither of them will ever be the same again. (Inciting incident!)
And we go to the next line.
Line two shows us Maddie and Logan six years later. Maddie’s living in a cabin in Alaska and Logan isn’t the sweet boy he used to be. When he gets in trouble and is sent to Alaska to live with Maddie and her father, we really see how much they’ve each changed, but they’re going to have to find a way to live with each other—or so we think, right up until a gunman appears out of nowhere, knocking Maddie down a cliff and dragging Logan off to some unknown fate.
When Maddie wakes up, she knows she has two choices: She can turn back and get help, or she can follow them. Maddie follows them. (Plot point! Break into act 2!) And the book truly begins.