by Nancy Kress
Use a Character's Own Reaction to His Appearance to Indicate Personality
This is Sylvie Fisher, from Marilynne Robinson's novel Housekeeping:
After a while they would turn on the radio and start brushing Sylvie's hair, which was light brown and hung down to her waist. The older girls were expert at building it into pompadours with ringlets at ears and nape. Sylvie crossed her legs at the ankles and read magazines. When she got sleepy she would go off to her room and take a nap, and come down to supper with her gorgeous hair rumpled and awry. Nothing could induce vanity in her.
From this we learn that Sylvie has long, thick brown hair. This helps us visualize her, but we actually learn more about Sylvie from her reaction to her own beauty. She is unimpressed. Rather than participate, she passively lets her sisters fiddle with her hair. She destroys their efforts carelessly, preferring sleep to vanity. Sylvie, for the entire length of Robinson's novel, remains careless and unimpressed.
How does your character feel about her own appearance? proud? Indifferent? Dissatisfied (if so, why)? Insanely jealous of people with more attractive exteriors? Would including her reaction to another's appearance give us vital information about her? If so, do it.
Use Appearance to Indicate a Temporary Situation
In this case, you choose physical details that apply to how the character is feeling at the moment, rather than as indicators of permanent personality. This description of teen Conrad Jarrett occurs early in Judith Guest's Ordinary People:
He does a quick look in the mirror. The news isn't good. His face, chalk-white, is plagued with a weird, constantly erupting rash. This is not acne, they assured him. What it was, they were never able to discover. Typical. He tries to be patient as he waits for his hair to grow out. . . . Everything's okay, he's here, wearing his levis, boots, and jersey shirt, just like everybody else, all cured, nobody panic.
From Guest's wording, we understand that Conrad didn't always have acne, hacked-up hair and an intense concern with dressing ''normal.''
Rather, these are temporary conditions, and Guest has chosen to emphasize them because they reflect Conrad's current situation: uncertain, still damaged from mental illness, hacked up inside.
Even in a romance novel, where the heroine's beauty is usually fulsomely dwelt on, you can introduce her with a focus on temporary disadvantages rather than permanent prettiness. Meet Hero Wantage, from Georgette Heyer's Friday's Child:
The Viscount looked her over. She was a very young lady, and she did not at this moment appear to advantage. The round gown she wore was of an unbecoming shade of pink, and had palpably come to her at secondhand, since it seemed to have been made originally for a larger lady. . . . In her hand she held a crumpled and damp handkerchief. There were tear stains on her cheeks, and her wide grey eyes were reddened and a little blurred. Her dusky ringlets, escaping from a frayed ribbon, were tumbled and very untidy.
Hero's reddened eyes, tear-stained cheeks and messy hair are not indicative of her usual state. She is currently very unhappy. The description thus accomplishes two goals at once: letting us visualize the basic facts of Hero's appearance (young, small, dark-haired) and giving us her temporary state of mind.
If you decide to introduce your character to us at a moment of high emotion, pick details that do double duty.
Use Dress to Indicate Personality
Because a character can choose his clothes—or at least his reaction to them—clothing details are a good way to tell us about your character's personality. Note Jenny Fields's reactions to her own clothing:
In Jenny's opinion, her breasts were too large; she thought the ostentation of her bust made her look ''cheap and easy.''... She liked her simple, no-nonsense [nurse's] uniform; the blouse of the dress made less of her breasts; the shoes were comfortable, and suited to her fast pace of walking.
—John Irving, The World According to Garp
Jenny likes her sensible shoes and relatively sexless nursing uniform because she is sensible and sexless.
Dominique Francon, from Ayn Rand's best-selling Atlas Shrugged, chooses much different clothing:
She had gray eyes that were not ovals, but two long, rectangular cuts edged by parallel lines of lashes; she had an air of cold serenity and an exquisitely vicious mouth. Her face, her pale gold hair, her suit seemed to have no color, but only a hint, just on the verge of the reality of color, making the full reality seem vulgar.
Dominique's subtle suit, which makes actual colors look ''vulgar,'' tells us that she is elegant and disdainful.
Look back at the description of Morgan Gower. He wears a child's pom-pom hat, pointed like an elf's cap, in bright red. To see how truly dress can indicate personality, picture Dominique in Morgan's hat. Or Scarlett O'Hara in Jenny Fields's sexless uniform. No, no.
What clothes does your character prefer? Sharply creased slacks? Jeans? Designer dresses? Shapeless ones? His military uniform? Give this some thought. Then show us.
Use Dress to Indicate a Temporary Situation
On the other hand, Hero Wantage's shabby cloak and made-over, ill-fitting gown don't indicate her basic personality any more than do her reddened eyes. The frumpy clothes clearly have been forced on her by necessity, and so serve to tell us more about her current situation (poor relation) than her own taste. Do this when you wish to put your character's current situation in the foreground, so you can change it later (Hero becomes rich and well dressed).
Use Details of the Home to Indicate Personality
Among the first things we learn about Kinsey Millhone, Sue Grafton's popular detective, is that Kinsey lives sparsely:
My name is Kinsey Millhone. I'm a private investigator, licensed by the state of California. I'm thirty-two years old, twice divorced, no kids. . . . My apartment is small but I like living in a cramped space. I've lived in trailers most of my life, but lately they've become too elaborate for my taste, so now I live in one room, a ''bachelorette.'' I don't have pets. I don't have houseplants.
—'A' Is for Alibi
Note that this apartment contains nothing living that might shackle its occupant. Kinsey has chosen this environment. Beyond letting us visualize setting, this is Grafton's way of alerting us that Kinsey is a loner, not materialistic, wary of close bonds. And so she is.
Use Personal Tastes to Indicate Personality
Just as homes can illustrate character, so can anything else that your character chooses: car, food, drink, music, books, vacation spots. Ian Fleming suggested quite a lot about James Bond with Bond's precise specifications for his martinis (''shaken, not stirred''). Is your character more likely to drive a Ford Escort, a Mercedes-Benz or a pickup truck? Conservative black, or gold with racing stripes? With or without bumper stickers? What do the bumper stickers say? What's in the back seat: decaying McDonald's wrappers, a complete first-aid kit, a change of clothes and toothbrush (just in case), fishing gear from last summer, broken toys? When was the car last serviced? Washed? Is it usually driven on a familiar round of home-work-mall, or has it seen both Acapulco and Anchorage?
The man with volumes of Nietzsche beside his bed is not the same man with Turkey Grower Monthly beside his. Or maybe he is (interesting). Show us. Not everything, of course. Just two or three personal tastes that indicate a lot about who this character really is.
Use Mannerisms to Indicate Personality
Jenny Fields walks fast, swinging her arms. Carrie White stands with her head bent. Other characters may chew on their hair, endlessly jiggle one foot or carefully fold all pieces of paper into precise thirds before throwing them away. Such mannerisms—habitual physical gestures—tell us something about the inner life of each character.
Some mannerisms, such as lighting a cigarette to show nervousness, have been so overused that they're now cliches. But the idea of using mannerisms is still viable. Search for fresh gestures that let us visualize what your character is doing while telling us something significant about her personality.
Us
e Description to Indicate Relationships With Others
Look again at the description of Macon Dead. We don't actually learn anything about what Macon looks like. What author Morrison does instead is use minimal physical description as a jumping-off place for authorial exposition about how Macon Dead relates to other people.
Philip Roth uses the same technique in Goodbye, Columbus. Here is the narrator, Neil, describing his new girlfriend's mother:
I did not like Mrs. Patimkin, although she was certainly the handsomest of all of us at the table. She was disastrously polite to me, and with her purple eyes, her dark hair, and large, persuasive frame, she gave me the feeling of some captive beauty, some wild princess, who had been tamed and made the servant to the king's daughter—who was Brenda.
The actual visual details about Mrs. Patimkin are pretty generic: handsome, purple eyes, dark hair, large frame. That's because the visual details aren't the point. They're merely a springboard for the narrator's observations about the family's social dynamics.
But, you might ask, isn't that just abstract telling rather than showing? Not the way Morrison and Roth do it. Both use command of the English language to create vivid metaphors, word pictures striking enough to replace descriptions of their characters' bodily appearance. Macon Dead's hatred is a physical thing; it ''glitters'' and ''sparkles.'' His disappointment, too, is physical: ''like ash, dulling [his daughters'] buttery complexions and choking'' them. His glance is ''frozen heat''; its effects are described in the specific physical images of his daughters tripping over door sills and dropping salt cellars into poached eggs (more specificity: poached, not scrambled or over-easy—nothing in Macon Dead's house is easy). Attitudes have been translated into strong and original metaphors that show us Macon Dead as well as— or better than—a direct description.
Similarly, Roth gives us a striking metaphor for Mrs. Patimkin's relationship with her family. She's a captive princess forced to serve a younger woman, ''disastrously polite'' in her impotent rage. This is such a startling metaphor to evoke about a mother-daughter relationship that it serves as a memorable description of Mrs. Patimkin. She's fixed in our minds.
This works best if you allow us to first glimpse your character when he's in the presence of other people. Visualize the scene carefully before you write. Where is everybody standing? What do body language and facial expressions say about these people's relationships? When you're sure you know, search for an interesting way to convey that information to us.
Use Other Senses to Indicate Personality
Although none of the above descriptions employ the other senses, this technique can be very effective. Describe your character in terms of a characteristic sound, smell, feel or perhaps even taste. Think of F. Scott Fitzgerald's Daisy Buchanan, whose ''voice was full of money.'' Of John Steinbeck's Tom Joad, day after day tasting dust. Of Sandra Cisneros's Lucy, ''who smells like corn.'' Does your character always feel warm to the touch, radiating body heat? Smell of cinnamon, or manure? Talk in a voice so shrill it sounds like fingernails scraping a blackboard? What can you imply about her inner self through such sensory details?
COMBINING TYPES OF DETAILS: BUBBA'S PLACE
Your descriptions, of course, don't have to be confined to only one of the above techniques. Look again at John Irving's description of Jenny Fields. It combines details of physical appearance, dress and mannerisms, plus Jenny's own opinion of all these. Mix and match.
However, one important caveat: Don't get carried away. Too many details are as bad as too few. Paragraph after paragraph of descriptive details, no matter how brilliantly evocative, will overwhelm your reader. He'll burn out from sensory overload—and all you'll have done so far is introduce the character!
So how many details are too many? As with nearly everything else in writing, there's no simple answer. It depends on the book's length, purpose, voice and overall tone. But as a rule of thumb, a half-dozen details are plenty. If you choose carefully, that's usually more than enough. (For more on leaving out details, see chapter seven.)
To see just how much the right details can contribute to your reader's picture of a character, consider the following three descriptions.
The action is exactly the same in all three, but the details of environment and diction make all the difference:
When I stormed into Bubba's trailer, the Carson-Akabar fight was playing on the TV. Bubba was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't stop me. Nothing could stop me. I tore past the beer cans and the Harley, racing through the trailer until I found him taking a crap in the bathroom. "You bastard! I've got something to give you!''
When I sauntered into Serge's, Tosca was playing on the stereo. Serge was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't stop me. Nothing could stop me. I strolled past the library and the dining room, making my way through the mansion until I found him repotting violets in the conservatory. "You sly dog, I have a message for you.''
When I crept into Daddy's, some old-timey music was playing on the radio. Daddy was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't stop me. Nothing could stop me. I sneaked past all the women's clothes on the living room floor and past the closed bedroom door, tiptoeing through the house until I found him in the garage. ''D-Daddy, listen, please, I've got to tell you something!''
It's all in the details. You can have Beauty or the beast—as long as you choose your specifics carefully.
SUMMARY: THE KEYS TO SUCCESSFUL DESCRIPTION
• Choose details that create strong visual images.
• Choose details that add up to an accurate, coherent impression of your character's personality.
• Use word choices that further reinforce this impression.
• Don't choose too many details. Quality is more effective than quantity.
• Use your effective details the first time we encounter your character, so we will want to keep on reading.
You have this person inhabiting your head, soon to be a person inhabiting your page. You can see him, hear him, feel him. As yet, he's nameless. To you he's already a very real, distinct entity, but to everyone else he will need a name. How do you choose one?
Some writers think of the name first, and the name suggests their character's personality. Some writers can't even begin to write until their character has the exactly right name; others change their minds four times during the writing of the first draft, as they make decisions about characters' actions and reactions. Some create elaborate family trees to the fourth generation; others seem to resent the necessity of naming and use the same names over and over in unrelated books. But all these writers—and you—have one thing in common: Characters have to be called something.
And since they do, you may as well get more mileage out of names than simply a tag before ''said'' or ''walked to the store'' or ''killed the sniper with his Beretta 92F at an unbelievable seventy-five yards.'' You may as well make your names contribute to world building, characterization and plot development.
THE NAME YOU CHOOSE FOR A CHARACTER
Surnames, and sometimes first names as well, indicate ethnic background. A character called Reginald Fitzsimmons III comes from a different ancestry than one called Salah Mahjoub—and readers will have different expectations of him. You may choose to work with these expectations or deliberately flout them, but you should realize they're there. If Reginald is not descended from British aristocrats, you will have to account for his aristocratic name (maybe his dirt-poor, unwed, sixteen-year-old mother wanted to give him something fancy). And if Salah is not Muslim but a Presbyterian deacon, you will have to explain why. The rule of thumb is: The farther you move from the commonly accepted background suggested by ethnic names, the more explaining you must do.
On the other hand, since America is not the equal melting pot we might wish it were, not all ethnic names carry the same evocation of family background. European immigrants have now been here for so many generations that most readers will not automatically equip a character named Robert Olson with a religion, class,
occupation, or accent. Instead, Robert Olson (or Sam Carter or Jack Romano) is a blank slate, and you will have to do all the work of drawing him well.
An additional point about ethnic names: This is a diverse world. Some stories have a ''closed'' setting, in which nearly all the names are logically Anglo-Saxon (John Cheever's Shady Hill), or Jewish (Chaim Potok's novels about the Hasidim), or Chinese (Amy Tan's The Joy Luck Club). Others use an ethnic mix that reflects a given reality. Ed McBain's earliest novels of the Eighty-Seventh Precinct featured a lot of Italian and Irish names, in keeping with the makeup of the New York City police force at that time. Think about who is likely to inhabit your fictional world, and reach for an appropriate ethnic mix.
Your character's name will also reflect her parents' personal choices, which in turn characterizes her family life. Parents who name their child Susan Mary are not implying the same worldview as those who pick Bernadette Chantelle. Did your character's parents want a name that will blend in? That will stand out? That will emphasize a heritage (perhaps a grandfather's first name)? That will disguise a heritage? Serious? Flowery? Trendy? The child named Rainbow Sweetgrass Smith by sixties' flower-child parents is being handed more than words to someday sign on her checks. So are the children named Malcolm X Smith and George Patton Smith. How a character reacts to such freighted names may even suggest plot developments. Does she like her name? Hate it? Spend the whole book trying to escape whatever it means to her?
What about using a name whose meaning either characterizes the person or reflects your theme? There are two dangers here: pretentiousness and obscurity. John Bunyan may have gotten away with naming his protagonist Christian to stand for the entire Western world, but contemporary audiences find this heavy-handed. On the other hand, you may know that Elizabeth means oath of God and that her name is a thematic comment, but don't expect your reader to know it.
Sometimes writers call their characters after people they know. This can be a useful device for helping yourself to visualize a character, to ''feel'' him as you're writing the first draft. But change the name before you submit the story anywhere, to avoid not only hurt feelings but possible legal problems. (More on this in chapter eight.)