by Lisa Cron
Thus when you write your protagonist’s bio, the goal is to find those seminal moments and then trace the trajectory of events they triggered, culminating in the particular dilemma your story will revolve around. Once you’ve done that, if you’re still dying to write an in-depth tell-all bio for your protagonist, who am I to stop you? But be forewarned: if you’re not careful, some of those juicy-but-irrelevant details you’ve uncovered might then creep into your story on their own. The good news is that by using the techniques in this book, you’ll be able to weed them out before they choke the life out of your story.
Then again, you just might find that once you’ve written your focused character bios, you’re aching to dive into the story itself. With that goal in mind, when on the hunt for the telltale moments buried in your protagonist’s past, it helps to remember these four do’s and don’ts.
Do’s and Don’ts for Writing Character Bios
1. Do keep in mind one utterly-obvious-when-you-say-it-but-otherwise-easy-to-forget truism: story is about something that is changing. Things start out one way and end up another—this is what is meant by a story’s arc. The story itself unfolds in the space between the “before” and the “after.” It chronicles the exhilarating time when things are in flux, giving the reader the illusion that it really could go either way. Thus what you’re looking for when you write your character bios is the specific before that leads to the moment when suddenly everything is in flux. This before will yield information you’ll then seed into the story you’re telling so the reader understands what the protagonist is changing from. Look at it this way—a butterfly may be beautiful in and of itself, but what makes it interesting is that it used to be a caterpillar. The “before” is the yardstick that allows the reader to measure the protagonist’s progress toward “after.”
2. Don’t be uncomfortable about digging deep into your characters’ psyches. Don’t hold back on account of decorum. You have an idea, going in, what their issues are—it’s what you’re writing about. Ask them embarrassing questions about it—the more personal, the better. Seek out the good, the bad, and especially the ugly, the messy, and the secrets they’d really rather keep to themselves. Nothing can be off limits. Rather than overlook their flaws, you want to pinpoint each one and then examine it under a high-powered microscope in light of their internal issue and their goal. Your goal is to allow them to be full, complete flesh-and-blood characters who, like us, are doing their best to muddle through against all odds. The essence of a story lies in revealing the things that in real life we don’t say out loud. This is why, as cruel as it may feel, you can’t allow your characters any privacy or mercy when exploring their past. Sure, they may demand it anyway; they may hide things from you; they may even lie to you. But if you let them hold back, if you let them hedge, the resulting story won’t have the ring of truth. And don’t kid yourself; the reader will know. We’ve been around the block, and since we automatically use our own default knowledge base to understand others—whether real or fictional—we have a pretty good idea where you are leading us when we start reading your story.12 Hell, it’s why we signed on in the first place. Veer away and we’ll know it, lose interest, and go see what’s on TV.
3. Don’t try to write well. The good news about writing character bios is you can do it in a linear, straightforward—plodding, even—progression. Or you can jump all over the place if you like. It’s your call entirely. Plus, there’s no need to worry whether the first line hooks anyone or there are too many adjectives hanging around or even whether it’s well written. All you’re interested in is content; how it’s presented is completely irrelevant, which, ironically, often leads to stellar writing. Probably because it temporarily disconnects the often snide, hypercritical editor’s voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like your second grade teacher who was sure you’d never amount to anything. Ha!
4. Do write short bios for every major character, even though most of what you write in these bios will not make it into the narrative. This is often the most important part of the process, because it unearths the motivation that lies beneath what your characters do, giving it meaning. It’s what Fitzgerald meant when he so famously said, “Character is action”—meaning the things we do reveal who we are, especially because, as Gazzaniga reminds us, “Our actions tend to reflect our automatic intuitive thinking or beliefs.”13 Story is often about a protagonist coming to realize what’s really causing him to do the things he does, at which point he either celebrates, because he’s better than he thought, or begins making amends, because he’s worse.
Developing an Outline: A Case Study
Now that we’ve talked the talk, let’s walk the walk through the development of a set of interwoven thumbnail character bios that magically spawn a budding story outline.
THE PREMISE
Most writers begin with a premise; something along the lines of, “Hey, what would happen if …?” A premise can be spurred by anything—something that happened in your life, something that leaps out when you’re reading the newspaper, or even wishful thinking. To wit: you go to the movies. The hero is an actor who’s getting a little long in the tooth (read: so old they probably aren’t even his real teeth), yet his leading lady has just finished cutting hers (read: is young enough to be his granddaughter). On the way home, you’re bristling. How come when the man’s much older, it’s business as usual, but when the woman’s older, it’s Harold and Maude? (Forget Cougar Town.)
Of course, this wouldn’t bother you so much if you weren’t about to turn forty and, what’s worse, you’re mortifyingly infatuated with none other than Cal, the young actor who played the aging hero’s son. Even the fantasy makes you blush. Then it hits you—you can’t be more than thirteen, fourteen years older than Cal, whereas the age difference between the hero and the leading lady has to be at least double that. Is that fair? But since in real life there’s not much you can do about it—after all, having things turn out exactly the way you want them to is pretty much wishful thinking—you’re left with one surefire alternative. Write a story.
So here is a fledgling premise: what happens when a woman about to turn forty meets the young actor she has a secret crush on and they fall madly in love?
Stop laughing. It could happen. The question is how. And no, we’re not talking stalking, hypnosis, or a Vulcan mind meld. We’re talking for keeps. Voluntarily. That means we have our work cut out for us.
ASKING OURSELVES, “WHY?”
On the surface, this story is about how a forty-year-old woman wins the heart of a twenty-six-year-old movie star. But what’s it really about? What does winning the movie star’s heart mean to her? What inner issue must she deal with in order to even try? To find out, we need to probe a little deeper. What’s her love life like, anyway? Let’s give her a boyfriend, one whose personality tells us something about her inner issue. How about a very nice but dull fiancé who’s pressuring her to get married? And damned if she isn’t considering it. Why? Because he’s “safe.” Does this mean she has a hard time taking risks? You bet. So what this story is really about is how a woman learns to overcome her fear of risk taking when she’s forced to choose between a safe, comfortable future, and the possibility of an exhilarating one that comes with no guarantees.
Now we can take our premise—Can a forty-year-old woman win the heart of a much younger man?—and harness it to a theme: what happens when a person who’s never taken a risk in her life throws caution—and a safe, comfortable life—to the wind? Which translates to: unless you take risks with the devil you don’t know, chances are you’ll spend the rest of your life shackled to the devil you do know. Now let’s refine it a bit. What are we saying about human nature? How about: when you work up the courage to take a risk, good things happen, even if they’re not quite the good things you expected. Great—now we have an idea of how the world is going to treat her.
So are we done with our character bio and outline? Nope. How do we know? Well, close your eyes.
What do you see? Not much, which brings us to another handy one-step test.
HOW TO DIFFERENTIATE THE GENERAL FROM THE SPECIFIC IN A STORY
If you can’t picture it, it’s general. If you can see it, it’s specific. As we’ll explore in depth in chapter 6, you must be able to see it. The general, at best, conveys an objective idea that just sits there, idling in neutral; the specific personifies that idea, giving it a context that brings it to life. Big difference.
THE DETAILS
We still need to do more digging. For instance, this woman—let’s call her Rae—what’s her life like? Does she have kids? As a matter of fact, she does. A daughter. Is Rae divorced, then? Naw, don’t want any ex-husbands lurking in the wings. Let’s say Rae is widowed. Does she have a job? Nope. Her husband Tom left her enough to live on. Wait a minute, where’s the goal in any of that? The conflict? It’s inert. We’re not looking for stats, we’re looking for balls in play. So if her inner issue is that she isn’t much of a risk taker, what in her past lets us know that? And hey, what triggered her warped worldview, anyway?
How about this: Rae wants to be a painter. Her mom was a painter; Rae learned at her feet. It thrilled her, the way everyone gushed over her mom’s paintings—she didn’t notice that no one ever actually offered to buy one. Until one day Rae overheard her mom’s best friend talking with a neighbor about how horrendous everyone thought her mom’s paintings were, but no one wanted to hurt her feelings by saying so. Rae was mortified for her mom, who she thought would be crushed if she knew. It wasn’t a position she herself ever wanted to be in. So she’s never shown a single one of her own paintings to anyone outside her family and friends. She thinks she has real talent. At least she hopes so. That’s what keeps her going. Her fear is that she’ll show her paintings to a pro and find out her main talent is the same as her mom’s: self-delusion. Even so, she vows that soon she really will show them to the art dealer around the corner (aha, a goal!). But not today. That’s been her plan for the past decade. Hey, it’s worked so far.
Let’s review. We know Rae’s inner issue is her fear of risk. Thus, her closeted paintings now establish it as a “preexisting condition.” And because it’s specific, the reader figures that chances are it’s something she’ll try to overcome (meaning, it’s something they can actively anticipate).
Next, let’s turn our sights to Rae’s daughter, whom we’ll call Chloe. Why do we need her? No reason so far. The question, as with all subplots, is how does Chloe’s existence impact the main storyline? Does it move it forward? Perhaps we should give Chloe a subplot that mirrors Rae’s. We’ll discuss subplots in depth in chapter 11; for now, suffice to say that mirroring subplots don’t literally mirror the main storyline for the obvious reason—it would be redundant (hence boring). Instead, they reveal alternate ways in which the story question could be answered, usually for the protagonist’s benefit—as either a cautionary tale or an incentive to change.
So how about this: Chloe is sixteen and plays the sax. She’s good. So good she was just accepted to Juilliard, full scholarship. But because they live in, say, Charleston, South Carolina, it’s a long way from home. This gives Rae several legitimate reasons why Chloe should stay home and finish high school, instead of skipping her senior year and moving to a strange city where she knows no one. Besides, despite what a great sax player Chloe is, there are no guarantees, and the life of a musician is so unpredictable. Chloe, of course, is dying to go. Will Rae let her?
Okay, we’ve set up a mirror. And something else—something you’re always on the hunt for as you dig through your characters’ backstories: current conflict. Especially conflict wired to a ticking clock. Like, say, that Chloe has a week to let Juilliard know whether she’ll accept their offer. Good. Ball in play.
Now, what about Rae’s dead husband, Tom? How does their relationship mirror or inform what will happen when she meets Cal? Well, here’s a thought: since Cal is much younger than Rae, why not make Tom much older? Excellent choice. It means Rae knows a relationship with a large age gap can work—even though, of course, being the younger woman mitigated the risk that would have been involved on a more level playing field.
Which brings us to the force of opposition: what’s standing in Rae’s way (beside her inner issue)? Let’s start with societal norms—the kind that spur the snickering assumption that a young man on the arm of a woman of a certain age means that money must be changing hands. Or worse, that she’s a “cougar,” conjuring the predatory image of heavy makeup, collagen-stung lips, and tummy tucks. This unspoken attitude permeates every element of the story, including Rae’s psyche. Her heart beats with the question, What will people say? Look at what they said about her mom, and that was just over paintings.
Does that work as a force of opposition? Not yet. It’s still too nebulous, too general. Sure, it will be reflected in the way certain characters react to Rae and Cal, but it remains conceptual. Close your eyes and you see nothing. We’re looking for a more concrete obstacle, something we can picture. What Rae needs is a specific either/or, preferably one that will be affected by a possible relationship with Cal—which brings us to her boyfriend, the well-meaning but hapless Will, who has begun to push for marriage. Rae isn’t sure why she hasn’t said yes. He’d be a great stepfather for Chloe, he’d never stray, and he’d never tell her what to do. Which isn’t to say there aren’t a lot of traditional things he simply expects Rae to do. And why not? She’s led a traditional life up to now. But what Will doesn’t know is that the harder he pushes, the more she realizes there are other possibilities. They’re just on the other side of a door she’s never dared open. Risk. Then again, isn’t security what everyone is really after? And Will isn’t such a bad guy. So Rae promises to give him an answer by the end of the week. Excellent. That’s two balls in play.
And finally, what about Cal? What’s his story? What’s his goal? What’s his internal issue? Story first: let’s say Cal’s been famous since he was fifteen. He’s grown up in the spotlight. In two days he’s due to begin filming the movie that will catapult him from megastar to icon—everyone says so. Trouble is, he’s begun to suspect that being rich and famous isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and he’s feeling pretty darn sorry for himself. He’s sick of being recognized wherever he goes. He wants to disappear for a few days, so he can decide what to do next. That’s goal, internal issue, and ball three.
Okay. Now we know our major players. Are we ready to begin? Well, let’s apply our eyes-wide-shut test. If you close your eyes, can you see anything yet? Nope. We’re still backstage, in the dark. We have the Who and the Why. We need the Where and the How before the action can begin—aka the What Will Happen. The plot.
FIGURING OUT THE WHAT
Let’s pry off another layer in search of a place where Rae and Cal might bump into each other. What if … there’s a place each holds dear? What if it’s the same place? Okay, that would work, but we have to be careful. It can’t be the same place by coincidence—that is, because the plot needs it to happen. What we’re looking for is a story reason that pulls them to the same place, at the same time. Fair enough.
What if Cal’s family used to rent a vacation cottage every summer on a small rugged island off the Carolina coast? What if it was the last place he remembers being “himself,” before fame struck? Okay, good.
Let’s say Rae’s had a crush on Cal since the first time she saw him on screen, when he really was jailbait, and long before he became as famous as he is now. That’s why soon thereafter, when she read that Cal’s family used to vacation on the island, on a lark she decided to see whether the cottage was still available as a summer rental. And guess what? It was. So for the past several years Rae, Chloe, and Will have summered there. Now we have something in both Rae and Cal’s past that not only ties them to the same place, but ties them to it for the same reason.
Now that we have a logical place where Cal and Rae can believably be thrown together, what about the how? We don’t want a
lot of people gawking at them—not at first, anyway. In fact, best if these two can get to know each other alone. So let’s sift through what we already know about them and see if we can come up with an answer.
What if … it’s the end of the summer. Rae has a week to decide if she’s going to marry Will and whether she’ll allow Chloe to go to Juilliard. So she decides to stay on the island alone after everyone else has gone home, to make up her mind. She knows there’s a bit of risk in this. The island will be deserted. And it’s September, the middle of hurricane season. But after a lifetime of taking the safe route, she decides to take one little chance.
And didn’t we give Cal a deadline, too? He’s supposed to report to the set for that blockbuster he’s about to film. But like Rae, he is having second thoughts about his future. Knowing his life will be forever changed if he appears in the movie, he needs to take a time out. He needs to be alone to figure out what to do next. And what better location than the last place he remembers being happy? The island. After all, it’ll be deserted; how hard can it be to break into the cottage where he stayed as a boy?
Notice that both our main characters have a clock that just started ticking. That means we’ve found our beginning. Each one is standing on the shore of “before,” staring into the distance, trying to make out the shape of “after.” The story will chart the path in between.
Now we have Why, Where, How, When, and Who. Close your eyes and you can begin to see it actually unfold. Is it the kind of perfectly formatted hierarchical outline that would’ve received a gold star back in elementary school? Probably not. Is it enough for you to start writing? Quite possibly. Our story is now securely anchored in the “before,” and what happens will be meted out by ticking clocks tied to specific upcoming events, which will force our protagonists to confront the long-standing fears and desires that up to now they’ve swept under the rug. There will be a mounting sense of urgency, and readers will indeed be able to anticipate what happens next.