Zen and the art of characters

Any element of memoir – including characters – must serve the story’s purpose. Some would baulk at the idea of “characters” in memoir – after all, they’re real people, aren’t they? – but the people in the memoir are not the people in reality. The best a writer can hope for is a facsimile of the person; recognizable, but serving the story’s purpose.

And what is this purpose? It differs for each story. In Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values where I discussed the application of Pirsig’s philosophy to the writing craft here, and supremacy of trust here, he tells us he’s chosen not to fully develop his characters. Why? Because the characters are unimportant to his story. He lectures readers on a new way of approaching rationality as he crosses the US on a motorbike – rhetoric rules!

Early drafts of mine have suffered from an army of partially developed seen-once characters; their stories only included because I remember them, and often, because of the nature of my book, think they have shock value.

Once I sit down to edit, characters will be culled unless they serve my story’s purpose. A story has four purposes, called throughlines, which I’ll write about later. Througlines are a concept of Dramatica Pro, a tool I’ve written about here.

Consider anything excess which doesn’t support the story. Cut it.

Contrast the familiar with the unfamiliar

One thing I need to be wary of in my memoir is assuming that the idiosyncrasies of the world I grew up in were the same as other people’s.

At seven, I was forced to move to the Northern Territory, Australia – a world far removed from the southern state I’d come from, not only in distance, but also in environment. Not only was the soil a different colour, the flora strange, and the fauna downright dangerous, people did things in an altogether different way.

While it’s easy for me to describe the different way things were done by others, it’s harder to apply a critical eye to myself and my ways. How arrogant would it be to assume my ways are familiar to readers?

Sandy Blackburn-Wright in Holding Up the Sky describes how women in South Africa don’t ride horses, and contrasts it with the nugget that in Australia, men ride less than women.

This contrast allows us to see the strangeness of another culture regardless of where we’re from.

Closing the circle

Blatant foreshadowing puts a writer in a position where they can give future details about minor characters.

When I was a kid, I loved reading Michael Ende’s The Neverending Story (or UK readers). He did the cool thing of starting each chapter with the letter of the alphabet in order. He frustrated me though because something really interesting would happen, and rather than pursue it, he’d say, “And that’s a story for another time” and go on with the main story.

I wondered what happened to those characters he introduced. Those stories started. Unfinished.

Sandy Blackburn-Wright’s Holding Up the Sky doesn’t leave me in the same lurch. Because she’s used blatant foreshadowing, establishing that she’s telling the story from a point after the events of the story, she can finish the stories she starts.

On page 315, Sandy says:

His older girls, twins, shared his affinity [for the bush]: one ultimately became an environmentalist for the national parks and the other an advocate for permaculture.

I think it unlikely we’ll see those characters discussed again, but in finishing their story, Sandy has given these minor characters a sense of completion.

For my memoir, this means I can write from where I sit now and speculate about the futures unknown and the motivations of the people who were part of my life.

How to treat characters – Part II: Taking a stand

Yesterday I spoke about extending grace to characters. Today let me address the flipside: taking a stand.

Some people, at least when it comes to writing a memoir, don’t deserve grace. My step-mum and uncles fall into this group. While their abuse helped me develop my good character today, and I have forgiven them, when it comes to talking about what they did, I need to stand up for what’s right and make clear their evil against the child I was.

One person in particular needs to be addressed. My beloved uncle. When he began abusing, because of the abuse I was getting from others, I believed the sexual abuse must be normal.

I got even further confused because I enjoyed being around this uncle so much. Unlike the other abusers in my life, he stayed kind outside the abuse. I kept liking being around him.

Over the years, because of this, I’ve taken the view that what he did was less wrong. But my view was wrong. If what he did to me had been done to someone else, I’d be angered. Why do I care so little for myself?

In the next draft of my memoir, I’ll make clear who did wrong. This courage will be balanced with consideration. Some people made honest mistakes and deserve a gentle touch.

A memoir that tells the evils of everyone comes from a bitter core, not that of someone at peace with his or her past.

People as description rather than characters

When people appear in a memoir, it’s either as main characters or minor characters, right?

Afraid not.

Although this is what I’d always thought, Sandy Blackburn-Wright’s Holding Up the Sky shows how to use a list of people as description.

When describing a new area, Blackburn-Wright provides a list of African names. Though these people don’t appear again, it gives a ring of authenticity to the story. Concrete, specific details.

I thought this guideline would only apply when dealing with exotic people, i.e. those who present an angle different from what your readers would normally encounter.

But then I remembered earlier in the book, Blackburn-Wright did the same thing describing the people who travelled with her on her first trip to Africa, and they had Western plain Jane names.

While using specific details is a given, the lesson here is that lists of people show that your memoir happens in a bigger world than the one your main story takes place in.

Characterizing the too-familiar

In your memoir, how do you render characters you know too well? In the drafts so far, I’ve struggled with two key characters: my step-mum and my beloved uncle. Though I could recall how they made me feel, I couldn’t recall the details to tell stories of specific incidents revealing their character traits.

Sandy Blackburn-Wright’s Holding Up the Sky comes to the rescue. Shortly after introducing a love interest, she takes this path to describe him:

I also noticed that he did not change his behaviour around white people as many black people did, becoming more withdrawn and less likely to say what they were really thinking. He seemed to stand up for what he believed in regardless of the power or influence of those he addressed.

No specific stories. Yet, he seems fully developed. It’s almost like she gives commentary on his traits.

This approach allows me to tell the stories that reveal the character of the key people in my life when I recall the details to do so, and the freedom to describe those traits independent of any specific incidents.