Writing in Character

I think the toughest thing a writer needs to do is to write as another person. It is a well-known fact that most writers trying out a first-person narrative for the first time always stumble into an autobiographical character. Always. It is the easiest thing to do, and not having to worry about the character’s tone, conviction, or consistency leaves the field wide open to concentrate on other stuff like plots and tale twists.

But then, if you’re a self-respecting writer with pretensions, or a successful one who has to write a second book with a different voice, or both, you’re stuck! Because you come upon that dreadfully unempathetic exercise of writing a narrative that belongs to a completely fictitious character. Most writers descend to more desperate tricks now. Their better halves, alter egos, close friends and family, all become foils that this narrating character wears. In these familiar shadows, the writer plunges his character’s tale, hoping that his view of his significant others is deep enough to make for a consistent character.

So far, so good. But there are only so many significant others. And so many more tales. And some tales need some really twisted characters to narrate, the type who wouldn’t feature in a self-respecting author’s friends-and-family calling group. Not unless said character had come to life, clawing his way up through a metaphorical grave to become rotting-flesh-and-trailing-blood, come to this world to wreak his revenge on an uncaring author. No wait. That idea has already been done. And we’re not talking about that kind of stuff here anyway. So, where was I? Twisted characters, yes!

So you need this borderline psychotic character, with an anticipatory insanity plea if you ever saw one, working his way (or her way, if that’s your kink) through an ever-deteriorating perspective, downward spiraling all the way to unnamable acts of despicable horror. Which friend or family member are you going to base this one on? Right!

This is where the writer enters the true unknown. Complete creation. Become someone and speak as him (or her, yes, I haven’t forgotten you). Live a life as you figure out how your character would feel in so-and-so circumstances and how your character would react. Making that difficult choice between a gas-powered chainsaw or a double-edged axe. What does your character really feel like hefting while giving way to all that incredibly raw angst?

Tough call. That’s what separates the big boys from the little ones, the contenders from the pretenders, the writers from the wannabes. Live your characters through in your head and you will tell a tale worthy of them. Or you might as well give your unfortunate psychotic a letter opener. A plastic one. With a lace-decorated handle. She wouldn’t be able to handle anything else. (Or he wouldn’t, sure! Everyone has an opinion!)

Cogito Ergo Finito

On Whimsy

It has been a while since I’ve succumbed to the seductive call of my oldest and most faithful mistress. She calls every once in a while, as persistent as a wooing adolescent with cratered cheeks and the eternal-hope springing breast. She has much more grace though, and her technique is more akin to that of an erudite and accomplished Madame. Her whispered words used to send a hot flush up my cheeks. She paints images no decent man should ever see. She used to croon to me, teasing me, taunting me. She still does, the words always the same.

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

Memories come back. Memories of deliciously irresponsible escapes from the ennui of everyday eventuality. Memories of breathlessly reckless acts that derailed the careful plans of years and their predictable tomorrows. Memories of her, always whispering, always leading me on a merry chase away from everything else, away from everyone else.

Whimsy. She always comes back. It doesn’t matter where I am, what I do, or how settled in my groove (rut!) I am. She always has a spiel, and it is always intoxicatingly intriguing and attractive. She does not try to reason, though. Never! She advocates against it! She does not promise happy tomorrows for everafter or even a moment’s gratification that is somehow worth a lifetime. There is nothing guaranteed but the act of indulging in her, in Whimsy. Everything that follows is delightful chaos.

The clock ticks and as grey flecks my hair and crows sinks their claws around my eyes, her trips become more poignant. It is more difficult now to just give in. it is more difficult now to turn her away. As my age nears her immortal appearance, our relationship matures. Her words are the same, but they make me smile now and not blush. Her tricks are still clever and completely unanticipated. But they make me applaud at the illusion; I’m a spectator, not a victim. I’m an outsider, not one of her lovers anymore. And still, when she leans forward, her wanton perfume filling me up with the lust to live outside the boundaries of what is acceptable and right, when she brushes those lips against my reluctant ears and whispers…

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

I wonder. I can’t help but wonder.

Cogito Ergo Finito

Poetic License Revoked

Many a time I’ve found myself at a complete loss

With a piece of prose labeled delectable and divine

Critics ooh and aah even as the writer weaves up a mystery

In a piece that is neither a whodunit nor a what’s-the-corpse-wearing

Nay, the convolutedness of the prose goes deeper than that

Its devious machinations are a plot unto themselves

The goal of its damning complexity seems merely to perplex

And belittle the reader perspiring his way to sophistication

Every twisted metaphor contrives meanings profound and obscure

Or it might not be a metaphor even, just delusions of authorship all along

A roaring lion in pink pyjamas set the fondue on fire on a nocturnal jaunt

See what I just did?

With a bit more finesse and bare-faced pretension

I could have passed that piece of twaddle as literature

Just like I toss aside meter and rhythm

And call this assortment of rambling raving rants

Poetry

Cogito Ergo Finito