As we saw yesterday, the biggest problem with my Flash Fiction Chronicles string-of-10 entry was connection – the judges didn’t feel a connection to my main character. Or, to be more blunt, they just didn’t care about her.
So, what is it that makes us care about a character? To my mind, these are the big four:
- Recognition. It’s easier for us to care about someone in whom we see parts of ourselves.
- Relatability. Similar to recognition, this is about getting inside a character’s head – we can see their point of view, or the reasoning behind their actions.
- Character. Seems silly, right, talking about the character of a character? Maybe. But a character’s voice, tics, and other unique traits help us care, much the same way we might hate the way a loved one snores, but be unable to imagine them any other way.
- Knowledge. Knowing about a character’s background can make a huge difference. For example – let’s say I’m writing a story about Jenny, and have just killed off her dog. It’s all terribly sad, but not that big a deal, since, well, Jenny’s just a few words on a page. Now, the moment I start to write about why the dog was important (Daisy saw her through the hard times, was there when she finalised her divorce from Evil-UFO-Abductee Husband, stayed by her side when she was diagnosed with an allergy to chocolate &c. &c.), it becomes a lot easier to sympathise with Jenny’s loss.
Of course, now comes the tricky part – applying the big four to my own work. (Re-read Hunter and the judges’ comments here.)
What do we know?
- the main character is a woman
- she’s been abused
- her husband drinks too much
- she’s desperate
- she believes in magic/magic exists in this world
Although that may seem like a lot to learn about anyone in 239 words, a lot of the reader-character connection is cancelled out by virtue of the story, i.e. wife seeks revenge, being very familiar (think Hera, Clytmenestra, &c. &c.).
Paragraph 1
Sweat beads on the drum, catching on my fingers, coating them in rough animal smell. “It’s deer,” the dealer tells me, ”from hunters in the north. They don’t waste nothin’, them hunters. Deer means meat for summer, jerky for winter, an’ leather an’ other goods for me.” He leans in close. “Betcha you can guess who gots the better deal.” I try not to gag at the stench of ale on his breath; it isn’t hard. After so many years with Him, I’m used to it.
Old line: “After so many years with Him, I’m used to it.”
A bit bland – adding specifics might give this paragraph a bit more punch, and give my main character more of a voice.
New line: “After ten years of Ewan and his drink, I’m used to it. I was used to it the day after we were married.”
Paragraphs 2 & 3
Handing over my coin, I take the drum and head home. In my pocket are the instructions, fresh from Herself. I glance at the paper the woman gave me. The words are hard to make out; the paper is streaked with smoke and charcoal stains. I set the drum down carefully, then beat the tattoo ‘til blood rises to my cheeks and I know it’s time.
Kicking up clouds of umber, I follow the paper’s directions, stepping left then right, kicking forward, forward, back. Herself’s sketches are crude, but they do the job. Sinking farther into the movements, I start to enjoy myself. Storm clouds scud across the sky. My heart races.
These lines tell us little, except that the woman can follow directions. Writing about her nails helps create a sense of tension, and gives the reader some aspect of her appearance to cling to.
Old Line: The words are hard to make out; the paper is streaked with smoke and charcoal stains.
New line: The words are hard to make out; the paper is streaked with smoke and charcoal stains. I scratch at them with my nails, but they’re too torn, too ragged to make a difference.
Paragraphs 4 & 5
I wonder if he’s feeling it yet – if his heart beats with mine, if his skin is growing ruddier with the effort of each breath. In the house, there’s a thud, followed by a low groan.
She’d promised it’d be quick.
I’m all right with the first of these lines – there’s nothing wrong with telling the reader what’s happening. But the last one is weak, especially for such a short piece. Why? It doesn’t reveal anything about the main character.
Old line: She’d promised it’d be quick.
New line: I go home.
I’m still not sure about this new line, but I think it’s better than the old one. To me, it says that the main character has reclaimed her home for the first time in ten years. I kind of want to write more, but now, with the new lines and a few tweaks, Hunter is bang on the 250 word limit. I’m also iffy because this means two consecutive paragraphs begin the same way – something I try to avoid unless I’m creating emphasis. I think the emphasis works here, but I’m not sure.
Another, somewhat obvious way to create connection is to give characters names. I chose not to for this piece intentionally – for most flash fiction, I think a little anonymity helps create a sense of immediacy, especially when working in the present tense. What do you think?
And now, the re-worked Hunter:
Sweat beads on the drum, catching on my fingers, coating them in rough animal smell. “It’s deer,” the dealer tells me, ”from hunters in the north. They don’t waste nothin’, them hunters. Meat for summer, jerky for winter, leather an’ all for me.” He leans in close. “Betcha you can guess who gots the better deal.” I try not to gag at the stench of ale on his breath; it isn’t hard. After ten years of Ewan and his drink, I’m used to it. I was used to it the day after we were married.
Handing over my coin, I take the drum and head home. In my other hand are instructions, fresh from Herself. The words are hard to make out, the paper streaked with smoke and charcoal stains. I scratch at them with my nails, but they’re too ragged to make a difference. I set the drum down carefully, then beat the tattoo ‘til blood rises to my cheeks and I know it’s time.
Kicking up clouds of umber, I follow the instructions, stepping left then right, kicking forward, forward, back. Herself’s sketches are crude, but they do the job. Sinking farther into the movements, I start to enjoy myself. Storm clouds scud across the sky. My heart races.
I wonder if he’s feeling it yet – if his heart beats with mine, if his skin is growing ruddier with the effort of each breath. In the house, there’s a thud, followed by a low groan.
I go home.
What do you think? Any tips? How do you create a connection to your protagonists?
[Miss yesterday's post about this story? See it here.]
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