A DETECTIVE’S WORK
This is a short essay I wrote in 2020 for a college assignment. I would write it differently today, but here it is, for archival purposes.
The amusing part of reading or listening to a writer discuss their craft is how writerly they do it. The word ‘writerly’ implies a lot here, like descriptive language and mood. Oftentimes, a dramatic statement about one’s place in the universe or the reality of life is dropped in at random, grabbing the audience’s attention. It’s effective too. I can’t deny that I stopped in my tracks when I read Deborah Eisenberg describe the act of writing fiction as taking on another’s body, to live life in a way you never could. It’s to be expected of a writer to speak and express themselves as they do in their work, after all you would not criticize a landscape artist for adding depth to a sketch meant only to lay out the directions to their house. It’s part of their nature. When you spend so much time honing your skills, the concept of leaving them behind in the very environment you’ve built them is counterintuitive. Nevertheless, that’s what I plan to do here, though have failed quite miserably in this introduction. My instincts tell me to discuss the way I write characters the way I write my characters, but that would make this an extension of that work, and would I really be giving an insight any different to what my stories already provide? It’s unlikely, and the only way to know is to do it both ways. So, I’ll start by forgetting all I know and tell, not show.
Every character I create knows everything I don’t. In third-person perspective, I follow them and learn all they can offer. I am finishing a fantasy project I started years ago, and in my final draft I have found that the process has not changed. My main characters know infinitely more than I ever will, and to write them down on a page is no different than listening to a stranger speak across the room and copying down all they notice and do. By the end of that page I have learned a great deal, and a person is revealed before my very eyes. This at first glance seems easy and without challenge, and that is a correct assumption. Problems arise only when a character is closed off and doesn’t wish to tell me a single thing. This is what I recently dealt with when writing about Mar. The worst part about writing her is that she knows more than anyone I have ever written, but her lack of trust seals away all her knowledge. She trusts no one, including herself. She does not trust her emotions, and so she chooses to ignore them. Neither does she fully trust senses, for she lives in a world where magic lurks behind every corner, convincing her of sights and sounds that are not always there. My usual approach of typing every iota a feeling and thought that a character experiences is thrown out the window, and I am left frowning at a white screen, frowning at Mar, and often she is frowning back because she is rude and unfriendly, and then our situation gets quite ridiculous. Exasperated and wondering why it is I have wasted my time on a character who does not wish to be explored, the initial sentiment is to… well, in all honesty, it’s to keep going.
Mar was a side-character in my main novel, and her function was to discover and present the facts quickly. She’s a detective, and a mean one, and that was all there was to it. However, when I wrote a chapter of her backstory as a writing assignment, her function changed. She was now there to be there, to be seen and understood and the centre of attention. At the beginning of that chapter, these were all things she rejected and her resistance to the narrative was so apparent I was taken aback, confused by a person so unwilling to talk about themselves or complain about life’s mistreatments. Every piece of information she reluctantly gave out felt like a treasured gift, more valuable than anything a more co-operative protagonist would have shared. This—the work to reveal her secrets—became my holy task, and we laboured together to give and receive, until the last full stop had been tapped and the click of the keys faded to silence. There she was. A real character. I’d always known her name: Marigold of the Black Cloaks, a clan of warlocks who donned cloaks of said colour, notorious for their unmannerly ways and foul tongues. I knew she didn’t like to be called that, but that was the extent of Mar to me. Until now.
I know Mar. She is emotional, and fearful, and resents that in herself more than she resents others. She would not at first reveal her memories to me because she did her best to bury them herself. She had no intentions of confrontation, but I had put her in that position to see who she was, and she hated that. She hated me, and everyone but herself, because she thinks she did well to get this far and stay alive. She thinks everyone is out to get her. She wanted to stay hidden in the webs of backstory that many side-characters fall into, but I brought her ought centre-stage, shone a spotlight on her person. It was a riveting experience in the end. She shared with me versions of anxiety that I’d been a stranger to, and feelings of triumph I hadn’t considered. To quote Eisenberg again, writing is, by its nature, therapeutic in that it changes you and “feels good to do”. That’s the only way I can describe writing Mar’s narrative—it changed me, and it felt good.
Both famously and obnoxiously, Stephen King advises to “kill your darlings” when editing. Not to literally impale your protagonist with a spear, but to kill through the act of editing out what you’re (irrationally) in love with; what doesn’t work anymore. It is here that I will attempt the ‘writerly’ approach to convey my thoughts, not only to compare the above method to tell-not-show, but also in effort to contrast King’s stark style while referencing King. A poor grasp on humour, but relevant to my poorly humoured Mar. I once wrote on the process of rewriting, and how painful and pleasurable it can be at once. In the case of editing Mar’s chapter, I smiled. To King’s delight, what should have been difficult to chop and remake of someone already so stiff, was eerily quick and painless. Not only did she seem glad to be rid of stray thoughts, but I was glad to find new ones, to uncover a different angle of something I had just seen. In a way, I was editing the way the protagonist would, using her eyes and ears to guide my own as opposed to the other way around. This is not something I’d ever experienced writing my novel, but maybe it was due to the fact that none of those characters were ruthless detectives. With Mar it was smooth, and she helped rather than resist. It was the opposite to what I was used to, where drafting was simple and editing more challenging.
If there’s one thing I understand about developing a fictional character, it’s rather cheesy. No two individuals are alike, and thus the process will always differ. This is my grand and dramatic statement, the universal truth of writing that may or may not shake the minds of those who’d been unassuming, and simply reading along. The reality of picking apart a person’s thoughts to display them for entertainment is as complicated as it sounds, but that’s the beauty of it. It’s what makes people unique. I don’t think Mar is terribly unique, and her backstory might not inspire someone to change their life, but it changed mine a little by the time we were done, making her special in every way that matters. Exploring her memories taught me that accessing the past can be hard, and this can say as much about a character as any dialogue or detailed flashback. This, for me, is what writing is. It’s learning and discovering, not just expressing. Using your own descriptive language and the same skills you practise on the regular is not always what’s best. It takes a new perspective to improve the old. Sometimes frank truth is better than vague suggestion. Maybe a colourful lie can replace the repetitions of objectivity. It’s a craft in the end—a fresh start is necessary to re-examine what you know. It’s not too dissimilar to that of a scholar, an investigator of the truth and lover of mystery, motivated by a question no one else has answered. It’s strange work but rewarding. I like to consider all writers like this, a detective at work, though I think Mar would disagree.