At Dusk I Reign
Sage
Ahh, another day, another thread: like a monk with an aversion to washing powder, I seem to have developed a nasty habit. Not to worry, though – I'll try to keep things brief; some of you have homes to go to, I realise (and those who don't probably have dungeons to clean while your Dark Lord flirts with strangers through his magic mirror).
Anyway, let us proceed with gusto (not gussets – that's a whole different website). Pull up a chair if you can find one. If not, stand at the back (phones off). I won't keep you long, and if I do you have my permission to lob a piece of furniture at my head. Can't promise not to duck, though!
My story begins, as these things occasionally do, with a conversation. With an actual person, too – my days of talking to the TV are long gone.
This guy isn't a friend by any means (and yes, I do have some. Not very many, admittedly, but then again there are few who'll willingly get close to a pasty-faced man in a fedora – they expect lengthy lectures on rococo furniture, I suspect). Let's call him an acquaintance, one of those people it's socially awkward to ignore but sadly illegal to slap in the face with a rolled-up newspaper.
He's writing a novel (yes, I know, buy a ticket and get in line) and he seemed to know that I was a scribbler myself, though I'm not sure how as I don't think my infrequent conversations with him have ever strayed very far from what nice/horrible/indifferent weather we seem to be having for the time of year. My better half may well be culpable in this regard. I shall have words with her, though I'm sure they'll be gleefully ignored as per usual.
Anyway, this sorry individual was having difficulties, difficulties with his characters. They weren't doing what they were supposed to do, what he wanted them to do, and he wondered if I'd ever encountered the same problem.
I explained (with admirable restraint I thought) that I hadn't. I even managed to keep my tone neutral, never once betraying the fact that I thought he should take a very long vacation, far away from any sudden movements or loud noises.
I think he's several garibaldis short of a picnic, you see? I'm not entirely unsympathetic, I can understand how in the white heat of creation the imagination can break free and go for a gallop, but I really don't see how a character can be seen to have developed free will.
I know Mister Man (as he shall henceforth be known) isn't alone. I've read interviews with authors who speak of their creations as if they are real people, who even claim that said creations do their own thing in a story, impervious to whatever input the author might profer.
This can't be right, surely? I'm all for well-rounded characters, for allowing them to behave and react in ways which suit the personality they've been given. But they're not real. They do what the author demands, not the other way around.
Am I alone in my view? Is it old-fashioned to believe that characters should be subservient to plot (and hence the author)? Have I missed a trick? Do I lack commitment? Are there too many questions in this paragraph?
So, fellow scribes, what's the story? What works for you?
Anyway, let us proceed with gusto (not gussets – that's a whole different website). Pull up a chair if you can find one. If not, stand at the back (phones off). I won't keep you long, and if I do you have my permission to lob a piece of furniture at my head. Can't promise not to duck, though!
My story begins, as these things occasionally do, with a conversation. With an actual person, too – my days of talking to the TV are long gone.
This guy isn't a friend by any means (and yes, I do have some. Not very many, admittedly, but then again there are few who'll willingly get close to a pasty-faced man in a fedora – they expect lengthy lectures on rococo furniture, I suspect). Let's call him an acquaintance, one of those people it's socially awkward to ignore but sadly illegal to slap in the face with a rolled-up newspaper.
He's writing a novel (yes, I know, buy a ticket and get in line) and he seemed to know that I was a scribbler myself, though I'm not sure how as I don't think my infrequent conversations with him have ever strayed very far from what nice/horrible/indifferent weather we seem to be having for the time of year. My better half may well be culpable in this regard. I shall have words with her, though I'm sure they'll be gleefully ignored as per usual.
Anyway, this sorry individual was having difficulties, difficulties with his characters. They weren't doing what they were supposed to do, what he wanted them to do, and he wondered if I'd ever encountered the same problem.
I explained (with admirable restraint I thought) that I hadn't. I even managed to keep my tone neutral, never once betraying the fact that I thought he should take a very long vacation, far away from any sudden movements or loud noises.
I think he's several garibaldis short of a picnic, you see? I'm not entirely unsympathetic, I can understand how in the white heat of creation the imagination can break free and go for a gallop, but I really don't see how a character can be seen to have developed free will.
I know Mister Man (as he shall henceforth be known) isn't alone. I've read interviews with authors who speak of their creations as if they are real people, who even claim that said creations do their own thing in a story, impervious to whatever input the author might profer.
This can't be right, surely? I'm all for well-rounded characters, for allowing them to behave and react in ways which suit the personality they've been given. But they're not real. They do what the author demands, not the other way around.
Am I alone in my view? Is it old-fashioned to believe that characters should be subservient to plot (and hence the author)? Have I missed a trick? Do I lack commitment? Are there too many questions in this paragraph?
So, fellow scribes, what's the story? What works for you?
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