Getting Into Character: Seven Secrets a Novelist Can Learn From Actors (25 page)

“I will talk to Lauren.” Brock sounded so calm, so quiet. “We’ll work it out. She’ll come to visit me as often as possible. We can take joint custody. I’d never walk away from my daughter, you know that.”

“You
are
walking away, Brock. You step through that door, and she stays here—that’s w-walking away. Just try explaining to Lauren how
Alicia
”—I sing-songed the name—“is more important than she is.”

He looked at his hands.
Hit a nerve, did I, Dr. McNeil?

“And what am I supposed to do, Brock? I don’t think I can even d-drive. You’re just leaving us to fend for ourselves?”

“You’ll get better.”

“Will I, now.”

“Yes.” His voice sharpened. “Probably about as soon as I pack my things.”

I glared at him. “You’re the liar here, not me.”

He pinned me with a look. “It takes two to make a marriage fall apart.”

“Do tell. And what exactly is it that I’ve . . . done to you? Other than take care of you and our house and child. Other than love you”—my voice caught—“with my
entire life
.”

He looked away, his jaw set. “You’ve put me through a lot of worry in the past few days.”

Well, excuse me.

“Brock. I didn’t know you were leaving. Naïve as that makes me, I didn’t know. This illness, the phone calls—they’re not faked. I know you’d l-love to believe that. Makes it easier to walk out that door. ’Cause what kind of man leaves his w-wife when she can barely walk? Not to mention when some man’s stalking her ….”

Exploration Points

Questions for you to answer:

1.
Note the two very different Inner Rhythms within Jannie—the weighty, exhausted rhythm of her illness, and the rhythm of her shock, then anger at Brock’s betrayal. How do each of these affect her actions?

2.
What are the various colors of Jannie’s emotional reaction throughout the scene? How do these progressive emotions work with her two Inner Rhythms?

Moving On

In the last five chapters we have discussed numerous techniques to help you discover new truths about your character. We’ve come all the way from Personalizing to Inner Rhythm. You are poised to write about your character in ways you never have before. Now, how to best present all that knowledge—all those truths about your character—on paper? We turn to some specific writing techniques to help you write a scene in the most compelling way possible. These are techniques adapted from the Method Acting concepts of Secret #6: Restraint and Control.

SECRET #6

Restraint and Control

ACTOR’S TECHNIQUE:

As a painter needs a clean, white canvas upon which to create a picture, an actor needs a body that is cleared of her own natural gestures so she may discover movements that are true to the character. Superfluous movements cause two problems: they divert energy away from gestures that are appropriate, and they weaken characterization by blurring the overall performance. To avoid such movements, an actor must practice Restraint and Control.

NOVELIST’S ADAPTATION:

An actor creates a character through choice of movements; a novelist creates a character through choice of
words
. If a scene is weak or moves too slowly, it may be the result of superfluous or poorly chosen words—words that blur the focus of the scene and slow the pace. Through Restraint and Control a novelist learns how to use the best words to flesh out characters, create an aura, and move the scene forward.

Blending Technique And Characterization

Consider for a moment the challenge our acting cousins face. For months an actor has studied her part, learned her lines. She’s ready to live and breathe her character. Then comes that moment of stepping onto the stage to perform. The wood floor suddenly seems so vast, the curtains so high. The actor’s limbs tense, her mouth goes dry, and her mind blanks. She speaks a line, makes a motion, and feels her own mannerisms threatening to surface, even after all her studying of the role.

We could say this nervous actor has to “pull herself together.” But actually, to effectively portray all the characterization brimming within her, she must allow herself to “split” into two personas. The first is her character, living out her life on the stage. The Method actor must become that character—feeling her emotions, desires, joys, and disappointments. This, in fact, is the essence of Method Acting. The second persona is herself, the actor, the technique-watcher. This persona almost stands back as a separate entity, judging her technical performance. Is she speaking her lines loudly enough? Has she turned her back to the stage? Is she remembering the blocking of the scene?

The Method actor will tell you this “splitting” is the moment of truth. She must carry each persona equally well. All the characterization in the world will amount to little if the audience can’t hear her lines or see her expressions. On the flip side, all the theatrical techniques in the world—the most resonant voice, the most perfectly memorized lines—will seem vain and empty without the soul of a character beneath them.

Glad you’re not an actor? Allow yourself a quick sigh of relief. Then remember the challenge
you
face.

The blank page.

Like the actor, you’ve done your homework. You know your characters. You’ve plotted your story, or if you’re a pantser you may at least know some of your story’s main events. If you’re like me, you may have movies of scenes and action and emotions running through your head. But now, like the actor, you must “split” into two personas. The first one cries and laughs and defies and trembles with your characters. The second sits before the blank page, sorting through writing techniques, asking questions such as: How do I make my readers see the movie in my head? How do I find just the right words to capture the aura, the emotions, of a scene that tumble and swirl through my mind?

In the last five chapters we’ve discussed numerous secrets to help the first persona. Now, like the actor, we face our moment of truth. The best Personalizing, the deepest understanding of our characters’ Action Objectives, subtexted dialogue, colored passions, and Inner Rhythm, will all be for naught unless we can find the right words to make our readers feel with our characters.

We’re not going to talk here about the most basic elements of writing, even though they’re certainly important. If you’ve stayed with me this far, you deserve a deeper discussion than one focusing on grammar, punctuation, and active versus passive verbs. We’ll focus instead on two writing techniques—our unique adaptation of the actor’s concepts of Restraint and Control. These are the techniques of
Sentence Rhythm
and
Compression
.

Sentence Rhythm

Mastering this concept will make a huge difference in how you put sentences together. Few novelists understand Sentence Rhythm. Few ever think about it. I see the lack of this technique in novels a
lot
. Proper Sentence Rhythm can make the difference between people
reading
your novel and
feeling
it.

Just as Inner Rhythm focuses on the inner “beat” of a character, the technique of Sentence Rhythm, as its name implies, focuses on the rhythm or “beat” of your sentences. You may not tend to think of your sentences as having rhythm, but they certainly do. And different sentence rhythms can create different feelings within a person, just like music does. A fast beat in a song makes you want to dance. A slow, easy beat makes you want to sway.

In the same way a long sentence tends to have a languid “beat.” Read some long sentences in a novel aloud, and you’ll see what I mean. It takes
time
to read a long sentence. This time is translated in the reader’s head as
time passing
in your scene.

Long sentences can be compound or complex. The former refers to two complete sentences strung together into one.
John watched as Mary approached from the other side of the room, and when she reached him, she offered him a rose.
Complex sentences begin with a descriptive phrase in front of the subject and verb.
Watching Mary approach from the other side of the room, John stood quietly, waiting.
In this second sentence, all the words before the comma describe somebody. That’s a lot of words to wade through before you get to the subject and verb. Only when you reach the subject do you even know the sentence is about John.

Think for a moment about the rhythm of life. What’s the rhythm of your heart beat and respiration when you’re resting? Contrast that to when you’re scared. Now put those two rhythms together in a scene: you’re alone on the couch, watching TV at night. Calm, quiet. How would you beat out the rhythm of your body? Suddenly—a window in the next room shatters. How does the rhythm of your body—your heartbeat, respiration, actions—change with the sudden fear? Your heart speeds up. Beats harder. This is the autonomic response to your body’s release of adrenaline—the “fight or flight” mechanism of survival. Your breathing also speeds up. It may become erratic. Your actions are anything but calm and languid. They’re jerky. Intense.

You can easily feel what I’m talking about. You’re human. You’ve been there.

So—if you were going to write this sudden fear and action, would long sentences with a languid rhythm be the best choice to make your readers
feel
the scene?

The rhythm of your sentences should match

the “beat” of action in your scene.

Most of the time (we’ll cover an exception shortly), long sentences will lull the reader, while short, choppy, or even incomplete sentences are more jarring. If your character is daydreaming by a babbling brook, long sentences are fine. Their very “beat” gives the sense of peace and tranquility that ideally complements the setting. Here you can use compound or complex sentences. But in times of suspense or action, your sentences should beat the rhythm that the character feels as he faces danger. This rhythm is staccato, choppy. It carries a sense of fear, of the unexpected.

Not that readers understand this concept on a conscious level. But unconsciously, they will feel it. If a reader has to wade through long sentences when the scene’s action is supposed to quicken her heartbeat, she won’t feel the aura you’re trying to create. Why? Because the lulling rhythm she “hears” in her head as she reads your sentences will fight your intended rhythm of danger.

For action or suspense, shorten your sentences.

If your scene begins quietly or perhaps with narrative, and then action starts, switch to shorter sentences at that point. Here and there you might use only phrases. In very intense action, as in life-and-death danger sequences, you can even use one-word sentences.