Tag Archives: Shakespeare

Finding Character

“Characters are not created by writers. They pre-exist and have to be found.” Elizabeth Bowen

200px-Elizabeth_Bowen
This is true. I have no authority to make such a statement, but there it is. Actors speak of finding characters. It is much more than saying the lines, or putting on the costumes. They try different things, talk in front of a mirror, obsess about it, work it, and then one day they will arrive at the set and describe how they found their character. They speak of the precise moment when it happened. It may have sprung from tying scarves around their heads as when Johnny Depp became Jack Sparrow, or it could be something that happened with the walk. Somewhere along the way, they become inhabited. That is how I would describe the experience.

In Madeline L’Engle’s case, she woke up from a nap and saw him, Charles Wallace Murray. He was sitting in her room. Other accounts describe dreams or even visions. In my experience, it is dialog. The character starts talking. I am only doing the typing. When this happens, I can barely contain my excitement. I fear that to stifle my imaginary friends would be wrong, so I let them run on. They may have accents, wear funny clothes, or seem a bit strange, but I assume it is not my place to question anything. They may take the story in a new direction. They will be full of surprises. In some cases they will take over, shove me out of the way and tell the story themselves. That is the greatest gift. Every word will flow like a river.

madeleine_lengle_2    Madeline L’Engle

Years ago, a young friend who wrote songs told me that the Creator likes creating. He said that he felt well in his soul when the tunes came to him. It is a strange unknown impulse that drives us all. So if what Elizabeth Bowen said is true, how do we go about this process of finding our characters? I wish I had the answer. It would be a great boon to all kinds of creative people if the method were that simple. In all disciplines, it seems that getting in the mode is the key. Even stage performances will vary from night to night, and when the magic occurs, it will be very fleeting. Those who happened to be at that performance, or at that game, or in that moment, will know it. The greatest characters in all of literature did not start when the author attempted to describe a middle-aged white man or a beautiful young girl. I would hazard a guess that those fantastic beings arrived fully formed. Maybe great souls have a desire to jump back into life this way. If it isn’t happening, don’t worry because if you stick with it for long enough, I am convinced that someone will show up.

While writing My American Eden, I wanted to bring Mary Dyer’s story to life. Since she was the only female inhabitant of Boston in 1635 that Governor Winthrop attempted to describe in his journals, I learned that she was “comely and of no mean estate.” Years later, on Rhode Island, the Governor wrote that she could converse with any man, as well as any man on any topic.” That was my start. I searched and begged for more clues. One night at The Best Food Ever Book Club in Spokane, I was elaborating on my research to date when a great friend said, “Mary Dyer? I am a direct descendant of Mary Dyer.” Next I learned that the model for Sylvia Shaw Judson’s statue commemorating this rebel saint who gave her life for the cause of religious freedom was none other than my husband’s paternal grandmother. The list goes on, but I still yearned to see her. To really meet her. While obsessing about Mary and writing the first draft I had to choose between internal dialogue, what I imagined she was thinking while alone in her house, or show her conversing with someone. Of course, who would have been alone in their house in 1635? I added an indentured servant. Not even beginning to create any sort of picture, she was there. By the fourth draft I had gone from nine hundred pages to four hundred and fifty, and switched from third person omniscient to first person. Only it was not Mary’s voice in my head following the discipline of the narrative; it was Irene, the servant, the one who arrived fully formed. I started getting a better look at Mary through her eyes.

count of monte christo

A fully formed character could be anyone. What they are is visible and memorable. The Count of Monte Christo. Tom Sawyer. Scarlet O’Hara. Jane Eyre. Harry Potter. Romeo of the House of Montague. Portia. The list goes on and on. You can’t name a great classic without a memorable character, or several coming to mind.

The Food of Love

 brown map of Paris

My last day of high school involved an exam. The subject was geography. My teacher, Winifred Prestwich, walked down the aisle in the prayer hall where desks had been placed, patted my shoulder, and wished me luck. She called me by my sister’s name, Mary. It didn’t matter. I was used to it. The fact that my sister graduated years prior made no difference. Miss Prestwich liked her enormously, so in calling me by her name, it felt like a token of affection.

I supposed I trembled a little as I read the exam questions. My school, Havergal College for Young Ladies, was famous for its tough standards. The packet was a fairly thick one. As I looked through it, I found a blank street map of Paris. We were to name as many streets and landmarks as possible. Each accurate answer yielded a point, and the map was worth fifty percent of the grade. It was never mentioned as a possibility in class. We had spent a few weeks learning about the city planning, but we expected an essay question on that topic. I filled in the map first. By the time I finished, I had to race through the other questions. When I heard the words, “Pens down,” my high school years came to a close. After spending countless hours complaining about the uselessness of what we were learning, and pontificating to all in sundry about what I would have rather been studying, I now had to concede that Miss Prestwich had given us a very practical application of knowledge. I feel at home in Paris. I would live there in a heartbeat if I could. I can always find my way around.

Paris

When I heard of the recent attacks, like so many others, I felt a great kinship with the people who live in my favorite city. It is hard to quantify places, and I am never a fan of ranking everything in sight, but in my mind Paris is the at the top of the pinnacle. My love of beauty is satisfied at every turn. The care taken with every morsel of food is so impressive that I feel as if I can live on the inspiration for years. I am a self-confessed Francophile. Isn’t anything one does, anything at all, worth doing well? That is what I admire about la belle France. The streets, washed every morning with a small flood that swooshes through, allows shopkeepers to sweep and scrub their sidewalks leaving them fresh and clean. The bakers are up in the dark making the daily bread. Working your way through a loaf of sliced bread from start to finish is unheard of in France. To everything, there is a delicate balance.

Now this: Violence. Disruption. Aggression. Brutality. Hideous darkness. What is to be done?

We cannot stop being hospitable. After 9/11, I thought of all the wonderful raucous times my family enjoyed in New York. The nights at Madison Square Garden, the restaurants, the hotels, and the famous cab drivers; the city vowed to carry on being New Yorkers. So I pray for Paris. I pray for it to remain as the City of Light, and I expect to visit it again sometime soon. I hope the cafes are never forced to close their doors again. Church bells rang throughout the city on Sunday. U2 had to cancel their concert. As reported in a radio interview with Irish D.J. Dave Fanning, Bono said, “ I think music is important. I think U2 has a role to play, and I can’t wait till we get back to Paris and play.”

Paris cafe

“If music be the food of love, play on.” Shakespeare: Twelfth Night, Act One, Scene One.