Betsy: The Isles of Shoals (Where TIDES Lives)

This is where my imaginary friends live.

No—real people live here, actually, in the real house on White Island, at the Isles of Shoals off the coast of Maine and New Hampshire.  But this house, and this lighthouse, are where the main characters in my first novel, Tides (click the link!), live, too.

I grew up in coastal New Hampshire, and I regularly went fishing and duck hunting at the Shoals with my dad, his best friend, Mike, and Mike’s son Corey (to whom Tides is dedicated).  Then, a few summers ago, I got a job on a tour boat that goes through Portsmouth Harbor to the Isles of Shoals twice a day.

Three-hour tours.  The uniform was a red polo shirt and khakis.  I was basically Gilligan.

My job was actually giving the tour: I would yammer into a microphone about the lighthouses and forts and whatnot in Portsmouth, the history of the area, and I’d tell stories about the many eccentric residents the Shoals have seen over the years.  (Notably: the poet Celia Thaxter and the pirate Blackbeard.  No kidding.)

This is the Oceanic Hotel on Star Island.  Lots of shenanigans in the book take place here, notably a dance put on by the hotel staff for all the islands’ residents.   (Tragically, I don’t think this is a real thing.)  Until recently, you had to be participating in a conference or retreat to stay at the Oceanic, but now I believe they take individual reservations.  Who wants to take me there?

The tower toward the left of this photo belongs to the Shoals Marine Lab on Appledore Island, just across Gosport Harbor from Star.  I always tell people that if I weren’t a writer, I would be a marine biologist or an oceanographer, and I have long wished I had the kind of credentials to get an internship here.  (I don’t think they take creative writers.)  A fictionalized version of the lab is very important in Tides, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Of course, Tides is really about selkies, and there are real ones at the Shoals.

Well, real harbor seals.  I suppose whether they’re really selkies is up for debate.  But I like to think so.

Can you see them in this picture?  We couldn’t get any closer to the island because of the underwater rocks (or shoals, hey now!  You may have just learned a new word!), so they are small here.

And just for good measure, another picture of Noah’s grandmother’s house and the White Island light.  Every time I’m away from the Shoals for a while, I start getting afraid that I’ve misremembered everything, that it’s not quite as beautiful as the way I see it in my head.  But it is.  I really do love the Shoals, and one of the things I most wish for Tides is that it will help other people love them, too.  But I’ll have to wait and see what you think about that.

Jonathan: It’s the End of the World as We Know it (and I Feel Fine!)

Books about the end of the world are hot. Movies, too. And comics, and video games, and TV shows, and…

Well, there seems to be a trend-- or, perhaps a fascination—with the coming apocalypse. Or even the thought that there might be an apocalypse looming.

Adults are hooked, and in recent years teens have been devouring anything related to the end of days.

Viewed from a distance this looks like evidence of a serious psychological and emotional downturn. A cultural cry for Prozac. It looks defeatist and nihilistic and sad.

But looks can be deceiving.

There’s actually a healthy and even optimistic lining to this cloud.

So, let’s poke a stick at it and see what flies out.

In terms of pure genre, there are actually four separate aspects to the genre. They are pre-Apocalyptic, Apocalyptic, Post-Apocalyptic and Dystopian. Over the last six years I’ve written variations of all four. And I’m a happy guy. I don’t shovel down anti-depressants and writing this stuff isn’t a cry for help.

PRE-APOCALYPTIC novels are often thrillers built around a race to prevent something very big and very bad from happening. That could be anything from an outbreak of a killer plague, the rise of a dark supernatural force, or something equally destructive. Even when these stories are violent and have high body-counts, they don’t revel in the destruction. That isn’t the point (though, admittedly, some Hollywood apocalyptic films do seem to be geared toward the ‘how cool is this!’ aspect of mass devastation). Pre-apocalyptic are about how things can get worse (or go straight into the toilet) if the hero/heroine doesn’t cowboy-up and stop it. These stories are about people –often quite ordinary people—rising to take a stand against the Big Bad, and by doing so they often prevent the end of everything they hold dear.

This speaks to a question I’m often asked: “Why do you write about monsters?” My answer is in harmony with the theme of the better pre-apocalyptic novels. I tell them: “I don’t write about monsters. I write about the people who fight monsters.” Big difference; and that difference is an aggressive optimism, a belief that there are some things worth fighting for. And that by taking a stand against evil, corruption (or whatever the metaphorical Big Bad stands for) we can effect positive change.

Some pre-apocalyptic novels to explore are The Maximum Ride series by James Patterson, the Alex Rider novels by Anthony Horowitz, the Young Bond series by Charlie Higson, the Cherub series by Robert Muchamore, and others.

APOCALYPTIC novels are a bit different. They’re about enduring the unendurable. They’re about discovering how courageous and resourceful we can be in a time of great crisis. And, sure, they’re metaphors as well. In an apocalyptic story the world is actually crumbling around us. It’s happening right now and it’s a runaway train. Stopping it is no longer an option. These stories often start with a character trying to survive this catastrophe; and the openings are very personal. They almost appear selfish and even downbeat, because in the first flush of crisis the central character is frequently terrified (even cowardly), in shock, and clumsy in their attempts to get through the moment. But that isn’t the whole story. As an apocalyptic tale unfolds, the central character learns from his/her own survival. They become stronger from every experience –no matter how terrible—that they’ve had; even if they also experience deep and lasting hurt. We all have scars. Only fools ignore the lessons from how each scar occurred. These stories are about growth as an individual because the infrastructure of daily life has been forcibly torn away. No one is coming to help, and so the character earns the right to survive by the act of surviving. It’s rugged self-validation. Other characters may also rise, but some will not. Once the central character has his foot, he generally extends his protection to others. Sometimes it is the act of protecting another that reveals personal strength to the protagonist.

That’s a fact of crisis, and it’s the basis for all real drama. Storytellers generally don’t write novels about happy people having a good day. We tell stories about good people having a really bad day. The incidents of that day, the stresses and calamities, strip away our personal affect and reveal our true nature and qualities. A bold captain of industry may be truly weak and ineffectual when it comes to a catastrophe; but the minimum-wage gal in the steno pool might have what it takes to save the day. Without crisis moments we have no opportunity to discover who we really are, and apocalyptic fiction lets writers and readers explore that.

Some of my favorites in this genre include Apocalyptic: Life As We Knew It by Susan Beth Pfeffer, Earth Abides by George R. Stewart, The Stand by Stephen King, Swan Song by Robert McCammon, Dies the Fire by S. M. Stirling

POST-APOCALYPTIC fiction takes us a few more steps down the road. Once the immediate crisis is at hand, the characters have to learn to remain strong, to continue to be smart and resourceful, to work together for the common good. Post-apoc stories are often about the value of human life and the benefits of civilized behavior. In these stories we explore the question of how far each of us is from the brute, the primitive. In times of crisis do we collapse, do we become predators who prey on the weakness of others, do we become leaders, or are we parts of a collective whose goal is to re-establish the best of what was lost? Sometimes we are a bit of all of these. These stories allow for us to explore the nature of ‘hard choices’, sacrifice, and what it means to do ‘what’s necessary for the common good’. We see old traits –from compassion to greed—reemerge once the immediate threat is over, and that brings up its own set of questions. Will we be better than we were? Worse? Or just the same? More very tough questions.

Some significant Post-Apoc novels include The Eleventh Plague by Jeff Hirsch, The Forest of Hands and Teeth by Carrie Ryan, The Pesthouse by Jim Crace, Oryx and Crake and The Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood, Alas Babylon by Pat Frank, I Am Legend by Richard Matheson.

DYSTOPIAN fiction is a related category. In these stories the old world has fallen and a new society has been built on its bones. Unfortunately this new society is far from ideal and we enter the story through a proxy character who is about to confront the nature and constraints of this new society. Sometimes the character is one who was not aware of the destructive or oppressive nature of the society –such as in Ray Bradbury’s landmark Fahrenheit 451, William F. Nolan’s Logan’s Run, George Orwell’s 1984—and reaches a moment of epiphany that makes them want to escape it or change it. Sometimes the character has always been aware of it and bucks that system, which is the case in Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games. In any case, we follow this person as they take a stand against society gone awry. These books are often criticized as being politically subversive; some have even have been banned for that very reason. I say, ‘Bravo!’ Taking a stand against political oppression and corruption was how America was born. It’s in our nature to speak out and to work for positive social, economic, and political change. These books allow readers of all ages to explore how that process works, and both the dangers and benefits of such a struggle.

Some other recommendations for dystopian fiction: The City of Ember by Jeanne DuPrau, The Knife of Never Letting Go by Patrick Ness, Ship Breaker by Paolo Bacigalupi, Uglies by Scott Westerfeld, and many others.

End Notes

I’m actually encouraged by the popularity of apocalyptic, post-apocalyptic and dystopian fiction with young readers. It shows that they are smart enough to understand that the world in which they live is far from perfect and is, in many uncomfortable ways, broken; but they expect a future. They know that they are inheriting something that is deeply flawed but full of potential. They plan on surviving anything that comes –surviving and thriving. The more they read, the more they feed that dream.

As much as that makes me feel hopeful that they will, in fact, survive anything that comes –be it an apocalyptic event or a lot of minor calamities and crises—it also encourages people of my generation to cut them a break and maybe hand them a less deeply flawed world.

Michael: Raise the Woof: Underdogs in YA

I stayed at a bar and listened to “Live Irish Music!” last night. You know why? Because no one else was. The musicians outnumbered the listeners, and I felt a little bad for those forlorn fiddlers. It got me thinking of the importance of underdogs, not so much in bars (though, please note, I can now write-off that trip) as in young adult literature.

There may be no other type of writing where the underdog is more common and more important, because in one way or another, almost every main character in YA is one. No matter how confident and competent they are, they are still teens living in an adult world—and possibly vampires living in a human world, wizards living in a muggle world, delicious, delicious humans living in a zombie world, or something else, but let’s stick with that first one for now.

And of course many of these characters are much less than completely confident and, in terms of competence, are at least as much MacGruber as MacGyver. The main characters in my first book, Gentlemen, are classic underdogs: They are lower-class kids from broken homes, remedial students, and they definitely have a tendency to bite. The narrator of Trapped, on the other hand, is basically an average kid—a good athlete and a decent student—but he’s at least as much of an underdog.



What makes him one is the weeklong blizzard that strands him and six other kids at their high school. Frankly, he could be the love child of Jack Bauer and La Femme Nikita and still be an underdog in that situation. All sorts of obstacles conspire to stack the odds and make characters sympathetic in YA, whether it’s being the new kid in town or subject to the machinations of a hellish dystopian society.

But the biggest obstacle remains adolescence itself. It is a confusing age, and it definitely doesn’t seem to be getting any less so. (Thanks a lot, global political/economic/cultural/technological upheaval.) The characters are sympathetic because they are going through the same things the readers are (or were). They are misunderstood, uncertain, disrespected (it’s right there in the word “minors”), and liable to be ignored on the one hand or to attract the wrong kind of attention on the other.

If you write YA, whether you intended it or not, your main character is probably an underdog. Of course, that’s true of many types of books. What’s remarkable about YA is that, if you look closely, the bullies, jocks, rivals, crushes, exes, friends, and enemies who round out the cast are probably underdogs too.

Christine: Authenticity in Characters' $*&%$ Dialogue

Today sucks.

Okay, a couple of disclaimers:

1. No, it doesn’t.
2. Even if it did, I would never say that.

But some of the characters I’ve created for my novels would. Lots of teenagers populate my novels, and teens aren’t necessarily known for the most nuanced of vocabularies.

I’ve had several conversations recently with people who think literature is among the arts contributing to the coarsening of our society. They don’t like vulgar language, or even relatively mild slang, in books—particularly those their kids may be reading.

I totally get that. I’m a mom myself, and I’m the daughter of a mother who grimaced once when I used the word “stink,” admonishing me to replace it with “smell unpleasant.” Her prim New England sensibilities are etched indelibly on my brain. And like my mother, I consider the standard not just a matter of etiquette, but of wordsmithing. Where’s the challenge in settling for language’s lowest common denominators? I’ve tried to set comparable standards for my own kids.

But do I trust that they can hear other people using salty language without following suit? Yes. And time has proved me right. They’re young adults now, and I’ve never heard them say anything that would make their grandmother blush. (Well . . . almost never.)

So how do I feel when they read dialogue coming from my characters’ lips that they could never image their mother saying?

Well . . . fine. First of all, I’m happy the distinction is clear, and second, I consider it my job to create characters who are credible, relatable and relevant. This doesn’t mean all of my characters cuss like sailors (which would be unrepresentative of and disrespectful to my readers), but it means that, by and large, they communicate differently than the middle-aged woman who created them. I think my art demands it.

When I’m writing at my best, my imagination is on cruise control. The characters have taken the wheel, and I’m just along for the ride. But if I start censoring them, the smooth path suddenly seems riddled with speed bumps. That doesn’t mean my characters have carte blanche to act or speak any way they please, but it means I have enough respect for them to be as true to them as possible. And if they are acting and speaking authentically, I think my readers respond to that, without compromising their own values in the process. Indeed, bad behavior in literature tends to cast our own values in sharp relief. It would seem condescending and inartful to give readers any less than a fully realized character, flaws and all.

Consider a scene from my young-adult novel, THEN I MET MY SISTER. The scene involves my protagonist’s frustration that her cold, controlling mother can never let herself be vulnerable, and therefore can never fully connect with her daughter. The mother’s emotional unavailability has no doubt blunted the shattering grief of losing her firstborn in a car wreck 18 years earlier, but this scene suggests the price she is paying:

Mom looks at me squarely. “You saved my life.”

A chill runs up my spine. I’ve heard this all my life, usually from other people: You gave your mother a reason to go on, they’ve said, or, I don’t think she could have made it without you. No pressure there, right?

I squeeze the blade of grass and green moisture stains my fingers. “It freaks me out a little when you say that, Mom.”

Anger flashes across Mom’s face.

“I mean, I’m glad you were happy to get pregnant again,” I clarify, trying to sound casual. “It’s just. . . .” It’s just friggin’ hard to be born with a job.

“You don’t have to explain,” Mom says, her voice steely.

“Don’t get mad, Mom,” I say. “We should be able to talk about things.”

“We’re talking,” she snaps.

I stand up abruptly and put my hands on my hips. “I hate it when you do this—shutting me out every time I try to open up to you.”

Mom turns defiantly, returning to her hands and knees, returning to her weeds.

“By all means, Summer, open up and let me know it annoys you to be told you make me happy,” she mutters to the dirt.

My stomach tightens, and my eyes shimmer with tears. God. I never cry in front of my mother. “I’m not goddamn annoyed!”

Mom turns and stares at me sharply. “Don’t curse at me, young lady.”

I open my mouth to respond, but Mom has resumed digging in the dirt, clawing her fingers into the soil, yanking up weeds and tossing them aside without giving them another glance. Each weed will be purged methodically, systematically, impassively, until her garden is perfect.

And she is finished talking to me.

I think this scene demands the cold-water jolt of harsh language.

And I think my readers can handle it.

Nina: On Getting Out of the House

Before I published my first novel, Hold Still, in October of last year, I used to look at novels on bookstore shelves and think that it must be easier for published writers to write than it was for me. I thought that writing might be like making my mother’s (delicious!) buttermilk pancakes. The first try would be disastrous (somehow both burnt and undercooked); the second try, a little better (but too lumpy, with little clumps of baking soda); the next few attempts, just okay. But then, after a while: success! And then, each time that followed: more success!

If I hadn’t gotten the delicious novel recipe down by my first book, I certainly should have it down by the second.

So with inevitable ease and success in mind, last summer I wrote the beginning of my second novel and an outline for the rest of it. It’s a road trip story, and I determined where my characters would be on each day and what they would do and, of course, what would be done to them. My first draft deadline was in the winter, so over the fall, I followed the outline I made, checking off scenes as I wrote them. My outline became a giant to-do list.

Which was a problem.

Where did the inspiration go? The creativity? You know that feeling, when you sit down to write a scene and then, suddenly, it becomes almost a living thing, starts moving in unanticipated directions, surprises you in the best way possible? Well, I didn’t get that feeling. All of it felt like work.

But worse than the work itself was the pressure. The pancake theory burned up, was replaced with the realization that writing is, at least for me, going to be an eternal struggle—and even more frightening than that, for the first time, people will be watching. So instead of only worrying about the book itself and whether it’s any good, I’m now also worried about how it will compare to my first novel. Of course, I want it to be better. I want to keep growing.

This summer, as though rebelling against my former stick-to-the-outline self, I began my revision and expansion work as haphazardly as possible, dipping into scenes at random, adding a few lines of dialogue here and there, letting my narrator think more freely. Upon re-acquainting myself with the novel, something good started to happen. In many scenes, moments that seemed unimportant became seeds of larger moments. I thought of a whole side trip that wasn’t there before, with new characters and new events solidifying the older themes that didn’t quite come to the surface in the first draft.

But I kept questioning myself: what if these new ideas weren’t actually that great? Maybe they were just new. So I decided to get on the road.

I brought music, a camera, and a few changes of clothes. I brought my wife, who is, among millions of wonderful things, a swift driver and a gifted exchanger of ideas. We drove where my characters drive, we saw friends, and we met new people, and through it all, I was open to everything. Just as my narrator is. Almost everywhere we went, I discovered something new to add to the novel. The restaurant in Medford with cinnamon buns the size of my face and impossible riddles as reading material. The farm on Vashon Island, where our close friends are living. The friend of a friend in Portland, who told stories about working jobs I never knew existed. Everything we saw out the window as we whizzed past it.

The trip revealed gaps in the story I hadn’t recognized, and then showed me how to fill them. I’m excited, now, about where the book is going and the ways in which it continues to grow. And, though certainly no replacement for the recipe I thought I would master, I learned something that I’ll be able to apply to the next book: in order to breath life into my work, I need to get outside and live a little.

Marianna: Further Thoughts on Dialogue -- Distinct Voices for Similar Characters

As a follow-up to Varian’s post about dialogue-heavy scenes (April 28), I wanted to share some thoughts about a difficulty often faced by YA (and MG) authors when writing dialogue – creating distinct voices for adolescent friends who’ve grown up in similar circumstances.

All fiction writers know that developing distinct voices is one of the Ten Commandments of dialogue. As clearly explained by Anne Lamott and Janet Burroway:

“…you should be able to identify each character by what he or she says. Each one must sound different from the others” (Lamott, 66).
and
“A character who says, ‘It is indeed a pleasure to meet you,’ carries his back at a different angle, dresses differently, from a character who says, ‘Hey, man, what it is?’” (Burroway, 137).

But while working on my first young adult novel, I encountered a problem. My characters – a group of teen friends – are far, far more similar to each other than the two characters Janet Burroway presents. They share similar educational backgrounds, hometown, class, and race. And isn’t this true of the characters in many YA and MG novels? After all, in “real life”, before they’ve made choices and gone their own ways in the world, teens are often surrounded by others who are (circumstantially, at least) similar to themselves.

So, how to create individual, identifiable voices?

In looking at YA novels that center on groups of friends, I found that some (definitely not all) writers successfully develop recognizable voices for their characters while still believably portraying close-knit groups with much in common. To do this, the writers key into the defining aspects of the characters’ personalities and create voices that reflect those traits. The differences between voices are subtler than in Burroway’s example, of course. But, the voices clearly belong to separate, distinct individuals.

Here’s a look at how one writer does this successfully.

Love, Cajun Style by Diane Les Becquets follows friends Lucy (the narrator), Evie and Mary Jordan through the summer before their senior year. The three girls grew up together in the small, Southern town of Sweetbay, are of similar middle class backgrounds, and attend the same school.

Lucy’s summer is characterized by a loss of youthful innocence, but also by an affirmation of her belief in the goodness of people. Two qualities come through most strongly in her speech. One is her general childlike enthusiasm – the innocent side of her personality –manifested in her folksy, almost old-fashioned phrasing:

“What did you think about Mr. Savoi’s open house?” Evie asked.
I felt myself smile. “I had myself a mighty fine time.”
… “And?” Evie said.
“And Dewey asked me if he could kiss me.”
“He asked you?” Mary Jordan said.
“Mm-hmm. And I’m here to tell you that was the finest kissing I’ve ever had in my life” (221-222).

When Lucy’s somewhat naïve and idealistic ideas about love are challenged, though, her speech reflects an unsure side, as she struggles to figure out her own feelings and thoughts. For example, when speaking to Mary Jordan about her loss of virginity, Lucy doesn’t offer opinions, but only asks questions. This is her way of speaking whenever a friend is in crisis. By asking questions, she leads both her friends and herself to a deeper understanding.

“When did he tell you he didn’t want to be serious?” I asked her.
“We were supposed to get together last night. But then a bunch of the guys wanted him to go out. He’d been acting different. I called him later. That’s when he told me.”
…“When did you decide to go through with it?”
“It was after we made up at the play. We talked about it. At first I wasn’t sure. But then one night things just seemed to happen. It’s supposed to feel good, right?” she said.
I just listened.
“The first time it hurt. I thought it was going to be so incredible. I’d felt so much when we were kissing. But when it was over, I didn’t feel anything. It all happened so fast. I thought the next time it would be better.”
“Was it?” I asked (267).

Lucy’s tendency to listen and ask questions – main characteristics of her dialogue (or lack thereof) throughout the book – reflect her confusion, her search for answers in her life, as well as her gentle ability to help friends come to conclusions about their own lives.

Evie’s main dilemma is almost the opposite of Lucy’s; she is struggling to find the openness and innocence necessary to experience a romantic relationship. Evie is jaded, primarily because of a mother who has a constant stream of male “visitors” in and out of the house. She has developed both a tough exterior and a sense of humor to help her deal with her situation. Unlike Lucy, she is also confident in her opinions and offers advice freely. These are the characteristics that come through in her speech. Here, Lucy confides in Evie about having kissed her teacher:

“I mean, he’s good-looking and all. And maybe it’d be fun to think about kissing him. But thinking and doing are two different things. Remember those kids we were teaching vacation Bible school to last year?” Evie said.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Remember how cute little Peter was?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Well, how do you think it would have been if one day I’d gotten him in the broom closet and gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, even though he was suscitating just fine?” (151).

Evie’s colorful sense of humor often comes through in her use of metaphors. She tells Lucy: “You can go speaking to him. But try and be like one of those Orange Dream Bars that’s been sitting in the freezer too long. Gets that freezer burn all over it” (152). Not only would Lucy never offer advice so confidently, she would never use an analogy like this.

Mary Jordan is the dreamer of the three, more comfortable in the world of books and poetry. This sensibility leads her to make statements such as, “Love is so magical. It’s like this spell that makes you all dizzy in the head.” (124). She also has the least noticeably Southern voice, which corresponds with her more bookish, slightly more worldly personality. “It’s crazy. I thought Doug and I could be one of those great loves. I felt important. I had the whole thing planned out in my head. But now I feel so empty, like it never meant anything to him at all” (265). There is no mistaking Mary Jordan’s quotes for anything that Evie or Lucy would say.

In the earliest drafts of my young adult novel, Frost House, the adolescent characters did not have any variation in their speaking voices. I was focused on the content of their dialogue and on making it sound realistic. I didn’t take the next step -- thinking about what dialogue differences would deepen the characterization of the girls. The following is an example of a conversation between Leena, the narrator, and her new roommate, Celeste. (Beats and most speaker attributions have been removed.)

“You know, I’m sorry I never called over the summer,” I said. “I mean, when I heard about your mother, I wanted to call, to say I was sorry and see how you were doing. But…”
“I didn’t feel much like talking, anyway,” Celeste said.
“If you ever do want to talk about it, I hope you’ll feel comfortable.”
“Look, Leena, I appreciate it, but you don’t have to take me on like some sort of peer counseling patient. I’m fine. Really. My mother was a very sick, very unhappy woman. Believe me, she’s better off where she is now.”

And the revised version:
“I’m sorry I never called over the summer,” I said. “I wanted to call, when I…when I, you know, heard about your mother—”
“Look. I don’t know what big-mouth David told you. But let’s get something straight. I do not discuss my mother. Got it? Do. Not. Discuss. My. Mother.”
“Okay. I totally understand you feel that way now, and I don’t blame you at all. But if you ever—”
“I won’t,” she said. “Ever.” After a pause she added, “David doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. I hope you do.”

In the earlier version, you can’t tell the difference between the two voices. They both sound pleasant, reasonable, congenial. In the most recent version, Celeste is stronger and more aggressive. She says things that might be perceived as offensive. Leena sounds unsure, like she’s approaching a rabid animal. By changing the voices, I not only strengthened the characterization of the two girls, but raised the tension in the scene. Celeste’s attitude, obvious from her dialogue, makes it much easier to understand why Leena would not want to live with her and makes her a more intriguing character.

Leena’s voice was also very similar to her friend Abby’s. In going back over Abby’s dialogue, I decided that it would fit with her character to have a tendency to overstate and exaggerate, as this is one of her main qualities – she’s always looking for drama. So where she used to say, “Are we going to unload the car now? In the rain?” she now says, “Please don’t tell me we’re going to unload in a hurricane.”

While at first it can seem like two characters would speak in similar ways, all characters are dealing with different issues and have different personalities. By thinking about which of these personality elements are most important, a writer can not only come to a speaking style unique to that character, but also clarify in her mind what attributes and personality traits most define that character. And for the reader, the experience of getting to know a character is enhanced if the character’s voice is one clearly and compellingly her own.

Works Cited:
Burroway, Janet. Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft. Fourth Edition. New
York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1996.
Lamott, Anne. Bird by Bird. New York: Pantheon Books, 1994; paperback edition, New
York: Doubleday, 1995.
Les Becquets, Diane. Love, Cajun Style. New York: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2005.