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.

Mary: Memorable Characters in Middle Grade Fiction

Memorable Characters in Middle Grade Fiction:

What Makes a Character Unforgettable?

The memorable characters of middle grade fiction have their own voice, they struggle desperately to get what they want, and they are often filled with contradictions. Such characters leap off the page through their actions, dialogue, and internal emotions. How do authors create memorable characters? This essay attempts to answer that question with the assistance of four very different protagonists: Gilly Hopkins, Lonnie Collins Motion, Claudia Kincaid, and Stuart Little.

In The Great Gilly Hopkins, when the uncontrollable, stubborn, and emotionally wounded Gilly is sent to yet another foster home, she hatches a plan to make her real mother come to her rescue. Readers first meet Gilly in chapter one when she is traveling by car with her social worker, Miss Ellis, to yet another foster home. Without providing a physical description or introducing Gilly’s voice in dialogue, Paterson creates a complicated main character by showing Gilly’s actions and inner life. In response to Miss Ellis’s pep talk encouraging good behavior at Trotter’s, the latest foster home, Gilly pops her bubble gum, gets it stuck in her hair, and leaves it plastered under the car door handle for the next passenger. Notice Gilly’s reaction when Miss Ellis asks her to try to get off on the right foot with Trotter:

“Gilly had a vision of herself sailing around the living room … on her right foot like an ice skater. With her uplifted left foot, she was shoving the next foster mother square in the mouth.” (3)

By the end of chapter one, readers are already in the presence of an unforgettable character, the defiant and imaginative Galadrial Hopkins.

As Paterson’s characterization of Gilly continues, new, contradictory characteristics emerge. Careless Gilly, who hacks off her hair with scissors to remove the gum with terrible results, is also the organized Gilly: she straightens the books on her neighbor, Mr. Randolph’s shelves. And the repellant Gilly also reveals a softer side. She feels “strangely shy” about touching Mr. Randolph’s books. “It was almost as if she were meddling in another person’s brain.” (40) And in spite of her best intentions to scare and drive away William Ernest, her little foster brother, Gilly befriends him by teaching him to read books and make paper airplanes. For a moment Gilly’s soft, vulnerable side slips out when Trotter thanks her for helping with the paper airplanes: “the [proud, loving] look on Trotter’s face was the one Gilly had, in some deep part of her, longed to see all her life.” (62) But Gilly quickly recoils from the compliment back to her stubborn, conniving self. The push and pull of conflicting emotions adds to the complexity of Gilly’s character.

Like Gilly, Lonnie, in Locomotion, is a multi-dimensional character. Lonnie has a heart-rending story. After his parents are killed in a fire, Lonnie and his sister are separated and placed in different homes. But it is not Lonnie’s traumatic situation that makes him a memorable character. Woodson displays her mastery as an author by giving Lonnie a perceptive voice and unique worldview. These are what linger in the reader’s mind long after Locomotion has been returned to the shelf. Lonnie would be complex even if his family was still intact and his biggest yearning in life were to write a satisfying poem.

Locomotion is a novel told in verse. Lonnie’s teacher encourages him to tell his story in poetry because “poetry’s short” (1) Lonnie tells us, and he can get his story down in bits before it overwhelms and silences him. Through his poems, Lonnie emerges as a sensitive, thoughtful, and observant boy. He gives us this glimpse of himself before the fire:

Mama came running out the kitchen

drying her hands on her jeans

When she saw us just sitting there, she let out a breath

Oh, my Lord, she said,

I thought you’d dropped my baby.

I asked

Was I ever your baby, Mama?

and Mama looked at me all warm and smiley.

You still are, she said.

Then she went back to the kitchen. (5–6)

Already, before the devastating fire that changes Lonnie’s life but not who he is, readers sense Lonnie’s gentle nature. His sensitivity is later revealed when he writes, for example, about his classmate, Eric, who is “tall and a little bit mean” (22). Lonnie witnesses Eric outside of school, singing in a church choir, and observes that “Eric’s voice was like something / that didn’t seem like it should belong / to Eric. / Seemed like it should be coming out of an angel.” (23) If the only side of Lonnie’s character were his sensitivity, readers would soon get bored. In a later scene between Lonnie and Eric,Lonnie’s sensitivity is contrasted with his envy of Eric’s leather jacket. Such juxtapositions of seemingly contradicting traits appear over and over again in Locomotion and serve to deepen Lonnie’s character.

Lonnie’s quest for understanding the world outside of school, family, and friends further adds to the complexity of his character. Lonnie lives with Miss Edna, one of whose sons is fighting in a war. Lonnie shows his understanding of the far-reaching effects of war in this stanza:

The war’s on the other side of the world.

But Jenkins is fighting in it.

And Miss Edna’s praying about it.

So I guess it’s the same as if it was right here

in our city

in our house

in Miss Edna’s room

Everywhere. (39)

Throughout the book Lonnie also grapples with his beliefs about God. In church, on Easter Sunday, Lonnie asks a question about Jesus that is at once innocently childlike and worldly wise. “Was it a big sacrifice to give your life / if you knew you was gonna rise back up? / I mean, isn’t that like just taking a nap?” (81) Giving hints at Lonnie’s belief system is another way Woodson adds depth and interest to Lonnie.

What about a character who has suffered a trauma no bigger than the perceived injustice of being the oldest child and only girl in the family of four siblings? That character is Claudia Kincaid in From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. Claudia’s motivation to run away from home “had to do with the sameness of each and every week” (6), which includes both emptying the dishwasher and setting the table while her brothers do nothing. With Konigsburg’s page-turning plot and clever setting, this novel could easily have been an entertaining and satisfying read. What makes Mixed-up Files a Newbery Award winner, however, is plot and setting plus memorable characters (among other components not subjects of this essay such as tone and changing points of view).

While other children may scheme to run away, Claudia takes it one step further: she escapes her monotonous and unjust home life by running away to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Claudia is determined and competent, but she’s not so self-sufficient that she doesn’t invite along a companion, her younger brother, Jamie. Once in the museum, Claudia’s particular actions reflect her meticulous character.

From the beginning readers know that Claudia “didn’t like discomfort.” (5) At the museum she chooses a bed with a “tall canopy, supported by an ornately carved headboard … and two gigantic posts” (37–38) because “she had always known she was meant for fine things.” (3) Later, Claudia takes powdered soap from the restroom, grinds it into a paper towel, and uses it to take a bath in the museum restaurant’s fountain because she “can’t stand one night more without a bath.” (80) She insists that Jamie and she have clean underwear every day. Rather than introducing traits to conflict with Claudia’s fastidiousness, Konigsburg keeps providing more examples, building on this behavior to develop the Claudia as a memorable character.

Claudia’s dialogue gives readers a clear sense of who she is. When Claudia explains to Jamie why she chose him as her companion, she says, “I’ve picked you to accompany me on the greatest adventure of our mutual lives.” (13) She refers to hiding in the museum’s bathroom stalls as “manning their stations.” (45) After a satisfying discussion with Jamie about homesickness, Claudia feels older. She tells her brother, “But, of course, that’s mostly because I’ve been the older child forever. And I’m extremely well adjusted.” (87) “Never call people dead; it makes others feel bad. Say ‘deceased’ or ‘passed away,’” (154) Claudia instructs Jamie when he refers to Mrs. Frankweiler’s husband as ‘dead.’ These, and many other instances of Claudia’s dialogue convey Claudia as the formal, righteous, and inimitable character she is.

A discussion of memorable characters in middle grade fiction wouldn’t be complete without representation from the animal kingdom. Stuart Little is one of the most memorable characters in the history of children’s literature. Undoubtedly, Stuart’s physical attributes have something to do with this. Although born to a human couple, Stuart “was only about two inches high; and he had a mouse’s sharp nose, a mouse’s tail, and a mouse’s whiskers”. (1–2) In short, Stuart Little is a mouse. The premise of anarticulate mouse interacting in a human world makes for a memorable story; but Stuart is also a memorable mouse.

Though Stuart takes great care with his morning toilet including touching “his toes ten times every morning to keep himself in good condition” (13), he doesn’t hesitate to go down the slimy bathtub drain in search of his mother’s lost ring. Stuart puts loyalty to family above pride in appearance. One would think that such a well-mannered and well-turned out mouse would be modest or humble. Not so! Note how Stuart taunts his nemesis, the cat Snowbell:

“As for exercise, I take all I can get. I bet my stomach muscles are firmer than yours.”

“I bet they’re not,” said the cat.

“I bet they are,” said Stuart. “They’re like iron bands.” (18)

Later, Stuart becomes indignant when a bus driver makes disparaging comments about his size. Stuart has no trouble sticking up for himself: “I didn’t come on this bus to be insulted,” he tells the conductor. Stuart takes his job as captain of the schooner Wasp seriously, but no so seriously as to let go of the ship’s wheel for a second and to do a little dance. Stuart is a self-respecting, responsible mouse who takes time to enjoy life.

Readers find it easy to admire and root for this diminutive hero. On another level we are deeply moved by Stuart’s emotional yearnings. His sorrow when his beloved bird friend, Margalo, leaves Stuart’s home is palpable. “Stuart was heartbroken. He had no appetite, refused food, and lost weight.”(72–73) He decides to run away in pursuit of Margalo without saying good-bye to his family. Pulling a strand of his mother’s hair from her comb as a souvenir, Stuart goes in search of Margalo and to seek his fortune.

Underlying all the entertaining adventures on his trip (of which there are many) is a deep sense of loss and longing. After a disastrous date with Harriet Ames when his canoe is destroyed and all goes awry, readers understand Stuart’s tantrum at Harriet’s suggestion that they pretend they are fishing: “I don’t want to pretend I’m fishing,” cried Stuart, desperately. “Besides, look at that mud! Look at it!” He was screaming now. (122)

Stuart continues his journey. At book’s end “…the way seemed long. But the sky was bright, and he somehow felt he was headed in the right direction.” (131) With Stuart, readers will hang onto that hope, but not without a deep sense of melancholy that will haunt readers’ hearts forever.

Prolific children’s author Phyllis Reynolds Naylor says, “the physical description of the character alone will not bring him to life. … Readers need to hear how he sounds when he talks, to see how his body moves when he walks, how he relates to the members of his family.” (49) She encourages writers to choose the right details about their characters, ones that give hints to his to personality and the life he has lived. Establishing a “few specifics about his looks and a habit or two may be all readers need to form a mental picture.” (49) Moving a character in and out of scenes, concentrating on the feelings, actions, and dialogue particular to that character is essential to creating a memorable character.

Paterson, Woodson, Konigsburg, and White all show that this to be true. Gilly’s actions and inner life are particular to Gilly. Her character displays many contradictory emotions. Lonnie’s voice and his way of looking at the world could only belong to Lonnie. Claudia moves in and out of scenes, always the determined, organized, and careful girl that only Claudia can be. But it is Stuart the eloquent mouse who illuminates most clearly what is central to creating a memorable character and what all these characters have in common: intense yearning. Yearning for family, yearning to be safe, yearning to love and be loved. Each character in his or her own particular way longs for these basic human needs. When authors succeed in bringing an individual character’s longing to the page, that longing goes straight to a reader’s heart, and that character will never be forgotten.

Cited Works

Konigsburg, E.L. From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. Simon and

Schuster, 1972

Naylor, Phyllis Reynold. The Craft of Writing the Novel. Originally published by The Writer, Inc. of Boston, 1989

Paterson, Katherine. The Great Gilly Hopkins. HarperCollins, 1978

White, E.B. Stuart Little. Harper & Row, 1945

Woodson, Jacqueline. Locomotion. G. P. Putnam’s, 2003

Varian: The Symbolism of Color in The Great Gilly Hopkins

Last week, my YA novel Saving Maddie was released. The novel has a very striking cover—the juxtaposition of Madeline’s purple lipstick with the cross around her neck points to one of the main themes of the novel: the balance between the spiritual and the seductive.

While Madeline has sported purple lipstick since the first draft of the novel, I didn’t think much about the use of color in a symbolic way until my first semester at Vermont College, when I was reintroduced to Katherine Paterson’s The Great Gilly Hopkins. In the novel, Paterson uses color to symbolically hint at Gilly’s true desire—something Gilly herself doesn’t even realize.

The novel opens with Gilly being taken to the home of her new foster parent, Maime Trotter. The outside of Trotter’s house is “old and brown”, and the furniture inside of the house includes a brown couch, brown chair, and a brown piano bench. In addition, the brown couch is topped with a “pile of cushions covered in graying lace”. A black table supports the television, and a black upright piano stands between the door and the chair. Lastly, Trotter’s other foster child, William Earnest Teague, is a young boy with thick glasses and “muddy brown hair.” (4-6)

Paterson’s use of brown and other dark colors at first seems like a quirky character trait associated with Maime Trotter. However, we soon begin to see other instances of color. In Chapter 2, as Gilly unpacks her brown suitcase in the brown house, she reflects back on her time spent with past foster parents. “The Nevinses’ house had been square and white and dustless, just like every other square, white, dustless house in the treeless development where they had lived. She had been the only thing out of place” (10).

Then Gilly unpacks her most prized possession—a photograph of a woman with brown eyes that “laughed up at her as they always had”, and glossy black hair that “hung in gentle waves without one hair astray.” Gilly was looking at a picture of her mother (Paterson, 10-11).

We quickly realize that Gilly has been waiting for her mother to show up and rescue her from the Nevinses, Richmonds, Newmans, and all the other foster families that have abandoned her. Gilly believes that everything will be okay once this beautiful, brown eyed, black haired woman reappears and takes her back home.

Of course, what Gilly doesn’t realize is that she can find everything she’s ever wanted at the brown house in Thompson Park. This is solidified throughout the novel, as we are introduced to Mr. Randolph, the blind Black man that lives in the grey house next door (Paterson 13), and her teacher, Miss Harris, a “tall, tea-colored woman, crowned with a bush of black hair” (Paterson 24).

Gilly eventually comes to love and trust her make-shift family, and is alarmed when her maternal grandmother arrives to take custody of her. However, Paterson lets the reader know that Gilly doesn’t need to worry; Paterson describes Gilly’s grandmother as “…a small, plump woman whose grey hair peaked out from under a close-fitting black felt hat. She wore black gloves and a black-and-tweed overcoat, which was a little too long to be fashionable, and carried a slightly worn black alligator bag over one arm” (129).

Through her use of dark colors, Paterson tells the reader that while Gilly is upset she is being forced to live with a woman she’s never met, her grandmother will provide Gilly with the love and attention she has been so desperately searching for.

One point worth noting is that Paterson goes against the traditional stereotypes associated with colors. Dark colors such as black and brown are associated with good, kind characters. Likewise, characters with questionable morals and agendas are painted with light colors. Miss Ellis, the social worker that wants to take Gilly away from Trotter after Gilly steals, had blonde hair and blue eyes. The red-headed Agnes Stokes helps Gilly steal from Mr. Randolph (72-78) and scoffs at the idea of Gilly considering Trotter and William Earnest as family (142-143). The Great Gilly Hopkins herself had straw colored hair (10), and when we are first introduced to her, she is chewing pink bubble gum (1). Gilly’s given name, Galadriel, evokes images of J.R.R. Tolkien’s elf queen of the same name, whom when she is first introduced in The Lord of the Rings is “clad wholly in white” and whose hair “was of deep gold” (398).

Most interesting is Gilly’s perception of her mother when she finally meets her face-to-face. Gilly travels to the airport with her grandmother, and is horrified at the sight of Courtney Rutherford Hopkins. She isn’t “tall and willowy and gorgeous” as Gilly had imagined (Paterson 174). And her hair is not the glossy black that Gilly had expected; instead it is “dull and stringy—a darker version of Agnes Stokes’s [red hair], which had always needed washing” (Paterson 174). Of course, Paterson had hinted at this earlier in the novel: Gilly had already spurned her mother’s pink room for her deceased Uncle Chadwell’s room, with is corduroy brown bed (Paterson 158).

Paterson leaves the reader to wonder if Gilly’s mother had once been good but had transformed into a more dislikeable character over the years since the photo had been taken. Or perhaps, being that it was just a photograph—a vision—Gilly’s perception of her mother was never accurate to begin with. Either way, the reader (and Gilly at this point) knows that Gilly has found a place where she will be cared for and loved. Paterson’s use of color reinforces this revelation—making the novel that much more layered.

Works Cited

Paterson, Katherine. The Great Gilly Hopkins. 1987. New York: Harper Trophy-Harper, 2004.

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Lord of the Rings Part One: The Fellowship of the Ring. 1954. New York: Ballantine, 1965.

Marianna: Pleased to meet you -- fully exploiting a character's first scene

It's a cliche, I know, but you really do get only one chance at making a first impression -- in life and in fiction. From the moment a new character enters a book, the reader consciously and subconsciously picks up on clues about his nature and quickly forms an opinion. If details are not thoughtfully chosen, a character's first scene can be a missed opportunity or, more negatively, disruptively misleading.

Describing a character’s physical appearance is certainly one tool you -- the writer -- have at your disposal, but actions and dialogue are the keys to creating more complex, nuanced first impressions. Sarah Dessen’s enormously popular young adult novels contain excellent examples of how a great deal of information can be subtly conveyed through deceptively simple, short scenes.

Although the plots obviously vary, there are consistent themes in Dessen’s novels. One of the hallmarks of a Dessen book is that the narrator, a teenage girl, begins a relationship with a new boy during the course of the story. (If the protagonist has a boyfriend at the opening of the novel, you can rest assured that he’ll be gone in a few chapters to make way for the new guy.)

Because the protagonists are meeting these boys for the first time, Dessen always has a scene in her books with that initial, pivotal encounter between narrator and eventual love interest. Looking closely at these scenes, it is remarkable how many signals Dessen subtly incorporates to foreshadow what the boy is really like and where the relationship is headed. To highlight the fact that appearance is only part of this, the quotes included here omit all references to what the characters look like.

In Dreamland, Caitlin, the narrator, first meets Rogerson Briscoe at a gas station after she has come from a disastrous cheerleading experience:

He was standing next to the black BMW... As I passed he looked up and watched me, staring. “Hey,” he called out just as I passed out of sight… I took a few steps back and suddenly he was right there; he’d moved to catch up with me (50).

The most telling detail in this passage is the use of the phrase “suddenly he was right there.” Although it is not overt or heavy handed, there is a threatening undercurrent to Rogerson’s sudden appearance. It’s creepy.

The scene continues: “He smiled, then looked me up and down. Suddenly I knew I looked idiotic in my cheerleading uniform…‘Nice outfit,’ he said” (50). With one small gesture and comment, Rogerson brings out Caitlin’s insecurity. Dessen swiftly establishes his judgmental attitude towards Caitlin’s life, and her self-doubting response to his disapproval.

The climax of the scene – the moment when Rogerson has the most profound effect on Caitlin – directly follows his subtly demeaning comment about her uniform.

He glanced at the bandage on my upper arm, then asked, “What happened to you there?”…

“I fell off a [cheerleading] pyramid earlier tonight.”

“Ouch,” he said, and before I could even move he reached out and touched my bandage, running a finger across it…“You okay?”

“I… I don’t know,” I said. This was strangely true at that moment (50-51).

Rogerson’s gesture of reaching out to touch Caitlin “before she could even move,” though small, is presumptuous and aggressive. And although the reader knows Caitlin means she doesn’t know if she’s “okay” because she’s feeling so intrigued by Rogerson, her response shows that his action disturbed and unsettled her. Moments later, Rogerson makes his exit:

“I should go,” I said…

“Sure,” he said, nodding. “See ya around, Caitlin.” And he raised his chin, backing up, keeping his eyes on me (51).

Just that fleeting image of Rogerson says so much. The raised chin conveys cockiness; the way he keeps looking at Caitlin is subtly menacing. He will be watching her.

Caitlin and Rogerson’s romance begins soon after this first meeting. Following an initial happy phase, Rogerson becomes physically and mentally abusive. In that brief scene where Rogerson is introduced, Dessen foreshadows many elements of his character and of their relationship: Rogerson’s tendency to prey on Caitlin’s insecurities; his judgmental nature; the aggressive, presumptuous way he treats Caitlin’s body; his constant watchfulness; Caitlin’s attraction to his aggressiveness; and the strong emotions he evokes in her. Most importantly, Dessen conveys all of this without showing Rogerson kicking a dog, or anything so blatant. Dessen is able to straddle the line of having Rogerson be attractive to Caitlin while setting the scene for his cruel behavior later in the novel.

Dexter, the main love interest in This Lullaby, makes quite a different entrance. Remy, the narrator, is already known to the reader as being highly cynical about anything relating to love and relationships. And it’s through her eyes that the reader meets Dexter. Remy is sitting in a car dealership, already in a bad mood.

Just then, someone plopped down hard into the chair on my left, knocking me sideways into the wall… And suddenly, just like that, I was pissed…

“What the hell,” I said, pushing off the wall… I turned my head and saw …it was a guy…around my age… And for some reason he was smiling.

“Hey there,” he said cheerfully. “How’s it going?” (10-11)

Dexter’s cheerful demeanor immediately counteracts the fact that he bumped into Remy. The reader, knowing how cranky Remy is, doesn’t pick up on his physical contact as a threatening or violent action. Rather, it is clear that Remy is overreacting. Dexter seems happily oblivious, a stark contrast to Remy’s negativity.

Remy continues to give him a hard time. “’You just slammed me into the wall, asshole.’ He blinked. ‘Goodness,’ he said finally. ‘Such language’” (11). Dexter’s unperturbed response to Remy’s nastiness proves both that he has a sense of humor, and that he is not easily put off by Remy’s tough girl demeanor. Despite her abuse, he continues on in an enthusiastic manner.

“The thing is,” he said…”I saw you out in the showroom. I was over by the tire display?”…“I just thought to myself, all of a sudden, that we had something in common. A natural chemistry, if you will... That we were, in fact, meant to be together…”; “[Knocking into you] was an accident. An oversight. Just an unfortunate result of the enthusiasm I felt knowing I was about to talk to you” (11).

With this confession, Dexter comes across as an over-excited puppy. His enthusiasm seems genuine and his lack of pretension or cool façade is immediately appealing.

When Dexter touches Remy – uninvited – it makes quite a different impression than when Rogerson touches Caitlin:

“Just take this,” the guy said, grabbing my hand. He turned it palm up before I could even react…then proceeded…to write a name and phone number in the space between my thumb and forefinger…Talk about not respecting a person’s boundaries. I’d dumped drinks on guys for even brushing against me at a club, much less yanking my hand and actually writing on it (12-13).

The reader knows to take Remy’s reaction with a grain of salt – after all, she’s just said she dumps drinks on guys who brush against her. So instead of being threatening, Dexter’s action of grabbing her hand is simply endearing. Remy is not in danger; she can take care of herself.

Having established Remy’s cynical take on love, Dessen uses this introduction to show Dexter as the anti-Remy: a happy, bumbling, easily love-struck guy. In addition, the whole interaction mirrors Dexter and Remy’s relationship throughout the book. Dexter crashes into Remy’s emotional life, creating unwanted cracks in her self-protective armor. And despite her desperate attempts to push him away, in the end, she can’t help but be won over.

It might be argued that as long as the character acts “like himself” in his first scene, he will create a distinct and correct impression. But this is simplifying the matter. People are complex, as is a good character. In different scenes they will act many different ways. The scenes in Dreamland and This Lullaby show not just any one side of the character, but the side of the character that is most important to the narrative: the way he will relate to and treat the narrator, the character the reader is identifying with. This makes the introductory scenes highly effective.

The characters are not the only ones invested in the course of these romantic relationships; the readers are invested, as well. So Dessen is very smart to give such consideration to her characters’ introductions. She wants the reader to be wary of Rogerson, and to root for Dexter to cut through Remy’s tough girl façade. It’s not enough for her to describe the guys as good-looking. Of course they’re good-looking – these are fairly traditional teen romance novels. Dessen uses the actions of the characters to predispose the reader to feel excited and satisfied with the direction the relationship takes.

So, when you're in the revision process, go through and look at the scenes where you introduce new characters. Are there ways in which you can deepen/strengthen/complexify (not a word, I know, but it should be) the impression he makes? Are you giving the reader misleading clues? Remember -- no detail is too small to play a part in the overall opinion the reader takes away from her first meeting with your character. Use this to your advantage!

Mary: A Character’s Controlling Belief

Time to bring out the writer’s bag of tricks again!  I’m deep into my novel’s second draft and I’m getting that twisty-turny-twingy uh-oh feeling right in the center of my chest: something’s off about my main character.  You know the feeling.  You can run from it, but you can't hide. It’ll catch up with you sooner or later.  Time to dig deeper.  Again. But this time, how?

Thinking about a character’s “controlling belief” is one way writers can dig deeper into their characters.  I first heard about the notion of controlling belief from National Book Honor Award Winner Kathi Appelt when I was studying with her at Vermont College of Fine Arts.

Kathi says, “The controlling belief is the primary belief that ‘pushes’ the character.  It shapes and colors every action and reaction that the character does and serves as the motor or engine that motivates the character.”

A character’s goal is different.  Goal answers the question, what does a character want? Controlling belief answers, why does she want it? To author Sarah Aronson, “the controlling belief is the emotional core of the character. You can ask what he wants...but more important...why does he want it?”

For example, in Appelt’s stunning picture book biography about Lady Bird Johnson, MISS LADY BIRD’S WILDFLOWERS, Lady Bird’s controlling belief was that wildflowers could heal a broken heart.  Lady Bird’s goal was to change the way our country treated its natural heritage.

Sometimes controlling belief and goal can be the same for a character.  In E.L. Kionigsburg’s SILENT TO THE BONE, Connor believes that there’s no way in the world his best friend, Branwell, could have ever hurt his baby sister, even as “the authorities” come to believe he did.  Connor’s goal is to break through Branwell’s silence in order to prove his innocence.

And sometimes a character’s belief proves flat-out wrong. Gilly, in Katherine Paterson’s The GREAT GILLY HOPKINS, believes that her absent mother will come for her and it’s her goal to make that happen.  This steadfast belief makes Gilly distrust her new foster family and keep seeking out her mother.

When a character such as Gilly’s belief is wrong, that character suffers a painful crisis of faith… but, oh, such a satisfying (for the reader, at least) opportunity for growth and change.

When we can clearly state the controlling belief of our characters, they will more readily move the story forward.  Try it for each character, not just the main character, and watch the fireworks begin! (The controlling belief is never outwardly stated in the text; rather, it serves as a compass for the characters and their author in revision.)

So I’m back to my draft considering all sorts of CBs for my MC: loyalty to my friends is more important than doing the right thing; having the right friends raises my social status; I need these friend because I am a geek…. 

What’s the controlling belief of your main character?