Writing that Inspires Readers to Root for your Characters
One of the delights of the book launch and subsequent events has been discussing with readers how WAR BONDS came together as a novel. I’ve loved answering your questions on why the plot rolls out as it does and how the characters emerged. I’m grateful to those reviewers who’ve noted the authenticity and believability of these characters. So here’s a bit of my thinking on that.
Watchung Booksellers
Montclair, NJ April 3, 2024
Writing within the genre of historical fiction, an author adheres to a set of parameters—in the case of World War II, key dates, decisive battles, and the flesh and blood leaders making consequential decisions. So that work came first for me in writing WAR BONDS: understanding the context and exigencies of those years and what it meant for all those affected. I studied many non-fiction accounts of particular moments in the war—many of these books are listed in a previous blog post—along with oral histories, monographs and academic papers. And of course, I made many, many site and museum visits, often doubling back through galleries and scribbling notes. Unexpected and fascinating facts emerge when you cast the research net wide—things that deepened my understanding and influenced particular scenes I included in my novel. Things like how men confined to a POW camp managed to make alcohol and construct a radio, or the particulars of getting a downed flyer over the Pyrenees and home to England.
What came next was getting to know the characters who would inhabit this context, imagining how they might respond to the madness seizing every corner of the world during those years. I began with the child evacuees rushed onto trains as Britain declares war. There are many videos posted on YouTube with now-adult evacuees describing their experiences. The process of assigning these children to homes rolled out much like I’ve described in WAR BONDS.
I first got to know Colin, who brought with him a set of parents, and eventually, introduces us all those he meets in his exile from his home in London. I pictured him sitting with other evacuees on the train headed to Elsworth, interacting with his seat mates, and he struck me as a sturdy, not fragile, child. Had he been emotionally undone by the train trip, we would have had a completely different novel. But as he quietly processed what the other children were sharing about their dads and what they knew of the war—his stomach roiling—I realized he was a sensitive, perceptive child, working hard to manage himself apart from his family. That meant he had been raised well, which then said something about what type of people his parents were. And as he dragged his gas mask and his plum marmalade off the train car, I rooted for him to be welcomed to his new, temporary home by people who appreciated these qualities. And that’s exactly what he found.
I admit there’s a lot of trying things out. Would this character say this? Grow indignant? Be compassionate? More than once, I’ve written a scene where a character responds cooperatively, only to decide later that no, this interaction deserved a lot more nuance.
WAR BONDS Book Launch Celebration
Atlanta, GA February 17, 2024
As this illustrates, I’m not dictatorial with my characters, deciding early on the script they’ll follow until the last page. I have an understanding of the story arc, of what I expect to happen. But as I’m writing, it’s more about describing how these characters respond to their lives being upended in believable ways, ways consonant with what we know of who they are. And that leads to actions that—before you know it—produce the plot.
How would a mother feel sending her child away as war rages? Where would she find support, equilibrium, the ability to continue to function—when she’s separated from family members and mad with worry about their safety and survival? When I considered how isolating and overwhelming that would feel to Beryl, Colin’s mum in WAR BONDS, I knew she would take steps to help herself get through her sadness and isolation. And soon, she was moving the story along in ways I had not expected.
Little boys, I know, are plotters, devising schemes to build forts, form clubs, and plan adventures. Colin and Hugo turned out to be boys like these, but a shadow overhung these happy activities of boyhood: their fathers were missing and in danger, possibly never to return. So while they whipped around Elsworth on their bikes, running errands for Ivy, snooping at the air base, and dreaming of what life might hold for them as they grew, the reality of their missing fathers was ever-present. This produced a seriousness in them—a protectiveness of their mothers, of the American pilots, and of the twins who missed their own family so acutely. Certainly, characters grow and change. They can disappoint or surprise us. That forms the nature of story. But their important decisions, particular actions they take in pivotal moments, foreclose other decisions and actions available to them from then on. Hugo is less mature and more impetuous than Colin, but it would be out of character for him to betray Colin. He can make mistakes—and we hope, learn from them—but once he’s seen to be an earnest soul, it would not work to inject malice later on. Annalise is a different story entirely: once she reveals herself to be a manipulator, that frames all her interactions with the other characters—from Gordon, to her husband, to her household staff. At times, I wondered just how much damage she would do.
To an extent, this novel poured out in a great draft. The way I work to construct the characters and the scenes they inhabit in the novel is just one approach; another author probably operates in a completely different way. Many authors outline the whole novel and understand the story arc from the outset. I don’t. I have an idea of the story—mostly the milieu of the historical era I’d like to explore. Then I sit back and watch the characters animate the story. And having said that, I’m deep into writing a novel of the Cold War, full of characters both duplicitous and heroic. But which is which? I’ll just say some of these characters are still considering their options.
One more note…
While I’ve got your attention, a word on clichés. It’s time for writers to swear off them. They can be clever when used in an unexpected way—with a pun perhaps or a double entendre—but that’s rare. Clichés signify a laziness in prose, because instead of using a fresh, original description, a shopworn phrase fills in. If you want a character to seem one-dimensional, put cliché in his mouth. When characters marry, have one of them say it’s the happiest day of their lives.
Here’s a comprehensive list of terms to avoid.
And here are overused phrases masquerading as writerly prose. These, I avoid (LIKE THE PLAGUE!)
Best and brightest
Far and away
Each and every
Few and far between
At the eleventh hour
Just in the nick of time
Little did I know
Bent out of shape
All hell broke loose
Best laid plans
Black as pitch
Enough for now. Because enough is enough and I don’t want you to feel like a deer in the headlights or have a cow. :)
