CHARACTERS AND CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT - Megan Turner and Kelley Andrews

Almost all stories that we can think of are fundamentally based around characters. Characters are what make a story flow: through their interactions with another, and through their words and actions. As characters develop and alter their relationships, the story continues onwards with them. They are vital in helping to move the plot forward. The combination of mental characteristics that make up an individual are important to a writer, so they are able to engage a reader through a relatable, or perhaps a more unpredictable persona.

Most characters fall under a certain ‘archetype’. An archetype is a basic model of a person based on both their personality and behaviour. They are personality types that have been observed multiple times, for example the archetype of the bully, who primarily intimidates others.

A ‘stock character’ is very much similar to an archetype, however is more immediately recognisable and narrowed-down, often initially appearing as a stereotype. Stock characters are very familiar and are generally a relatable starting base for an undeveloped character, an example being the atypical ‘dumb blonde’.

More profoundly known and used, however, would be the archetypes, as they are the main tool for creating any story or plot. Different personalities can either clash or agree with another, which creates drama and conflict.

Another important aspect of characters is the idea of protagonists and antagonists. The protagonist is the main character, and is often (but not always) our sole perspective for the majority if not all of the narrative. A protagonist is typically designated as the hero within a story, with their actions and experiences often being at the very core.

The antagonist is usually portrayed as a villain, however they can also be a foil that is merely opposed to whatever the protagonist is trying to achieve. This isn’t always the case with all writers, as protagonists and antagonists are often more complex in their roles and opposition toward one another.

Even so, focusing on these basic roles here, two fundamental characters are already formed and could potentially create a story, regardless of the inclusion of any additional archetypes.

Using Freytag’s Pyramid (pictured below) and the inclusion of some stock characters, we are able to create a basic narrative. By including a female archetype, such as a princess (or damsel in distress) to the mix, we have added to the pre-existing dynamics between our protagonist and antagonist. An example of a story formed with these methods could be:

Our protagonist resolves to rescue the princess who has been locked away in a prison by our antagonist. (exposition)

Our protagonist embarks on their journey and makes efforts to achieve their goal. (rising action)

Reacting to this progress, the antagonist creates obstacles in order to hinder our protagonist. (climax)

Overcoming these challenges, our protagonist directly opposes the antagonist and succeeds. (falling action)

Having defeated the antagonist, our protagonist succeeds in their goal of rescuing the princess. (denoument)

Perhaps one of the best ways to develop a character beyond their archetype or role within a story is to expand on motive. Motive typically comes in three varieties: wants, motivations, and goals. For example:

Maybe our protagonist wants to be widely known for their bravado and sense of adventure. (want)

This could be deep-rooted narcissism, feelings of inadequacy or simply wanting to match the reputations of the heroes that they grew up admiring. (motivation)

To help achieve their established desire for fame, the protagonist resolves to rescue the princess – knowing that it will gain attention and fanfare. (goal)

With these hypothetical motives in mind, we have developed our protagonist from a basic hero/do-gooder into an arrogant glory seeker, an underdog with insecurities, or even a naïve wannabe – although those are only three of many possible outcomes.

Motives are subject to change, multiply, and even be abandoned throughout the course of the story, however, they are initially indicative of backstory. What a character wants can tell us (explicitly or otherwise) about their backstory and serves to flesh them out and make them more realised, for without motive, a character is simply doing things for the sake of doing them.

It is through overcoming obstacles, reaching their goals and interacting with the other characters that our protagonists and antagonists begin to develop further. A protagonist doesn’t have to radically change for the better (or worse) by the end of the story, it could be a choice of the writer, be it realism or otherwise.

Another reason why a character may not transition or develop on a grand scale may be due to the narrative chronology – it may just not make sense for them to go through a noticeable change if the story (or their role in it) only takes place over a short amount of time. 

These two opposing trajectories take the form of static and dynamic characters. For example:

Due to the majority of the story being focused on our protagonist and their journey and growth as a character, it is plausible that the princess may not receive an equal amount of attention. Whilst she may not undergo a noticeable transformation over the course of the story, she may contemplate what life has in store for her now that she has been liberated from her prison. (static) 

Our protagonist however, for example, may achieve self-realisation. Overcoming the obstacles set for them by the antagonist, they may contemplate their motives and have a different perspective by the conclusion of the story. Had they initially been the vain glory seeker, they may have realised the hollowness of their pursuit and chose to abandon their heroics altogether in the hope of truly finding themselves. (dynamic)

Whether or not a character is static or dynamic is not indicative of their development as a whole. A character who stays the same over the duration of the story can be just as interesting or relatable as one who undergoes a compelling or dramatic metamorphosis. It is hopefully through the exploration of motive, structure, expanding beyond set archetypes (although these are not the only tools at the writers disposal) that we can create and develop truly realised characters.

'The Stolen Pennies' - Victoria

The Stolen Pennies from Grimm's Fairy Tales. 

See link below for original (only 350 words). 
http://pinkmonkey.com/dl/library1/story165.pdf  

If you read the original, you'll get some chocolate. Maybe. If I remember. Not you Craig, you're paid to read, buy your own chocolate.

I've re-interpreted The Stolen Pennies from a different perspective.

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If I could feel, I would feel the terror of feeling nothing in the pit of my stomach. I'm walking through my own personal ghost town, dark deserted streets, air as warm and thick as the blood of a hunted deer on a cold morning; steaming, sticky. Big brick buildings towering, here I am once again, stood at the foot of a back street leading me home. Clouds separate like milk in cola, so unpleasant, bitty, a dingy creamy kind of grey that slowly parts, revealing a tired blue sky. At least the trees are blossoming. It's almost noon and I've been walking. Father will be seated at the head of the table with mother by his right, the twins together to his left, the seat next to mother will be empty for I no longer eat there, I no longer eat. The gate’s chipped black paint, scarce covers the rusted metal, that which humid weather makes possible to smell a smell like the taste of batteries on a wet tongue. I tip toe to take a hold of the door handle, and twist. They'll be as I remember them, as I’ll always remember them, as I remember us at noon most lunch times. I’ll gently push open the door and no one will see me.

Wait. There’s someone in my seat, someone I do not recognize, a blip in the corner of my dead eyes. If I could feel I would feel the faith a single coin carries as it’s tossed into the depths of a wishing well. I walk with purpose, but without control. Driven by a lingering memory filling me with unrest, I’m just a far-gone conscious floating through familiar motions, experiencing neither time nor presence. I notice the stranger notice me, I feel his life looking into me, he sees me! He sees my deathly-pale skin, my snow-white clothes. I enter my emptied room. I sit on the floor and hover my eyes over the wooden boards beneath my cold feet, unable to feel the warmth, yet able to remember it. The noon sunlight, dim as it may be, reflects the glint of two pennies, beneath the boards I look until I see. I see, if only I could reach them, I should never have dropped them between these cracks, fumble as I might with my tiny fingers, I cannot reach them. The sun disappears behind the same cloud as always, I rise to my feet and I leave. The stranger did nothing and once more I’m stood at the foot of this forsaken street, in this purgatory.

If I could feel I would feel the anguish of a burning hole in a confused heart; the depth of a damned soul in a lifeless oblivion. I open the door, there he is again, the blip in the corner of my dead eyes, the stranger who is my hope, of change, of a possibility beyond this reality. I’m looking through the cracks in the floor, trying to push my fingers through, in my quiet desperation I fail to notice how long the strange man has been standing at the door, watching. I cannot understand what happened between the moment I looked up into his eyes, him down into mine, and now (whatever now is). I’m left with the lasting memory of one of the last days of my short life, the afternoon my mother came to me and took my hands in hers, she put two shiny pennies in my palms and smilingly told me to go to the poor man who sits by the railway station, “give him these pennies”. I think to myself ‘I can save for a cake’. On the way to the poor man, I taste the thought of the deliciously sweet, moist sponge cake I could have for myself. I squeeze the pennies tightly in my tiny fist, the thought releases from my mind and I approach the poor man, I take his hand in mine and drop the pennies in his palm. And if I could feel something, anything, I would feel nothing but the peace of a silenced soul.

Shine. Alex Dinnadge

Shine

I look up at night,

I find the brightest star,

I was told that you are all around me,

But to me, that is where you are.

I talk to you,

I tell you how you’re missed,

I think I can hear you,

Telling me to be calm and to open my fists.

I cry for you,

I show you my emotion,

I feel you wipe tears from my eyes,

You still give me your devotion.

I remember you,

I can never say goodbye,

I learned everything you taught me,

That’s why I look up to the sky.

An Unknown Measure (Victoria)

An unknown measure,

time was passing,

and then I realised,

the penny was dropping.

Here is the full glass,

as there sits the empty one.

I have a duty,

to the Almighty,

Grace fill up my boots,

El Shaddai has called me.

Given to me,

before I surrendered to thee,

Whosoever will be.

Alex Pritchard Creative Writing Workshop Piece: Puppet

I awoke to an empty darkness, the empty expanse silently jeering at me. My fur was dirty and matted, and clumps of white fluff lay at my paws, a gaping wound in my chest. I desperately picked it up and tried to push it all back in. Placing a paw to my face, I felt one button, while the other seemed to have been lost. My body seemed to have been battered and beaten, but as always, I was numb to whatever pain I might have felt. Before I had time to gather my thoughts, I spotted others around me.

The landscape seemed to light up, placing me in the middle of a city street, the glare of many different lights blinding me, many of them flying past me before I could comprehend their shapes. I folded my stubby arms close to my chest, suddenly feeling cold and alone amidst the unfamiliarity. I stepped on the pavement, where many humanoid shapes were walking by. I was barely as tall as many of their ankles. I walked underneath one man who appeared to be wearing a cloak, but upon looking upwards, I gasped as I realised that he had no body underneath it. An eye had been intricately sewn on the inside of the cloak, mesmerising blue thread had been used. Somehow, it blinked at me, and in terror I fled. A large face made of metal floated by, it had simplistic, cartoonish features. It frowned as I quickly walked past, and then continued moving. As I continued to see strange sights and individuals of many different shapes and sizes, I understood that none of them had any intention of talking to me, though many argued among themselves, using language incomprehensible to me. They only gave me attention when I asked where I was. The man with a blank face and featureless, naked body simply laughed, and nudged me aside with his foot. A clown who had tattooed meaningless symbols onto his arms grinned widely, and pointed upwards. The clouds swirled around slowly, a vortex so large and terrifying it seemed to suck me in, even as my paws remained squarely on the ground.

Hundreds of titans roamed the skies above, they had gray, smooth skin, and no faces, similar to one of the people I had seen earlier. Looking upon their colossal forms, it became clear to me that these people could be nothing less than the gods of whatever world I had stumbled into. They ignored each other, as they kept their forms hunched over the world, ignoring the vortex above them. Their long, spidery fingers danced above us at rapid speeds, like they were all playing invisible pianos. When I looked down, the clown drew attention to fine, near invisible strings connected to his limbs and other body parts. Following the strings all the way up, it became evident that the titans had mastery of the strings. The one controlling the Crown briefly pointed behind me. I felt a tugging sensation in the back of my head, gently pulling at all of the stitches that constructed the very fabric of my being, and my reality. Fearing what I would see, I looked up to see a titan, my strings at his fingertips. This titan, however, was different. It had a single button for an eye, the only feature on it’s face. I stared into its eye intensely for an eternal moment, watching my reflection on its smooth surface.