Part 2: Showing the Character in Action.
This type of opening is dynamic; the character is in action and his senses are open to description.
Here is an example taken from the first two pages of Light by Eva Figes.
Here is an example taken from the first two pages of Light by Eva Figes.
The sky was still dark when he opened his eyes and saw it through the uncurtained window. He was upright within seconds, out of the bed and had opened the window to study the signs. It looked good to him, the dark just beginning to fade slightly, midnight blueblack growing grey and misty, through which he could make out the last light of a dying star. It looked good to him, a calm pre-dawn hush without a breath of wind, and not a shadow of cloud in the high clear sky. He took a deep breath of air, heavy with night scents and dew on earth and foliage. His appetite for the day thoroughly aroused, his elated mood turned to energy, and he was into his dressing room, into the cold bath which set his skin tingling, humming an unknown tune under his breath. (pp. 1–2)
Notice in these six sentences how all five senses are evoked: sight; touch; sight and touch; sight then sound then touch and sight; smell and touch; taste then touch then touch then touch then touch then sound.
Also note that in this type of introduction the character's thoughts are described.
Finally, notice that we learn nothing of his physical appearance like we did in the first method of character introduction.
Finally, notice that we learn nothing of his physical appearance like we did in the first method of character introduction.
Now write your character introduction using this method and post it in the comments section below.
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When the the student pushed open and slipped out the smooth, heavy, oaken-doors of Stephens Hall, he was submerged in the bright, honey-warm and citrus-still air of Berkeley campus, and because he had just turned in his final philosophy term paper, his mood was as sublime and as calm as the quiet afternoon that greeted him. Relieved and at peace, he stepped softly down the white stone steps and ambled toward the white Wheeler building. He inhaled the fragrant eucalyptus-scented air and watched the long transparent gossamer spiderwebs laze and drift above him. A little further down the walk, he smiled at the approach of a flitting Tiger Swallowtail butterfly that presently landed on the shirt sleeve of his left arm. Gently cupping it up onto his right hand, he examined it closer while the silent black and white wings lit lightly against his palm. He was struck by its delicate beauty, its geometric patterns and its actual existence in being. The strange sight of a tiny lime-green spider crawling on the insect’s back surprised him. The spider disappeared under the insect’s abdomen and then dropped onto his hand just as the butterfly launched and zig-zagged skyward to perch upon a nearby branch of a splayed and closely pollarded London Planetree. He felt the tickle of eight hungry legs skittle across the back of his tanned hand, and after watching it for a moment, he looked around and noticed a small ornamental topiary at the side of the path. Careful not to drop his passenger, he walked over to the bush with arm out stretched and gently brushed his hand against the dark green leaves to allow the spider purchase and protection within the shrub’s foliage. Once it disappeared from view, he stood up and glanced back to where the butterfly had settled. It was gone. In its place a happy chestnut-backed chickadee warbled and looked about. He continued on his way, contemplative, and hummed along with the distant band in the Greek Theatre that played the Byrd's tinny guitared “Turn,Turn,Turn”.
As the last bars of Pennsylvania 6-5000 echoed through the salon of the main deck, the piano player turned to unplug his keyboard. Another set was finished and, at this point, he gave no further thought to the fact that no one asked for an encore. Inspired performances had long ago escaped him and his inspiration now was a modicum of effort that was usually rewarded with a request for one more song, said request stemming more from pity than even the faintest of fond memories. Given the collective age of the clientele, the dinner performance died out out shortly before six and so he could still clearly see the east riverbank in the late day sunlight as the boat eased upriver towards Galena. The smell of the catfish being plated below deck for the crew was only slightly distinguishable from the odors that wafted from the shit brown water that lazily passed beneath him. Delaying his meal with an indifference born from eating catfish six days a week for five months straight, he threw on his leatherette sport coat and nudged the deck door open with his knee while cupping his hands around a cigarette.
Great use of the butterfly and spider as an example of building the character indirectly. This distinguishing factor between the two methods of character development to me is the options available to the writer. Showing the character in action is more expansive approach, obviously more subliminal, and is a tool to expand the storyline in different directions. The direct description has less room for error and really needs to be done absolutely right, much less room to hide.
I've been watching a lot of old movies from the 40s and 50s and it is just amazing to me the difference in storytelling and character development as compared to modern films. The former uses the indirect method and is more nuanced (scenes and storylines not involving the character are used to introduce and develop the character). The latter just hits you over the head, repeatedly, using the direct method. Maybe this has something to do with modern attention spans or the fact that audiences of yesteryear were subjected to considerably less stimuli from an entertainment perspective, thus there was less concern the audience would lose focus as the story developed. To me the phenomenon is somewhat counterintuitive; you would think audience now, as a whole, is much more educated and, therefore, more patient in allowing the story to develop. Then again, education could have little to do with it, given the massive amounts of media we are all subjected to on a daily basis.
Sipping bitter lukewarm coffee, he squinted and cunningly watched the street-shuffling crowds and listened to the deep rumble piston-fire of a passing jet-black ’67 Mustang blaring a local San Francisco radio station.
His gaze halted momentarily on the tall and attractive girls that sauntered by and he would say to himself: “Man that peach tasting brunette has gorgeous blue eyes” or “Look at that curvy ass on that blonde, now that would look great humming down the highway on my Scout” or “Wow, would I love to spend some serious time with that soft redhead there.”
He shifted in his seat, forcing his eyes and attention back to the conversation while within him grew a powerful dislike of the two young soap-scented effeminate students who sat across from him. The more they spoke, the more he secretly sneered at them. They talked plenty, but he suspected talk was all they did.
He wondered why he had wanted to meet them, but then recalled the fog-drunk skunk-weed ramblings of the night before at an off campus party on Piedmont where they had peaked his interest by claiming that the biker life was a Marxian ideal. He recalled asking: “Who was this Marx and did he ride.” When they had told him that Karl Marx, who did look like a biker but had never rode, had been dead for over eighty years, he had howled and laughed uproariously – heavy, thunderous and barrel-chested – and then had pounded the coffee table in front of him with his fist over and over, palsied with silent laughter while shaking his head side to side in a fit of rolling hilarity; wet cheeked.
His windburnt hands toyed with one of the table’s Oregon Trail sugar packets, spinning it in circles between the pinch of his thumb and forefinger. Bored, he half-listened to their talk, looking downward and then up from face to face with a strained smile.
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