On Writing: Characterization and Attitude

We all know what it means to have attitude. And I'm sure we all know what it means to give attitude, too! But what does attitude have to do with your characters?

Don't look at me in that tone of voice!

Okay, first let's make sure we're all on the same page regarding the definition of "attitude," because it's used it in different ways.  Attitude can mean a personal viewpoint or general opinion about something.  It can also mean a challenging or arrogant manner.  And it can mean a physical posture or bodily position. 

So "attitude" is not only the way a person thinks about something, or the arrogant manner in which they're expressing themselves, it's also the way they are physically standing or holding themselves.  And how can you use that when you're writing?

Let's workshop it - with attitude to spare!

Try combining all three of those ideas and applying them to your character.  Let's say you're writing about a woman who's having an argument with her fourteen-year-old daughter.  What's the daughter's attitude?  Let's break it down:

Her personal viewpoint is that she wants her curfew extended to one a.m. so she can go to her best friend's birthday party. 

Is she displaying a challenging, arrogant manner?  You bet your boots she is!  But how does your reader know that?

Well, what's the typical physical posture of a girl arguing with her mom? 

Joanna's hands welded to her hips as her elbows fanned the kitchen air. 

Grace looked up from the bread dough she was kneading.  If that child rolled her eyes one more time, she was definitely going to suffer some serious vision damage.  Or at the very least she'd be grounded for the rest of her life.

"You're fourteen, my dear daughter," Grace said, with as much patience as she could muster.  "There's no way you're staying out until one in the morning!"

Joanna's mouth pulled up on one side as she gave vent to her weakest argument yet.  "Oh please, Mother, you wouldn't dare keep me home," she smirked, "everyone's going to this party."

Okay, obviously those two have a lot of issues to work out.  And I didn't exactly play to subtlety there, with the arms-akimbo, eye-rolling, smirking teenager.  I'm sure you've got a good idea of Joanna's character (at least in relation to curfew and the importance of big parties).  But did you also get an idea of Grace's character?  The bread-kneading, line-holding mom?  Well, that brings up an interesting point, which is this:

You get a good idea of someone's character by their reaction to the attitude of another person.  It's not just the actions your characters take, it's their reaction to the actions of others which will give the reader a concept of who these people are.

But what if the character in question doesn't have quite as much of a challenging arrogant manner?  What if he or she is, for lack of a better term, a human doormat?

Let's workshop it again - and don't give me any of your attitude!

So let's say your character is Harvey, a storeroom clerk in his late forties.  A shipment has come in without the proper paperwork, and technically he's not supposed to accept it.

His personal viewpoint is that he should not sign for the delivery.

Is he displaying a challenging, arrogant manner?  In this case, no.

And what about his bodily position?  Well, let's see:

Harvey wiped his palm on his khaki shorts and pulled the clipboard closer for another inspection.  "I have specific instructions not to accept any shipments from your company unless they have the proper TPS forms attached."  He heard the quiver in his voice and swallowed, trying to steady it.  Dealing with these paperwork issues always made him shaky.  What if he screwed it up - again? 

He forced his rounded shoulders square and handed the clipboard back, using the most decisive motion he could muster. "Sorry."  It didn't help that now his hand, as well as his voice, was shaking.

The brownshirted delivery man held up his hands like somebody at gunpoint.  But this guy wasn't surrendering.  "No can do, bra," he said with a smile.  "Can't take it back, gotta leave it here."

The sweat made its way from Harvey's palms to the back of his neck.  He could feel it beading on his upper lip.  Was this guy serious?  What was Harvey going to do if the delivery guy wouldn't take the package back with him?  The meatball sub that Harvey had eaten for lunch was starting to come back on him, emitting a foul acid that crept up his throat.  He needed to have a glass of milk and lie down.

"I guess I could find a place in back for it, as long as you promise me you'll bring those forms tomorrow."

"Sure thing bra," the delivery guy said.  "No problemo."

Poor Harvey.  He's sweaty, slump-shouldered and has stomach problems.  And do you think that the delivery guy is going to bring those forms in tomorrow?  No, me neither.

Lack of attitude can tell your readers just as much about your characters as attitude can.  When something unpleasant confronts Harvey, does he attack or retreat?  He probably lies down with a glass of milk.

But what about Joanna, from the example above?  How would she have handled the delivery guy?  Well, she probably would have made some cutting comment about his shorts not being kind to his knobby knees, and then gone back to filing her nails. 

Summing up the attitude issue

With attitude and characterization, keep these things in mind:

• The person's posture and physicality: what does it say about them?
• Their reaction to events: when confronted with something pleasant or unpleasant, how do they react?
• Getting what they want: how do they go about it?
• Remember that attitude is not necessarily a bad thing!  If Joanna used those same mannerisms when dealing with a bully at school, we'd be cheering for her.

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When was the last time you saw someone "giving attitude"?  What did it tell you about them?  And what did it say about the person on the receiving end of that attitude?

The Creativity Well revisited/Moving Eve: A Love Story in Brief

A few months ago I blogged about my creativity well, the old farmhouse and grounds my grandparents inhabited for over forty years. I returned at Thanksgiving, knowing that the place had sold, steeled to say my good-byes to this once immutable touchstone of my life. My mother told me she knew the couple who ended up purchasing the house were it because the day they viewed the property, the husband sat on the bench of the breakfast nook in the spot my grandfather had always claimed as his.

This man looked through the multi-paned wavy-glass windows to watch the birds at the feeders, studied the enormous white birch that pops like a torch from the thick patch of grey-brown-green trees along the road, and gazed out at the three-seater outhouse hugging the ravine that leads down to the river. Perhaps he conjured up a story exploring the wherefores and whys of that peculiar structure. Then he relaxed into the cushioned bench seat as though he'd been groomed to take over stewardship of that particular piece of Earth's real estate. In the space of a minute or two, the Three and a Half had become his home.

And while I am sad, sad, sad to lose the physical demesne of my creativity well I know two things. One is that its magic will flow, zesty and sparkling, through my veins the rest of my life. And second, I am grateful beyond imagining that the new owners, this husband and wife I know only through a few words from my mom, "get" just what a marvel they have in store for them. The dreams they will dream. The times they will have. The stories they will create together and share with others. What an adventure they have in store! What an adventure.

Moving Eve: A Love Story in Brief by J. Keely Thrall

"Judy," Gib said, taking hold of his wife's hand. In a fresh set of pajamas, he was once again in bed lying next to the lady he'd loved with all his soppy heart the last seventy odd years.

"You awake?"

"Where were you? Are you all right?" Judy's warm fingers squeezed his. Her voice had faded along with her memory, but his cool blonde always knew him. Always needed to know he was okay.

"Fine, fine. Just soaked through my PJs. Damned night sweats." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Earlier in the year the doctors determined the bladder cancer had disappeared. Buggering cells had simply decided to migrate, taking up new residence in his lung and kidney. Not much the medicos could do about it. His heart was too weak to undergo vigorous or invasive treatment. A damn shame the spirit of his heart hadn't imparted its robust strength to the muscle. Suppressing a sigh, he kissed Judy's knuckles again before tucking their arms, still linked at the hand, under the covers. Even in a warm house, the Michigan December leaked inside. It wouldn't do for either his lady or himself to come down with a sniffle. "We're moving house today, sweetheart, remember?"

"Now?" Judy's voice rasped into the darkness, at once detached and fretful.

"No, no. Later. We're going to live with Megan and Jeri, downstate. We'll have Christmas there."

"That's right, that's right." She patted his hand as though to reassure him. About what, he couldn't tell, but any kind of pats and pets from his wife were welcome, anytime, any-why, anywhere. Sex may be a non-starter at this point, but a little skin to skin was all right by him. Even if it was just snuggling in bed with his best girl, holding hands.

"This will be our seventy-third Christmas together." What was the point in being a retired mathematician if he couldn't throw down a few facts and figures every so often?

Judy chuckled. The sound of bells on his ear. "Mother was fit to be tied when that Halsted boy let on that you and Eddie were out in the car Christmas Eve."

"We'd just about frozen our nuts off when Howie came and got us."

"Language, Gilbert."

He grinned into the darkness. Change might be coming, but some things stayed constant.

"That night was the beginning of a grand adventure, wasn't it, dearheart?"

"It was?" Judy asked, vague again but willing to be persuaded.

Irritation spiked in a rush of heat. Anger at the aging process that had stolen his mate in snatches and gulps over the last few years drew a flush to his neck. The contrast to the cool night air made him shiver and he shrugged the blanket up to cover his shoulders.

"Yes," he declared, unwilling to cede way to personality's thief. "Sixty-six years and nine months of marriage. Four children, five grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. Travel, foreign and domestic. This home." His voice cracked and he swallowed. Sentimental slob. Blinking moisture from his eyes, Gib cleared his throat. "And our next adventure begins tomorrow."

"Well, maybe you should get some sleep now so you can be rested for this new adventure of ours, hmm?" Tart and unexpected, the zinger triggered a second round of tears that needed to be blinked away. The moments when his dry, witty blonde stepped through the haze of dementia to tweak his pretensions came with less frequency but, man, they still carried a punch.

"All right, dear. Good night." Gib squeezed his wife's hand.

"Good night." His hand was squeezed in return.

In the country four am was dark no matter the season. But in the depths of a northern winter, the black outside the windows felt especially heavy. As though Dawn might not be strong enough this time to roll away her brooding brother Night.

"I said good night, Gib."

Gilbert laughed and turned onto his side, facing Judy. He wiggled to find a comfortable spot, then hunkered down and closed his eyes. He'd trust Dawn to flex her might and usher in the day that would bring his and Judy's next grand adventure.

And in a few days, they would celebrate another Christmas Eve together. His blonde may or may not come out to play, but his Judy would be there, holding his hand, loving him as deeply as he loved her. He was a lucky, lucky man who could still claim rights to the grandest adventure a man could hope for: true love.

The above is an exercise in trying to put myself in another's shoes, as writers are wont to do. In this case it's my grandpa and how I imagine the night before he and Nana leave their home for a new one might unfold.

In thinking about the ways in which one could examine a life and reflect on the ups and downs and curve-balls one encounters, it seems to me that we have an infinite choice in how we address our baggage. First, do we call it baggage? Scars? Experience? Adventures?

Language helps craft our attitudes and our attitudes help form our emotions. I deliberately chose to imbue this narrator (my fictional version of Grandpa) as taking strength in looking to his future with bright expectancy. This move is the Next Big Thing. Something to look forward to, to anticipate. He deals with the cancer, he lives for the brief glimpses of the woman his wife used to be even as he loves the woman his wife is now. But he's not dwelling on the crap. He's looking up and out.

Aside from the personal journey portion of this post (can we say coping mechanism, everyone?), I'm realizing it was really useful as an initial character sketch. Now, I doubt I'll ever write a story in which my grandpa is the hero per se.

But the determination of spirit in the face of adversity? Hmm.

Someone who loves not just from habit, but from nuanced choice as circumstances change over the course of a life. Hmm, hmm.

Someone who sees life as a grand adventure? Hmm, hmm, hmm!

Who do you think would be the perfect match for that hero?