Happy Birthday, Fake Person I Made Up!

Everyone knows how we get attached to characters when we read or watch a movie (I will still work up tears for Sybil in Downton Abbey), but when you write a character, the attachment should be listed in DSM-5. It is a psychological disorder.

But not at first. When the pages are white, you are aware that you are inventing a character. A body fades in from shadow and soon you would recognize them on the street. You know the role they will play and you see them in situations that will lead to the conclusion you seek. At this point, you are still aware that you control them. You choose eye color, hair color, body shape, sound of voice, and it is so.

The more you write, the more your characters assert themselves. It’s not frightening at the beginning. You convince yourself you’re extremely creative when you begin to notice them speaking for themselves. If you’ve never experienced this, write a long novel. There will be dialogue when you are only transcribing what is being said and you’ll barely keep up. They will argue with you if you try to push them into a scene they would never choose for themselves. You will need to reaffirm that you are in charge, not the fake people in your head.

As soon as I noticed today’s date this morning, I realized it was a character’s birthday. The warm feeling of remembering a friend on a special day is the same for fictional creations. If it were possible, I would meet her for lunch and commiserate over the aches of aging.

Books about writing exist with checklists of character traits and experiences designed to help a writer reify a fictional person. Perhaps they work for some, but in my experience, these things happen without effort over time. When I approach the first rewrite, every niche of my character’s psyche is open and available to me. A common thought during the first rewrite is she would never say this–what was I thinking?

Ask me anything about a principal character in my novel. I know the answer. The first day of school, pet peeves, shoe size, pizza toppings, sexual preferences, IQ, allergies, traumatic memories, how much her mother loved her, every pointless crush–I can elaborate.

Maybe labeling this phenomenon as a mental illness is too harsh, but it is a shame that a large percentage of my brain is occupied with details of people who don’t exist. Combined with the fifty percent I’m certain is overloaded with song lyrics and movie/television lines, it is obvious why I can’t remember what I need at the grocery store without a list.

Anyway, Happy Birthday, Vanessa, who is only real to me!