Trust Your Characters

Every writer has their own way of doing things — their own process. Be it pantser or a plotter, we all need to deal with characters. Characters are what we need readers to connect to in order to suck them into the story – and readers do not connect with one-dimensional characters

Some writers like to do character charts, some like to use photos for inspiration, some just start with a name and build from there as they write — but most writers have encountered a character that has “taken over” the story.

This is not a bad thing!

For plotters, it can happen when they are plotting. Somehow, the idea they came up with morphs as they plot, and then they step back and look at the storyboard or synopsis, and see something different than what they’d planned. For others, it can happen in the writing. One scene can shift your whole story if a character does, or says something unexpected.

When I was writing BOUND, like all of my stories, I have a general idea of where I want the story to go. But about 3/4 of the way through, in a scene between the Katie (the heroine) and Joe, (the hero) Joe completely shocked me! I knew what I needed the scene to accomplish, and as I was writing it, it was flowing, and all of a sudden, Joe tells Katie he loves her. And that was not planned!!

I hesitated for about 30 seconds, thinking… Oh my god! Where did that come from? I tried to think…then reminded myself not to think…and just kept going. I did not plan to have Love mentioned in the story at all…well maybe at the end…as a HEA, but I wasn’t near there yet so I didn’t know.

As soon as I was done that scene I emailed Beth, my cp, and said “Joe just shocked the shit out of me!” And he had. But you know what? It was a defining moment in the story, and for him, as a character. Which was really needed since BOUND is first person, in Katie’s POV.

That was not the first time a character surprised me, but it was the time that sticks in my mind where I knew what was happening, and accepted it.

The first time a character took over a story was one of my short stories. MEANDROS. (the free read on my EXTRAS page…go read it, seriously… Go Now…) I was writing it for Black Lace, and it was supposed to be a “Sex on holiday” story. But at the end of the very first scene, the character said something that made my heart stop and changed the WHOLE story. Normally I can write a short story in a weekend. This story took me three months because I fought it every step of the way, I doubted what I was doing, and I cringed, but I couldn’t NOT tell the story the character was imparting to me. I submitted the story that was totally different than I’d planned, and it was rejected for being the wrong tone. Which I sort of knew would happen. But that story was the one that got me into Amber Quill Press, and has been the story that garners me the most reader emails, all positive, and the best reviews.

Was it the story I planned? No. But it was that characters story.

Now, while I say trust your characters — that doesn’t mean let them run all over you.

By that I mean you should start every scene with an IDEA of where the story/scene is going, of what you want to accomplish. If, when writing (or planning), something unexpected happens, try to go with it at least until the end of the scene. Then think about what it means to your story. Don’t ramble on and on aimlessly, thinking “This character is out of control.“ That’s lack of direction in a story.

And just because I let the characters hijack the story occasionally, I’m still the one who tells it. All three of those stories still showcase My contemporary voice and My easy to read style, but they are my characters stories.

As an erotic author I often see writers on message boards saying things like “I can’t keep these characters out of bed and I need the story to move forward!” That is not trusting your characters. That is letting them run all over you.

If your characters are having trouble keeping their hands off each other, (or whatever it is they are doing that is keeping you away from moving the story forward) use it to create tension! You don’t have to give in to them, and you should not give in to them if it sacrifices your story — only if it enhances the story!

Trusting your characters is a huge part of your voice because this also means trusting the words they use. Be it curse words, or descriptions when in their POV, trust that they would speak that way, and let the reader see it. I hate it when I read a book, and a male hero describes what a woman he’s looking at is wearing, and he can name the fabric, or the style… Why? Because really, how many men know what an A line skirt is? Or organza fabric?

If your heroine were a singer being protected by a bodyguard, would she really say “He had a 9mm Beretta in the holster on his hip.”? Or would she say, “He had a gun, and it looked deadly.”

This is what trusting your characters is. From little things like the words they use, how they use them, to the surprising stuff they can do to enhance a story. Knowing when to let them loose, and when to rein them in, and how to balance it all is part of your voice, and your style… and part of the magic of storytelling.

Delilah Devlin is a talented author who writes in multiple genres, and she’s an awesome example of style and voice… and confidence in what she’s doing.

“I think my voice does adjust if I’m writing dark paranormal rather than a sexy cowboy story. One story is edgier, the characters a little more raw, the tone more menacing, and with a plot that has wicked twists; the other is slightly more lyrical, the dialogue as true to Texas as I can make it, and the story more of a straight-forward romance. I don’t think about how to make my voice different when I begin a new story in a different genre, it just comes out the way I “see” and “hear” it in my mind.” ~ Delilah Devlin

Check out these excerpts from her upcoming releases.

From DARKNESS BURNING
The Dark Realm Series

The profound silence struck Mikaela Jones first. Other than her own booted heels clapping on the pavement, the sounds she associated with The Crescent City had vanished along with most of its inhabitants.
Instead of the blare of blues and tinny Cajun music from the bars along the street and the voices of people laughing and shouting as they ambled by barhopping in the late night hours, a muffled hush blanketed the city. A watchful, pregnant quiet like the breathless, relieved lull after the powerful storm—the day before water consumed life as she’d known it.
The inky, thick shadows at the edges of the streets also creeped her out. Without power, alleys and deep doorways were impenetrable to the gaze and could hide many creatures of the night—street thugs, looters, gangbangers. She carried a hardened leather blackjack deep in her jacket pocket—her weapon of choice should anything jump out from the pockets of darkness.
She’d worn her weathered, leather jacket despite the muggy heat just for that purpose, needing not only storage for her weapon and tools of her trade, but comfort. The jacket was the first piece of clothing she’d bought with her first paycheck. Not the nicest item in her closet now, but familiar. A little worn, but resilient, just like her.
As the silence and darkness closed around her, she reminded herself why she’d decided this excursion was such a peachy idea. Reports of the crime-ridden streets—the wanton attacks and rampant looting—were known. Every major news organization had descended like locusts on a killing field to cover the tragedy and the painful recovery.
But other whispers had reached her ears. Less newsworthy, but definitely more intriguing, made more believable by the fantastic events of the past days.
Whispers said magic was in the air. Monsters were on the loose. Perhaps the dreams that plagued her had a basis in reality.
Miki turned up her coat collar to ward against the prickling disquiet lifting the fine hairs on the back of her neck, concentrating instead on the details she needed for the next piece she’d write describing life in the aftermath of the great storm.
Like the twinkling stars she’d never seen above New Orleans’ light-polluted streets that speckled the damp, cobbled pavement, resembling muted fireflies. Or the unchanged aroma of sewage emanating from the grates beneath her feet, ripened by the added odor of the contaminants swirling in the black waters covering large portions of the city, and carried on the breeze.
Twin beams flashed as a vehicle turned onto her street.
Miki trotted to an alleyway to avoid the National Guard patrol rolling by in a camouflaged Hummer. Being caught breaking curfew might make an interesting story, but she didn’t want to waste hours cooling her heels, or worse, being evicted from the city.
She turned the corner and pressed her back against the wall of a brick arcade, waiting for the vehicle to pass when muffled sounds came from behind her. For a second, she froze.
Low, heated murmurs. The scrape of a zipper and the rustle of clothing. Soft laughter cut off by a deep moan.
Someone enjoyed the anonymous shadows.
Curious, she crept closer, edging along the wall, her eyes adjusting slowly to the near-pitch darkness until she spotted a couple further along the opposite side of the alley. The man stood with his back against the wall, a woman nuzzling the side of his neck as he groaned. Metal glinted from his opened zipper, and Miki guessed where the woman’s hand roamed.
She nearly groaned. The urgent sounds tightened her already restless body.
Deciding she’d leave them to their tryst, she edged backward, hoping the patrol had passed, when something rushed by her so quickly she saw only a blurred, grayish streak. The man’s next moan was cut short by a shout. The woman cursed.
Miki froze until sounds of a fight erupted, nearly making her leap back into the street. At first, she didn’t see anything. Then a dull explosion where the woman had stood illuminated another blur of movement too fast for her gaze to follow. A second gray figure streaking to the right had her narrowing her eyes to peer into the gloom. Fists connected with flesh, and were followed by another burst of light. Fiery ash settled to the ground.
A battle ensued, but one unlike anything she could have imagined.
Excitement started a slow, heavy thrum pounding in her chest. Had she found what she sought? Then a footstep scraped behind her.
Too late to run, she gasped when a strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against a wall of solid muscle. With her arm clamped to her side, she couldn’t reach for her blackjack. Acting on instinct, she lifted her foot and slammed her heel onto her assailant’s foot.
A soft chuckle in her ear turned her fear into panic, and she struggled against his hold, wriggling hard, jabbing elbows at steel-plated ribs. The man behind her didn’t budge. He simply tightened his arm until she slumped against him, panting breathlessly within his embrace.
So she couldn’t beat him in a fight. Thinking fast, she relaxed in his hold. “Not gonna ask me what a nice girl—”
“Nice girls don’t walk alone after dark,” he told her, his voice deep and silky.
The thought occurred that only a truly attractive man could muster a voice like that. A ridiculous thing to note given her circumstance.

From DOWN IN TEXAS
Wearing His Brand

Her daddy had always told her a man’s worth wasn’t measured by the size of his bank account or the square footage of his house. Rather, it could be seen in the proud set of his shoulders or a gaze that didn’t waiver.
Her mama had said a man’s strength was in his hands—strong and soothing when an animal or a child needed comfort—hot and wild when a woman needed shaking up.
Looking at Brand now, Lyssa McDonough knew exactly what they’d both meant.
If she had any sense at all she’d turn tail and run. Everything about the man screamed heartbreaker.
Only she couldn’t. Instead, she settled her shoulder against the fence post, kept her breaths shallow and even, and pretended she wasn’t melting inside.
As long as she could remember, Brand had that effect on her—long before she admitted, even to herself, how much he moved her. Today, dressed in a wash-softened chambray shirt that stretched across his broad chest, blue jeans that hugged lean hips, and leather chaps encasing thick thighs, he was the embodiment of any woman’s favorite cowboy fantasy.
Once again, she wished she affected him the same way–that just looking at her made him breathless. Only the sight she presented him this moment would never inspire lust.
Covered in dust and sweat, with hair straggling from the confines its rubber band, she was grimy, bloody, and anything but attractive.
Too far away to read his expression, she watched how he stood in the stirrups as he topped the hill, head turning to scan the countryside. When his gaze landed on her, his back stiffened, he settled into his saddle, and his boots spurred his horse to bring him fast down the hill.
Things could have turned out worse.
The day might have broken with a cloudless, blue sky and a white-hot sun beating relentlessly on her unprotected face. Early summer in southwest Texas could be ruthless, but thick gray clouds had gathered, shielding her from the worst of the heat. Still, she was thirsty, and her canteen was deep in the satchel of the horse that had to be halfway back to the ranch house by now.
She might not have worn the industrial-padded bra that was the only thing keeping one nasty barb from tearing the tender flesh of her breast like the other that pierced the back of her shoulder. The pointed barb only pricked, a reminder not to take deeper breaths. Vanity had guided her choice. She’d chosen the thick-cupped bra hoping she’d see him today, hoping he’d finally take a closer look and realize she was more than his best friend’s little sister.
More than an obligation he’d accepted.
The promise he’d made was the crux of her problem with Brandon Tynan.
Lyssa dragged away her gaze and readied herself for what she knew was coming. Again, she stretched the toe of her boot toward the wire cutters she’d dropped when she’d first felt the tension in the wire ease and heard it “sing” as it snapped from a post farther down the fence.
The wire had coiled so fast she’d had time only to spit out the bent nails she’d held between her teeth. It snagged her, pulling her off her feet, and wrapped around her. The merciless wire trapped her arms against her sides and her shoulder against the post she’d been securing new strands of barbed wire to replace the cut ones.
When the barb atop her left breast bit deeper, she gritted her teeth and sagged against the post. Brand would have to get her out of her current coil.
Damn. The man loved rubbing her nose in her mistakes.

* * * * *

See what I mean?

So tell me, have any of you experienced a character run amok before? How did you handle it? Did it damage, or enhance, your story?

Comment on todays post and be entered to win a free download of Delilah Devlins newest release from EC. Sin’s Gift.

Oh, and if you haven’t read MEANDROS yet, click here to download the pdf.