Your Assignment: This exercise is based on ideas from “Composing A Life,” by Mary Catherine Bateson, a sociologist (and also Margaret Mead’s daughter). For more, I suggest listening to Bateson’s interview on the On Being podcast from a few years ago.
In the meantime, you can apply this exercise to any of your characters, or even to yourself, which can also be illuminating.
STEP ONE
What are the two sides of your character’s story? That might refer to her entire lifetime; her arc within the story; a specific scene or chapter; or even an individual moment. Almost always, at whatever scale, there is more than one thing going on.
I’ll use myself as an example. Both of these stories about me are true to my experience:
Story 1: In high school, I lived in the coolest little hippie town in America, surrounded by an academic, artistic, and diverse community. I was popular, confident, and involved in all kinds of extra-curricular activities. I loved my friends, and felt like I could truly be myself around them. I learned a ton in those four years, and I’ve never lived anywhere like it since.
Story 2: In high school, I lived in the most boring little town in America, surrounded by corn fields and pig farms. I was deeply closeted and keeping it a secret, not just from everyone around me, but also from myself. There was still so much I didn’t know. In fact, all I really knew was that I couldn’t wait to get out of Yellow Springs, Ohio.
STEP TWO
Now look for the continuity between those two sides of the story. Bateson poses this as a sociological question, but I’ve borrowed it with my storyteller’s hat on. What is it about your character (or yourself) that unites those seemingly conflicting truths?
Working off my own example, I’d say that the continuity for me was in two things: SMALL TOWN LIFE and SURVIVAL. Which is to say, yes, I grew up in a really cool little town, and yes, it was still (for me) the absolute middle of nowhere. Also, while one part of me thrived in high school, that was only possible because I was also keeping another part of myself hidden from the world.
STEP THREE
Write a scene that captures some of this duality. How might the contradiction manifest? And how might the continuity? Maybe it’s a scene you can use in your finished story. Or maybe it simply helps inform your overall writing process. Either way, I hope it might be useful for some of you.
ADDITIONAL FOOD FOR THOUGHT
Some questions to consider if you’re feeling stuck:
What is/are your character’s internal conflict(s)?
Are there competing stakes in your story? Two things the character wants, but can’t have both? If not, would that improve the story?
What is/are your character’s shadow trait(s)?
Where at the beginning of your story is the person your character will (or might) become? Can you show the potential for that change? (And do you want to?)
How is your character the same (and changed) at the end of the story?
Chris,
Thanks for the great exercise. I have been working on a fiction story with my daughter about some of the things she experienced while growing up (she is 23 now). She is adopted, and really struggled throughout her childhood, but mostly on the inside. One of the experiences she mentions was that in 5th grade, a boy behind her said he couldn't see the board because of my daughter's big hair (and she was quite tall in 5th grade, until everyone else caught up to her). She was really embarrassed about this, and started to always pull her hair in a bun. Writing this just today, I realized that I am "telling" more than "showing." Needs more revision.
Walking to the student section of the football game, I had high fives from at least ten people. Claire and Paige had saved me a seat. Matt and Spencer were behind us, and my 5th grade self worried that someone wouldn't be able to see over by "big hair," and so I pulled it into a tight bun, sleeked down the sides and top with gel. Why is it that I am friends with all these people, and I really like Matt, but he only sees me as a fun Polynesian girl? Boys like me, but they don't date me. On the outside, I am the fun Polynesian girl, but on the inside...I hurt. My face has a smile on it, my body movements are confident, my eyes light up, and I joke around in conversation. But my heart...in my bedroom...later that night....I feel isolated; I feel alone.
Thanks for sharing all this, Kay! I (think I) see how you’re pulling that dual narrative into one scene here, which can be such a potent thing to do, and feels very human as well. Life is complicated, right? And being young offers no exemption from that fact. … I’m also guessing that with future revision, and as you fall deeper and deeper into this story, you’ll find more ways to winnow out your telling in favor of showing — or (in my experience) sometimes simply winnowing out the telling, which feels more necessary in earlier drafts as we find the story for ourselves, and before we translate what we need to know (a ton) into what the reader needs to know (less than a ton) about any given character or situation. It makes me think of the Stephen King quote about how we write the first draft for ourselves and the next draft for the reader. Either way, you have a potent situation here, where something as “simple” as a character’s hair can speak to some of the larger issues in your story. More duality! (I call that double duty in my writing workshops — letting the ingredients of the story work FOR us, doing more than one thing at a time.)
ps — All of that said…. I also hear more and more people pushing back on the “show don’t tell” idea…. which is to say, it’s good advice in good measure, but sometimes telling is just what the reader wants, to help things move along more efficiently.
