Here's a question from Michael Baker (I'm happy to try to answer questions here by the way -- just post them as comments or mail them through the contact form).

Michael says...
<blockquote>I'd be interested to read a post on how you make the characters three dimensional; how you weave these threads into scene and narrative.</blockquote>
I sat on that one for a while. Let me be honest. The posts you see here are not designed to be comprehensive 'how-to' articles on aspects of the writing craft. They're more notes for myself, setting down thoughts I have of my own and making them public. In other words they tend to tackle individual aspects of bigger subjects, not the bigger subjects themselves. And characterisation is surely one of the biggest subjects of all.

<!--more-->

That's my way of saying I won't try to answer Michael's very big question all in one go. But from time to time I'll post thoughts here about how I approach characterisation and let you cherry pick, or reject, what you want.

People seem to like the characters in the Costa books. It's one of the most common compliments I'm paid. I don't think I handled characters as well in my early work. I suspect most writers would say the same if they were being candid. Characterisation is a subtle, difficult art that comes with experience.

In the beginning all writers tend to be imitative, trying to follow directly in the path of another, usually established author. We reach for templates, stereotypes, cliches. Readers know them only too well. Your work really only starts to gel when you find your own approach instead of mimicking that of others. That usually takes time.

I think it's interesting that Michael asks 'how do you make characters three dimensional'? As if they start off two dimensional and somehow need to be fleshed out. This isn't the way I think of characters at all. In a series like mine I have an established cast of four principal actors, Costa, Peroni, Teresa Lupo and Falcone, who are, by now, very well established in my own head. I <em>hear</em> these people. I know, above all, that they are different in character and temperament and tone of voice and I remind myself of this from time to time through <a href="http://www.davidhewson.com/2009/10/insanity-and-the-interior-conversation/" target="_blank">the technique of the interior conversation</a>.

A simple test of character differentiation is this. Look at the dialogue in any scene and ask yourself: is it interchangeable? Could the same sentences be said by other characters without any change to the words? If most of your dialogue can be switched that way then something is wrong. You haven't built an individual voice into your people. They're all the same. In truth they all probably sound like you.

I keep <a href="http://www.davidhewson.com/2009/09/keeping-track-of-characters/" target="_blank">character notes</a> in my book diary of course though I don't plan out a new character much in advance. I begin with a rough sketch of who they are, what they look like, how they fit in. Then I let them work their way into the story and reveal themselves slowly, naturally, not through some formal, detailed outline.

Authors are effectively gods of the little world they invent. But to be a real god you have to accept that your creations will, sooner, one hopes, rather than later, discover the power of free will. In other words 'real' characters in a book aren't puppets that can be pushed around according to some story template or plotline. They should have distinct and occasionally unpredictable personalities. If they don't shout at you at some stage 'but I just wouldn't do that' then you should be worried. I love that moment. It always demands some rewriting but more importantly it means that finally my people are alive.

So I suppose the answer to the first part of Michael's query is: I hope they're never two dimensional, even when they're nothing more than a name and a paragraph of character sketch. At that stage I view them as strangers I haven't yet got to know, not marionettes without faces waiting for someone to paint on a smile or a frown.

Part of the narrative journey is the discovery of those concealed personalities, the revelation of the true identities of those involved. My job as an author is to chip away at the formless shape in front of me in order to uncover the story in hiding, not concoct some mechanical fabrication that I hope will fit some flimsy and artificial outline for a book.

Let me return to a little more of this interesting and fundamentally unanswerable question another day.