Writing Characters: If You Knew Clicker Like I Know Clicker

It's time to get back to Jude Hayes and Grand Junction. I'm going to be doing a series of posts about writing the Jude Hayes Mysteries and escape from the cranky old lady rants that have hijacked this blog. Yes, everyone will breathe a sigh of relief, I'm sure!

All right then, let's start with characters . . .

As it happens with many authors, people sometimes ask me where I get the inspiration for a particular character. Oftentimes, they think they already know the answer. Sometimes they're sure they know the answer. As in, "A.J. Pierpont is that feisty old lady on Downton Abbey," or, as a close friend recently declared, "You're Jude."

My polite answer is usually, "Well . . . no." Writing fiction is like having a dream. I once heard Stephen King speak at an alumni dinner at our mutual alma mater, the University of Maine, where he talked about getting most of his best material from his dreams. Wow--imagine having nightmares that scary--or that lucrative! But that's not quite what I'm talking about.

If we can remember anything of our dreams upon waking, it's that the characters are usually similar to those in real life or literature, but often not exactly the same. The represent something but are not equivalent to it, as in, a symbol. Fictional characters are much the same. They are born from a combination of thoughts and experiences which may span our whole lives, or only the idle, fleeting inspiration of a moment.

After I've created a character, I sometimes think I've encountered him or her in real life--the reverse of my friend saying, "You're Jude." It seems to be one of those cases where life imitates art. Then I think about it and, well, again . . . no. He or she just reminds me of one of my characters. Ever meet someone on vacation who reminds you so much of someone you know that it's uncanny?  He or she looks like that person, has similar mannerisms and voice inflection, etc. But if you engage the stranger in conversation, you quickly discover that there are many differences. She is not exactly like your old friend or he is not so much like your favorite high school teacher, really.

That being said, over the weekend I saw someone who reminded me so much of Jude's friend Clicker. As mentioned in a previous post, I love the Olympics and spent much of this past weekend glued to the TV watching the competition from Sochi. One of the newest events is the Slopestyle snowboard competition--amazing stuff, but that's a subject for another post. Upon being introduced to gold medalist Sage Kotsenburg on the small screen, I immediately thought, Hey, he's Clicker! Indeed, Sage was sporting a "no-problem, dude" grin, baggy 'boarder clothes, a very friendly personality, and a rabid, extreme sports focus.

Then I stopped and laughed at myself, realizing my mistake. Oh sure, there's some of the snowboard star in Clicker. But he's more than just a "hey-dude" (which I think is my own moniker for this archetype). He's an extremely intelligent super-geek. Since he's always having "gnarly crashes" on his motorcycle or skateboard or snowboard, he'd probably never make it to the Olympics--though Olympians certainly have their share of such misfortunes. And he's kind of an over-aged "hey-dude" at thirty-something.

But there's also something of all the computer wizards I've ever known in Clicker. Of the friendliest people who've crossed my path--and the most laid-back. And of the truest friends in my life. Like all fictional characters, Clicker's just one big amalgamation of this writer's experiences and imagination--and channeling--definitely a subject for another post.

A fictional character is both a symbol and a unique personality. A symbol for something slightly amorphous, like the word "red." But something that is clearly defined in the author's mind--and perhaps in her copious notes, those scribbles in a cheap wire-bound notebook, in my case.

Yet at the same time, Clicker may be my Clicker--but he's also your Clicker. Just as he lives in my mind, he also lives in yours, but as a slightly different version--like the parallel universe characters in sci-fi. That's the great thing about books as compared to movies or TV. You read about a character, and your own mind and imagination provide an interpretation for you that is wholly your own, no Hollywood casting director needed. (Sadly, this is why it's often disappointing to see the movie after you've read the book.) So if I've done my job right, there is room in my character description for everyone's Clicker.

Oh, by the way, when I told someone that I was "doing research for my book" by watching the Olympics, I was only half kidding. It's just possible that Clicker may do some snowboarding in Jude Hayes Mysteries, Book Two, They Pull Me Back In.

In the meantime, here's some Clicker color from Remover of Obstacles:

The toning of the chimes announced Clicker’s arrival and I got up to hold the door open for him as he tried to negotiate the entry on crutches. His hair was sticking up all over the place under the influence of some strange-colored hair gel and he smiled his trademark crooked smile. Clicker was always happy—apparently even after becoming a human cannonball in the desert. Earphones dangled from his ears, Indian sitar music at a dangerously high volume leaking out. Clicker loves all things Indian. I suspect it was the great tragedy of his life not to be born in Mumbai or Calcutta—and worse, to have pasty-white skin, freckles, and red hair. His style of dress tended toward an offbeat mixture of surfer dude and Indian batik.

“Dudette! Thanks. The crutches are still a little gnarly with doors ‘n’ stuff.”

“I can see that. How are you, Clicker?” I moved quickly to pull out a bar stool for him and Jasmine nodded approvingly at my solicitousness. She rose to give Clicker a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“You’re moving pretty well, Clicker.”

“Jasmine-Shakti! I will soon have this crutch thing DOWN!” He illustrated with a quick pirouette. The bruises on his arms seemed to be healing quickly, already toned down from an angry purple to a fading yellow.

She gave him a suspicious look and folded her arms. “You’re laying off the motorcycle and skateboard stuff for a few months, right?”

“Oh, definitely. No riding at least until I get that soft-cast thing that looks like a dirtriding boot.”

She closed her eyes and took a big, deep breath, presumably summoning ultimate forbearance.

“’Course, I’ll have to get somebody to start up the bike for me, ‘cause all my bikes are kickers. Don’t think I can turn ‘em over. And, like, the ‘boarding thing? Not sure of the wiseness of that, ya know? Doc said there could be balance problems, maybe.” Clicker was watching her out of the corner of his eye, feigning careful consideration of his future recreational plans.

Realizing belatedly that he was pulling her leg big time, Jasmine swiped at the side of his head hissing, “Dunce!” and strode regally around the counter.

Clicker sort of slid down his crutches to collapse lopsidedly onto the proffered stool. As he did so, the messed-up cartilage in his good leg made the odd clicking sound which had birthed his nickname. Clicker’s body boasted numerous reminders of his extreme sports mishaps. He was far more beat-up than usual this time, though, I thought darkly. Time to get to work on who meant him serious bodily harm—if not death. I sat down and took a sip of coffee, thinking.