Struggling With Your Character? Ask a Ghost for Help!
Recently, I was preparing to teach a writing workshop using Lessons in Chemistry, by Bonnie Garmus, as a springboard for discussions about craft. I found myself looking very closely at the character of Six-Thirty, the dog that protagonist Elizabeth Zott and her partner, Calvin Evans, adopt. In an unusual choice, Garmus narrates several portions of the book from Six-Thirty’s point of view—principally describing Zott’s anguish and grief when Evans unexpectedly dies in a freak accident. Six-Thirty even goes to the cemetery where Evan is buried in an effort to communicate with Evans about how profoundly Zott is suffering.
(How Do I Develop a Character’s Voice?)
Many readers have commented on the unique nature of Six-Thirty and the way Garmus uses him in the book. Many find Six-Thirty whimsical and amusing, and they enjoy his point of view. As for me, I was intrigued by the use of such an unconventional perspective. I was impressed by how effectively Six-Thirty comments on human behavior and draws us closer to Zott’s emotional turmoil.
I found myself wondering: Is there a benefit to using a “paranormal” character—a ghost, an alien, a time-traveler, an animal—to reveal or expound upon what other characters are thinking and feeling? Are there other stories—books, movies, or even TV shows—that also use this approach to good end?
As a fan of Noel Coward, I immediately thought of the comedy Blithe Spirit, made into a movie in 1945. It stars Rex Harrison as Charles, a married man trying to enjoy wedded bliss with his second wife only to be haunted by the ghost of his dead first wife. Decades later came the comedy Kiss Me Goodbye, in which Sally Field’s Kay—heading toward her second marriage—suddenly encounters her dead first husband, who makes it clear he doesn’t approve of her intended.
As members of my class reminded me, a more recent example is the movie Ghost, in which Sam—who is murdered early in the film—hangs around, unseen, in the mortal world to try to save his love, Molly (Demi Moore), from suffering the same fate that he did. And even more recently, consider the novel The Time Traveler’s Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger. Later made into a movie with Rachel McAdams and Eric Bana, The Time Traveler’s Wife depicts Henry and Clare, two young lovers trying to make it as a couple despite the fact that Henry frequently and unexpectedly jumps out of the present day and lands in an alternative moment in his past or future.
What my class and I discovered as we contemplated these and other examples was that other-worldly characters are often the means by which we learn about a human character’s unresolved questions, fears, and sadness. Is Charles happy in his second marriage? Is Kay truly ready to give herself over to a new relationship? Can Molly take care of herself with Sam gone? Is it ever possible to connect completely with another person—or is the human condition to remain alone even at the moment you are most in love—as Henry and Clare frequently are?
I also found myself thinking about the classic TV show Mork and Mindy, about an alien from a distant planet (played by the incomparable Robin Williams) who comes to Earth to observe human behavior. While the two characters become so close that they eventually fall in love and marry, it’s Mork who observes and comments on the absurd actions of earthlings. Mindy, as a human, doesn’t see what Mork does.
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How can we use these unusual perspectives to sharpen our depiction of our characters?
Often as writers, we create characters whose beliefs, habits, and feelings closely align with our own. While this can be useful as we seek to make our characters realistic, it can also work against us. Sometimes we’re way too close to a character to truly reveal them to readers. Their behaviors or reactions are second nature to us, because they are our behaviors or reactions—but they can be confusing to readers who don’t know the characters as well as we do. Have you ever had to explain your behavior or feelings to a friend or family member? Of course you have. But in literature, you don’t have the luxury to sit on your reader’s shoulder and explain what’s going on. Everything that’s important for the reader to know has to be right there on the page.
So if you’re having trouble making your character understandable—if beta readers, fellow workshoppers, or even agents aren’t connecting as you’d like—I’d invite you to try this exercise. Just for fun, add a ghost, an alien, or a time-traveler to your scene. What does that being tell you about your protagonist? What do they notice that perhaps you didn’t even realize? Now, can you enrich your protagonist by finding ways—through dialogue, internal thought, or behavior—to encompass what you learned?
Who knows? You may just end up keeping that ghost or alien in your book.
But even if you don’t, you could very well find new ways to develop your character that you hadn’t even expected.
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