11 Dichotomous Characters - And Why They Work

Fiction writing doesn’t offer many shortcuts or magic formulas. But today I am going to give you a secret ingredient in that coveted recipe for memorable and realistic characters. What is this ingredient? Dichotomy.

If we expect our characters to jump off the page into three-dimensional living color, we have to give them multi-faceted personalities. Human personalities are wonderfully (and sometimes frustratingly) varied. No one is 100% good or 100% bad; there are multitudinous shades of gray in all of us. And so it should be with our characters. Take a look at the following list of classic characters and the dichotomies that made them so memorable.

1. Long John Silver in Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson

You’d expect a treasure-hungry, bloodthirsty pirate to be bad right down to the tip of his peg leg, but few of these bad boys reached the legendary status to which Captain Silver attained thanks to his fondness for an upright youngster named Jim Hawkins. Silver may have been a nasty cutthroat, but his affection (and his actions to back it up, even when the going got tough) made him worth remembering.

2. Aunt Abby & Aunt Martha Brewster in Arsenic and Old Lace by Frank Capra

At the center of Capra’s madcap classic are two of the sweetest little old ladies you’re likely to find anywhere this side of your grandmother. In fact, they’re so sweet viewers would be likely to pass them off as maudlin clichés—were it not for their unforgettable desire to help lonely old men… by poisoning them.

3. Mr. Darcy in Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen

What discussion of dichotomous characters would be complete without mentioning the multi-faceted Mr. Darcy, whose brooding paradox of arrogance and bashfulness, tactlessness and generosity hoisted him to the top of the pile as one of literature’s most fanatically loved characters.

4. George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life directed by Frank Capra

Grumpy, disillusioned, dissatisfied George Bailey appears on our television screens every Christmas. He’s an unhappy and even unlikable man for much of the movie, but what we love—what we keep coming back to see year after year—is the inherent goodness, the unfailing selflessness hidden away beneath all that grumbling. We resonate with George Bailey, because we see that same mixture of good and bad every time we look in the mirror.

5. Alan Breck Stewart in Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson

Alan Breck Stewart, the brash Jacobite soldier, isn’t our idea of a gentleman—anymore than he is protagonist David Balfour’s. Rough and rude and crude as he may, Stewart’s last impression upon us is his unfailing honesty and integrity. But neither his brashness, nor his uprightness, would be nearly as memorable in isolation.

6. Jack Aubrey in the Aubrey/Maturin series by Patrick O’Brian

O’Brian’s deft ability to sketch characters has given us the inherently flawed and inherently lovable lifelong royal seaman Jack Aubrey. Aubrey’s brilliance at sea and in battle contrasted with his naïveté and even ineptitude regarding matters on land gives him a marvelous stamp of authenticity. And who could forget his unexpected penchant for classical music?

7. Jason Bourne in The Bourne Identity directed by Doug Liman

Killers with a conscience are perhaps one of the most common dichotomies in fiction. But few are as well rounded as the movie version of amnesiac assassin Jason Bourne. The entire story is driven by the question Why would a man with an obviously integral sense of morality willingly choose to become a professional killer?

8. Mr. Magorium in Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium by N. E. Bode and Juliana Baggott

This whimsical children’s story is certainly a stretch on reality. But the age-old wisdom and the intrinsic innocence of toy-shop owner Mr. Magorium still resonates. How can a man who knows so much still maintain such a childlike sense of wonder and imagination? The question is never answered, but we end up being so fascinated by the character of Mr. Magorium that we hardly care.

9. King Kong in King Kong directed by Peter Jackson

The great ape of classic cinema may not be the best character ever put on film, but he remains memorable simply because he presented such a beautiful dichotomy: a primal, instinctive killer who bestowed his own version of kindness and gentleness on the one person he loved.

10. Léon in Léon (The Professional) by Luc Besson

More or less duped into being a killer for hire, émigré Léon lives a life of silence and loneliness, bestowing his affections only in his diligent care of his Japanese peace lily. Jean Reno’s characterization gives us a brilliantly subtle character, whose seeming simplicity only adds deeper layers to what could have so easily been a cookie-cutter character.

11. Tom Doniphon in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance directed by John Ford

Rough and ready homesteader Tom Doniphon rides roughshod over pretty much everybody, including his longtime girl Hallie. But when the cards are the table and he has to choose between losing Hallie and doing the right thing, he proves that what you see isn’t always what you get. (Warning: spoilers.)

Related Posts: It's What Your Characters Do That Defines Them

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Punch Your Readers in the Gut!

“Writing is not only an intellectual endeavor for me, it’s also very much a physical one. When I’m on to the right story, the right location, the right situation, the right theme, my body tells me. I feel a surge of excitement in my solar plexus that literally sends the message Yes yes yes! to my brain…. I listen to my body. When I feel that surge of excitement, I know I’ve hit upon the right [idea] for a scene…. If you’re trusting your gut reaction to what you’re writing (i.e., trusting your body and not listening to the committee in your mind), you’ll do fine.”

—Elizabeth George in Write Away

As one of the most structured forms of art, writing is very much a left-brain pursuit. We put our intellect to work every time we sit down and start thinking about three-act story arcs, complex vs. compound sentences, gerunds and participles, keeping our characters in character, and organizing our subplots. Our desks are cluttered with notes and reminders; our bulletin boards teem with sketches, maps, and timelines; and our filing cabinets are jammed with draft upon draft of our novels. There’s a lot to think about in this writing game. So much so that it’s almost overwhelming sometimes.

However, we have to be careful that we don’t let the (very important) intellectual side of the craft take precedence over the even more important guidance of our primal, instinctive, sheerly emotional gut feelings. As perennial bestselling mystery author Elizabeth George pointed out in the opening paragraph, our emotional, or physical, responses to our own ideas and stories are often the most accurate indication of their value.

As much as we want readers to intellectually appreciate the intelligence of our writing, we need them, even more, to react to the underlying pull of the story and its characters with utter, unthinking emotion. When you can connect with the mysterious, often unpredictable realm of a reader’s emotion, you’re likely to hook them not only into reading your story, but also into carrying it with them for the rest of their lives. A story that connects with me emotionally is likely to win my approval, even it fails on certain structural levels. I’ll forgive your plot issues if you make me love your characters and resonate with your themes.

So how do you go about creating emotionally resonant stories? It’s simple: You create stories with which you resonate. Learn to listen to your body and identify emotional connections and reactions. Whenever I hit on an idea that makes me literally gasp, that makes my lungs “collapse,” I know I’ve got something. Even if my body were to let me, that’s not a feeling I can afford to ignore. When a story or a character or a theme rips at my heart or fills with me joy—I know I’ve tapped a powerful emotion. If I can channel that emotion, then I’ll likely be able to give readers a similar experience.

Will all readers react to my story in the same way I do? Probably not, because not everyone is emotionally stimulated by the same things I am. But, at least, by utilizing what triggers my own genuine emotion, by letting my story punch me in the gut if it has to, I’m allowing readers the opportunity to share that authenticity. My uncle, an internationally recognized motivational speaker, often points out that “If they cry, they buy.” Callous as that may be, it’s absolutely true. Readers pay attention to their emotions—and so should you.

Related Posts: Eliciting Emotion

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Should You Outline Backwards?

When you think of outlines, you generally think organization, right? The whole point of outlining, versus the seat-of-the-pants method, is to give the writer a road map, a set of guidelines, a plan. It only makes sense that an outline should be simple, streamlined, and linear. An outline should put things in order. So you’re probably going to think I’m crazy when I tell you that sometimes the most effective outlines are those that are constructed backwards.

When I begin outlining a story, I usually have only a handful of scenes in mind. My job during the outlining period is to connect the dots between those scenes. I have to create a plausible series of events, a chain reaction that will cause each scene to domino into the one following. But linking scenes isn’t always easy to do, if you don’t know what it’s supposed to be linking to. As any mystery writer can tell you, you can’t set the clues up perfectly until you know whodunit. Often, it’s easier and more productive to start with the last scene in a series and work your way backwards.

For example, in my work-in-progress The Deepest Breath, which I’m currently outlining, I know that one of my POV characters is going to be waylaid and injured seriously enough to knock him out of commission for several weeks. However, I don’t yet know how or why he was injured. I could work my way toward this point in a logical, linear fashion, starting at the last known scene (when he meets another character at a dinner party), and building one plot point upon another, until I reach my next known point (when he’s injured). But because my chain of events is based on what’s already behind me (the dinner party), more than what’s away off in the future (the waylaying), my attempts to bridge the two are likely to be less than cohesive.

By the time I work my way to the waylaying, my progression of events could have led me to something entirely different—and squeezing in the waylaying becomes a gymnastic effort instead of a natural flowing of plot. Plus, the fact that I have no idea what’s supposed to happen right after the dinner party means that I’m likely to invent random and inconsequential events to fill space until I figure out what needs to happen.

My solution?

You got it: work backwards.

Starting at the end of the plot progression—the waylaying—I start asking questions that will lead me to discover the plot point immediately preceding. How was he hurt? Where was he hurt? Why did the bad guys choose to do this to him? Why was he only injured, instead of killed? How is he going to escape? If I know these things, I’ll know how I need to set the scene up, and if I know how to set the scene up, I’ll know what scene to put in the previous slot in the outline. Eventually, I can work myself all the way back to the dinner party. Suddenly, I have a complete sequence of events, all of which are cohesive, linear, and logical enough to make my story tight and intense.

Facing the wide, blank unknown of a story can be scary. Putting one foot in front of the other, when you’re unsure of the terrain, can be overwhelming. But when you can work your way backwards from a known plot point, finding your way becomes as simple as filling in the blanks. And the result is a story that falls into order like a row of expertly placed dominoes.

Related Posts: The Benefits of Outlining

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Why You Should Be Writing Scared

It’s my belief that writers should be scared pretty much all the time. In fact, a constant state of terror would be optimal. When you sit down at your desk and extend your hands to your keyboard, a little tremble should shake your fingers. Your heart should be pounding just hard enough that you find it a tad difficult to draw that first (or second or third) breath. A little dryness of mouth, a little dampness of face, a little quiver in the abdominal region—these are the symptoms of sheer, unadulterated panic.

These are the symptoms of a good writer.

At first glance, this might seem like I’m spouting so much craziness. After all, fear usually isn’t something one cultivates, much less enjoys (unless, of course, you happen to be a bull rider or an Xtreme skier or an African lion hunter). Very likely, you chose the role of writer so that you would be able to narrate safely from the sidelines without any worry about facing gut-clenching, shiver-inducing nightmares up close and personal. But I’m here to tell you that if you ain’t writin’ scared, you ain’t pushin’ the boundaries.

Whenever your comfort zone starts getting too comfortable, it’s a sure bet you’re no longer challenging yourself. Writing scared means pushing yourself to the limit, tackling projects that look unconquerable, and always forcing yourself to go just a little bit farther than you think you’re capable of going. In the May 2009 issue of Writer’s Digest, Mark Bowden (author of Black Hawk Down) wrote:

I’d also advise writers to always be working on the most ambitious thing they’ve ever done. If you do that, your skills will consistently improve.

When it comes to writing I’ve got the wanderlust. I’ve no interest in visiting territory I’ve already covered. I want to journey on, see new sights, discover what’s over that next horizon. With every new project I begin, I make it a point to push myself to new heights. I want each story I write to be completely different. I want to meet characters I’ve never met, not just rehash the old standbys. I want to tackle themes that are always a little bigger than what I already have a handle on. I want to attempt narrative feats that seem all but impossible at my current skill level. Life’s too short for me to run in circles chasing my tail. That might be comfortable; it might be familiar; but it’s not it’s not exciting and it’s not challenging.

Don’t get me wrong. Despite all that nice adrenaline, being scared isn’t very much fun. It’s easy to be assailed by doubts and insecurities. It’s even easier to make excuses. Well, Dostoevsky could get away with writing a dark novel with a rambling, insane hero… but he was Dostoevsky! Every time I reach the middle portion of a novel, I go through a terrifying sinking spell in which I’m absolutely, one hundred percent, dead-to-rights certain that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. But even as I’m wandering around in search of someone who can perform the Heimlich maneuver on me when I start choking, I also keep writing—and challenging myself—and rewriting—and growing.

By the time I reach the end of the novel, I’ve not only learned how to swallow, I’ve also written a story that—although still a long ways from perfect—is better than anything I thought I’d ever be able to write. That’s a cycle of fear that’s most definitely worth repeating.

As I sit down at my desk to begin what will be my eighth novel, I have every intention of pushing the envelope as far as I can. And I have no doubt whatsoever that I will spend most of the winter and part of the spring in abject terror. If you see a writer running around with bloodshot eyes and hair frizzed out on end, it just might be me. Or—if you’re lucky—maybe a second glance will show you that the wild-eyed writer is your own reflection in the mirror.

Related Posts: Mental Illness, Angst, and Creativity by Carolyn Kaufman

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Why You Should Stick With a Story

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Guest Post : Good Writers Are So Lazy, They Make Readers Do All the Work! by Jason Black

This week, I’m pleased to share a guest post by Jason Black, a freelance book editor who actively blogs about character development and who recently appeared as a book doctor at the 2009 PNWA Summer Writers Conference. He’s also hosting today’s stop on the virtual blog tour for my book Behold the Dawn, so be sure to swing by his blog to read his interview with me. To learn more about Jason, you can visit his website Plot to Punctuation. I’m sure you’ll enjoy his insightful post on why detailed description isn’t always as important as we think.

Good Writers Are So Lazy, They Make Readers Do All the Work!

Read any half-dozen writing blogs, and they’ll be full of advice on how to craft dramatic scenes, how to write realistic dialogue, how to create vivid settings, and all that jazz. Add in the need for a compelling hook, character arcs, rising tension and stakes, and it begins to sound like real work!

I guess it is if you look at it that way. But the way I look at it, good writers are lazy. They’re so lazy, in fact, they co-opt the reader into doing most of the work for them.

Experienced writers have learned that less really is more. Readers have great imaginations, and experienced writers have learned how to tap into them to make their own work come across more vividly and more believably. Experienced writers have learned how to give only the essential details of a scene in such a way that readers imagine everything else.

By letting the reader imagine all the filler details, the stuff that’s not actually important to the plot, readers create for themselves a scene that is both vivid and completely believable. Let’s take a quick example:

Owen stepped into the cool dark of the barn, praying he had arrived first. The smell of rotting hay made him wonder how long since this barn saw any legitimate use. Probably a long time, Owen thought. Whoever used to run this farm must have been driven out of business years ago, when the corporate mega-farms bought up the heartland. He patted the cold steel lump under his sports coat for comfort, and looked for someplace to hide. A dark corner not cut by the occasional knife of sunlight slicing between the wide old pine boards. Nothing legitimate happening here today, that’s for sure.

Think about the physical setting in that little vignette. Imagine it as though this scene were in a movie. What would it look like? Have you got a mental picture?

Good. Now notice what I didn’t say about the barn. I didn’t say how big it is, or how tall. I didn’t give the color or whether it has a silo attached to one side. Maybe you imagined it big and red, with the classic two-pitch sloped roof and a farmhouse not too far away. Maybe you imagined it painted green, or brown, or with the words “Henderson’s Farm” painted on the side in huge white letters. Maybe you imagined it surrounded by miles of monoculture corn crops, or maybe wheat, or potatoes, or soybeans.

Whatever you imagined, the picture was vivid and believable for you, because it came from you. You brought your own unique concept of what a disused old barn is like, based on your unique life experiences. The barn you imagine is likely to be different from the one I imagine, but that’s okay. By making you fill in the details, you’ll naturally fill in details that are the most vivid, believable details for you. As will every other reader.

As long as I help you imagine the barn to be empty and disused, suitably isolated as to make a good spot for a clandestine meeting, then the rest is immaterial. Why should I work hard inventing immaterial details, when my picture of a barn, drawn from my life, is guaranteed to be less vivid and believable to my readers than their picture of a barn, drawn from their lives?

If I’m smart, I won’t. I’ll be lazy, and make the reader fill that in for me.

Related Posts: Details: Bringing Fiction to Life

Color Me Vivid

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