How to introduce a new character.
Action reveals character, not descriptions. When you introduce a new character, that is, when the reader or audience see the character for the first time, that character needs to do something specific that reveals who that person is. In a truly great story, every character is the protagonist of his or her own story, regardless of the role they play in the larger story. But let’s begin with the main protagonist. Later, we can intorduce any new character in the same way.
In order to grab your audience, it is much better to begin with character than with scene description. Once you have introduced your protagonist, then you set the scene he or she is in. Ideally, then, your very first sentence will introduce your protagonist. (Note: the first character wee see must be the Protagonist, EXCEPT in those rare instances when the Catalyst—or “Monster”—appears first, like in “Jaws.” Never introduce the antagonist first, unless you’ve already sold ten best-sellers and this is your “magnum opus.”)
What action does the character take in that all-important first sentence? Of all the actions any person takes in a lifetime, which one best introduces him or her to the world? The answer to this question is the answer to another question. If you describe this person to a friend who has never met the character, how could they spot your character? “You’ll know Nancy the minute you see her. She’ll be looking in a mirror.” Of course, in real life, you’d probably be exaggerating a bit. But in your story, the best way to introduce a character is with an action that would make that person stand out in a crowd, something that also hints at the essential action of the entire story.
Ten minutes late for work, LaRonda Thomas stopped in the hall and checked her Maybelleine lip gloss in a cherry-framed oval mirror, leaning over a cherry-wood hall table she inherited from her grand-mama Lucille.
This is one way to introduce a character who worries more about her looks than her job—and probably anything else. Ideally, the entire story will hinge on LaRonda’s vanity. If not, then you’ve wasted that crucial first sentence.
Even when the “monster” is the first thing we see, the rule still applies. In “Jaws,” the first thing we see the shark do is eat a human being. That’s the most important thing we need to know about this shark. It eats people. From the first five minutes on, every time you see the shark, you know what’s at stake in the following scene. A human life.
In Gone With The Wind, the first thing we see Scarlet O’Hara do is complain. Then we see her suck it up and tough it out. And then complain about it. That’s what she does for the next four hours of the movie. She perseveres through every hardship, and never shuts up about it.
Of course, you will want to complete the paragraph by dinumerating upon the topic “the most essential action.”
Mrs Elvira Woodchamps took a sip from a half-pint bottle of Old Grandad whiskey and
screwed the cap back on with deliberate, arthritic fingers. Then she slipped the bottle into the jacket pocket of her lime green pants suit. For after lunch.
You have a Who, a What, a When, a How, and a Foreshadowing. Several foreshadowings, in fact. There will be a lunch. Then there will be drinking. And the drinking will, if you do your job correctly, become a Why.
Ideally, every character in your story will introduce himself in the same way the first time he appears. A group of people can be tough. But start by asking yourself how you’d describe this party over the phone to your friend. “You’ll know Hillary as soon as you hear that cackle of hers. Bill will be the one wagging his finger. Obama’s the one who makes women faint. And McCain will be calling everyone a jerk.” Now, when you work that into the first page of your first scene, you turn it into something like this:
Barack Obama, Harvard Law 1991, strode confidently into the Hyatt Regency ballroom and three women fainted. John McCain, Navy pilot and former POW, called Obama a jerk. Bill Clinton, former hatchet man for Tyson Chicken, wagged his finger at John. Then Bill’s wife, Hillary, cackled.
“Race you to Washington!” Obama said to the other three.
“Speaking of race—” Bill started.
“Out of the way, jerk!” McCain interrrupted, elbowing his way past both of them.
They all three tripped over a stand of piano wire strung across the doorway by Hillary when they weren’t looking.
“Eat Spitzer’s snot!” she yelled, stomping on Bill’s ring finger and kicking Obama in the teeth. Then she cackled again. Then she sprinted down the hall to the elevator shaft.
You’ve introduced your characters and started the story—in character, triggered by conflicts between characters, and driven forward by actions stemming from character. No wonder you’re so successful.
In order to grab your audience, it is much better to begin with character than with scene description. Once you have introduced your protagonist, then you set the scene he or she is in. Ideally, then, your very first sentence will introduce your protagonist. (Note: the first character wee see must be the Protagonist, EXCEPT in those rare instances when the Catalyst—or “Monster”—appears first, like in “Jaws.” Never introduce the antagonist first, unless you’ve already sold ten best-sellers and this is your “magnum opus.”)
What action does the character take in that all-important first sentence? Of all the actions any person takes in a lifetime, which one best introduces him or her to the world? The answer to this question is the answer to another question. If you describe this person to a friend who has never met the character, how could they spot your character? “You’ll know Nancy the minute you see her. She’ll be looking in a mirror.” Of course, in real life, you’d probably be exaggerating a bit. But in your story, the best way to introduce a character is with an action that would make that person stand out in a crowd, something that also hints at the essential action of the entire story.
Ten minutes late for work, LaRonda Thomas stopped in the hall and checked her Maybelleine lip gloss in a cherry-framed oval mirror, leaning over a cherry-wood hall table she inherited from her grand-mama Lucille.
This is one way to introduce a character who worries more about her looks than her job—and probably anything else. Ideally, the entire story will hinge on LaRonda’s vanity. If not, then you’ve wasted that crucial first sentence.
Even when the “monster” is the first thing we see, the rule still applies. In “Jaws,” the first thing we see the shark do is eat a human being. That’s the most important thing we need to know about this shark. It eats people. From the first five minutes on, every time you see the shark, you know what’s at stake in the following scene. A human life.
In Gone With The Wind, the first thing we see Scarlet O’Hara do is complain. Then we see her suck it up and tough it out. And then complain about it. That’s what she does for the next four hours of the movie. She perseveres through every hardship, and never shuts up about it.
Of course, you will want to complete the paragraph by dinumerating upon the topic “the most essential action.”
Mrs Elvira Woodchamps took a sip from a half-pint bottle of Old Grandad whiskey and
screwed the cap back on with deliberate, arthritic fingers. Then she slipped the bottle into the jacket pocket of her lime green pants suit. For after lunch.
You have a Who, a What, a When, a How, and a Foreshadowing. Several foreshadowings, in fact. There will be a lunch. Then there will be drinking. And the drinking will, if you do your job correctly, become a Why.
Ideally, every character in your story will introduce himself in the same way the first time he appears. A group of people can be tough. But start by asking yourself how you’d describe this party over the phone to your friend. “You’ll know Hillary as soon as you hear that cackle of hers. Bill will be the one wagging his finger. Obama’s the one who makes women faint. And McCain will be calling everyone a jerk.” Now, when you work that into the first page of your first scene, you turn it into something like this:
Barack Obama, Harvard Law 1991, strode confidently into the Hyatt Regency ballroom and three women fainted. John McCain, Navy pilot and former POW, called Obama a jerk. Bill Clinton, former hatchet man for Tyson Chicken, wagged his finger at John. Then Bill’s wife, Hillary, cackled.
“Race you to Washington!” Obama said to the other three.
“Speaking of race—” Bill started.
“Out of the way, jerk!” McCain interrrupted, elbowing his way past both of them.
They all three tripped over a stand of piano wire strung across the doorway by Hillary when they weren’t looking.
“Eat Spitzer’s snot!” she yelled, stomping on Bill’s ring finger and kicking Obama in the teeth. Then she cackled again. Then she sprinted down the hall to the elevator shaft.
You’ve introduced your characters and started the story—in character, triggered by conflicts between characters, and driven forward by actions stemming from character. No wonder you’re so successful.
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