I remember it was around last time this year that I clicked on a video suggested to me by the Youtube algorithm. The same technology that had been bringing me cat videos from twelve years ago and Vine compilations “cleaner than [my] grandma’s kitchen” had brought me this: a video essay discussing the issue with Creepypastas. Being a fan of scary stories, video essays, and analysis, I clicked on “Why Does Creepypasta Suck” by Jenny Nicholson and was not disappointed. For those who don’t know, Creepypastas are horror stories that originally came from the website, Reddit, but can also be found on their own website, creepypasta.com. As Nicholson says in her video essay, Creepypastas are the internet equivalent of campfire stories. One distinct feature of Creepypastas is that they are told as if they are true. Think of them as the modern equivalent to old urban legends, like the one with the hook in the car door or the one with the woman who if she takes off her necklace, her head falls off. The issue, as Nicholson describes, is that Creepypastas often don’t feel real, even when their authors try to assert that they are. Embedded below is her video, which I highly recommend.

 

“The story was scary and it worked because it never asked us to believe anything too far-fetched.”

 

In summary, Nicholson argues that in order for a scary story to be effective, it needs to maintain suspension of disbelief. I couldn’t agree more. She criticizes several Creepypastas for relying on shock horror alone and ignoring how unbelievable the scenarios are. As she demonstrates through these examples, this results in stories that feel like they’re trying too hard. Overall, Nicholson conveys that a story needs to be believable in order for it to be scary.

 

Despite being commonly associated with the horror genre, suspension of disbelief (or SoD) is an essential element in all kinds of fictional writing. It’s what keeps an audience hooked on a story. It wasn’t until I watched this aforementioned video essay that I really started to pay attention to how important SoD really is. Even if an audience knows they are consuming fiction, they still want to have an immersive experience. Without SoD, this escapism isn’t possible. The techniques needed to maintain SoD also differ depending on genre. A sci-fi novel about intergalactic pirates is obviously going to have different standards for what is realistic within its story than a coming-of-age movie centered on the life of a young French woman in 1789.

 

While I can’t speak for every specific genre of fiction, here are some general guidelines for maintaining SoD:

 

• Establish the rules of your setting

As real-life human beings, our world is governed by sets of natural and social laws. Each time we hold up an apple and let go, we know that it’ll fall down until it hits a surface (if it didn’t, Newton would be rolling in his grave). We know within our own cultures and time what’s considered to be rude and what’s considered polite. It wouldn’t make sense if the worlds we write didn’t have any rules dictating how things are supposed to work within them. For different genres, the establishing of these rules can be different. In a fantasy setting, establishing the rules of the world could mean establishing clear rules as to what magic can and cannot do. In a historical fiction setting, it could mean giving readers insight into the social norms for upper-class Venetians during the Renaissance. By establishing what can and cannot be, you are enabling your audience to better understand the world your story is told in.

 

• Stick to the rules of your setting (for the most part)

Once you’ve established the limitations of your setting, you’ll usually want to stick to them. Blatantly disregarding what you’ve worked to establish results in writing that feels lazy. Say, for instance, you’ve established in your fantasy story that it is impossible for magic to be used to bring back the dead, and then later in the story, one of your characters uses magic to bring back their friend from the dead. Depending on how much the rule has been established throughout the story, this decision can be interpreted in one of two ways. If the rule was heavily established, not only via exposition but through example, then the decision to break the rule feels like a cop-out. If the rule was mentioned once or twice but not made to be a major plot point, then the decision feels like the writer forgot about their established rule and the mistake slipped their attention. Either way, breaking the established rules doesn’t usually look good. Usually.

 

 There are some examples where breaking the rules you’ve established enhances the story. In a sci-fi story about an alien invasion of Earth, the rules that normally dictate things like gravity and how long space travel takes are able to be broken if the human characters acknowledge that things aren’t exactly what they should be. In realistic fiction, a character might go against the established social norms, much to the shock and horror of their family. Generally, you can distinguish what is good rule-breaking vs. bad rule-breaking based on if it enhances the story and if it doesn’t feel completely out of place.

 

• Make your characters feel like real people

I won’t spend too long covering this point because I’ve written several blog posts on different methods for doing this. However, I will say that I cannot stress how important this is. Characters need to be like real people in a few main aspects: their actions need to make sense; they have to develop; and they need to have flaws. It doesn’t matter if your character is a talking cat or a monster with three heads. If they are given human-like characteristics, like the ability to speak, the capacity for emotions, and sentience, they should be written like any human character would be, at least to an extent.

 

These are just some of the many, many, many ways to maintain SoD in storytelling. As I mentioned before, SoD is a vital component of every story. Even little things, like a forgotten detail or a small mistake can take your audience out of the story. The point of SoD is to keep your audience engaged by making the things you create feel real. While it takes time, practice, and experience, SoD is well worth the effort it takes to master. It’s SoD that distinguishes words on a page or actors memorizing lines from the universes and characters we all know and love.

Have you ever read a book or watched a TV show or movie where it felt like the main character didn’t have a personality? I know I have numerous times. More importantly, were you able to enjoy that book, show, or movie? I want to say no, but for me, that wasn’t always the case. Surprisingly, I’ve had pretty polar reactions to works that have used these types of characters: either I’ve hated them or I’ve loved them. There has been no in-between.

 

I’ve dubbed these types of characters “POVs.” Not to be confused with the general term used to describe the perspective from which a story is told, POVs are essentially shells of characters. They have little to no personality and are typically passive individuals. I’ve heard people describe characters like these as “blank slates,” onto which audiences can project themselves. While I think this is true to an extent, I find this description inadequate, as “blank slate” implies something will be carved onto it. While not stagnant, POVs have developments that are ultimately shallow. Changes in characters don’t mean a whole lot if there wasn’t much character there to begin with. At first glance, the use of this type of character looks like a recipe for a deeply unsatisfying narrative, a product of lazy writing. Yet, somehow, this isn’t always true.

 

Let’s look at some examples of POVs:

Example #1: Heroine from Amnesia (2013)

The heroine of this anime is literally named Heroine in the script and credits

 

Amnesia, inspired by the video game series of the same name, is an anime that aired for one season in 2013. It follows main character, Heroine, as she relives the same day over and over again, with each day ending with an untimely death. As the title suggests, Heroine has amnesia and cannot recall anything about her life prior to the day she has to keep reliving. Due to this, audiences aren’t really given too much info about who Heroine is, including her real name, her relationships with the other characters, and her personality. All that we know about her is based on comments made about her likes and dislikes by the other characters around her. Heroine is the epitome of a POV, yet her role as the main character of the story does not make the show less enjoyable.

 

This is due to a couple of reasons:

• Heroine’s lack of personality is acknowledged and serves a key role in the story.

The main conflict in Amnesia is between Heroine and whatever forces are trying to kill her every day. Because she has no clue who is trapping her in a time loop, she is motivated to figure out who she is in hopes that she’ll be able to figure out who wants her dead. While she isn’t successful in learning much about her identity, her constant inner dialogue in which she tries to remember important information makes it clear that the lack of information provided about her is acknowledged.

 

• The anime stays loyal to its source material.

While I said that I take issue with people calling POVs blank slates, I can make an exception for Heroine because she was originally designed to be so. As I mentioned, Amnesia is an anime adaptation of a video game series. The video games that inspired the show are choose-your-own-adventure games, in which you play as the heroine. Because the choices players make influence the outcome of the game, the players choose the personality of the heroine through their actions. This explains why Heroine in the anime is not given a strong personality, as to not conflict too much with her video game counterpart.

 

Example #2: Clay from Thirteen Reasons Why (2007)

 

Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher is a young adult novel that was given a Netflix original adaptation in 2017. For this blog, I’m only going to discuss Clay in the book. If you haven’t seen the book or the show, Thirteen Reasons Why (TRW) follows a high school boy named Clay, who receives a box of cassette tapes made by Hannah Baker, a girl from his high school who recently ended her own life. Clay listens to the tapes and learns about the bullying, harassment, and assault that influenced Hannah’s decision. Unlike in the show, Clay listens to the tapes all in one night, and only interjects Hannah’s dialogue with context and his reactions to her painful experiences. Clay essentially has no personality, but the book is still gripping.

 

This works because:

• The story isn’t about Clay.

Despite Clay being the perspective character, the story is more about Hannah than anyone else. While Clay does come into Hannah’s story via her tape about him, Clay doesn’t really do much except provide context so audiences can better understand Hannah and her experiences.

 

• Clay is meant to be a projection of a high schooler dealing with the death of a classmate.

Jay Asher has repeatedly said that he wrote TRW to raise awareness on teen suicides and to help prevent the horrible situations that Hannah (and other high schoolers) found/find themselves in. With this context, it is easy to see how Clay’s emotions are a broad representation of the emotions of high school classmates feel after learning one of their peers ended their own life. In his reactions, Clay recognizes certain behaviors and actions that Hannah took leading up to her death, which are written based on real-life signs to look out for if you suspect someone might be suicidal. Overall, audiences are meant to learn from Clay and identify with his suffering in a way that’s meant to persuade them to take action if they feel a peer needs their help.

 

 

Example #3: Griet from Girl with a Pearl Earring (1999)

 

Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier is a novel beloved by many. I’m not one of those many, mainly due to Griet, the main character of the story, who has little to no personality. The story follows the 16-year-old as she goes to work for the famous Dutch painter, Vermeer, after a workplace accident renders her father incapable of supporting their family. Eventually, Griet becomes Vermeer’s assistant and he decides to paint her, creating the famous portrait for which the book is named. Almost every action she takes in the book is a decision made for her by someone else, whether it be by her family, her employer, or her co-worker. The only emotions I remember her having from having read the book was her hatred of one of the children of her employers and her feelings of lust towards Vermeer, a married man twice her age. Overall, Griet doesn’t do a whole lot and doesn’t have much of a personality.

 

But Clay and Heroine didn’t have a lot of autonomy or personality and still were effective characters. What makes Griet different? The answer is simple: circumstance.

 

The circumstance and purpose for which Girl with a Pearl Earring is what makes Griet a detriment to its story. In Amnesia, Heroine has no personality as a way to accurately adapt her character and to serve as a plot device. Her role as a POV is meant to enhance the plot. In TRW, Clay’s role as a POV is meant to inspire teens to take action if they see a peer that they think is in danger of hurting themselves. He has no personality because he is meant to be a broad projection of emotions and messages. For lack of a better word, Girl with a Pearl Earring doesn’t have an excuse to use a POV as its main character. It is an original work based on a painting, which historically and contextually provides hints only to the girl in the painting’s socio-economic status and her relationship with Vermeer. In addition, Girl with a Pearl Earring wasn’t written to convey or push any particular message in the same way that TRW was. It was a story written primarily for entertainment, rather than for persuasive purposes. The circumstances in which Griet’s story is told combined with her lack of personality make her stick out.

 

 

The comparison that can be drawn between the effectiveness of POVs like Heroine and Clay and POVs like Griet demonstrate a conclusion that I have come to many times when writing these blogs: The skill of a writer to create worlds in which their characters work is greater than the techniques they use. This skill reveals why it feels okay to have shells of characters tell some stories but not others. Heroine and Clay don’t feel out of place because they fit perfectly into the worlds they are in. They do no more and no less than the story requires of them and the story asks for no more and no less than what they give it. Griet, however, is a wasted opportunity in a story where the author had the freedom to explore a mystery whose true answer has been lost to time. Had Griet been given an actual personality, maybe I wouldn’t resent Girl with a Pearl Earring as much as I do. But, as I said before, Griet, along with any other character created by another writer, isn’t my blank slate to carve.

Stagnant characters are typically the worst kind of character any writer can create. A stagnant character, simply put, is one that shows absolutely no character growth. The experiences they go through have no impact on who they are, how they think, and how they interact with others. If you’ve read my other piece on stagnant characters in which I compare them to stagnant pond water(click here for the post), you might remember that while I generally condemn the use of stagnant characters, I do acknowledge that certain writes can and have used stagnancy successfully.

 

Antigone by Sophocles is one of the only pieces of writing I know that incorporates a mostly stagnant character in a way that enhances the story. Antigone is the third and final play in a series that follows the curse placed upon Oedipus and his descendants. The story takes place after a Theban civil war, in which Oedipus’s two sons have killed each other. The new king (and the subject of this week’s analysis), Creon, declares that the brother who was sitting on the Theban throne will be given a proper burial. However, the other brother, who laid siege to Thebes to claim the throne, is to be left to rot on the battlefield. This was a huge deal to the Ancient Greeks, as the refusal of burial rights practically ensured that the spirit could not pass on. Refusing a proper burial also went against the will of the gods. Creon makes it law that anyone who attempts to bury the brother will be sentenced to death. Antigone, sister of the two dead brothers and fiancé of Creon’s son, attempts to bury her brother and gets caught. Creon sentences her to death, which leads his son to commit suicide. This, in turn, leads Creon’s wife to commit suicide. Creon is left alone and grieving.

 

Throughout most of the play, Creon remains virtually the same. He is stubborn and repeatedly refuses to listen to the pleas of those around him to bury Antigone’s brother. Most of his dialogue is his arguments with other characters. No matter who tries to convince him, no one has an impact on him. He argues with his son, who threatens to end his own life if Creon executes Antigone; the prophet of Apollo, Tiresias; Antigone, who conveys a logical argument; and his own subjects. All of these people would presumably have an impact on Creon for different reasons. His son would present emotional appeal. Antigone would present a logical appeal. Tiresias, who was famous for being able to see the future, would be influential solely because of who he is and what he can do. Because Creon sees himself as a king of his people, the words of the citizens around him would presumably have an impact on him. However, none of the arguments presented to Creon really convince him to change his mind when these types of appeals have been effectively used on real people for hundreds of years. In fact, rhetoric was already integrated into Athenian society before Antigone was written and performed in the city-state.

 

Because Creon is not the least bit persuaded by things that generally persuade real people and because he does little else in the story besides be stubborn, I classify him as a mostly stagnant character. I say ‘mostly’ because he does end up changing, but by the time he does so, there is little time left to explore these changes. Despite being a stagnant character, Creon doesn’t make the story feel meaningless. He does the opposite.

 

Here are a few reasons why Creon’s stagnancy works:

 

• Awareness of Other Characters

Creon’s main fault in Antigone is his hubris, which is acknowledged several times throughout the story by other characters. This is important because it creates an environment of accountability, establishing a world where Creon’s actions have consequences.

 

• Genre

Most Greek tragedies are written as cautionary tales and Antigone is no exception. Because of the intent with which it was written, Creon’s stagnancy serves to emphasize a point. He disrespects the gods and has to suffer the consequences. Creon’s stagnancy and the purpose of the story work together. This very specific set of conditions makes it so that Creon can be stagnant without weakening the story.

 

Because of a very specific combination of elements, Creon is able to be both stagnant and impactful in Antigone. While Creon demonstrates that stagnant characters can work well in certain stories, I still stand by my statement that most stagnant characters worsen the stories they are in. While stagnant pond water can be treated to be made safe, it takes skill to do so.

 

 

If you grew up in the 2000’s or have remained on Netflix in quarantine post-Tiger King, it’s more likely than not that you’ve seen or at least heard of the 2005 Nickolodeon hit, Avatar: The Last Airbender. One of the most iconic episodes in the show follows protagonists, Aang, Sokka, and Katara, and a traveling group of musicians as they attempt to reach the city of Omashu via a secret tunnel. Though it’s a small and forgettable part of the episode, there is a bit of dialogue towards the beginning that has always stuck out to me: “Woah…sounds like someone’s got a case of the destination fever. You’re worried too much about where you’re going…You’ve got to focus less on the ‘where’ and more on the ‘going’.” (“The Cave of Two Lovers”). Though Sokka doesn’t find this advice helpful in regard to his travels, I find this method of thinking extremely useful when it comes to outlining character arcs.

 

Sokka (left) failing to appreciate the advice of traveling musician, Chong (right)

 

Many writers have at least a faint understanding of where their story will end up before they begin writing their first drafts. It’s common for writers to fixate on the “where” so much that the “going” becomes a second thought. I’ve read stories where it was clear that the author had a specific outcome in mind, but forgot to think about the actual journey to get there and how that would impact their characters.

 

Everyone’s own personal experiences shape their identity and world view to an extent, though not every experience a person has will be life-changing. The same should be true for fictional characters, if not more true than it is for real people. I mentioned in a previous post that stories should capture significant events in the lives of your characters. If a character could go through the events of your story and come out completely unchanged, then that part of the character’s life was likely not significant enough to capture in a story. These changes don’t have to be large, but they do have to be present.

 

Character outlining often initially resembles plot outlining: you create the character, establish their personality, flaws, and conflicts, and figure out if and how the character will be able to combat them. This seems simple enough, but can actually be quite challenging. Here lies the pitfall of “Destination Fever.” This typically looks like this: A character is created with flaws. They go through the motions of the plot, maintaining their flaws. The story reaches its climax and suddenly, the character has miraculously overcome all of their flaws and the story ends. If that sounded to you like the character changed only to fit the format of the plot, you’re right.

 

Characters that change arbitrarily are as bad as stagnant characters in my opinion. They feel stiff and unnatural, almost robotic. Characters that exist only to serve a plot aren’t characters; they’re plot devices. True characters will feel like human beings. To avoid a case of “Destination Fever,” I’d recommend taking these steps:

 

• Plan out your entire plot beforehand.

This includes establishing every location, conflict, and character in a story and where they are introduced. You need to have more than a general idea of where everything will go in the story. Note that this can be modified later, but it helps to have a strong layout going into things.

 

• Map out your main characters.

Make a list of your characters’ attributes. I recommend including details that won’t even be used in the story, as this will help you know your own characters better. While you can include almost anything about your characters, you should definitely include personal histories and relevant flaws. Try to figure out why each character is the way that they are. Writing your characters’ backgrounds and giving them flaws will help you to figure out how they as individuals will interact with the world you’ve created for them. The flaws you give them will help set up their character arcs.

 

• Go through your outline again, but this time in the mindset of one of your characters.

With the information you have created for your character, you now need to go through the plot outline you’ve written and ask yourself if your character would realistically do the things you originally outlined. It’s okay if the answer is no. What you then need to do is change how your character responds to different situations to more accurately fit the character you mapped out. As you reach major events in the story, ask yourself how these events would change a person. What significance do these moments hold for your character? What kind of person does the character need to be to go through certain situations? How will they get there? Do these moments teach the character anything? After you’ve gone through this process with one character, you’ll need to do this with any other main characters in your story.

 

• Revisit the flaws of your characters at the end of the story.

By the end of your story, your characters should ideally have resolved the story-relevant flaws initially given to them. The events of the story and/or interactions the characters around a character should have equipt the character with the skills, insight, and/or experiences to resolve their flaws and exit the story better than they entered it. If this isn’t the case, you might want to review any of the previous tips.

 

While the process of mapping a character arc can be tedious, it can also be fascinating to witness your characters come to life before your eyes. Even though it can be tempting to think only of where your characters will end up, it is ultimately more rewarding to thoroughly examine the path that takes them there. Even if that path does include badger-moles, wolf-bats, folk songs, and (of course) secret tunnels.