Making Friends With Your Characters

I live in a house in the mountains, surrounded by forest, in perfect solitude, peace…I can see deer on occasion out my writing window, lots of squirrels, chipmunks and even hummingbirds and blue jays on occasion. Seasons change outside my window world, leaves burst out of barren limbs, only to die and fall away in brilliantly colored glory. In the winter, the naked limbs are heavy with snow, a white forest, one filled with many things…but no friends.

All my close friends live or work in NYC. We communicate mainly by email. I have lived in a small village called Saugerties in upstate New York for five years now. Haven’t made many friends. The only new pals are the people who come to clean the house, mow the lawn, plow out the long driveway. They are kind, decent people, who work so very hard. The wonderful, sunny young lady who cleans the house every three weeks even brought a present the other day, a new shower curtain. Chrissie always hugs me when she arrives and just before leaving. It is my only physical contact with another person. I so look forward to those hugs. The maintenance man, jack-of-all-trades, is there in a pinch. If my car won’t start, he comes out and jumps it. Him I don’t hug. Not the macho thing to do, I guess.

What a strange life this is. After years as a party animal in NY/Hoboken, I rarely go out at night now, eat dinner alone every evening, watch a Netflix movie on my 19-inch high def computer screen, read a book and then go to bed--alone. I can pass whole days without saying a word to anyone. My vocal chords are weaker now, they get no exercise.

All of this is wonderfully conducive to my writing. There are no distractions. The upside is I have found great new friends in my characters. It is an on-going mystery series, four books done, and my little clique of friends appears in each one, they change, grow, achieve things…I look forward after lunch to sitting down to write so I can visit with them. I feel so close to these friends. I miss them when I’m not writing. They love me, I’m sure, but never say so. That’s all right, they know I am always there for them, and vice versa. What would we be without each other? In my case, just a lonely guy, all dressed up with thoughts and feelings, and nowhere to go. In their case, they’d disappear. What a tremendous responsibility it is to keep friends alive!

What I like most about my book friends is they are independent thinkers. They don’t let me control them or dictate the terms of our relationship. My method of writing is to create in-depth characters first, loosely outline a plot and then turn my characters loose. When I end a chapter and don’t know what should come next,  THEY tell me. It is fairly obvious to them what they want to do or need to do in the next chapter. I just tag along. It’s a nice ride, being a passenger.

I also inhabit my characters. When I write dialogue, I become the person who is speaking, then switch and become the other person. Hard to describe, but I am able to speak exactly like each one of them. Most delightfully, I forget that I am Nathan Gottlieb, the Hermit of Saugerties, and become other people who lead fuller, more exciting lives. Cool!

Me and my characters also share a rare intimacy, one in which no one can come between. Yet unlike close friendships in the “real” world, I unabashedly share all their secrets, all their feelings and needs with my readers. My characters don’t seem to mind. Of course, they probably don’t know. They are too busy living in the moment, in their own reality. Only the events in their world matter to them. They don’t know, for example, that my friend Barbara Lazar Selwyn has read all four books, and constantly emails me about the characters, passes judgment on them! Can you imagine? Hers are thoughts I sometimes don’t agree we. We debate the merits and faults of characters. One she thought too naïve. Another whiny. She was wrong in each instance (did she expect me to admit she was right?), but she is entitled to her opinion. I get a kick out of talking with a “real” friend about my characters, whom they must feel are real, too. That is such a rewarding feeling.

The lives of my close friends in the series are an open book (pardon the pun). Put out there for readers to love, hate, sneer at, and if they so choose, belittle their deepest secrets, fears and loves. Needless to say I don’t do this kind of thing with my “real” friends. I would never think of repeating to anyone what one of them has said (breathe a sigh of relief, Barbara). I am loyal and trustworthy to a fault. Is this kind of duality in friendships schizoid? Perhaps. Do I care? No.

A similar relationship with fictional characters is the bond forged between Tobey Maguire and the orphans at St. Clouds in “The Cider House Rules.” Homer shares the thoughts and adventures of characters in the book he is reading out loud to needy orphans, hungry-for-love and thirsty for knowledge. At the end of each session, after reading a few chapters, Homer goes to the door and says, “Goodnight you princes of Maine. You kings of New England.” Then he turns off the lights and closes the door. The orphans cease to exist.

The same thing happens when I shut down my writing for the day, put my friends back in a Word document and return to the “real” world, which sadly right now is not nearly as rich as the ones my friends live in. I do envy them…