1장
The Art of Character: Crafting Souls from the Blank Page
When Stephen King was asked about his favorite books on writing, David Corbett's "The Art of Character" made his short list. Celebrated as a modern classic in the craft of fiction, this book has become required reading in MFA programs across the country. Oprah Winfrey once mentioned keeping it on her nightstand during her television production years, calling it "the secret weapon behind creating characters viewers can't stop thinking about." What makes this guide so powerful is Corbett's unique approach-blending psychological insight with practical techniques that have helped both debut novelists and Academy Award-winning screenwriters breathe life into their characters. Drawing from his background as a former private investigator and acclaimed novelist, Corbett offers something rare: a writing guide that feels like a conversation with your wisest, most encouraging mentor.
2장
The Mysterious Dance of Creation and Discovery
Characters emerge through a delicate balance between deliberate creation and intuitive discovery. Some writers, like playwright Martin McDonagh, experience characters as pre-existing beings they merely uncover-McDonagh's characters "jabbered" at him incessantly. Others build characters gradually through persistent refinement until something recognizable emerges, like Michelangelo freeing figures from marble or Jackson Pollock discovering forms in paint splatters.
The writing process typically involves alternating between these approaches-starting with an impression (sometimes distinct, sometimes indistinct) and developing it through scenes that evoke conflict, desire, vulnerability, and other emotional states. Through diligent effort in developing a character's specifics, we supply our unconscious with raw material it transforms into something organic, like our intuition about real people.
This explains why characters sometimes surprise their creators. After doing the hard work of developing them, writers often experience that magical moment when characters seem to possess a life of their own. Like Geppetto with Pinocchio, we work lovingly until our creation takes on independence.
While some writers use archetypes as foundations, dramatic urgency isn't created by mere nomenclature or abstract concepts. Without deep creative imagining and intuitive engagement, characters based on archetypes remain hollow rather than living beings. True character emerges from desire, which prompts action-and action defines character.
Characters arise from five main sources: the story itself, the unconscious, inspiration from art or nature, real people, and composite characters. Each approach has unique advantages and limitations. Characters derived from story ideas risk becoming flat "plot puppets" serving roles rather than acting as independent beings. Characters from dreams require movement in the opposite direction-developing a sequence of cause-and-effect events that narrate the thematic impact of the dream image.
Natural elements and artwork can inspire characters through our instinctive personification, though the challenge lies in moving beyond static initial impressions. The people in our lives provide excellent but imperfect source material, though we lack access to their inner lives. Composite characters can exceed the sum of their parts but require careful attention to psychological coherence.
Importantly, a character's source is merely a beginning-becoming wedded to a first impression leads to mere elaboration rather than true development. Characters who develop must change and surprise us, contradicting initial impressions in credible ways.
3장
The Five Cornerstones of Compelling Characters
At the heart of every unforgettable character lie five essential elements that transform mere descriptions into living, breathing beings. These cornerstones-desire, adaptation to frustration, vulnerability, secrets, and contradictions-form the foundation upon which the most memorable characters are built.
Desire forms the crucible that forges character. As Stanislavski recognized, characters who want something deeply generate compelling drama because the world naturally resists our desires. Without desires, stories remain stillborn, as desire puts characters in motion. The fundamental question becomes: What does the character want in this scene, chapter, story, or from life itself?
Human desires are complex-we often want what we can't have, don't recognize our true longings, or suppress them entirely. While dramatically interesting, this complexity can create reader confusion. Creating concrete outer objectives that characters can pursue, even if these only partially represent deeper longings, provides clarity. In HBO's "Luck," Chester Bernstein's exterior goal of buying a racetrack allows exploration of his interior needs through interactions with various characters who reveal different facets of his personality.
When desires are thwarted, characters must adapt. These adaptations range from psychotic (paranoia, hallucination) to immature (passive aggression, hypochondria) to neurotic (intellectualization, repression) to mature (altruism, humor, sublimation). The most interesting adaptations (obsession, addiction, denial) are best understood through personal experience. Defense mechanisms typically involve both deceit and cowardice-refusing to face situations honestly-making their dramatic resolution require both insight and courage.
Vulnerability creates an irresistible undertow pulling readers toward characters. Whether existential (physical wounds or illness), situational (unemployment, being stranded), or moral (actions that place characters in jeopardy), all vulnerabilities involve threat, revealing what's at stake. The special connection between vulnerability and shame-the fear of disconnection arising when we feel unworthy of others' affection-makes it particularly potent for characterization.
Secrets create dramatic tension through the contrast between what's revealed and concealed. The most compelling secrets are deep and fiercely protected-things that would forever change how others see the character. Patricia Highsmith's Tom Ripley fascinates through his layered deceptions, with his self-delusion creating an impenetrable void at his core.
Contradictions in characters instinctively arouse our curiosity by defying expectations. Some contradictions are physical (the bully's squeaky voice), some are superficial (nicknames like "Buddha Hat" for a killer), while others reveal deeper complexity in disposition (Omar from The Wire being both a shotgun-toting vigilante and tenderly affectionate with lovers).
4장
The Physical and Psychological Dimensions
How characters interpret the world through their senses provides one of the most cunning ways of using physicality for characterization. The simultaneous use of outer sensation and mental evaluation anchors the character's inner life to external events. In Don Carpenter's "Hard Rain Falling," Jack Levitt waits for two girls who arrive with "wolfish faces and children's mouths grown hard" wearing black dresses with bright blue pumps. Their attempt to emulate "four-bit New York whores" arouses him despite his disillusion.
A character's gender shouldn't be an automatic decision. With the simple issue of sex comes the far subtler question of gender role. Men and women act differently-and get treated differently-in every culture. When deciding your characters' sex, don't conform them too comfortably to cultural stereotypes. "Real men" and "real women" are largely figments of our imagination. Gender roles almost always violate some aspect of personality-gentleness for men, aggressiveness for women.
Sexual attractiveness shapes how characters interact with the world and themselves. Beauty brings both advantages and burdens-attention, favors, but also unwanted projections of others' desires. What matters isn't exact measurements but how appearance affects a character's self-perception and others' treatment of them, particularly in intimate moments of vulnerability rather than wish-fulfillment.
Understanding characters across racial lines requires genuine research and empathy, not convenient assumptions. Great writers like Pete Dexter and Richard Price excel at crossing racial divides through journalistic immersion-riding with cops, talking to people from every walk of life, listening intently. Writers must demand more from themselves than mere tolerance, embracing curiosity and compassion to avoid falling into caricature or stereotype.
A character's age profoundly shapes their worldview and interactions. The young can embody fearlessness or naivety-like Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird, whose curious need to understand allows Harper Lee to present Maycomb County with lingering puzzlement. Middle age brings different challenges, as in Mike Leigh's Another Year, where Mary clings desperately to relationships as time "skims her chances a little thinner," numbing loneliness with drink.
How characters dress reveals their relationship to society-even those claiming indifference make a statement by that very choice. Beyond merely shabby versus neat, consider your character's style (Goth? Bohemian? Label-conscious?), whether they dress for occasions or ignore conventions, how crowded their closets are, and what this reveals.
5장
The Psychological Interior: Mapping the Soul
The psychological dimension represents perhaps the single most important area to explore in characterization. Rather than abstractly cataloging qualities, writers must envision them specifically in scenic contexts-imagining what events caused particular emotions and how these feelings affect interactions with others.
Fear exists on a spectrum from panic attacks to mere heebie-jeebies, but always arises outside conscious control, making it crucial to characterization. It's the invisible companion in every meaningful scene, as characters facing conflict confront not just adversaries but their own fears of defeat, humiliation, loss, or death. Fear often lurks behind other emotions-anger masks helplessness, resentment conceals fear of being overlooked.
Given fear's essential role, stories often turn on how protagonists master debilitating terrors or are undone by them. Writers should know a character's moment of greatest courage before the story begins, and whether they'll exceed or fall short of it. The measure of courage is always the fear it overcomes, so writers should identify the underlying fear and write from there.
What characters love connects deeply to what they want. Writers should ask whether what they love is currently in their lives, and if so, whether it's enough or has caused hardship. If they've lost what they love or haven't found it yet, scenes should be visualized showing them with the loved one-touching, eating, fighting. Love is particularly important for villains, providing contradiction and three-dimensionality.
Even good people can turn nasty, with righteousness often serving as sentimentalized loathing. Pain frequently forges hatred, as with Ruth Fowler in "Killings," whose son's murder leaves her obsessed with vengeance. Hatred can also be irrational or unconscious, often reflecting a character's own shame or fear.
An old Irish saying claims trouble following death is better than trouble following shame. This emotion arises when one's standing in a valued group is undercut, resulting in withdrawal of love, approval or status. Shame is particularly fruitful to explore because it inherently involves other people, making it ideal for scene visualization.
Unlike shame, guilt concerns violating one's own moral code, regardless of whether others know. Acts of cruelty, cowardice, theft, murder, deceit, or betrayal inspire guilt-depending on the character's conscience. Redemption stories require previous guilt or shame, but the best recognize guilt's indelible stain.
6장
The Social Web: Characters in Community
Where psychology defines inner life, sociology determines how characters navigate relationships with others. For every significant bond between people, writers should explore the same questions asked of individual characters: moments of joy, fear, shame, success, failure, and forgiveness.
Family relationships fundamentally shape identity, confidence, and self-worth. They forge much of a character's psychological makeup through formative experiences that inspire, shame, baffle, embolden or create uncertainty. Heroes are often orphans precisely because this allows them to travel unburdened by family baggage. However, since identity formation frequently involves struggling against parental influence, meaningful stories rarely exclude family entirely-even when physically absent, their presence is assumed by mentors, villains, or internalized voices.
No relationship contains more potential conflict than marriage, which combines friendship, family, and sexual passion while pitting commitment against desire, stability against adventure, and loyalty against freedom. Each marriage creates unique compromises, rewards and resentments. At the core of each marriage lies a fundamental question: What did each partner sacrifice to stay together, and has what they gained compensated for what was lost?
Friendship represents the ultimate human bond-freely chosen, sustained through mutual consent, and often based on genuine affinities uncomplicated by family obligation or sexual desire. These relationships frequently sustain us when romantic or family connections falter. Cross-gender friendships prove particularly rich territory for storytelling, though they're often complicated by unacknowledged attraction.
A character's name provides continuity and coherence, yet remains fundamentally social-given by others, reflecting identity among others. Choosing the right name is critical, as it can substitute for description when selected wisely. Consider the evocative names from The Wire: Stringer Bell, Proposition Joe, Bubbles-or from Richard Price's novels: Rocco Klein, Strike Dunham.
Though Americans like to believe we live in a classless society, economic and social ladders create distinct divides enforced by various barriers. Understanding your character's relative place in their community regarding income and social connections reveals what opportunities they have or lack. How do they interact with those of higher or lower standing? Are they comfortable, resentful, judged? Are they climbing, maintaining, falling behind, or trying to escape?
As Stella Adler noted, asking what work a character does may be the most important question. Each job requires specific personality traits for dealing with bosses, subordinates, customers, and competitors. How good is your character at their work? How secure is their position? Is it a vocation or something they fell into? Does it provide the economic stability they desire?
7장
The Protagonist's Journey: Three Essential Questions
Change is the essential element of story, yet remains one of the most baffling aspects of our existence. Stories that capture the tension between our desire for meaning and the shifting ground beneath our feet strike at a key truth of our existence. The more a story is rooted in life-rather than an idea of life-the more it will concern itself with change. This fundamental principle appears in everything from ancient myths to modern cinema, reflecting humanity's perpetual struggle with transformation and growth.
Characters can undergo two distinct types of evolution throughout a narrative. Some experience fundamental metamorphosis while others simply grow. Transformation typically involves a core epiphany-a Crisis of Insight where the character recognizes an error in their previous self-conception. Such moments often arrive as thunderbolts of realization, shattering long-held beliefs and forcing characters to rebuild themselves from the ground up. Growth, by contrast, suggests a less abrupt change where the protagonist gains confidence, strength, or courage without necessarily addressing a previous limitation. In growth, the hero digs deeper into existing qualities; in transformation, he tears down a wall of false beliefs or limitations. Most protagonists experience some combination of both, creating layered character arcs that mirror real human development.
Every protagonist's journey can be understood through one of three fundamental questions, each representing a distinct narrative pathway:
In "Can I get what I want?" stories, protagonists pursue clear objectives against formidable obstacles. These narratives focus on external conflict and determination. In "Slumdog Millionaire," Jamal Malik's undying love for Latika drives him to get himself on her favorite game show, hoping to win enough to escape together. Similarly, in "The Pursuit of Happyness," Chris Gardner fights through homelessness and poverty to secure a better life for his son. The moral theme underlying such stories is that with sufficient determination, fortitude, and skill, we can ultimately realize our dreams, even against overwhelming odds.
In "Who am I?" narratives, protagonists discover shocking truths about themselves that force them to confront their identity. In "Up in the Air," Ryan Bingham embraces a rootless existence until he falls in love with Alex Goran, seemingly his female counterpart-only to discover she has compartmentalized him into her secret life away from her actual family. "The Bourne Identity" similarly explores this theme as Jason Bourne pieces together his true identity while grappling with his violent past. This story form explores human identity through shock of recognition, typically concluding soon after this revelation, with no time to correct the problem, leaving characters to grapple with their new understanding of self.
In "What do I have to change about myself to get what I want?" stories, protagonists must overcome internal limitations to achieve their goals. These narratives focus on the intersection between external desires and internal obstacles. In "Precious," Claireece Jones faces her change-or-die moment when she accepts genuine affection in her life. She can't fulfill her dream of a loving home unless she changes by admitting she's capable and worthy of love. "A Beautiful Mind" follows John Nash as he must accept his mental illness and learn to manage it to maintain his academic career and relationship with his wife. This story type evolved from tales of saintly conversion and novels of personal redemption, later enhanced by psychoanalytic insights about the relationship between internal change and external achievement.
8장
The Power of Scene: Where Characters Come Alive
Scenes are where characters engage each other, make choices, take responsibility, and externalize their conflicting emotions, values, and ideas. Beginning writers often avoid scene work because it stirs up anxiety and emotions they'd rather keep contained, wrongly believing writing should make things aesthetically pleasing rather than messy. But clarity and craft serve deeper emotional truths best portrayed through conflict. This tension between order and chaos is what gives scenes their power - they force both writer and reader to confront uncomfortable truths and complex human dynamics.
Scenes externalize characters' inner conflicts through dramatic action, forcing them to weigh options and make choices. In Arthur Miller's "The Price," brothers Walter and Victor battle over their life choices after their father's death, each embodying the other's doubts. Victor chose duty, staying home to care for their father and becoming a police officer, while Walter pursued wealth and success as a surgeon. Their confrontation over selling their father's furniture becomes a battleground for their competing life philosophies. This scenic confrontation proves more engaging than self-reflection because we witness the premise-the costs of irreconcilable but equally justifiable moral choices-played out before our eyes. Similar dynamics appear in Tennessee Williams' "The Glass Menagerie," where Tom's duty to family clashes with his desire for freedom.
Every scene contains three structural elements: the Setup (establishing the situation and posing a question or dilemma), the Turning Point (an unexpected action, decision or revelation forcing change), and the Payoff (the new state of affairs created by the turning point). Consider the classic diner scene in "When Harry Met Sally" - the setup establishes their debate about fake orgasms, the turning point is Sally's unexpected demonstration, and the payoff comes with the elderly woman's iconic line, "I'll have what she's having." From the character perspective, scenes require an Objective (what the character wants), an Obstacle (what stands in their way), and Action (the tactics used to overcome the obstacle).
Finding the right balance between dramatic action and inner life requires weighing exterior behavior against interior reflection. Literary fiction often emphasizes description over drama, seeking searing insights or revealing the extraordinary in the ordinary. Virginia Woolf's "Mrs. Dalloway" exemplifies this approach, finding profound meaning in a woman's preparations for a party. This approach can create beautiful, iconic moments but risks feeling cool and less lifelike when taken to excess.
The solution isn't merely stringing together unreflective actions. Rather, thought and feeling should serve action through response, reflection, and decision. In Kate Atkinson's "Life After Life," a child's seemingly mundane thoughts about tea parties and dolls reveal her struggle to find her place in a family about to be destroyed by war. Richard Price shows a detective's self-conscious parenting revealing both cynicism and vulnerability in "Lush Life," as he tries to protect his daughter while knowing firsthand the dangers that await her. In each case, inner thoughts exhibit struggles that point toward action, comment ironically on exterior events, or express what characters won't say aloud. Even in action-driven genres, the most memorable scenes balance external conflict with revealing glimpses into characters' minds, creating a fuller, more resonant experience.
9장
The Writer's Journey: Finding Your Voice
Voice forms perhaps the most mercurial attribute of writing-incorporating style (diction and rhythm), worldview (choice of subject matter), and attitude (comic, tragic, ironic, etc.). It's the expression of unique humanity through words, elusive to develop yet essential to distinctive writing.
Though voice seems intangible, specific exercises can help develop it. James Frey and Floyd Salas suggest copying out sections from admired authors-either by typing entire books or spending thirty minutes daily copying passages. Another approach is reading a section from a cherished author, then attempting to recreate it from memory. These exercises create an internal golem, a stand-in for admired authors who become an imagined critical reader.
The distinctiveness of voice extends to environmental descriptions, with each character evaluating scenes through their unique perspective. The rancher's voice has hard edges and clipped tempo, reflecting desert life and protective vigilance. His descriptions are spare and practical. Roque's voice reveals his youth through syncopated rhythm befitting a musician, with softness that reveals romantic sentimentality. Godo's voice "jangles and crackles" with bitter humor and self-loathing, his war-scarred perspective coloring everything he observes.
Dialog isn't casual conversation but purposeful action. Characters use words to persuade, challenge, manipulate, hide, reveal, and jockey for status. Beneath every exchange lies subtext-the unspoken currents of power, emotion, and intention that give dialog its true meaning. Even monologues contain action, typically ending in resolution or transformation. Dialog reveals character background through dialect, education through syntax, and emotional state through rhythm and coherence.
Corbett explores the philosophical tension between predetermined identity and freedom. He questions whether we discover or create ourselves, noting how philosophers like Nietzsche, Heidegger, and Sartre argue against the idea of a transcendental truth about identity-suggesting life is fundamentally an ongoing invention rather than a discovery of something pre-existing.
As writers, we develop a distinctive voice that remains eerily fluid, requiring mindful concentration. The self isn't carved in stone but remains mysterious throughout life. When we push our characters to their limits, we undergo a similar transformation-our understanding of risk, courage and stakes deepens. The writer's experience informs her characters, but they in turn inform her: "In a sneaky, subtle, important way, I become who I imagine."