I basically approach all of my character work in the same manner, whether it be acting, writing or singing.  

Every story has an “arc” to it. There’s a beginning, an ending, and all the stuff that goes on in the middle. This arc is the objective of the story, conveying whatever intent I have purposed within my orchestration of the piece. It’s an arc because it begins in one place and travels to another place which is different from where it began—or at least, our perceptions have changed even if the main character ends up in the same place he started as the end credits roll—and hopefully the arc is a journey that leaves the reader/viewer open to a new perspective s/he hadn’t experienced, or a better understanding or empathy than one s/he had.

Every story, every  effective story, bears some reason to be told that has significance to the author; sometimes the significance is only to make money by writing  within the boundaries of a successful formula, but even here there is a challenge to conform one’s ideas to whatever framework is supplied so as to achieve the goal. The original formula worked for a reason—usually because the intent behind the original piece struck a chord within a large body of readers/viewers that was universal.

When I think about a story, I ask the same questions I would when I think about a character.

Who am I?

What do I want?

How do I feel?

In the case of the writer, I ask:

What is the story about?

What am I really trying to say?

How does it affect me?

Who Am I?

When defining a character, I first ask Who Am I? This entails all the backstory, the current given circumstances, and the aspirations of the subject. I look down the line to the end of the story and see where this character winds up.  I make things up about the character that were never really introduced into the story but solidify the truth, the integrity of the character in my mind. I attempt to pain a current picture around the character in question with just enough detail to effect a mood to the piece, but not so much as to bog down the momentum of the journey. The minutiae is necessary to me only if it contains key observations into the psyche of the character—or if foreshadowing some secret yet to be revealed.

I also need to examine thoroughly his desires, or his objectives, as they are known to him—and I need to outline my objective for him as the author. Likewise, I need to know his perceived obstacles toward getting what he wants in life, and I need to know the obstacles I’ll be placing before him that he has no clue exist until they smack him in the face. I outline the tale, remember what the overall picture is going to relate, and sculpt Joe accordingly. What Am I Going To Use Joe To Convey In This Story? Is the question I might ask as the author...

If my character—say his name is Joe— if Joe is fastidious, I won’t spend every scene fixating upon describing all the horrors he views when waiting for the subway, and then in line at the bank, and then in the board meeting and then and then and then. I’ll detail his neuroses for my own record, and then allow the reader/viewer/actor to paint his personality based upon the actions I choose for Joe to perform which leads him to my goal for him at the end of the story.

For instance, I could spend every single scene going into great detail about the neighborhoods he walks through, the character’s reactions to them, and every fast food place or pawn shop he encounters along his way. But why, when I can write:

INTERIOR – BURGER JOINT – DAY

Typical inner-city burger joint populated by clueless teens behind the counter. Flies. Bored looks. Americana at its trailer trash worst.

JOE enters; something reeks.

 

JOE

Aw, please…come on, man, this is…this is just…

 

A moment of composure before treading carefully to the counter where a bezitted TEEN stares into space. Another moment and Joe clears his throat.

 

JOE

People eat here.

 

TEEN

…hunh?

 

JOE

Yeah, that’s what I thought. May I speak to the manager?

 

Joe’s actions will be established largely by the backstory I’ve created for him, which in the dialogue is less in his words and more in his reactions. His words don’t say a whole lot—in fact, they really say nothing at all. Yet. It’s the implication of his dismay through his actions, which are sparsely but effectively described through a few carefully chosen adjectives which tie into my psychological profile of Joe. 

Now, let’s tie this in with his motivation. If I know who Joe is, and I know he’s fastidious to the point of neuroses, and I know that he’s really averse to violence (I know these things because that’s how I created him)—and I also know that he has a good hour and a half to go (or 90 pages) in the story before he finally cracks, I’m going to have to look at his next question:

What Do I Want?

This question involves the moments leading from the beginning of the story to the end. From trailhead to the peak, what the character wants is the driving force throughout any psychologically sound script. If Joe’s overall objective in the piece is to conquer his fear of mankind (which is what I  chose for him, not necessarily what he believes he wants), I can’t have him conquer this fear in the first scene of the film. I’ll have to have an obstacle foil him. The manager of the burger joint is a huge, terrifying wall of muscle. Nah, too easy. The manager is a flambouyant homosexual who’s very flirtatious. Could work, might be funny. Manager is dead silent as Joe attempts to explain his problem, simply staring with a small nervous tic at the corner of his smile that reminds Joe of his institutionalized father. Hmm…

What Do I Want To Accomplish With This Scene is the question I ask as a writer—how do I want to move the story forward using this chunk of insight into the character’s life? What Joe wants in life, his superobjective, will not change in this scene. But what Joe wants right now will be directly affected by whomever comes out of the manager’s office. Likewise, my story will also be affected by it, and I need to keep in mind the overall goal of my script and make sure I don’t get in my own way. 

All of these possible managers will pull reactions from Joe’s backstory based upon his feelings toward bullies, gays, his father, et al—and will spur his motivation to either push forward or relent.  This leads us to

How Do I Feel?

Since it’s early on in the film, the chances of Joe avoiding his fear are higher than if we’re in the last ten minutes and the manager who walks out is the guy who started him in on his whole fear of mankind and conflict, his FATHER. (Whoa!) The way Joe feels when whomever the manager is comes out will be dictated by the homework we’ve done in our little psychological profile of the guy. As an actor, a lot of this is culled from the totality of the script, but a lot of it is pure imagination. Harrison Ford may not have ever thought about how Han Solo felt about his dad, but I’ll  bet he thought about how he met Chewbacca. Imagination filled in the edges. (That and a few beers with George, most likely.) When asking this as a writer, I ask How Does Joe Feel About This Situation? What Impression Do I Want To Instill Within My Audience About Him?

In short, my character’s motivations are spurred by the objectives and obstacles within his life, how he does or does not overcome them, and how he reacts to it all. 

As an author, I come up with the conflict first and, as a result, the character’s weaknesses. Then I paint the character’s strengths while keeping the conflict in the forefront of my mind, the innate qualities of the character which will help him fight his fear/weakness. I grant him desires, both known and unknown to him, and add elements along the way which will further his quest or hinder his progress accordingly—some of his desires will most likely be obstacles in themselves. And then I determine how he reacts to his journey and the revelations which are made to make or break his character, his resolve. 

My brain just went dead.