Monday, May 11, 2009

The Geometry of Identity

I have this batshit theory that character traits may actually work across a multi-dimensional spectrum, and that formalizing such a spectrum may help us more easily understand and identify character type and... well, honestly I think it would help with a lot of things. It's probably too complex for someone like me to be able to define, but I could at least get the ball rolling.

Imagine something like a color wheel, but with gradients of personality instead of hue. There's basically an infinite amount of sets of axes that could be plotted around the center point (which I guess would symbolize the most balanced/boring person in existence), with each axis symbolizing one extreme versus its opposite (selfish vs. selfless, fearless vs. paranoid, etc). This is kind of headed in the right direction, but it seems too focused on defining traits as inherently "positive" or "negative" to feel very accurate or useful to me.

But anyway, just like the code E62802 defines a specific point on a color wheel, so could the name "Jack Sparrow" define a specific point on the personality wheel. If you can see the point at which their personality resides, you immediately discover a lot about them. Their opinions, ideals, how they would react to certain things. Or - more importantly, if you're a creator - you could use the chart to get a sense of what needs to be shown to the audience, and what can remain a mystery.


So here's a way-oversimplified mock-up:



It's pretty arbitrary and comes nowhere close to describing the full spectrum of our personalities, but still, for example.

Let's say we start watching a film. In the first scene, the protagonist gives some bum five bucks. Okay, the guy's not too selfish. So if we're following along on the wheel, we could black out some areas where we're pretty sure his personality won't fall:



(We don't go all the way up to the midpoint, since a trait in the center can swing either way depending on the situation.)

In the next scene, a biker narrowly misses hitting him on a busy street. Our protagonist yells "Watch it, buddy". Fairly normal behavior, sure, but not exactly lenient. So we can further amend our wheel:



The next scene is on the bus, where our protagonist strikes up a conversation with a stranger. "I just lost my job and can't afford medication for my wife," says the stranger. "With the economy this bad, I don't know how I can hope to keep her healthy."

"Don't worry, sir," says our protagonist, "something will turn up, you'll see. No problem is insurmountable."

Pretty damn optimistic, right? OK, we're getting a good bead on this character now:



Finally our protagonist arrives at a nondescript old building. As he enters and prepares for something, we realize he's at his job. He cleans himself up and heads into a dark room... where a bloody, broken man sits tied to a chair. Our protagonist sharpens a knife. Only shit, this guy is a TORTURER. And, we find out, he works for a shadowy right-wing group that has taken domestic terrorist watch into its own hands. As he approaches his quarry, we make the final big change to our chart:



Didn't see that one coming, huh?

But it's pretty much in line with what we've seen so far, and that's the power of the whole thing. Once you have a good idea of the spot your character occupies on the chart, it becomes much easier to decide what to tell your audience, and when to tell it for maximum dramatic effect.

If limited stories (i.e. feature films) are about the protagonist overcoming a major character flaw, then open-ended ones (i.e. television series) are about slower character evolution. Your movie hero will (ideally) jump from one spot on the chart to another by the end of the film, while serial characters will move slowly along different axes as they encounter new situations. And all of this can be easily charted and predicted in similar ways to what we've just done.

The question is, I guess, how far do we take this methodology? How much can, or should, we reduce our personalities to geometric formulas and loci? And, someone who's not me, please weigh in: does this idea even work in the first place?

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Friday, May 8, 2009

Adventures in Short Fiction #02: Kind of a Reach

"What does it look like?" Simon barked, standing over a giant red barrel, sweating, wrench in hand. "I'm transcending, goddammit!"

The red barrel had been sculpted to look aerodynamic. It had fins, vents and a papier-mache nose cone which wasn't quite the same shade of red as everything else. The back end had a fuse sticking out of it. "Right now?" I asked. "This second?"

"Soon enough," Simon said, beckoning me over. I noticed the barrel was sitting on a thin wooden track which led down the hill and up to a lip at the edge of a small cliff, a natural ramp if ever there was one. I was beginning to piece together Simon's machinations.

I admired the barrel's paint job, looked over blueprints hastily drawn in the dirt. "You're not really going to--"

"Yes! I am, of course I am," Simon said, approaching me. "How else am I going to activate my crown chakra in this bloody countryside? I'd like to see you escape Kamadhatu without a propulsion unit."

"I don't... what?"

Simon strapped on goggles and a large, pointy backpack. "You could see all of this if you used your third eye." He stepped into his barrel, lit the fuse on the back. "Don't blame me if you find yourself stuck in samsara for all eternity."

Something exploded on the back of the barrel, sending it ricketing down the track. It careened up and over the edge of the cliff, the jigsaw craft actually achieving some bastardized form of temporary flight. At the height of its arc, Simon flung himself from the cockpit, hollering like a drunken Briton playing at cowboys. His backpack exploded into two vinyl archangel wings, which carried him up and away from the plummeting barrel, and for the briefest moment he actually hung in the air, weightless, the afternoon sun casting his titanic shadow all the way back to the hill. Then his left wing snapped off, and he tumbled into the woods below.

Searching the underbrush for the crash site, I came upon the barrel, hopelessly shattered beyond repair. Bushes rustled behind me; Simon appeared on the scene, muddied, bloody and grinning, the sparkle in his eyes almost as evident as his newfound limp. I offered my shoulder, but Simon wouldn't take it, couldn't stop smiling.

I was a little surprised to find he hadn't become jelly on a rock somewhere. "Holy hell. You alright, Simon?"

"Better than alright. The things I saw, you couldn't imagine."

"Well then you'd better tell me, I guess."

Simon stopped, grabbed my shoulder, gazed intently into my eyes. "A catapult. It's going to be the biggest you've ever seen, a great elevator of taught rope and steel to the heavens. I start work on it tomorrow."

I walked Simon home as he spoke to himself in complex equations and theological riddles, arguing with and then apologizing to himself. I left him there on his front lawn, drawing diagrams and formulae in the dirt, scratching away at answers either buried in the ground or lost in the sky.

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Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Adventures in Short Fiction #01: After a Fashion

(I'm working on some new content for this blog - honestly I am - but in the meantime I thought it'd be a not-terrible idea to post some short stories I've written over the last few years, some of which first appeared on my malnourished livejournal account. So it may be new to you! This one, as you probably saw above, is called "After a Fashion".)


"Don't you have a Face-Plant Squid yet?" Carrie asks from behind a black, oozing protoplasmic sac, its sleek tentacles wrapped through and around her blonde curls.

"No, I don't," I say. "Should I?"

Carrie rolls her eyes a little. I can't exactly see her eyes anymore, but something about the shifting squid tells me she is. "Well, uh, yeah," she says. "You better hurry before they run out."

A quick walk through the neighborhood shows me Carrie was right to worry. Everybody's got these things on their faces. Small green ones on the kids, a giant purplish one on Mr. Bantam. Well I'll be damned if I'm going to be the last Edmunds High sophomore to get one of these before the weekend.

A block away from Mel's I start to see large groups of the lucky bastards. They must just be hanging out, watching the lamers like me showing up late to the party. And is that...? FUCK! It is! Arnie Griff, captain of the chess team has one too? How did I miss this?

In front of Mel's, I have to step over a few Squid-enhanced motherfuckers who've fallen over and are spasming uncontrollably. Those guys must have been so pumped they couldn't take it. I get in the store, and lucky me, Mel says he's two minutes away from closing, but he'll give me a brand-new Face-Plant Squid for thirty-five dollars.

Dammit! Only twenty-five in my pockets. I need ten bucks and I need it fast. Outside I see some dude stumbling around. I ask him if I can please borrow ten bucks, oh please man I really need it, I'll pay you right back. Jerk-off just kind of staggers away, mumbles something, totally ignores me. I go shake him a little. "Hey asshole!" I yell. "I said I need ten bucks!" Suddenly this dude shrieks, tenses up like I scared him or something, falls over. Dude doesn't move, I see a little blood come out of his ear. His Face-Plant Squid starts wriggling, unattaches itself from the guy's face, which looks weathered and sucked dry to the bone. The squid bounces away into an alley. The dude wheezes a little, then stops breathing.

So after a moment I decide not to pursue the squid into the alley. I'm gonna want a NEW one, not some used old thing that might be defective. And this dead dude, is he really gonna need ten bucks? I check out his wallet, and sure enough, today's my lucky day, ex-President Hamilton stares me right in the face.

I run back into Mel's. Nothing can ruin my mood now. I fork over the cash and Mel disappears into the back room. Man, any minute now I'm gonna be just like Carrie and Ted and probably the whole football team at this point, and yeah even Arnie Griff, but I guess you can't have everything. I'm already planning my weekend out when Mel returns with my squid: who I'm gonna call, where we're gonna go, how many new friends I'm gonna make. Mel lifts up the squid and its tentacles shoot out at me, raspy, pulsating. Deep within the squid I see a hole open, sharp pincers draw out towards my skull. I hear a low, hungry roar that gives me goosebumps.

This is gonna be so awesome.

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