Lesson 4 - Character Sketch

Lesson Four Assignment
Learning to sketch your main characters will help you frame his/her motivations, realistic behavior and dialogue. The character sketch can help you get your character moving and move the plot forward.
For your assignment this week, I want you to:
1)  Create a new character.  It can be any character of any genre- your choice.  Give him or her a name and then apply the character sketch tips and/or web link article posted above. Choose some of the questions listed above to guide you in creating your sketch.
  Give your new character a history and personal attributes.
        You can use the tips from the lesson, come up with some of your own, or a combination of both.
2)  Post this part with a quick introduction of your character. James Riley Johnson is my new character. 
Here is an example of a sketch I wrote a few years ago for a class. Your sketch doesn't need to mirror mine, it's simply a sample. "Character Sketch" 


My character’s name is Corey Samuel Hansen.  His big dream as a little kid was to play football but God must have been laughing when he whispered that dream in his head.  Five foot six and 100 pounds sopping wet at sixteen years of age, he’d been lucky if the coach let him on the field as a water boy.  His daddy was six foot five.  At least, that’s what his momma would tell him.  Giving him hope is what he figured.  She must have bought those “boyfriend in a box” kits to show him so he wouldn’t think she just slept around seventeen years ago because that could not have been his daddy. 

All his classmates wanted to be cool like those boys wearing their pants down to the bottom of their boxers but his grandma wouldn’t let him out the door without his shirt tucked in and his belt on.  He kept telling her he didn’t have to follow the dress code on weekends but she told him no grandchild of hers was going to be mistaken for a gangster and get shot.

Secretly, he was okay with how strict his grandma was.  Never would tell the boys about it but he kept the A volume of his dead grandfather’s Encyclopedia Britannica under his bed and would just stare at all those clear pages with each body system that when you put them all down, you see the whole human body.  He knew nearly all the parts without looking at the labels.  Might come in handy someday, he thought.  It had singes on the corners where his gramps got mad at his grandma for asking if he thought he’d had enough whiskey for the night and he threw what was closest to him straight at the fire. Corey loved his grandpa most of the time, even when he’d had a few, but his grandma sure knew what buttons to push?  Corey saved it from ruin after they both hollered down the hall, leaving that book thrown at the edge of the fireplace in their old duplex they used to live in before his gramps died. 

His momma, she was somewhere.  Dropped in and out whenever she wanted to, or needed some cash from grandma.  All she got was fussing, though.  She should know better but she keeps on doing in.  Corey figured he pass his momma sometime around age 12 in the ability to save a buck for more than a week in a row.  She had a hole in her skimpy little tube dress she wore low on her bosom so nothing restricted her breathing.  Least that’s what she said when his grandma would ask if she thought she needed a coat with that slip she had on.  Don’t know much about slips but she did look awful cold sometimes.  She was real thin, his momma.  But then, so was he.  She had these little muscles on her upper arms and calves but they looked like tennis balls attached to a bone.  She shook too, sometimes.  But he was glad to see her and didn’t want to scare her off fussing like grandma did.

His grandma was a strange creature, a hybrid of small town and big city.  The city where she lived and raised her grandson was not the big city of her childhood.  She was raised in New York City, daughter of immigrants – father of Indonesian descent but raised in Holland by adoptive parents and her mother from Jamaica.  That would make Corey part Jamaican, part Indonesian with a last name like Hansen.  Who knows what his dad was?  His grandfather was Southern and black.  He would say he’d let others call him African American but he didn’t one single soul from the country of Africa but he served his own country, America, in Vietnam and he’d be damned if he’d put some other nationality before his own when he checked a box on some survey.  His grandpa was the tallest in his family at five foot nine but he was thick, barrel chested, and had some kind of muscle on him, even as an older man.  Got up every morning at sunup and walked up and down the neighborhood enjoying how it used to be, the old bungalow homes and the misty cool mornings of Springtime before the heat got unbearable and well before all the punks got over their hangovers and started loitering around town.  He met his wife while he was stationed in DaNang.  She was a nurse in the Army and he was a grunt. He couldn’t get over her exotic eyes.  Those same eyes would look him up one side and down the other if he came home smelling like whisky.  She never could stand the stuff for some reason.  They got married while still in the service by chaplain before they left Vietnam. 

Her parents moved back to Holland around the time she entered the military to care for his adoptive parents in Gouda.  When his grandpa was done with his one year tour, he was drafted, he moved back to his home town, Birmingham, Alabama, and she followed shortly after, pregnant with Corey’s mother, Anneka, Annie for short.  Three years later, they had their son, Wilford, or Will.  He got shot when he was in high school just walking home one day.  He was a good kid, just got in the way of two boys who weren’t.  Broke their heart and Annie’s too.  She hooked up with junkie after junkie and drowned out the pain with drugs and alcohol.  She had Corey in a fit of sobriety but it didn’t last long after that.  He was raised by Janine and Wilford Sr.until the old man died last year.  Now it was just grandma.  Corey worried about her but he needn’t bother. 

Janine, Corey’s grandmother, was still a tough 71 year old woman with a subtle Dutch accent who could be seen in the neighborhood in jeans and long linen button down shirts, sometimes a long scarf around her neck, hanging down in front.  She kept her hair in long tight braids and pulled up in a casual pony tail.  She looked 50 at most, with well defined muscles and elegant, sharp cheekbones. 

A runner all her life, she still had that marathon looking air about her. She also didn’t take a single pill other than her vitamins and an aspirin a day just in case.  Corey was still worried, not for her health, but because she was all he had left in this world that he could depend on. She was his mentor as well as his grandmother.  She was a nurse at the Health Department until he was ten, then she decided to retire.  She volunteered in the neighborhood soup kitchen, and in his school when then school nurse had to go to trainings.  Janine’s Indonesian blood made her stand out in the neighborhood, not to mention the accent, and her fine features and silky hair were both coveted and mocked by a few in town.  Only her skin, a dark well-lotioned mahogany mix of Jamaican and Indonesian blood, saved her from the ill fate in his town of being called “uppity” just for having light skin.  The neighborhood was funny that way. 

Corey never was sure what his daddy was but some how he came out a good bit lighter than his grandmother and with his shirt tucked in and his pants belted and up to his armpits, it gave him a certain comedic appearance of a character in the sitcoms, Urkel.  This did not bode well with the image Corey was shooting for.  His grandmother would tell him about Bill Gates and how he was a nerd but a rich one and how you didn’t see Obama with his pants hanging down to his knees.  He knew she just wanted him to not end up like her baby boy so he just smiled when she went on and on about those he should have as mentor.  She also said “a black man has a whole lot more to offer this world than the rear view of his undertrousers.”  To this, Corey had to agree.  He didn’t much like the idea of his pants falling down in public but he did take some ribbing from the guys for tucking his shirt in.  He really didn’t pull them up to his armpits but his nickname “Urk” didn't help his image at all. 


 



Part Two
A character sketch is a great idea, but sometimes the mere facts do not offer enough depth for the character. Think of the character sketch as a one dimensional picture of your character. One technique I recommend for fleshing out (developing) characters was created by Beck Bring it on 2011! (80) 



Interview

Corey Hansen has just received a scholarship to Birmingham-Southern College in Birmingham.  He takes a tour of the college and gets to spend a full school day attending a couple of classes there to see what it’s like.  There are some freshman students who escort them and are their buddies for the day.  During lunch, Corey’s escort grills him about his life and what he wants to study when he gets there.  The escort, Wilson, a white boy from Buckhead, a more privileged suburb of Atlanta, Georgia, just can’t seem to get his head wrapped around this new boy who will soon be a fellow student. 

C: I'm Corey Hansen.  Prospective student here.  (reached out to shake hands)

W: Wilson Chatham the third.  Pleased to make your acquaintance.( Drawled this out in his best "good ole boy" accent as he shook Corey's hand)

Here, have a seat.  Drinks are over there (points).  Be right back, forgot my fork.
(returned a few second later, about the same time Corey returned with his drink).

W: So, you like the place?

C: Clean campus.  I like it.  Lot of hills though. 

W: You’ll get used to them.  Say, man, don’t suppose you got a scholarship for Basketball, I mean, you’re no Magic Johnson.  And football’s out, kinda skinny too. Humph.  (hand on his chin). So, what’s your specialty?

C: (Looks over his new glasses at this boy thinking here we go again.) You know, its 2011 now.  We black folk got some brains too nowadays.  Not all of us go for sports, you know?  (anunciates everything).

W: Oh, man, didn’t mean it that way.  I’m on the Basketball team and all. Just didn't remember seeing your name.  Anyway, not all us jocks are idiots either.  Know what I mean?

C: (He says "know what I mean" like "Naw da mean" like he’s the one from the ghetto) Not all of us black folk talk like we’re from the ghetto, either.  Are you? 

W: How bout we start this over, alright.  I sure didn’t mean to offend, I’m just a little ignorant that way.  I mean, I could say one of my best friends was black  but then I’d really look like a jerk.  Name’s Wilson (extended his right hand). 

C: Corey (shook hands). 

W: So, Corey, tell me about yourself.  What’s your favorite cereal?

C: Huh?  What’s that got to … Joking right? (smiles and points a finger while still holding his full fork)

W: That’s me.  No really, what’s your major going to be when you start next year.  Not that you have to have it all figured out yet.

C: Pre-Med I think.  I don’t know for sure.  That’s what I want to do for my doctorate but maybe I need to just take some courses, meet some of your teachers.  See if they’re as ignorant as you.  (Smiles, keeping it light)

W: Whoa, you aren’t afraid of jabbing, are ya?  Should go into law.  Drop that bomb in front of the jury then say “No more questions, Your Honor.”  (very animated)

C: Funny, never thought of doing law school.  (hand on chin-thinking) Spent my childhood staring at the anatomy pictures in my mom’s nursing journals trying to figure out how everything works in the body. 

W: Spent my youth looking it naked women in my daddy’s National Geographics but I’m no pre-med major.  What made you want to be a doctor? (chewing his dinner roll while saying the last sentence).

C: My mother, I guess.  (He took another bite just before he answered and remembered about talking with his mouth full, only because Wilson seemed to have forgotten that little manner himself). 

W: Must have been a special woman.

C: She’s a mess, honestly, but her mother’s a trip. She’s the one raised me.  She’ll be here later for the parent orientation meeting. 

W: So, what’s with your mom then?

C: (leg jumping rhythmically under the table) Like I said.  She’s a mess.  All but pickled her liver.  I think she’s a walking impression of an embalming gone wrong but she’s still at it.  The stuff can’t kill her. She’s like the energizer bunny.  Just keeps on going. 

W: Yeah, I know all about that.  My uncle’s was a lush for decades.  Covered it up real good til he crashed into some family’s car with a blood alcohol level of 2, or was that 3 something?  Forced to go to rehab to keep from losing his law license.  And he had connections.  Rehab seemed to work for him, though.  Or maybe it was the humiliation.  Jury’s still out on how long it'll last, though. It’s only been a few years since the "family drama" as mom call it. 

C: Rehab did no good for my mother.  Went three or four times.  Nothing but a good, long nap to get her strength up again.  Then back at it she went.  There's gotta be some prescription pill you can give these folks that’s good as meth or whatever they’re on but legal and not as bad for ‘em.  That’s why I want to be a doctor.  That, and to give you honkies a different image of us colored folks.  (drawing the word "colored" out to make his point). 

W: Man, you got some kind of mountain on your shoulders of yours.  I'd say a Chip but it weighs more than you.  You know, we don’t really care what color you are around here, long as you got a credit card. (he smiled wide, another joke).

C: I’ll get a credit card if you got a rich daddy I could borrow to pay it off.  You all so full of your selves around here. 

W: No, just a few of us.  The rest are pretty normal.  I guess the school figured if you could get through hanging out with me and still want to come here to this fine establishment, you’re a keeper.  So, enough about me and my money, what do you do when you’re not on the career path?  You know, for fun?

C: Listen to music.  I play a little guitar.  And I don’t rap, so don’t even go there. 

W: What you listen to? Usher or something.  Naw, I’m kidding man.  Don’t jump on me again.  (both laughing).

C: Pink, Josh Ritter, Martin Sexton, Beiber. (waited to see an expression of disbelief in Wilson’s face.  Finally, he got what he was looking for). Gotcha. (drew the word out)  I know you didn’t think I’m into that boy.  Bay bee bay bee bay bee ohhh. (waving his hands back and forth about an inch over his tray so no others in the cafeteria would see them.)

W: I’m not making any more assumptions about you, pal.  You keep on making me look like a racist pig and idiot.  Ever thought of doing comedy?

C: No, don’t reckon I have.

W: You’d be good.  Straight-laced black dude with his pants to his armpits imitating Justin Beiber.  Man, I’d laugh.  Hell, I’m already about to piss my pants over here.  Dude.  You’re hilarious and you don’t even know it. (without a second for a pause, he adds) You gonna eat that pie or could I help myself.

C: Hand’s of, my friend.  I have to decide if this food here is worth my grandmomma’s hard earned cash. 

W: Wouldn’t count on it.  We have Pizza Hut on the quad though.  That’s some cookin’ there.  So, you any good at this guitar thing? 

C: Fair to middlin. Why?

W: Some guys in my dorm play in a little pick up band.  Nothing big but bring your guitar in the Fall. We’ll try you out.  None of that Beiber stuff, though.  You promise? (both walking to the garbage cans with their lunch trays). 

C: No Beiber. Got it.  So, where’s Dr. Armistead’s English class?  I think they have me signed up for that next, for some reason. 

W: Yep, its fate telling you to be a lawyer.  I’m not kidding man.  Stead of finding that drug, you can make a living getting these fools off the streets.  Oh, shoot, man, sorry about that.  Well, you can defend those fools so they won’t end up in jail. 

C: Nope, how bout you do that and I’ll be in the ER next time your uncle decides to drive the wrong way in traffic and kill somebody. 

W: Touché (both hands up in defensive pose)

C: What about you?  What’s your life story? 

W: Oh, no you don’t.  My advisor told me to keep my big head out of this conversation and not to talk about myself the whole time. Its your sneak peek at this place.  I’m already stuck.. oops, privileged to be here.  But you… you could still run off to Emory and leave BSC in your dust.  All of us stuck up preppies, and all.

C: You, preppy? I’m the one with the polo shirt and you need a belt. What are you talking about?

W: Don’t know, man, don’t know.  What I do know is you better get up there to Doc’s class before he counts you tardy. Not good on your first fake day here.  Second room to the left, see that window and the dude with the thick eyebrows. 

C: Still trying to find the right building. (Hand over his own eyebrows blocking the sun and scanning at several buildings in a row)

W: Man, you need glasses?  Right there in front of us, second room on the right from the front door.  Yeah, there you go.  Now see those eyebrows.  Can’t miss em.  Sat half this Fall trying to get Oscar the Grouch out of my head every time I looked at him.  He’s cool, though, just a little furry.  Oh, and he ain’t racist so put that chip away, dude.  Don’t be a nerd, either,though.  Don’t want him signing you up for teacher’s helper next Fall. 

C: Don’t worry, wrong subject for me to be sucking up.  I’ll save that for Chemistry.  So, where do I go when this is over?

W: I’ll drop back by after my class is over.  If you don’t see me, don’t run off.  I suck at time management but I’m trying to kiss up to my own advisor.  Know what I mean.  (winks) Its his class I’m going to.  Might have to erase the whiteboard or something.  See ya later, man.

C: See ya later. (As he stuffs his hands in his pockets, trying to make sure they aren’t sitting too high on his hips.  He decides against pulling his shirttail out.  Doesn’t want to look too careless.  He enters class and takes the only empty seat at the front table then puts his right leg over his left knee before it starts jumping again.