It’s what all good stories have. We want to see how a character can develop and change, otherwise the story and its whole purpose is stagnant.
As an English teacher, I’m always pointing out how a character, especially the protagonist, changes. There are clues throughout a novel that indicate what the character is learning.
Turns out it’s a lot easier to point it out than create it yourself.
I know what Lyra’s character growth will be–how she’ll be different in the end than she was in the beginning. What I have to think about–more than I realized–is where those signposts are. Maybe that’s why I’m finding writing the beginning and the end of the novel so much easier than the middle. I know where Lyra starts from and I know where she ends up; it’s how she gets there, that I struggle with.
For example, I have Lyra meet David, her guide in the Second World. He is a dedicated religious believer which, of course immediately alienates Lyra. She’s stuck with him for their journey, though. At some point, (I think it’s obvious to say) Lyra will come to respect and depend on David.
I think, though, that I jumped to that too soon. Here’s what I mean:
Lyra and David have just been through a harrowing experience; each thought the other was going to die.
“You saved me again,” David coughs. His voice is reed thin and raspy, but his tone is light and surprisingly bright.
Lyra smiles—how can he make her smile in a situation like this?
“It’s what I do,” she shrugs in jest, her lips curling up. “How are you?”
“I feel like…what is the expression?” David blinks, thinking. “Death warmed over.”
“You almost were,” Lyra says quietly. “Dead, I mean. I thought you were almost dead.”
“I must have nine lives,” he jokes.
Lyra likes that he jokes, but still she can’t shake the fear that he will die and die because of her.
“And you?” David asks. He coughs again and Lyra grabs the cup of water, lifts it to his mouth and helps him drink. When he rests his head, he continues. “You are on life number 10? 12? 100? There is no end for you.”
Lyra knows he teases but still she imagines herself as an old, tottering spinster still hanging on even as the world she recognizes disintegrates. No longer is there anyone alive who knew her as a young girl; no longer is there anyone alive who knows her now. In her old age, old beyond all expectation, she is alone.
“There is no end,” she agrees softly.
David senses the shift in mood. “Are you ok?” He turns serious, the intensity of his one good, open eye burning into her.
“Of course,” she says brightly. “Not even a scar.”
“Scars do not have to be physical,” David reminds her gently.
How does he do that? How does he know her?
This scene happens not too long after they meet. Of course they’re connected because of their shared experience, but is it reasonable to assume that Lyra would throw away all her suspicions about religious people so quickly? After all, she blames religion for destroying her family and her life.
Here’s my rewrite:
“You saved me again,” David coughs. His voice is reed thin and raspy, but his tone is light and surprisingly bright.
Lyra smiles.
“It’s what I do,” she shrugs in jest. “How are you?”
“I feel like…what is the expression?” David blinks, thinking. “Death warmed over.”
“You almost were dead,” Lyra says.
“I must have nine lives,” he jokes.
Lyra feels a splash of irritation, as if he can’t take seriously what happened to them. She stands up from the bed and walks to the small window that looks onto the scrubby side yard. It’s a dirt patch, nothing more and on the other side of it are the skeletal, greenish-brown olive trees. She thinks of Carole’s lush English garden outside Emily’s bedroom window back home. By contrast, the world outside this window is drained of color; Lyra can’t imagine living here.
“And you?” David asks. He coughs again. Lyra steps over to the night table, grabs the cup of water, and offers it to him. Painfully, David sits up, takes the water and sips it slowly. When he rests his head, he continues. “You are on life number 10? 12? 100? There is no end for you.”
She scowls. A joke for him, maybe, but an unsettling image appears in her mind, one of herself as an old, tottering spinster still hanging on even as the world she recognizes disintegrates. No longer is there anyone alive who knew her as a young girl; no longer is there anyone alive who knows her now. In her old age, old beyond all expectation, she is alone.
“There is no end,” she sighs. The small room suddenly seems stuffy, suffocating.
In this draft, Lyra is more guarded. She doesn’t question how he can make her smile, or how he knows her. She doesn’t help him drink. In fact, later in this scene, I show, instead of tell, the reader that David does know her–but it’s better that Lyra doesn’t yet want to admit it.
“I’m different now. You didn’t know me before,” she insists. The image of her old self hovers at the edge of her consciousness, faint and ephemeral as if it is already long lost.
“I know you now,” David counters.
“You’ve known me for three days,” Lyra says dryly.
“That is not enough?” David smiles through his pain, his good eye crinkling.
“Hardly,” Lyra replies.
“You are a strong, sad girl, who has had to overcome tremendous pain, which makes you passionate and intense and brave and selfless.”
Lyra flushes at David’s assessment, embarrassed. Fidgeting, she smooths out the faded blanket with her fingertips.
David continues, drawing breath, drawing strength. “You are also like those of us who are religious.”
Lyra feels walloped, clobbered by the insult she didn’t see coming. She opens her mouth to object, but David presses on.
“It is true,” he says defiantly. “We are not so different, you and I. You are a non-believer but you hold your non-belief as closely to your heart as I cling to my beliefs.”
Much better.
Now there’s tension between them again.
Because, after all, I wouldn’t want to make their lives too easy 🙂