Pet Names

To avoid any confusion, I'm talking about 'names for pets' in this post. Not 'pet names' such as 'snuggles', 'cuddles', 'arsenic', and 'bulldozer'. That's a whole different category and one that could make everyone feel rather nauseous. No, I've been thinking a lot lately about animal names and their relationship to fiction: how do you decide what to call your pets and, more importantly, how do characters?

So far in my novel drafts I've only included one pet. There's an excellent piece of advice in some book somewhere that warns writers not to include animals without an exceptional reason. They can be self-indulgent little things that do nothing apart from hold up your plot and, when you forget about them, can leave the reader wondering where the fluffy kitten is and whether you did actually leave it in the burning building. The cat in my novel serves a few purposes, or at least I believe she does. I may be being self-indulgent. But Meg gives my protagonist something to get up for in the morning, she gives her something to talk to, and she serves to illuminate aspects of character by her preference for certain characters over others. As a cat person, I have to say that a cat's opinion can occasionally sway me in something like that. Yes... I know.

But why the name Meg? Well, my protagonist found the cat as a stray and gave her a human name to make her part of her hitherto single-person family. The old saying goes that if you give a cat a human name it becomes more human in your eyes. Now, I don't know what our pet names say about us as a family.

My cat, who unfortunately died last week, was called Stalin. Her sister, who passed away a few months ago was called Vlad. These cats were originally my sister's but part of her agreement to get them dictated my mother should have a say in the names. And she was kind of into her history. I have to say, whereas Vlad was a softie, Stal lived up to her name on some occasions. But not as much as the first cat I remember - Beast. Now, she was a stray and a very violent scrappy cat. I was scratched more than I care to remember when I was younger by that darling. She had a particularly amusing game of hanging around on the kitchen country ready to leap onto the back of our poor, unsuspecting doggy. She was originally called (embarrassing moment coming up) Icolbit, because a child who shall remain nameless couldn't speak and wanted her to come over 'a little bit'. However, 'Beast' was a much more appropriate name for her.

We've had two dogs in my lifetime. Paddy, probably a whippet crossed with something it really shouldn't have been crossed with, was a rescue dog. The first day we got him he ran from the house into the middle of a busy road because he was scared. I'm not sure the car helped his fear much. However, one metal plate later and he was perfectly happy. He still shook at anything, even a raised voice, but he was the most docile, friendly dog you could encounter. When he died my mother was heartbroken, and made the decision to go check out a puppy next door to one of my aunts the very same day. So we ended up with Rosie, a Cairn crossed with a Westie... we think. She's highly excitable and we're currently having some problems with her because she misses Stalin terribly. Once Beast died she became attached to Vlad and when Vlad died she latched onto Stal. She's now lost and confused and thinks we're going to leave her every time we leave the dining room. Rosie was my name choice, and not for very pleasant reasons either. There was a stuck-up girl I hated at school, part of a set who loved the look of themselves in a mirror. Naming my dog after one of them seemed to be the ultimate revenge at the time. Ahem. I promise I have grown up since then.

We've had an array of animals in my family. Maud, a grey long-eared rabbit; Norman, a brown and white rat; Noel and Liam, my brother's budgies. Plus an assortment of mice, rabbits and fish whose names escape me. But, for the most part, they were all part of the family - that is, they were named as if they were part of the family.

I know that including pets in fiction should be avoided if they're just going to be an issue of cuteness and irritation to the reader. But think of Fang in the Harry Potter series: whenever Hagrid was in his hut I wanted to know where the dog was because he was a vivid character in my mind. He helped define Hagrid. Where would Count Fosco be in The Woman in White without his assortment of mice and birds? The attention he pays to them highlights a peculiar edge to his character. And, in the world of television, where would Martin Crane be without his dog, Eddie? Animals can help define and shape character as much as they can annoy the audience by their constant interruptions. The key as a writer is to know when you're indulging yourself and when you're indulging the requirements of the plot or scene.

Twisting the Standards

I'm currently listening to Alfie Boe's latest album. It's a selection of show tunes and, truth be known, there's not a bad track included. From 'On The Street Where You Live' to 'Tell Me It's Not True' to 'Some Enchanted Evening', all the songs are deservedly standards.

Now, whenever somebody releases an album like this I'm immediately sceptical. In many cases I consider the original to be the best. That includes any track by Judy Garland, Angela Lansbury or Robert Preston. In the same way that I would not want to see the central premise of The Woman in White highjacked and ruined, I would hate for somebody to take 'The Man That Got Away' by Judy and actually believe they were emulating the most famous version.

However, as writers we are frequently reminded there are only so many different stories in the world. We work around the same themes, use the same plot progressions. In fact, the only weapon we have in reserve is how we tell the story, not what the story actually is. It's very tempting to stick to a prescribed route and tell a story the way it's been told before. After all, that was successful. But that doesn't mean anything. You can turn a Lord of the Rings style quest into something completely different if you're only prepared to look at it in an alternative way.

Take this album by Alfie Boe. It could easily be another drab collection of musical theatre standards but it isn't. What Alfie brings to the music is his opera training and the passion that training inevitably instils in a voice. Every note is crystal clear and sung with such warmth. He is so like the original or famous recordings yet so different. His rendition of 'If I Loved You', for example, is outstanding. For the three minutes I'm listening to it I can easily forget all other versions I've ever heard.

And that's what we need to do as writers. Don't try to emulate your favourite authors; find your own voice and discover what you can bring to your writing. There is something in your history or your way of perceiving the world which makes you different to everyone else. Find it and you open countless doors.

The Dangers of Duality.

Something I've come across in my studies is the explicit use of duality in the fiction I'm reading. Characters are put in direct contrast to each other in order to make a point as well as to further the plot. The novel I'm reading at the moment (a little-know story by Edmund Yates, The Silent Witness) initiated the introduction of the two female characters by contrasting them in every way. One was fair haired, the other dark. One was a prattler, the other was full of sense. It may be wise to point out that the dark-haired intellectual quickly lost those traits when she was separated from the woman she was deliberately set up as opposite to.

Duality was a common tool of Victorian writers. It helped inform the reader using various simple distinctions: fair/dark, bright/dim, strong/weak and, of course, that old favourite pretty/ugly. It was used to great effect in Victorian fiction; think of Marian/Laura in The Woman in White or Mina/Lucy in Dracula.

It's an effective tool for any writer really and one that's still evident in every walk of fiction today. My favourite novel, Sarah Water's Fingersmith sets up a contrast between Sue and Maud from the beginning. The Harry Potter books are especially verbose in this kind of method: think Harry/Draco, Harry/Cedric, Hermione/Pansy, Neville/just about anyone.

It's a simple way of differentiating between characters. The idea of hair colour is one that seeps into even the best writer's conscious: if A has blonde hair then let's make B's dark so we can spot the difference. It's a handy marker but there are several pitfalls.

Firstly, if you create a character in response to another then the second character won't be as rounded and three-dimensional as the first. Not if all you've done is create an opposite for your protagonist. Some Victorian novels, especially sensational ones, suffer with this. The title character of Lady Audley's Secret is evil, for want of a better term. Her opposite in the novel is arguably Clara Talboys who, apart from having a desperate desire to find her missing brother, is an ineffectual human being. This had the desired effect of making the audience root for Lady Audley instead of Clara but it didn't do much for the depth of the novel.

A second problem with duality is that it can hinder character progression. If, as a writer, you're so intent on maintaining a distinction between various character then you can ignore the potential (or in some cases, necessity) for character evolution and change. This is extremely evident in serial television more than anything else. This is how the villain keeps going for years on end without being touched in any way by their deeds: think Tracy Barlow in Coronation Street, Don Beech in The Bill or Janine Butcher in Eastenders. What these characters loop back to is a desire to cause trouble, whatever brief epiphanies they may experience. They are there as the token villain and heaven-forbid they turn over a new leaf.

Finally, I'd say that duality can quickly become predictable and boring if not in the right hands. Some descriptions, especially in the Victorian books I'm reading at the moment, are cringeworthy in their attempts to set up a distinction between two characters.

The thing about contrast is that it should work on a primarily subliminal platform. If you have to point it out then you're not doing your job properly.

Creepy Characters the Collins Way

As I've been wading through my mountain of Victorian Sensation Fiction, in particular Wilkie Collins, I've found myself to be more than a little disturbed and distracted. It's not like reading a conventional modern horror book whereby shocks and disturbance are part and parcel of the experience. It all works on a more discreet level and after years of soundish sleep after reading novels I suddenly find myself scanning the room for unfamiliar shadows and listening out for noises.

So how does Collins, a writer who died 120 years ago, manage to disturb a modern reader? I think it lies in his characterisation.

The events of his novels can be considered quite predictable I suppose. A reader today, well-versed with narrative techniques and willing to pay attention to Collins' exceptional grasp of foreshadowing, would have little trouble deciphering most of his plots. It is the startling personalities he brings to life on the page that really demonstrate his genius.

The most obvious, of course, is Anne Catherick, the woman in white herself. From the first depiction of her in the dead of night she is a mysterious and alarming figure. The Woman in White is full of them. The devious Count Fosco is a brilliant villain who plots and schemes whilst also acknowledging admiration for the manly Marian Halcombe. In fact, it feels to me that the least-rounded and interesting of all the characters in the novel are Walter Hartright and Laura Fairlie, the couple whose happiness the novel is essentially centred around. It's no secret that antagonists are more interesting characters to write but Collins seemed to take in delight in writing not only his antagonists but his helpers and secondary characters alike.

The Law and the Lady is one of his lesser-known novels. It revolves around a newlywed, Valeria, discovering her husband stood trial for poisoning his first wife and wasn't entirely exonerated. Her resolve to prove his innocence leads her on quest which brings her into contact with two extraordinary characters - Miserrimus Dexter and his cousin/slave, Ariel.

Dexter is an attractive but severely deformed man. From birth he has had no lower limbs, a condition that has resulted in an eccentricity which becomes gradually more pronounced throughout the novel. At Valeria's first meeting with him she finds him gliding along in his chair, taking on the parts of Napoleon and Shakespeare in succession. He becomes, by degrees, the most disturbing of creatures and one of the most memorable characters Collins ever created. The image of him hopping down a corridor on his hands to make up for his lack of legs is one which will stay with me for a while. His servant, Ariel, is categorised mainly by her devotion to this strange man. She becomes jealous of Valeria, wanting to be the only one to brush his beard, and she insists on smelling her hands before she leaves to check for the smell of him. All in all, this pair are both fascinating and concerning.

Finally, I'd like to return to The Haunted Hotel, a short novel by Collins I reviewed a few weeks ago. Agnes Lockwood, the heroine, isn't as transparent a character as, say, Laura Fairlie, but, again, she seems pale in comparison to the anatagonist, Countess Narona. Although the reader cares about Agnes they are certainly more interested in the unfolding mysteries and the characters which surround them.

I'd say that Collins' strength lies in a perfect melding of character and plot. The character of Miserrimus Dexter would not be half as fascinating if he wasn't so closely entwined with the mystery of the novel, for instance. He could be brought in as a humorous character elsewhere but his power lies in his ability to disturb the reader. Equally, Count Fosco had to play an integral part in the mystery of the woman in white whom Walter Hartright encountered - less would've felt like a waste of the extraordinary character.

So what can we learn from Collins? Take your character from your plot and your plot from your character. Unless you're writing a very formulaic story where your plot is by far the most important aspect why not try and meld the two together? If Wilkie Collins managed to create characters which still distract a twenty-first century girl from her sleep then it has to be worth a try.