Character In Novel Novels & Stories

I made an organized portfolio of everything I was going to go over in class. By the time I finished, I only had a few hours left until dusk, so I started to write the next chapter in my book. I started on a new character; a female book worm who had large ambitions and an even larger heart. She made friends easily and was never judged too harshly. She was the perfect character for my male lead, a heroic gentleman who would do anything for those he loved. With her intelligence and his strengths, they can conquer anything. As I reread the dialogue I created between the characters, I realized there were a lot of similarities between these characters and Tessa and myself.

I asked inside my mind. I stretched my mimic muscles forming a dumb smile, trying to find the words to describe my novel, that wouldn't give him any stupid ideas… But, I instantly got tired of making it all too complicated. “It's about revenge. My main character lost his loved one and he kills everyone who was the part of the plot,” I stated, letting it all go. After all, there were a lot of stories like that before. Acting suspicious about the subject of my novel could only make my situation worse.

But this time, Clayton's and Gladys' stories had changed. Clayton was madly in love with Gladys at the start of the novel, but only until a new character named Hailey Paltrow appeared. Pattie sighed and said, "Look, the character doesn't just share your name. I think her personality is a lot like yours, too!" I felt my heart squeeze. However, I pretended to be calm about it. "That's quite a coincidence. I never thought that I could be a side character in a book." Yet, Pattie kept chirping as she continued reading the novel.

“Treason, Nana. Treason." “It does not matter. We need to find where I belong or what I am.” She goes on again, rambling. I wish I could exchange her for a more understanding wolf. Pushing my hair to the back of my ear, I flip the page of the new book and read through each line. I roll my eyes and scoff. Romance. How can a character’s first interest be about a man? Doesn’t she love coins? Food? Fashion, or even education? Why must it be a man?

Then he made coffee, sat down, and read. The character did sound like him. Not in a literal way — the novel was not autobiography and Elian was not that kind of writer. But the architecture of the thinking was his: the precision, the way the character moved through physical space cataloguing it, the specific loneliness of someone who had been competent for so long that competence had become a kind of cage. The novel opened with the character in a room he had secured — a hotel room, somewhere unnamed and European — running through the checks that had become as automatic as breathing, and then stopping. Looking at his own hands in the mirror. Seeing them as what they were, the hands of a perso