I hate running. I really do. Some runners anticipate a good run with eager legs. Not me. I hate every step, each landing of foot on the pavement, every breath I drag in and expel in quick, uncoordinated bursts.
I’m not a good runner either, but two years ago something happened that sent me out into a frigid March morning in Nova Scotia, wearing cheap sneakers and raggedy sweatpants.
My husband had his first real and frightening MS event then. You need to understand: the 23 years I’ve known this man, he’s been a hearty and hale, strapping, no-holds-barred, forearms-like-Popeye’s fisherman. In Nova Scotia, no less — that means he fishes for lobster in the dead of winter. Think Deadliest Catch on a smaller scale but no less dangerous.
I was terrified. You can imagine. While I joked about my new running routine to everyone who knew me and knew exercise of any form was my sworn enemy, I knew each time I laced up my sneakers and pulled on a hat and earbuds, as much as I hated it, it was saving me.
I was running away the only way I could.
Running became for me a living metaphor. I’m sure many folks wouldn’t have grasped the analogy. Some people I knew assumed I ran because all of a sudden I was the one in the marriage who absolutely had to stay healthy because now one of us was down.
True, but not true.
As a character driven writer, I grasped this little activity on a level that connected with my writing. Like many writers, I’m always on the lookout for interesting pieces of introspection, for experience, for great characters. I knew my own imaginary friends often acted and reacted in ways that they couldn’t/shouldn’t/ and haven’t explained to themselves, let alone to the reader.
I knew I was running — or running away — and even as I slapped sneaker to pavement, in every hated moment I knew every one of my characters was running away too. The difference was that now I understood this on a much more complex level than I did before. Now I knew why J sought out a beating in Anomaly even though J couldn’t and would never explain even if he did realize it. I knew why Olivia sought out an abusive lesbian lover In The Secret Language Of Crows, why Luke in One Insular Tahiti hated to come home to the woman he loved.
These little things were never really explained in the novels in an overt way and I know it undoubtedly bothered some readers, but I also knew the explanations weren’t missing pieces of introspection, they were intimate details about my character’s psyches that they couldn’t or wouldn’t divulge to themselves or anyone else.
The human psyche is so complex that we don’t always know why we do/say/think the things we do, and if we want to build real flesh and blood characters, there’s always things within their psyches that they don’t want to reveal either. Not flat out. Not overtly.
Sometimes we do things we hate under motivations we don’t understand, and as writers, I think we owe it to our readers to let them put a little of their own psyches in the evolution of each character they read and want to identify with.
I think only then can we achieve resonance with our readers in a way that is lasting and authentic.
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Thea Atkinson is a writer of character driven fiction; call it what you will: she prefers to describe her work as psychological thrillers with a distinct literary flavour. As in her bestselling novel, Anomaly, her characters often find themselves in the darker edges of their own spirits but manage to find the light they seek.
She has been an editor, a freelancer, and a teacher, but fiction is her passion. She now blogs and writes and twitters. Not necessarily in that order. Please visit her blog for ramblings, guest posts, giveaways, and more. You can also find her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter.