Before you start forming your story, think about what the characters in it will be like. You have a story in mind; therefore you already have an idea who it is that will carry out the events that make up the plot. Most of my students begin their narratives by bringing a character on stage, have the character do something, and say the lines that are appropriate to the scene. Unfortunately, that approach does not provide the richness that the story can achieve. When Wilson and Mark suggest the addition of a character, they usually begin by saying what sort of person the character is.

In Matter of Coincidence, Mark suggested we include a young woman, Tina Nix, in the ensemble. When he came up with the idea, he knew why he wanted her in the story but not much else. The lead character, Linzey, needed a confidante with whom she could talk about her growing attraction to Josh, the protagonist. In lesser hands, Tina would simply be someone Linzey’s age who Linzey would know for some logical reason—a neighbor, co-worker, or relative. Instead, Mark gave us a complete back-story for Tina, a Goth who lives on the edge of life, a quick witted flake who thinks her life is firmly in place when, in reality, it is spinning in a million directions. Immediately, Wilson and I knew this person: she never shops in a mall, preferring odd boutiques and second hand stores. Her dress is edgy and eclectic. Her conversation is quirky, laced with illogical metaphors directed by her off-center view of life. She is instantly appealing in her down-the-rabbit-hole demeanor. All of this was presented in a scene Mark wrote centering on her reaction to her boy friend coming home from a fishing trip, a scene that developed her character but was not directly in the plot line planned for the story.

Tina is a supporting character that is one version of many possible sidekicks. A sidekick is used to allow a lead character to have someone to discuss the problems the lead character must solve in order to bring the story to its climactic end. The Goth, girl on the edge is a variant of a stereotype instantly familiar to the audience. She is totally opposite of the well-grounded Linzey who is often appalled by the screwball events she is drug into. (In Bringing Up Baby, Katherine Hepburn’s character created the mess that drove the story and Carey Grant was the unwilling schlemiel drawn into it. In AMOC, Linzey is the Carey Grant character.)

There are a host of stereotypes available to writers: The shy, timid bumbling fellow that always gets things wrong—Don Knotts in every role he played; The smart, easily influenced character that slowly slides into a hell of his own making—Harry Osborn in Spider-Man; The thickishly loyal friend who follows the lead without question or hope of glory—Samwise in Lord of the Ring. Stereotypes are not necessarily linked to race or ethnicity, but they can be, and they are often drawn in sharp contract to the lead with whom they are linked. One would not pick a sharp-tongued, clever, outside-of-the-rules sidekick for Eddie Murphy in the Beverly Hills Cop series. Eddie Murphy’s character already has those traits. Once won over to the BHC quest, Judge Reinhold’s ‘Billy’ Rosewood provides the perfect foil for Murphy’s brand of sassy humor.

Characterization is never static. Audiences want to see how the characters change and develop in relation to the themes explored by the film’s story. Stories that do not proved character development usually fall flat. We are entertained by the details we learn about the characters as the story unfolds. In Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, we discover that Butch has never shot anyone until they are confronted by the federalies in Bolivia. Backed up against a gorge as a posse hired by the Union Pacific is tracking them—the only way out requiring that they jump into the river hundreds of feet below—Sundance admits that he can’t swim. By the end of the story, Butch has run out of ideas that will allow the duo to escape and Sundance knows that he may not survive no matter how well he can shoot his gun. Etta, the school teacher attracted to the excitement Butch and Sundance create, has learned that the antidote she has chosen to spice up her boring existence—the glamour and exhilaration of the outlaw life—has a price she cannot pay.

In a short story or novel, great attention is paid to the physical description of each character. What do they look like, how are they dressed, how do they walk, and what would they eat are details given to the reader to flesh out the individuality of each character presented. In the most visual of mediums, screenwriting, we rarely provide anything but the most general description. Character isn’t developed by how one looks or what they eat, the details of life that we tend to cling to. Character is developed by the intonation of dialogue, by the choices made by the character in the course of the storyline, and by the adherence of a character’s presentation given the character’s back-story. We constantly ask ourselves what a character would actually do, given the events we are writing. This can get to be a bit odd at times. It is easy to answer what a Paul Newman’s construction worker might do in Nobody’s Fool, but even then, it can be surprising. When chasing down his wayward friend, Rub, who would have guessed that Sully would drive his pickup on the sidewalk? The stubborn adherence to one’s view of life, the unwillingness to compromise, his laws-be-damned attitude that is central to Sully’s personality is deftly presented the minute that he abandons the road and drives on the sidewalk. Sully’s character is revealed by what he does much more than what is said about him.

Audiences want characters that are immediately identifiable, with whom they have an immediate reaction. For example, we know that Bill Macy’s character in Fargo is doomed by his personal ineptitude long before the events of the story play out. Fargo is brilliant because the scheme-gone-sour plot develops from the characterizations chosen by the Coen’s not just from the story itself. I always feel cheated when I see a movie in which I am forced to keep the characters distinguished by their physical appearance rather than by their characterization. How many times have you been disappointed by a story simply because you didn’t feel that the character shown would do what the story required them to do? What was Johnny Depp playing in Willie Wonka? Was his WW reticent, a bit innocent, oddly cunning or what? I couldn’t tell. Gene Wilder’s WW was far clearer, a man who knows more than he says, a world weary individual tired of insincerity and pop-psychology.

I am suggesting that, as writers, we need to know who our characters are, what sort of individuals they are in the world outside of the story we are showing, before we allow them to come on stage and take their turn.