Craft Chat Craft Challenge?

[Aethalope]

Anyone up for a craft challenge from @Pamela Jo?

"How can we introduce new characters without interrupting the narrative flow?"

Indeed a tough task. So, what strategies does everyone use? Do you think it’s easier in first person or third person? Do you focus on appearance or behaviour? And here's one that gets me every time: Do you establish the character's role and/or function first, or do you let it emerge through the interaction?

(My answers to those would be first person, behaviour, and let it emerge but badly.)

If you fancy exploring this in more depth, here's a prompt:

Choose a character who is so minor they have only one interaction with your protagonist. Write 150-200 words (a guide, not a rule) describing this interaction.

New stuff? A scene from your WIP? Whatever fits? Show us what you’ve got! Not for critique, just for the mutual exploration of different approaches to the same task. Maybe we can even inspire some blog posts

 

[Sedayne]

Okay, this is the opening of Confessions of a Teenage Undertaker (a short story prequel of Songs for Beginners). The protag introduces himself, then his minor character brother and the brother's unnamed ex-girlfriend.

My name is Mike Davies, and I see the dead.​

To be more accurate, I see dead bodies in the funeral parlour of the family business. Our Kev once used that line on a girl who was into all that gloomy stuff. You know the type – dresses in black and hangs around St Deiniol’s churchyard late at night hoping to see a ghost. God knows what Kev saw in her, but the chat-up worked. They’d been going out for a couple of weeks before he sneaked her into the embalming room one night where she promptly vomited and fled, telling him she never wanted to see him again.​

 

[Hannah Faoileán]

Two for the price of one: my protagonist and her sister have just seen the boatperson arrive and scratch a crescent moon into the grave's soil. This is the first interaction with either of them. The minor character, the fleeting pass through, is the dead noble.

An arm bursts through the grave. Emer and I shuffle backwards. I clutch her shoulders to steady myself, to protect her, to give me the courage to breathe.

A human hand grips the boatperson’s. A man sits up, soil trickling from him, the quake on his grave toppling to its side. He’s a rich noble by the look of his elaborately ruffled shirt-sleeves and gold braiding on his velvet, navy-coloured coat. He picks up the silver coin and offers it to the boatperson.

I stare at his money: my anchor; the only thing stopping me turning and running.

The boatperson accepts the payment. They pull the man to standing and draw him to the boat.

I squeeze Emer’s hand. Force myself to my feet. Come on, courage. I open my pouch. Lift out two of our silver coins.

‘Excuse me.’

The dead man spins to face us. His bottom jaw drops; his eyebrows rise. The boatperson’s pale eyes turn towards us, no eyebrows to read, no eyelids to widen or narrow, but one thing’s certain: they can both see us.

I inhale, blow out an uncalming breath. ‘We need your help,’ I manage to pant, ‘We have to travel to Inis Aingeal. My grandmother said you can take us there.’

‘Why?’ The boatperson’s voice is low-pitched – probably male?

‘Are you dead too?’ the noble asks. He grips the rim of the boat and climbs in.

 

[Bloo]

I do mine with a head hop. We are in the bartender's head only for the first part of the scene, then move onto the Jake's. We never see the barkeep again.

Under a clean shave and fine suit, the Lowe Bar’s sole patron looked no less pathetic.

“Pour me another Maker's,” Jake’s words were slurred by now, “double, on the rocks.”

“That’ll be the fourth one you put down. You’re not driving, are you?”

“Hell no. I live only on Mendel Ave. I walked here and I'm going to stumble home.”

“Bullshit. I carded you, remember? Your license says Lakeside. That’s like five miles away.”

“Uh… it still has the old address. I just moved here.” Jake reached into his rear left pocket - then his right and found it. “Here’s the key card for Driscoll Apartments. They’re on Mendel.”

The barkeep needed only a glance to confirm the guy lived where he said. What he couldn’t figure was why. The customer was dressed like a lawyer and sporting a Shinola watch. That didn't jive with his new digs. Mendel wasn't a complete shithole, but it sure as hell weren’t Lakeside. Real-estate values can drop quite a bit over five miles.

“Okay bud…but it’s last-call for you. I don’t want you stumbling in front of a bus.” He dropped some ice into a fresh glass. Maybe his wife threw him out and she’s the lawyer. He made it a long pour. “I’m here tomorrow if you want to talk about it.”

“Sure... maybe I’ll see you then.”

The bartender hoped so. Broken men in expensive suits usually produce good tips.

Not even sure if I'm going to keep this. Jake has evolved a bit since I wrote it, so I might kill this darling.