When writing my first four novels, I chose real historical figures as main characters. They weren’t exactly well known people. They were plausible people. They were people who really existed and fit nicely into the story I wanted to tell, and the history I wanted to share. Thinking like a historian, I considered these characters my eyes and ears to share my research. The only thing I really fictionalized about them was putting them in circumstances that they might not actually have experienced.

Now, as I draft my sixth novel, I’m taking a much different approach. My main character is Alvin Arnold, a twenty-three-year-old newspaper reporter from Chicago, and he is completely fictionalized. He is not a vessel to share my research like my earlier characters. He is a living, breathing human who exists to carry the emotional weight of the story. That is a much more challenging task. Today, I’d like to briefly introduce you to Alvin. Keep in mind, I’m still getting to know him myself and he will change a lot before this novel is ever published.

Name: Alvin Tyler Arnold
Also Known As: Man of Letters
Born: September 23, 1860, Chicago, Illinois, United States
Education: B.A. in Rhetoric & Oratory, Northwestern University
Race: White, German Ancestry
Physical Characteristics: Slender, diminutive frame; narrow triangular face; wavy brown hair; bright blue eyes; high-pitched, almost boyish voice
Personality/Character Traits: Inquisitive, empathetic, intellectually ambitious; frequently underestimated due to appearance and voice; torn between career advancement and moral responsibility
Marital Status: Married to Pearl Arnold, a woman he met at University. Together, they’re expecting their first child.
Central Want: Alvin is ambitious. He wants to provide a good life for his family and he seeks advancement in his career from reporter to editor.
Important Background: Alvin aspires to become an editor with a corner office like his father. Alvin’s father died in the Great Chicago Fire trying to recover archival materials before they could burn. Alvin was just eleven years old at the time and he was there to see his father reenter the building while it was ablaze.

While writing a novel, it is imperative for the author to get to know their characters, especially their main character. They must know everything about them—what’s on the page and what is not—in order to fully understand what that character does and why. What would Alvin do when backed into a corner? What would Alvin do when presented with an opportunity? What would Alvin do when rejected by his peers? If an author doesn’t understand the whole life of their character, then the character’s decisions will seem incongruent to the readers. This incongruency can be very subtle, so subtle that readers might not even be able to pinpoint why a character feels inauthentic. As an exercise to help me get to know Alvin better, I’m going to write out the scene when Alvin’s father dies. It may never end up in the novel, but it will help me make Alvin into a more fully rounded, authentic character worthy of carrying the emotional weight of my story.

---

Panic tightened Alvin’s throat. He could no longer see or hear or find his way through the thick black smoke. It was only by his father’s guiding hand that he was led out into the light. He stumbled down the steps, people running past him herds of wild cattle. His father swooped him up and held him like a baby against his chest. From over his father’s bouncing shoulder, Alvin saw orange and yellow flames streaming out of the third and fourth floor windows. Smoke billowed into the sky, blotting out all sunlight. The roar of the flames was deafening as it consumed everything inside the building. It was a raging river of flame and smoke stretching from one building to the next to the next. The world was coming to an end.

Safely away from the building among the crowd of Tribune workers, Alvin’s father set him down. He leaned down and wiped the tears from Alvin’s ashen face. “You’re all right,” was all he said before turning to Mr. Miller.

“Ernst, the archives,” Alvin’s father said.

“Forget the archives, Karl. It’s too dangerous.”

Alvin looked up to see the sternness in Mr. Miller’s face, the whites of his eyes highlighted by the blackness of his forehead.

“The fire is on the third and fourth floors,” Alvin’s father argued, “the archives in the basement. We could save ten years of writing in just a few minutes time.”

Mr. Miller shook his head, maintaining her stern demeanor. “No, absolutely not. It’s just too dangerous.”

Alvin’s father leaned back, tilting his head to the darkened sky. Bringing his head back down, he kneeled next to Alvin. “I’ll be back in two minutes. Our work is too important to go up in flames.”

Standing back up, Alvin’s father pulled his jacket over head and started toward the Tribune building.

Mr. Miller shouted, “Karl, it’s too late! It’s too late!” But as people continued streaming in the building, Alvin’s father went in, the heel of his boot disappearing in the smoke covered shadow of the entryway.