Okay, so, here’s the deal: I’ve been thinking a lot lately about layering characters, and about recurring themes within characters, and about the sheer volume of different things that fandom can do with a fully defined character. Think about how many different versions of your favorite characters there are, for real: SO MANY. Because every character is a little different in every new story they’re in, even if it’s just a couple of tweaks, even if it’s just the author’s specific headcanon, etc, etc.
So! We’re going to do a thing now. I’m going to throw out the barest bones of a character, a couple details for everyone to go off of, and then we’re going to write! About that character! It doesn’t have to be a full story; it doesn’t have to be a story at all. It can be a character sketch or a list of ideas, it can be an out-of-context scene, it can be a snippet of something you never intend to flesh out, etc etc. It can be whatever you like! This is just about illustrating that the process of building a character doesn’t mean they have to come to you as fully formed people—that, in fact, for a lot of us that’s not how it works at all.
So: meet Parker, whose name is gender neutral because that shit is up to you! Here are the things we know about Parker: Parker is stubborn to a fault, prone to inappropriate/nervous laughter, and possessed of an addictive personality. Parker is a good listener, but not always a fantastic talker. Parker is superstitious, and easily frightened, and very loathe to let on about being easily frightened. And Parker has a secret…
THAT’S IT. REBLOG AND TRY IT OUT. My stab at it is under the cut; I don’t intend to do anything with it, so if you’d prefer to go off of a slightly more sketched out version of a character, feel free to knock yourself out expanding that instead :D
There’s a thumping noise in the attic. Parker has taken to calling this place the Telltale House, because it’s that or spend all of her time on the phone with her real estate agent, and she’d promised herself she’d give this place at least six months. It was her grandfather’s house, after all. She owes it to the family to stick it out.
Of course, there’s sticking it out and then there’s that fucking thumping in the fucking attic—
“If this is you, Kyle,” she calls out, fully aware that her cousin’s not going to be back from class for hours, “I swear I will….I will…well, I’ll do something! And it’ll be…terrible!”
She’s greeted with silence and, scowling at nothing, digs into her purse until she finds the battered pack of Marlboro Reds. She’s been trying to quit, but, admittedly, not all that hard. And who could quit smoking in a house like this, anyway? Even if there wasn’t the persistent sense of lingering dread, the whole place is littered with ashtrays, relics of the emphysema that drove her grandfather out of here all those years ago. She pulls a smoke out of the pack, surprised by her shaking fingers, and roots around in her pocket until she unearths her lighter.
She’s just gotten the flame to catch when a voice, deep and dark and out of nowhere, out of everywhere, lazily inquires, “Terrible, eh?”
Parker drops her smoke.