Everyone has history, even if nobody reads about it.
“In the writer’s mind, even a backstory has a backstory.” ― Terry a. O’Neal
“Once upon a time.” Every good writer knows that stories don’t actually start with this phrase, no matter what’s written on the page, just as “the end” rarely means that the tale is truly finished. The truth is that if the author has done the legwork, the story began well before the opening line of the book.
Without sufficient backstories, worlds would be barely two-dimensional and characters nothing but shallow imitations of themselves. This makes it much harder for readers to dive in and get invested in the story. After all, who can relate to a world with conflicts that are only painted in shades of black and white? Or characters that have no sordid past to influence what they do in the present and future of the narrative? Nobody is ever just good or bad, evil or virtuous for no reason whatsoever―why would you want to read about fictional entities who don’t display any depth or development? That being said, as crucial as they may be in refining your characters’ motivation and mannerisms on your end, the audience shouldn’t see even half of it.
Readers tend to prefer to acquaint themselves with fictional characters in much the same way that they get to know flesh-and-blood human beings in the real world. It’s rare to meet someone for coffee and have them lay their entire personal history out on the table for you to digest in tandem with a scone. It’s way too much and way too soon. And if by some miracle you’re not put off by the overshare, you won’t remember the whole kit and caboodle even an hour later, and it’s all but impossible to differentiate between which parts really matter to you at this juncture and what’s just fluff―entertaining, sure, but ultimately nothing you absolutely needed to know right out of the gate. On the other hand, sitting across from someone you don’t know, who isn’t giving anything away, can be just as unsettling. You need to create and use character backstories in ways that work to your story’s advantage, not hold it back.
Laying a solid foundation
Think of backstories as foundations for characters as well as the larger narrative. It’s similar to world-building, just on an individual level rather than within the greater scope of the story’s setting. I like to keep a running document (it’s actually saved in my folder devoted to creative projects as “Cheat sheet”) that I can refer back to anytime I get stuck or just need to remind myself who exactly this character is. The entries differ for each figure, depending on how much “screen time” they’ll get, but everyone has at least a line on the list so I can keep track of all the names I have to work with.
So, whether they’re the hero of the story or the friendly neighborhood bartender who pops here and there, start by formulating an idea of where each character was and what they did before they appeared in your manuscript. Names, ages, scars or tattoos as well as other features that stand out, social and economic backgrounds, family ties, what they do for a living: I always include their basic histories, defining physical characteristics, and eventually build up to idiosyncratic preferences like coffee versus tea. All of this is surface information and can easily be incorporated into the story without taking up too much valuable real estate.
When shit gets real
There are a million little things that make us who we are, and most of them are hardly noticed by anyone but ourselves and those closest to us until something throws us for a loop or tests our resolve. The same can be said for each of your characters, and when it comes time to write the pivotal events in your story, those hidden tendencies and nuanced aspects of their psyches are brought to the forefront―sometimes, in ways you wouldn’t have ever expected until you put pen to paper or fingertips to keyboard.
When you have your foundational bases covered, you can add on and craftily reveal more and more about your characters as needed. As the story evolves, different traits or life experiences become necessary to keep things moving along in a way that makes sense. If a character’s parents are still alive, are they present and up to the task, or deadbeats? Are they a point of contention, or are they a source of comfort, a soft place to land when the going gets tough? How might factors like income or the social structure presiding over a population shape the way your character sees the world and relates to it? Does their job frequently put them between rocks and hard places? Are they drawn to a certain type of romantic partner? Why or why not? All of this contributes to how your character responds to difficult situations and makes them more authentic and engaging to a wider audience of readers.
Let’s take an example from a popular book series. Katniss Everdeen isn’t a frilly, flamboyant character, and from the beginning of The Hunger Games, we know this and about the kinds of things that contributed to these tendencies of hers. We know that she lives with and takes care of her mother and sister in a poor district, that her father used to be a huge part of her life until he died, and that she’s a quiet rebel who sneaks into the woods to hunt so that her family and others in their community don’t starve. While some of this hints at weightier topics we continue to dig into throughout the series, we only skim the surface at the beginning. The author, Suzanne Collins, gave us a taste of Katniss’s life so we’d see precisely what anyone who had just met her in person would: distinct and important pieces, but not the whole picture. Later, we learn more in between the horrors of the games and the increasingly tense political situation in Panem. Her relationship with her mother and why it’s so strained, the reason her father died, how she already felt indebted to Peeta and why that gratitude and sense of obligation comes into play again and again: all of this is gradually fed to us in brief expository sections that we can easily swallow, all the while keeping the information in our back pockets until we need to recall it. Even little things like her favorite color contribute to her character, but are woven into dialogue sections when it makes sense to reveal them and reinforce just who Katniss is on the whole.
Moderation
Now comes the hard part. How much is too much? Think back to when I mentioned how overwhelming it is to hear someone’s life story all at once. No matter how interesting some parts of your character’s backstory are, you have to accept that they might never be relevant to the narrative.
You might be tempted to throw everything that makes your main character who they are at your readers in the beginning just to get it out of the way, but what you see as a time-saver might be what turns your readers off for good. You’ve heard the saying, “everything in moderation,” right? If you put in the effort to develop your character over the life of your novel or series, the story will be more relatable, yet it will also continue to surprise your readers. Conversely, if readers don’t know your characters well enough by a certain point, they won’t understand them or why they do what you have them do. People like to read stories they can immerse themselves in, that they can relate to, which is why it’s so important to be able to write the characters as if you were them, to get inside their heads and represent them as honestly as you can. You can’t do that if you withhold details like why your main character is afraid of the dark, yet still show them freaking out every time they’re forced to confront any degree of darkness. It’s confusing and frustrating not to understand the source of these behavioral quirks, and it keeps your character stagnant and uninteresting.
This means that writers have some tricky decisions to make in terms of how much backstory is going to make it into the narrative and when. I get it; your characters are your babies. You brought them into this world, and even if you eventually have to take them out, a lot of time and thought went into making them who they are. It’s tempting to show them off, or even keep them to yourself, but there needs to be a balance between common knowledge and mystery in order for them to feel real in the context of your novel. Pick and choose how you reveal your characters’ best and ugliest truths based on the rising and falling action of the story. Events can present great opportunities, but so can quiet, reflective interludes. It takes practice and a lot of trial and error, but when you get the hang of reading the room, so to speak, it makes these questions of timing and balance that much easier to decipher.
Ultimately, there is no one right way to create and use character backstories, but if you keep at it and seek help from trusted beta readers and editors, the happy medium between too much and not nearly enough isn’t a mythical, unattainable state.
K. Watkins 