Who You Callin' "Secondary"?

     As a schoolboy, Andrew Jackson did a lot of wrestling. One of his early opponents would later remark, "I could throw him...but he would never stay throwed."

     Any writer who has ever wrestled with his characters knows they can be as willful as Old Hickory himself. I used to liken characters in a novel to playing pieces. The writer carefully situates them across the game board of his story to achieve some strategic objective. But that's not quite right, because what you find out is that—unlike pawns and knights, and rooks and bishops—your creations often turn out to have wills of their own.

     This is nowhere more true than with the writer's secondary characters. These are the guys who, in movies, show up in the credits as "man in crowd" or "cab driver." They don't even have names. They are usually created on the spot to carry out some specific task. Perhaps they're given a line or two ("These pretzels are making me thirsty."), but the writer makes it clear to them that they are not to embellish or adlib in any way. "Get in, say your line, and get out," you command them...

     ...only to have them flip you the bird.

     It seems counter-intuitive, but for the writer, it's a magic moment when a character throws off his literary shackles and begins acting on his own. As a writer, your satisfaction is directly proportional to how hard you tried to throw him—and to keep him throwed. That's why the actions of your secondary characters can be so gratifying. You have already given your main characters lots of leeway. "Just do whatever you feel," you tell them over cocktails in the luxury of their air-conditioned trailers. To the bit players, your message is a little more direct: "Just shaddap, you, and do what you're told."

     I'm embarrassed to admit it now, but Gelon, the Syracusan cavalry commander in The War God's Men, started life as one of these insignificant nobodies. "Get the supply convoy safely to the Roman siege lines," I told him. "And no funny business." But when the Roman tribune started yelling at him, and Gelon got down from his horse... Well, you might be surprised to know that I didn't write that. That was all Gelon. Cheeky bastard.

     Likewise, Vonos in The Blood Gate. The last I knew, I was carefully situating the guy behind that wall in the burned out village. He was only supposed to wait for his cue, then stand and utter his lines. But when the time came, he emerged from his hiding with not only a name but an agenda all his own.

     And who knew that "Guardsman #6," the guy Menleco practically strangled to death in Chapter 10, was harboring such resentment that his thirst for revenge would carry him all the way into the 20s. Not I. I just needed a guy for Menleco to terrorize. I didn't know he was going to take it personally. I've been avoiding him ever since.

     The fact of the matter is that all these guys knew I needed them long before I did. Gelon knew I needed a Syracusan leader to flesh out the second half of the book. It seems obvious now. Vonos knew I needed a way to propel the Coronea storyline. And "Guardsman #6"? Well, I think he was just pissed off.

     In the end, I threw 'em, all right. But damned if they would stay throwed.