family

How to Write Compelling Child Characters (even if you lost custody of your kids)

Daniel MadisonLeave a comment

We’ve all been children before, but writing from a child’s perspective as an adult can be a difficult task. So much of our experience has been lost to memory and for some of us, the cultural changes over time have been drastic. Any good writer knows that great writing comes from great research, but going to observe today’s children at sporting events and local playgrounds and when they’re in the streets unaccompanied is looked down upon.

And older children, when you tell them you’re a writer, will just tell you that “books are gay” and when you tell them that you’ve slept with more women than they ever will, and not just because “global warming will certainly reduce their lifespan,” they still just laugh in your face and say who’d want to have sex with a bald bitch, even though I’m not bald at all, not even a little bit.

Of course, if you have children of your own, research might be easier. You can listen to their conversations pretty easily from the comfort of your own bedroom, or better yet, sit down and have a conversation with them. Now, for writers like me that can be tricky. The few of mine that I have visitation rights with are pretty annoying and they usually make up excuses so they don’t need to come to my apartment. But there are still workarounds. Bribing them with toys and with concert tickets, or telling the police I think their mother is addicted to PCP – these have all earned me some quality time with my kids.

You might be thinking, John, is this really worth it? Well, some of the most iconic characters in recent fiction have been children. Twilight was one of my most successful stories, and it follows a street tough 12-year-old chess prodigy who uses the power of autism to fight an army of zombies. The little brother character Dougray ended up being the highlight of Tomorrow’s Sorrows Borrowed. His love for his brother was the beating heart of the story and his catchphrase “I’ll tear open your nutsack” provided the biggest laughs.

Still, there’s a lot of things you need to look out for. We don’t want to write a bunch of Wesley Crushers and Alexanders, and then turn our dads into deadbeats because our audience doesn’t like having that child around. We’ll write kids that we’d actually want to be around on this edition of Stories’ Matter.

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Tip 1 – Make them smart, but not improbably wise

When a writer decides to make a child smart, they often go too far with it, making them a sage wise beyond their years. This is also a problem many writers have with black people, elderly Asian people, and Native American characters.

Kids can be clever, sure. They can solve riddles and they might surprise a character with an interesting fact or observation. I myself learned how to cook at a young age, for example, and I had a great knack for helping my dad identify which guys at the dog track were associated with the mafia.

But it’s really the emotional intelligence that young people lack. For years I thought it was my fault my birth mother left my father and I. Though that was mainly because my father told me that almost every day. It wasn’t until I matured that I realized that she left because if she’d stayed, she’d be an accessory to several crimes.

Tip 2 – They should be as complex as your adult characters

A lot of times we write our child characters as simplistic, as a rigid archetype. The spoiled rich kid. The orphan with a heart of gold. The fucking fatass. And this tendency to flatten our child characters makes sense. We think of kids as being simplistic because they’re usually pretty stupid.

But kids have conflicting needs and often face complex dilemmas, same as any adult. Maybe they’re conflicted about reporting an elder sibling for shoplifting, even though that sibling has helped them deal with an abusive step-parent. I know as a child, I was often conflicted between calling the police on my dad for his various scams and frauds, but also realizing that a foster family wouldn’t let me have ice cream with every meal.

Tip 3 – Watch out for outdated slang

Now, back in my day, a kid like me didn’t have rizz; I was bodacious. People with negative aura were either geeks or dweebs. We didn’t glaze people. We (long series of extended bleeps) in their tight assholes.

If you don’t want your story to be dogwater, you need to auramaxx your fiction with up-to-date slang, no cap. Your reader will think it’s totally sus if modern-day kids in your story use words like “radical” or  “aw shucks” or “blunderbuss.” Stop being an NPC and start literarymogging by rizzing up that research.

Tip 4 – Know Your Age Range

A three-year old shouldn’t be playing Roblox. Your nine-year-old shouldn’t still be playing with Duplo blocks. Six-year-olds don’t usually have homework. And while some thirteen year olds get to fingerbang their girlfriend on her trampoline, it’s usually only the really cool ones.

Now, this might be a little confusing depending on how you were raised. I assumed that it was normal for nine-year-olds to earn some extra cash for their families by rifling through the coat pockets of strangers who came over to your house and went directly to your aunt’s bedroom for fifteen minutes at a time. But not only do most nine-year-olds not do that, most children of any kind don’t.

Blood Shot: Chapter 4 (Traveling)

Daniel MadisonLeave a comment

My flight was uneventful. The twenty-two hours flew by in no time.
I slept well, enjoyed a few drinks and caught up on my reading. I
never really understood people’s problems with flying. Perhaps it was
because commercially I always flew ABL Air, an obscure airline
known for its passenger restrictions preventing the obese, infants,
Muslims and women from booking flights.


The in-flight entertainment was strippers and prostitutes, but I
put on my Sony noise-cancellation headphones and took a nap. I had
the feeling I’d get my fill with Fran soon enough.
Thoughts of past loves sprung forth as I drifted in and out of
sleep. I had loved three women in my life.


The first was a childhood romance, my next door neighbor Sally
Ription. We used to pick strawberries in her parent’s garden and
push each other on the tire swing in the local playground. We’d
spend cool summer nights catching fireflies in her front yard. We
were seventeen.


She was the first girl to take my virginity. Unfortunately, a few
months later while looking into her bedroom window from mine, I
saw her cheating on me with a boy who looked suspiciously like her
older brother. The next day it was a man who looked like our
postman. Another day, a guy with the same hairline as our high
school principal. After a week of this, I decided to end it.

My second love was Dakota Jean, the mother of my two
children. We had met during the early part of my NBA career. My
agent introduced her as a “woman who can really flush the stress of
this lifestyle right out of you.” We hit it off immediately. It was
always a roller coaster ride with her, peaks of ecstasy and nadirs of
despair. Our kids helped settle things down for a while, but
eventually our lifestyles became too incompatible. She seemed upset
every moment we spent together, perhaps because, for some reason,
she only had time off work when she was menstruating.
The third, well, was Jennifer. Was it over now? Was this flight
the final nail in the coffin? Maybe. But maybe things weren’t that
simple.


“Would you care for a beverage?” the flight attendant asked me.
Then, raising her eyebrows, “Or anything else?”
I’m not much of a drinker, but I asked for a shot of absinthe.
Carter’s drink. I needed something to numb me a little. I downed the
shot and shut my eyes again.


So, you may be asking, what of Fran Blauchamp? The woman I
was on my way to see.
With Fran, it was pure, unadulterated lust. There were no
romantic, candlelit dinners, though we did discover a few other uses
for candles during our time together, if you catch my drift. I, for
example, learned that if your aglet – the plastic tip of a shoelace – falls
off, you can replace it by dipping the end of the lace in hot candle
wax.


Fran was too much of an enigma to fall for. She built up this
hard, steely exterior, which probably explains why she was such a
successful TV chef. When we met, her career was just taking off at
the Food Network. But she mysteriously quit six years ago, and has
been something of a recluse ever since.
Now she was back.


The plane landed, gingerly navigating the heavy fog covering the
runway. The exhilaration of entering a foreign land began to set in. I
snatched my carry-on and rushed to beat the crowd. The flight
attendants made their way through the rows, wiping down all the
seats and windows.


I got in line and waited to pass immigration inspection. I have to
admit the whole process has always confused me. Words like
“naturalization” and “visa” and “queue” have never made any sense.
And isn’t “foreign-born” an oxymoron? I looked at the nearest visa

agent and tried to put on the charm, smiling and doing my best to
remember the little Chinese I’d learned:
The woman spit on the floor and wiped it with her feet.
I was afraid I’d offended her. But before I had time to reply,
another man walked up to me, official-looking but not uniformed
like the rest of the immigration staff.


“Please come with me,” the man said in excellent English.
I followed him into a small, windowless room. The room was
host to two junior visa officers and a small inspection table. It
seemed completely normal, aside from the chair I was asked to sit in
that had the seat bottom cut out of it. The men asked me to open my
carry-on. They rummaged through the contents: my clothes, a
laptop, Where Da Ass At 3 (Carter’s gift), the bird feathers I’d bought
for Fran, the dozens of packets of fruit and vegetable seeds. They
also made me empty my pockets.


“Close your eyes, please,” the head officer said.
“Why?”
“It would be best for everyone if you just follow along. Close
your eyes. And no peeking.”
I thought the whole thing was silly, but was in no mood to start
trouble. I closed my eyes. I then heard a sharp, metallic clicking.
“Okay, you can open your eyes now.”
“Can I go?”
“A few more questions, if you please.”
“Okay.”
“What brings you to Wuhan, Mr. Anderken?”
“What brings anyone?”
“Yes, the residents of Fuck Town take pride in their reputation.
Where do you plan on staying?” I showed him the address of the
hotel Fran had given me. He glanced over it quickly, not seeming to
pay it much mind.
“Are you staying alone?”


I explained about my situation with Fran. The two junior
officers paged through an unfinished manuscript of a novel I had
written. They raised their eyebrows and looked at me.
“What, athletes can’t be literary?” I said. It always annoyed me
when people looked at my 6’10” frame and sculpted thighs and
assumed intellectual endeavors were beyond my grasp. I had a
communications major from Ohio State, damnit!


“You’re that Kable Anderken?” the head officer said.
“And your name?” I asked.
“You can call me Michael Scofield.” The officers all shared a
laugh. They looked at me expectantly.
“I don’t… is that something I should know?”
“Prison Break. The main character. The most famous and best
American television show ever made.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well, in any case, everything seems to be in order. We wish you
a pleasant stay.” Michael said something to the junior officers in
Chinese and walked out.


“Can we see your passport, Mr. Anderken?” one of the officers
said. I handed it over. I fidgeted in my bottomless chair, ready to
leave – it would’ve been worse had I not been used to sitting in a
similar one at Carter’s penthouse.


“Where’s your visa?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m sorry. I came here in a hurry. I didn’t have time
to get a visa. I’ll just do one here.”
“You can’t just do that. China doesn’t have on-arrival visa
processing.”


“Fine, then. I’ll just pay the fine or whatever. How much is it?”
The two visa agents looked at each other.
“Ten thousand US dollars?”
“Yeah, sure.” I grabbed the twenty grand I always keep in my
backpack and handed them ten each. And I was on my way.

How To Write About Family (and exploit personal trauma for quick cash)

Daniel MadisonLeave a comment

From Johnathan Franzen to Gabriel Garcia Marquez to Dominic Toretto, many of the great writers and poets throughout history understand the power and importance of family.

Families are the most essential social unit for human beings. They mold us, shaping our interests, values and worldview. And even though most of us spend our life trying to replace them with fantasy football leagues, work units and creative writing workshops where no one is allowed to question the patriarch, there’s really no substitute for family.

Families are a great tool, then, for a fiction writer. Writing about family is one of the easiest ways to generate conflict that’s relatable and grounded. And for a writer who is suffering from writer’s block, your own family can be a great source of inspiration. In my own career I’ve written characters, scenes and whole books about the family I grew up in and the several I’ve created and since moved on from. We’ll explore everything from abandoned children to being partly raised by a whore on this edition of Stories’ Matter.

From the Bennetts to the Boltons to the Berenstains, literature is chock full of compelling families who love each other but also harbor terrible secrets.  When you write about family, you should first ask yourself three questions:

Question 1: What is the composition?

Just like every good woman asks herself once she finishes secretary school, you need to decide if you want a small or a large family. Is this a nuclear family of four from Indianapolis? Or a four-generation Catholic household with 12 children, somehow all of whom survived measles and SIDS?

Question 2: What are the relationship dynamics?

You need to ask yourself who in the family is most closely connected to whom. Is your teen protagonist more closely connected to a doting grandmother than her parents? Do two of the siblings share a special bond?

Question 3: What is the source of conflict?

Think about how the decisions each character makes affect the rest of the family. Addiction, jealousy and infidelity are reliable go-to’s, but try to be unique. Maybe the children are bitter at being physically deformed because their dad was an aging rock star who used his damaged semen to conceive them at age 77.

Now here are a few tips to improve your family stories.

Step 1: Learn as much about your own family as you can

If you’re anything like me, work and other things has made you not know your family as well as you should. Take time to sit down and talk with siblings, parents, grandparents, aunt, uncles, cousins and even your own children if you can bear it.

Ask about your family history. Ask about stories of migrations, divorces, weddings, graduations, weird surgeries. Ask their names if you have to.

If these types of conversations take you to uncomfortable places, don’t worry. You can try wiretapping or spying on your own family to gain information.

You might learn some interesting information. To give a quick example, for years I thought the woman who lived in our house from the ages of four to nine was my dad’s sister, but after a little digging, I discovered she was just a common prostitute.

And sometimes, you’ll have side benefits unrelated to your writing. When I studied my family tree, for example, I learned that I should get screened for pancreatic cancer as that killed a lot of women in my family, and for syphilis, which killed a lot of the men.

Step 2: The Past is the Present is the Future

A great man once said, “Our life story doesn’t begin and end with our birth and death. It overlaps with that of our ancestors and descendants.” That man was actually my father, and it’s a shame lots of people ignored his wisdom just because he died in a Fourth of July fireworks accident.

Masterpieces like East of Eden and A Thousand Splendid Suns (and possibly Absolom Absolom, though I’m not entirely sure on that one) show us how trauma can almost be genetic. You could, for example, trace the actions of an abusive father down the line and see how has caused his grandchildren to be socially isolated.

In my sci-fi thriller, There’s No Place Reich Home, my protagonist goes back in time to kill Hitler, only to erase himself from existence and discover that he was one of Hitler’s descendants.

Step 3: Go the non-traditional route

Not all families have to start with the five-beers-deep patriarch nutting inside the matriarch. As my own publishing company has taught me, if you try hard enough, you can make any group of people into a family.

You could always try exploring the dynamics of queer families, though I’d hurry up on that, because Project 2025 will probably get all those books removed from libraries and bookstores.

But go beyond parent-child families. As a lot of us get older, we drift away from our traditional families, either due to things like death caused by nephrosis or a very busy writing career and YouTube channel. But as we do, we often look for replacements to help us overcome our crippling loneliness.

Your family could be anything: an organized crime syndicate, a subreddit, a group of eight male flat mates who are also male strippers. As long as you follow all of my other advice, everything will be fine.