Characters sketches/Vignettes

[nycwriters]

This is a fairly simple exercise that helps develop character and writing style. In about a page, page and a half, write a character sketch of one fictional character, focusing predominantly on the protagonist.

Here's an example, albeit a poor one, I wrote it up in about 10 minutes, so it's a bit sloppy ... but to give you an idea:

The Last Guy in the Bar

He stumbles in, somewhere around 2. Bleary eyed; he didn't want to go home. Not yet.

Four hundred and fifty dollar pants pooled down around his black polished oxford lace-up shoes. Hard day for him, shirtails hanging out. He decided after work, after the power-lunch, two-scotch, five-client, broker's feeding frenzy of a day he had he'd hit the
local bar. Then another. Then another.

That's why at 2 in the morning he's here. The last guy in the bar.

More or less.

He stumbles back two steps as he crosses the doorway, regaining balance as only a drunk can do; somehow clumsily graceful in spite of his incoherence.

Somewhere along the way he'd lost that tie. Yeah, the one he got for closing the Cooper-Sault account. A bonus; even though he pretended pleased he'd expected cold hard cash. Money talks, bullshit walks. Cheap bastards, some f*ckin' Armani tie instead of the cool two grand he'd expected.

But that's only the tip of the iceberg of his bonuses. Yeah, this guy, the last guy in the bar, is somebody. A man's man. Stubbly faced prima donna who knows the ladies. Or so he thinks.

He spots one, sitting mid-bar. Sipping an iced drink. Alone.

He stops as if regaining thought, puts his hand deep into his left pocket and pulls out a $20, his face surprised that he still had money. He looks up and baby-steps over to mid-bar and sits down two stools away from her; the red head at mid-bar.

"Scotch," he says as if the bartender knows him. This is his first time here. He smiles sideways at her. He expects her to notice.

The red head gets up and leaves. His head pivots, in slow motion like a sports replay, eyes following her walk out of the bar. His face clouds. Furrowed brow, confused as to what to do next.

Then the scotch comes, ice clinking against the glass and swooshing up over the edges as he pulls it gingerly to his lips. As he takes that first sampling sip, he sees the other woman in the bar.

The last guy in the bar, without any finesse, without subtlety, gets up and walks over to the short-haired blonde at the end of the bar, who at first glance, scotch goggles firmly on, he had thought was a man.

"Hi," he says, suddenly shy, without words. The guy who can close a deal in a half hour suddenly struck dumb. Or numb.

He edges his ass onto the barstool beside her. He's so drunk he can't focus on anything else but her. But he doesn't see her fidgeting. He doesn't see her checking her watch. He doesn't see her gaze returns again and again to a place behind him.

Suddenly she smiles. It brightens her face. A big, natural, good-to-see-you smile.

He's in, he thinks, and returns the smile. He moves his right elbow onto the bar, sliding it over so his body is closer to her, his butt is still on the stool. Precariously balanced.

"So," he says, expecting instant conversation.

A man comes up from behind him and kisses the boy-girl at the end of the bar. They get up and leave.

And the last man in the bar stares into his scotch, runs his fingers through his hair until it spikes up unnaturally, and looks up at the television screen.