When Characters Act Out Of Character

       When a character in a story I'm reading says or does something inconsistent with his or her established beliefs or behavior, I place a bookmark, then watch for the why of that odd statement or action. If it never shows up, I put a big black mark next to the author's name.
       In the course of my own work, when a character speaks or acts inconsistently, I also put in a bookmark, to remind myself I need to sort out the oddity. Sometimes, it turns out the character is trying to fool another character. Sometimes, the character's trying to fool him/herself. Sometimes, especially in early drafts, I think I've heard one character speak, when in fact the words came from someone else. Sometimes, I've misunderstood the character. All these possibilities are fine, so long as the variant information is resolved. If a raging white racial bigot takes a little black boy into a confectionary, buys him an ice-cream cone, then sends him on his way with an avuncular pat on the back, it's my job to dig out the reason, and make sure the reader is similarly enlightened before The End.
      This necessity also translates out to real-life situations. Taking into account that people do not act out of character without reason may prevent painful misunderstandings.  
       Many years ago, my friend, Graham Webb, a dealer in antique music boxes in England, called to offer me a very impressive Swiss cylinder box. I told Graham I was very much interested, but would need to sell some of my other music boxes to pay for this one. There was a major swap meet coming up in a week: could he put the box on hold for me until that time? He said he'd be happy to.
      The swap meet was successful, and immediately afterward, I called Graham, identified myself, and told him I would in fact like to buy the Nicole Grand Format Overture Box. To my surprise and dismay, he said, in a very cold tone, "I'm sorry. That box is sold."
      Understand a hard-core collector's reaction. I was just this far from giving Graham two earsful of anger and indignation when a voice in my mind reminded me how long I'd known him, and how out of character his comment was. There had to be a reason. So I took a deep breath, and said, "Graham, I thought you told me you'd be holding that box for me."  
      There was a moment of silence, then, "I'm sorry...who did you say this is?"
      "Larry," I said. "Larry Karp."
      That brought a burst of laughter. "Oh, Larry, hello. I thought you said 'Barry Clark.' These transcontinental phone lines, you know. Just terrible."
       From that time forward, I was always 'Barry" to Graham, and we never stopped chuckling over the Great Big Transcontinental Misunderstanding.

Guest Blog by Robin Hathaway

Robin Hathaway, author of the popular Dr.
Andrew Fenimore and Dr. Jo Banks series, has
kindly agreed to appear as a guest on my blog,
and here's her contribution. Robin's writing has
always been music to my ears, and this short piece is no exception.
Check out Robin's web site,
www.robinhathaway.com , and be sure you haven't
missed any of the adventures of
slightly-stodgy-but-lovable Dr. Andrew Fenimore,
and the swingin' motel medico, Dr. Jo Banks.

FIRE, ICE, AND MUSIC

As you all know, Larry is a connoisseur of
old music boxes. We have one in our family—a
Mira, made about 100 years ago in
Switzerland. It's a beautiful wooden box, which
plays a collection of metal disks with such tunes
as "My Old Kentucky Home," "Stars and Stripes
Forever," "Lohengrin's Wedding March," etc. Once,
Larry kindly provided us with a history of the
box. Now, I'd like to tell you a true story about it.

One bitter cold February night my daughter,
Anne, aged twelve, woke us saying she smelled
smoke. (The fire alarm had gone off but we hadn't
heard it.) My husband and I shot out of bed.
Well...he shot, I crawled, because I had a broken
leg at the time. While Bob investigated the
smoke, Anne called 911, and I sat at the top of
the stairs, waiting to be helped down. It turned
out the fire was in the furnace.

The firemen arrived within minutes and
ordered us all out of the house. It was about 10
degrees and sleeting. One of the firemen carried
me out and planted me on our icy front stoop
where, despite the weather, the neighbors were
gathering. He went back in to attend to the fire.
As it turned out, the fire was electrical and was
put out easily with a bag of baking soda.
Everyone trooped back inside, except me, who had
to be carried (I could get used to this!).

While we were thanking the firemen, the chief spied the
music box in the corner of the living room.

"What's that?" he asked. We told him and he
immediately demanded that we play it.

So, there we were, at three o'clock in the
morning, in our night clothes (and in my case, a
6 lb cast) listening with four firemen to "Oh,
Susannah." One fireman began tapping his
foot—another sang along to the music. Pretty soon
we were all jigging and singing to those old
tunes. We must have played a dozen of them. (I
don't know how many houses burned down in the
meantime!) When the party finally broke up the
chief fireman warned us not to turn on the oil heater until it was repaired.

After they left, silence fell on the house,
and suddenly we became acutely conscious of the
cold. We decided we had better all sleep in the
same bed to keep warm. We were just dozing off
under a mountain of blankets and comforters when
Anne sat up in bed, and said, "Isn't there a law against this?"