A character may believe himself an individualist when he is actually anything but. For example, if a character thinks that wearing a black motorcycle jacket, a ponytail, and an earring makes him a nonconformist, he is doubtlessly laboring under a delusion, for there are hundreds of thousands who are dressed just the same way. The true individualist will not speak of joining something, but instead will be the first to form a radical group and will show no hesitation about upsetting tradition. The character who informs us, in his unique self-esteeming way, that he has always steered his own ship, that he is the last of a dying breed, and that he does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, may be bragging too much to be a real individualist. The individualist will be that person who refuses to imitate; who will not conform to standards he views as contrary to his nature; and who has striven to do those things which interest him despite the possible absence of crowd approval.
The character who is or has been married could say something quite meaningful that would help sharpen the image we have of him, especially when the marriage has a great bearing on the story. From the character whose marriage has ended in divorce: "I tried to get more out of the marriage than there was in it" (paraphrased from
The Roycraft Dictionary and Book of Epigrams,
1923). Among some of the things that a character may touch upon during a self-assessment of his role as a spouse might be these: the struggle to understand the other; the clarification of boundaries; the assignment of responsibilities; in-laws; the loss of independence; the alignment of forces; the wrestling with compromise; and the discovery that love has phases. Or: "I married beneath me" (Nancy Astor,
Womanlist, 1981).
The character may tell us how decent he feels his conduct has been and to what lengths he has been driven by conscience—for example, to what degree he has stood on principle and how virtuous he believes he is (or isn't). In a
1974 Time
interview, Jeb Stuart Magruder said, "Somewhere between my ambition and my ideals, I lost my ethical compass." Perhaps the fictional character may give us an evaluation of his charitability, loyalty, and honesty,
e.g.,
"Dishonesty and I have always been mortal enemies." If the character's self-assessment indicates a relentless drive toward integrity, will he also be able to show that he has compassion for those who are weaker? Maybe he will tell us that he is beleaguered by some element of guilt; or perhaps he (mistakenly) believes that the respectability he has earned wipes clean a slate upon which many sins have been written. Confusion about morality is always a possibility,
e.g.,
"I've been known to get right and wrong a little mixed up sometimes." So is its total neglect: "l owe the public nothing" Morgan,
The Robber Barons,
1934) and "I've always figured, do unto others before they do unto you."
If at least once in the character's life events converged to create a favorable set of circumstances, can he or can he not claim that he took advantage of the situation? ("I missed the opportunity of a lifetime. Had I invested, I'd be a rich man today.") Or was it a moment of bright-faced luck skipping unexpectedly into the picture? ("I shudder to think what would have happened to me if that Nazi soldier had not pulled me out of that line.") When an opportunity appears, it is always the character's decision whether to seize it; either way, the result can make a big difference in his future. Luck, whether good or bad, can likewise alter the course of one's life, but the character does not seize it; instead, he is seized by it. With opportunity, timing can be crucial; thus, in his self-assessment, it is possible that the character may admit to acting too early or too late. With luck, however, because it strikes so seldom and so randomly, the character is more likely to complain about its absence: "Hell, if I didn't have bad luck, I wouldn't have any luck at all," or was born at the wrong place at the wrong time."
If a character discloses that he has a persevering nature, will his self-assessment also tell us something about his self-direction, self-reliance, or self-denial? ("If I start a job, I put everything on hold until I finish it," or "When I hear the word no, I keep at it until I hear the word yes.") Will he provide a contrasting view by telling us that, in the causes dear to him, he maintains a fierce pace while others fall by the wayside? And what will his perseverance tell us about his tolerance for leisure? The character who sees perseverance as one of his major attributes may, at the same time, express his disdain for defeat, or his faith in himself, or his adoption of discipline, or his stubbornness, or all of these. But the character who lacks perseverance is qualified to make a self-assessment as well: don't hang around where I'm not wanted."
What a character says about what he owns could prove enormously revealing, for it is often the so-called trophies we collect—particularly those which have been gained through our hard work, skills, and stratagems—that allow us to air our pride. The rancher who benefited from a free land grab, who has chased away Indians and bribed government agents, and who may have surpassed the expectations of his father, could sweep his arm in the direction of the horizon and say, in a grand, self-congratulatory way, "It's all mine, as far as the eye can see. Every acre, hole, cow pile, and toad frog." Overall, it usually doesn't matter what a character possesses—property, material goods, money, pets, some sort of keepsake—but rather his positive or negative comment regarding ownership. For example, the character who says, "I've tried keeping up with the Joneses, only to find out that they were trying to keep up with me," may reveal that the race to own was more important than what was actually owned. Statements like "I still have my mother's diary, and I wouldn't take anything for it" reflect sentimentality, while "This table has been in my family for 100 years" resonates with tradition. Mother Mary Madelva, in
My First Seventy Years
(1959), spurned possessions when she wrote, "I like to go to Marshall Fields in Chicago just to see how many things there are in the world that I do not want." A character who has toiled his whole life and wound up with very little to show for it will have an entirely different viewpoint because of the lack of possessions in his life.
Where prejudice is involved, the nature of a self-assessment will depend largely upon whether the character has been on the receiving or delivery end of the prejudice, and whether the prejudice can be classified as positive or negative. Positive prejudice is expressed as favoritism,
e.g.,
"Mama always liked my sister best," and, "I hire women cashiers, because I think they're faster, they don't complain, and they're prettier." Negative prejudice is automatic disapproval toward an individual or group: "No matter what my stepfather did to please me, I made his life miserable," and, "We're all God's children, except for you-know-who." W.C. Fields said, "I am free of all prejudice. I hate everyone equally." When a character's self-assessment includes prejudice as part of its fabric, it is possible that the reader or viewer may discern the absence of reason or compassion, or both. Rare, of course, would be the character who sees his true image and would say, "I have seen the bigot, and he is me."
A character can only speculate about his worth as seen through the eyes of others. If he believes he has a good reputation, he is likely to talk about it openly: "People know they can count on me." But the character who engages in such speculation is certainly a prime target for self-delusion, because there may be at least one other person in the story who, upon hearing that self-assessment, would not provide a supportive vote.
If the character's reputation is not sterling, he might feel he is being judged unfairly and will complain, "People have got the wrong idea about me." Rare would be the character who, during a self-assessment, would admit that the bad reputation which has long dogged him is well deserved. Even rarer would be the character willing to share that information with others in the story.
Has romance, or the lack of it, had a telling effect on the character's life? When the character assesses himself as a lover, will we hear the strains of regret, appreciation, affection, expectation, fond memory, bewilderment—to name just a few of the enormous possibilities? Perhaps the statement about the love or loves a character has experienced will contain irony,
e.g.,
"I never liked the men I loved, and never loved the men I liked" (Fanny Brice,
The Fabulous Fanny,
1953); or possibly give us a glimpse into his self-education,
e.g.,
"I have learned that love is the hunter and cannot be hunted."
What might the character say about himself that would reflect either his long-held need to feel secure or his general disregard for his own well-being? His comment about the dangers of taking risks, the absence or presence of caution in his life, and how he defines his so-called comfort zone could well sharpen his image in the mind of the reader or viewer. For example, if the character opted for a secure job early in his life instead of pursuing something more risky that had the potential of a big pay-off, his self-assessment might be revealed in a statement to his grandson: "Don't make the same mistake that I did. Don't stay on the ground with that humdrum crowd and allow that rollercoaster to leave without you. Jump on it and ride it for all it's worth." It is a statement that rings with regret. But to the housewife whose husband has left her and who's always found it hard to make ends meet, security may be all-important, and she could say, "All my life I've felt that I've been standing on a sandy knoll while the water was washing away the bottom part." Has the character shown he is willing to take risks, or has the thought of possible consequences always pulled him back?
Only the character who has experienced success is qualified to assess what role it has played in his life, even if what he once had is now elusive. A "failure" who still works feverishly to better himself is really in no position to assess his life in terms of achieving success, other than the fact that it has continually bypassed him. An important prelude to this self-assessment is the character's definition of success; without a definition he is incapable of determining whether he has ever enjoyed it. If he thinks in terms of monetary success and he's made a lot of money, he might well see himself as being successful. If he thinks that success is holding a position of influence or fame, and he has in fact been in that position, again he will declare that he has succeeded. But when the character strays from the obvious, moving into areas in which perhaps his achievements are measured, or his spiritual values come into question, or his social contributions are weighed, his self-assessment becomes increasingly harder to gauge. The character who finds himself in this position may be perennially in doubt about his success, because there always seems to be more things to achieve and more contributions to make. The achievements of Mother Theresa, for example, are legendary, but perhaps she never felt that she had succeeded in all she hoped to do.
As for the "successful" character, does he recognize his blunders as well? In retrospect, does he place more value on the climb or the celebration that accompanies success? Is success all that he thought it would be? More? Less? And is he happy that his "success" has made others happy as well? Example: "I've been at this job for 30 years. Daddy's real proud of me."
Except for the egomaniac, those who cast themselves in a superior role will often either give their self-assessment a nice backhanded slant,
e.g.,
capacity to admire others is not my most fully developed trait" (Henry Kissinger,
The White House Years,
1979), or state it with salesmanship and humor,
e.g.,
the greatest!" (Muhammad Ali, before and after his boxing matches), in which case few become offended. But the character who dares admit to feeling superior can be so self-delusional ("My greatest strength is that I have no weaknesses"—John McEnroe,
New York Times,
1979), or so self-admiring I had a little humility, I would be perfect"—Ted Turner,
New York Times,
1977), that another character—or the reader or viewer—may wish for a handy pin with which to poke a few holes in the ego.
In terms of self-assessment, among the things a character is likely to talk about are his work ethics; the quality of that which he produces; his acceptance, or rejection, of either drudgery or repetition; performing under pressure; intrusions; stealing time from his family; a search for dignity; the captivity or freedom of self-employment; maneuvering his way up through the hierarchy; the bureaucracy; the humiliation or education that came with being fired. What kind of job the character has may make no difference whatsoever. The character who states, "I have never been able to say, with any degree of confidence,
Unless the character is presently in his childhood, he will be able to look back and make some sort of appraisal of himself in his early years. The nature of a person's behavior during those formative years will not necessarily be the same social posture that he maintains as an adult; thus, the shy little girl who hardly ever spoke to anyone in the eighth grade may become the movie starlet who shocks everyone with her outrageous actions and interviews. As a character, she might say, I was in school, I mostly stood on the sidelines and watched everyone else have a good time." It's not that the author has his or her creation out of sync; probably the character simply reached a point in her life when she got tired of watching and decided to participate.