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Sharath Kumar

In search of story...

29

2

John Rankin

Comprehensive Character Attribute Form

Type of character (protagonist, antagonist, sidekick, etc.): Protagonist

Character’s name: John Rankin

Goal: Just wants to live his life out quietly on his farm

Flaw: trust issues, stubborn and rash

Age: 54

Sex: male

Height: 5'11"

Weight: Athletic build (fought in WW2)

Race: Caucasian

Hair color: Brown

Eyes: Brown

Health issues: Lost left leg (a little below the knee) to a landmine (wears a wooden prosthetic)

Physical abilities: Very tough guy, hard worker and can fight fairly well

Speech (accent): South Western US

Parents: Mother died giving birth to him, father passed away during his time at the war

Friends: Local bartender (haven't decided the name yet) and a prostitute (Lynn Meeks) from a brothel he frequents

Best friend (or person closest to): Lynn Meeks

Least favorite people: He's racist (thanks to his time fighting in the pacific, he hates Asians)

Enemies: The two guys from the oil company, later on in the story, the detective

Religion (and attitudes about religion): Catholic (but not religious)

Favorite sports: Enjoys fishing from time to time

Work experience: Farmer

Hobbies: Shooting, Fishing, Sleeping

Fears: none that are too overt or important

Nervous habits:Smokes a lot

Foibles: Hates flying and throws up almost every single time

How would your character’s friends describe her or him? 
Like he's given up on life and is just waiting for it get over

Is your character shy or bold?
Bold 

Is your character talkative or taciturn?
Taciturn

What most irritates, embarrasses, or bores your character?
He hates it when people talk too much or unnecessarily, likes to be left alone.

How would your character complete the sentence “My life is __________”?
Gone to hell in a handbasket

Dear Steve, 

this is how the story I'm working on starts off, please do give me your opinion:

On the outskirts of the small town of Charlington, was a farm. It was a small one, a cosy kind of place. Even in its smallness, it had everything its owner, William Rankin, would ever need. It gave him enough to live a comfortable, bucolic life and he did just that. A decrepit scarecrow adorned the centre and off to the side, on the very edge was a tiny house, Will’s home. The inside was sparse with just the bare necessities. A shotgun hung loosely on the wall right next to the door and beside it hung stiffly was a rosary, sat gathering dust. Will had just woken up, panting hard, from another nightmare. He sat up and lit a smoke, deeply inhaling every puff. His joints ached from the previous days’ work and there was still much work to be done yet, it was harvest season.

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