Telepathy, and an Excerpt

When I was young, nine or ten, I used to try mind reading. I didn't consider it a mystical exercise; I was just bored. Or maybe my imagination experienced sudden growth spurts and that was the result (also at that age, I had really mind-bending thoughts about the flow of time, which could be defined as trying to read my own mind in the future, but nevermind that for now).

What I did was this: when playing with a friend–or more often, observed two friends playing–I tried to imagine what one of them was thinking and feeling. I'd imagine what it was like to be them, and understand their perspective of things. I got pretty good at it—and also a bit creeped out when, naturally, I would imagine how they perceived me. Now of course, I didn't really know what my friend thought, but my subconscious mind believed I did.

Storytellers do this all the time with characters. It's the theory of mind, or cognitive theory: explaining people's behaviors based on their mental states. The concept goes deeper than viewpoints; First, Second, Third Person; just as fiction is more than mere entertainment. Understanding the characters in a story–not just how they see but why, and in their unique voice–is one of the things that makes the story itself enjoyable.

Exploring characters is one of my favorite things about writing. I keep journals for many of them, whether they're main characters or not, so I can watch their thought processes develop and learn about them.

The prologue for Fear the Hunted came from a journal entry by the main character talking about one of her childhood memories (which, I believe, puts her into two mental states: present Troy analyzing young Troy).

The excerpt below came from a journal entry about one of the antagonists in Fear the Hunted. I'll let you speculate on the mental states present—or just enjoy reading it:

The woman herself approached first, wetting her bare feet and the hem of her skirt in the foam-streaked surf. Her oarsmen came behind, observant guards. Deep pits of black their eyes were, in skins drenched with shadow. Straight to me the woman strode, sand clinging to her wet toes. Two silver strips like open petals crested above her bare shoulder, nestling against the tang of a bluish blade. A sword. The woman carried it strapped to her back as if it were a child, some precious cargo. A leather satchel hung over one shoulder, crossing the baldric strap over her chest.

"I have a message for your king," was her greeting and introduction.

"I am the High King's brother and ambassador," I answered, inclining my head with respect she didn't deserve. "Well met, Lady. I will take your message to him."

She ground into me with a look, her chin tipped up in the way of rulers. "Well met. But the message is for your king, not you."

I made her wait with the oarsmen and her boat while I rode to the Hall to fetch the High King, L'estim Glor. Though I had news of my own, I was obliged to withhold it until this woman could be dealt with and sent back from whence she came.

"I am Natug, queen of the Seawolves," she said when I returned with him.

I was still in my traveling clothes, coated in travel dust. Not that it mattered to her, or apparently even my brother. Facing each other, the two royal persons tried to overcome the other's presence with their postures and all-knowing stares.