Character and Place Names and Why They Matter

 

“I don’t like the city,” the woman said, taking a long drag from a cigarette before chasing it with a sip of liquor.

The nameless man looked from the drink remnants in his near-empty cup and out of the dingy window, over the anonymous skyline. He thought, if he tried, he could see a metaphorical river and then an ambiguous valley beyond. Finally, he replied, “Me neither but I can’t find any other place to set this clichéd exchange.”

No doubt you’ve read pieces like this, if not in crit groups, then from the dreaded experimental novel that all the cool kids insist you MUST read. Granted, the bit above is constructed as an argument to the absurd. The point is names—people, places, products—have power.

Granted, brilliance has sprung from the use of nameless entities. Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man is a masterpiece exploring the struggle faced by men of color, powerless and ultimately nameless, in white America. Margaret Atwood’s Surfacing extends the struggle of all women immersed by men. There is no greater use of stripped identity than Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s nameless protag in The Yellow Wallpaper.

So, no, geniuses don’t need names. Nor do they require plots or even structures. Punctuation may even be more hindrance than help. Of course Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Valeria Luiselli, and (the late) William S. Burroughs may have my share of all the genius, along with what I am sure is the headaches that go with it. 

Then there are the geniuses that names wouldn’t help anyway. Graham Greene’s use of a nameless protagonist in The Power reads distinctly like a device, a blunt device at that. We don’t need the protag’s name in Philip Roth’s Everyman. In this dirge for malcontented man-children everywhere, the character is what he does. Sadly what he does isn’t especially compelling.  

How does this work? 

Well, you can say “she played like a rock god,” or give us a handle on the visual. “Diedra slung undulating cords from a white Stratocaster, strung upside-down for another left-handed prodigy. 

Or, if he’s right-handed, “Tiny prowled the stage and ran a slow-grind down the ‘59 Gibson’s fretboard just like Bonnie Raitt.”  

Those names are evocative for Rock n’ Roll fans while still imparting tangible mystery to those not familiar with artist—or guitar. 

But, of course, the writer has to be familiar with the names he checks for context-sake. There’s a HUGE difference between “Casey swung the bat like a young Reggie Jackson,” and “Casey pummeled the ball like Barry Bonds at the height of his power.” 

Reggie evokes an idea of uncommon achievement while Barry evokes an asterisk beside his stats.

So, sure, names—people, places, things—do a lot of heavy-lifting in your story. Names pack drama and deepen out a person, place, or thing. It can be subtle, or not. Arthur Miller showed you Willy Loman’s status in by his name.

Places are slightly different. You don’t have to name a place with an expressed purpose or agenda. Sometimes you shoot a man in Reno just because the town reads “cool.” Sure, you can be edgy and mysterious with your place setting but you can be mundane, too. Let’s say, you’re a dishwasher and some-times line cook on the night shift at a north Texas diner, anyplace else is magical—Reseda or Calumet or Baltimore.

It's understood

By every single person

Who'd be elsewhere if they could…

Neal Peart, Middletown Dreams

When I was washing dishes—I mean when that guy was washing dishes in north-Texas, he dreamed of a life in Chicago or San Francisco or Boston even though he had never been to those places outside the covers of a book. That is the magic in place names. NEVER miss the chance to transport someone somewhere else by simply naming a place.

Again, know your reference. Places can be just as subtle or loaded as people. In the 1980s Detroit was a punchline, (mostly among racist white people). In the 90s it was the entire state of New Jersey. Any city in the south can be evocative. But Walter Mosley shines otherworldly light on Galveston and Port Arthur.  

Then there is the risk of overdoing it. Horatio Hornblower was written in 1937 by a Brit. But even among the Brits, you’re more likely to see a “proper christian name” harnessed to an “exoitc” handle i.e. John Hornblower or Paul Hornblower or George Hornblower but definitely not Ringo Hornblower. You might also see an evocative first name hitched to a common surman. Think: Horatio Davis, Smith, or Jones. 

Products do a lot of heavy lifting for you when used to proper effect. 

If the woman above is smoking a Marlboro and sipping Jack Daniels, (as opposed to puffing at a Virginia Slim and sipping merlot) you know she’s nothing to play with. 

Of course it’s easy to overplay the gag. “Remy buffed his Bruno Magli shoes to a high shine, before pairing them with a Hugo Boss suit, a Portofino shirt, and a Versace tie. Of course he would take the Maserati to meet Cher at Spagos…”

Remy might be a pediatric oncologist and treat orphans for free but after reading that bit I’m rooting for this cat to catch a bullet—and I just wrote him. The lesson, I hope, is a little name-checking goes a long way. 

Again, from the top.

“I don’t like Miami,” Sylvie said, taking a long drag from a long cigarette before chasing it with a sip of Courvoisier.

Benjamin looked from the remnant coffee in his near-empty cup and out of the dingy window, over the skyline of Brickell. He thought, if he tried, he could see boat lights on the water and Virginia Key beyond. Finally, he replied, “Me neither but I can’t find any other place to meet you where we won’t draw attention.” 

The image above, "Call Me by Your Name," movie poster belongs to Sony Pictures and is used here for illustrative/educations purposes as covered by the Fair Use Doctrine.