Learn from a Holocaust survivor: Describe your memoir’s characters by going beyond physical details

Reading time: 2 minutes, 12 seconds

Last Thursday we looked at developing your memoir’s key characters by writing about their physical attributes. One way is to include sensory details: Describe what a character sounded like, smelled like, looked, felt, and maybe even tasted like. (If you missed last Thursday’s post, click on Are your memoir’s main characters real enough?)

But there’s more! You need to let readers know enough to get acquainted with a character, enough to grasp what’s most important about him or her, enough to know what’s inside.

So, today we’ll look at developing a multi-dimensional person by going beyond a physical, sensory description:

• What was endearing about her?
• What was annoying about him?
• What was comical, scary, heroic?
• What did she obsess over? And was that a good or bad obsession?
• What did other people say or think about that person?
• What moral character did he display?
• What courage, what integrity did she demonstrate?
• What passion, what commitment did he possess?

Peel back layers:

Readers need to know what was happening

beyond the sensory details.

What was happening

between the lines in your character’s life?

What was going on inside?

What were that person’s thoughts?

What do readers need to know about the character’s history,

beliefs, goals, faith, fears, experiences, successes,

quirks, failures, dreams, or values?

And don’t forget about heartaches.

Here’s an example—gripping, unforgettable—from Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel’s memoir, Night. Note how he includes sensory details, but so much more:

Heavy snow continued to fall over the corpses. 

The door of the shed opened. An old man appeared. His moustache was covered with ice, his lips were blue. It was Rabbi Eliahu who had headed a small congregation in Poland. A very kind man, beloved by everyone in the camp, even by the Kapos and the Blockälteste. Despite the ordeals and deprivations, his face continued to radiate his innocence. He was the only rabbi whom nobody ever failed to address as “Rabbi” in Buna. He looked like one of those prophets of old, always in the midst of his people when they needed to be consoled. And, strangely, his words never provoked anyone. They did bring peace. 

As he entered the shed, his eyes, brighter than ever, seemed to be searching for someone.

“Perhaps someone here has seen my son?”

He had lost his son in the commotion. He had searched for him among the dying, to no avail. Then he had dug through the snow to find his body. In vain.

For three years, they had stayed close to one another. Side by side, they had endured the suffering, the blows; they had waited for their ration of bread and they had prayed. Three years, from camp to camp, from selection to selection. And now—when the end seemed near—fate had separated them.

When he came near me, Rabbi Eliahu whispered, “It happened on the road. We lost sight of one another during the journey. I fell behind a little at the rear of the column. I didn’t have the strength to run anymore. And my son didn’t notice. That’s all I know. Where has he disappeared? Where can I find him? Perhaps you’ve seen him somewhere?”

“No, Rabbi Eliahu, I haven’t seen him.” (from Elie Wiesel’s memoir, Night) (Read our recent post about Elie Wiesel by clicking on There must never be a time when we fail to protest.)

I don’t know about you, but that description sent the Rabbi straight to my heart. I’ll never forget that passage.

Look over your manuscript and examine

the way you’ve developed your main characters.

What can you do to make them multi-dimensional?

Find words to make them into real beings.