Credable - believable

Great authors make characters with believable personalities they show personalities through this: Dialogue, Actions, Reactions.

I can see this in Bean`s character. He is a trouble maker, rud and he is selfish.

WALT understands how writers create characters that are believable ( we sense they have a

personality type and can understand their strengths and weaknesses.

Writers deliberately use

•  Dialogue (direct speech) 

• Actions

• Reactions

• Physical descriptions

• Thoughts

To show not tell what their characters are like. 

Let's find examples of Jerri doing this for the character, Beans. 

Beans were scooping chocolate icing from the birthday cake onto his finger. With the drama of a sword-swallower, he threw back his head and sank his finger into his mouth. When it came out, it was clean. Mutto cackled and did likewise. Henry stared at Palmer’s mother, who was glaring at Beans.

Palmer’s mother did not like Beans. She wasn’t crazy about Mutto or Henry either,

but she especially didnot like Beans. “He’s a sneak and a troublemaker,” she had

said. He’s got a mean streak.” And she was right.

But he was also the leader of all the kids on the street, at least the ones under ten

years old. It had always been that way. Beans were boss as surely and naturally as any king who ever

sat upon a throne.

“But he’s the boss,” Palmer would explain to his mother.

“Boss, my foot,” she would snort and turn away.

Some things mothers just did not understand.

“Open the presents!” Beans barked. He rapped on the table with a spoon. Mutto rapped a spoon also.

Palmer dumped the gifts onto the table and for the first time took a good look at them.

They were wrapped in newspaper, sloppily fitted, and closed with black tape. No ribbons, no bows,

no bright paper.

He tore open the first. It was an apple core, brown and rotting. “It’s from me!” piped Mutto.

“You like it?” Mutto howled.

Palmer giggled. “It’s great. Thanks.” What a guy, that Mutto.

The other gifts were a crusty, holey, once-white sock from Henry, and from Beans a thumb-size,

brown something that Palmer finally recognized as an ancient cigar butt.

Silverware hopped as Beans and Mutto pounded the dining room table, laughing.

Palmer’s mother, still glaring, came with more gifts. These had ribbons and bows and beautiful paper.

“Gee,” she said, “after those nice presents you just got, I feel really cheesy giving you this junk.”

Palmer opened them: a soccer ball, a book, a pair of sneakers, a Monopoly game.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said. It was pointless to say more, pointless to say,

I like their presents just as much as yours because they did it themselves.

That means something. It means: We came into your house.

We gave you a cigar butt. You are one of us.

 

Palmer’s mother lit the candles, nine of them on the chocolate cake with chocolate icing.

She started off the “Happy Birthday” song but soon was drowned out by the boys,

who screamed it rather than sang. When they came to the line “Happy birthday, dear”

—they glanced at each other and belted out—“Sno-ots! Happy birthday to you!”

 

“Make a wish,” said his mother, “and blow out the candles.”

He stared into the ring of candles. Beans leaned across the table, took a deep breath,

and blasted away. The flames vanished. Wick tips glowed orange for a second, then turned black.