How Jason Reynolds Actually Writes Characters That Stick
I've been teaching high school English for twelve years now. Every semester I try to get kids to pick up contemporary verse novels, and most of them bail within the first few pages. Then they read something by Jason Reynolds and suddenly everyone in the back row is quietly finishing books they swore they'd never read. The reason isn't magic. It's specific craft choices that most YA writers overlook. Reynolds doesn't build characters the way most novelists do. He starts with rhythm and voice, then builds personality outward from there. When I first tried to emulate his approach in my own writing exercises, I produced something that felt hollow. The dialogue sounded right on the surface but the characters had no weight behind them. The problem was I was copying his sentence structures without understanding why they worked. The real trick is that Reynolds treats dialogue as speech, not as exposition dressed up as speech. He writes the way kids actually talk to each other, which means interruptions, half-finished thoughts, and conversations that go nowhere before arriving somewhere important. I spent months trying to replicate this and kept falling into the trap of making every line carry meaning. Real teenagers don't do that. They talk around things. Reynolds lets them.
Here's what most people miss about his character work: he gives his protagonists concrete physical tics and routines that anchor abstract emotions. Ghost from the track series doesn't just feel grief. He runs. He runs until his lungs burn and his legs give out. Track becomes the physical manifestation of his internal state. When I showed this to my students, the ones who were genuinely engaged started keeping their own character journals noting physical behaviors tied to emotional states. It shifted how they approached their own writing immediately. Another technique Reynolds uses repeatedly is the unreliable narrator who doesn't know they're unreliable. Narrator in Ghost keeps telling you he's fast and talented and this is all going to be fine, but the text underneath shows he's terrified of failure and his father is emotionally absent. The gap between what the character says and what the reader understands is where the emotional work happens. Students often want authors to make everything explicit. Reynolds makes the opposite choice and it creates readers who are actively participating in the story instead of passively consuming it. The challenge with this approach is that it requires trust from the reader. If your audience isn't used to reading between the lines, Reynolds' style can feel frustrating or vague. I've had parents email me asking why their kid couldn't just say what they meant. The answer is that Reynolds isn't writing for people who want clarity above all else. He's writing for people who recognize that life rarely works that way and that literature should reflect that messiness.
When you're teaching or analyzing Reynolds' character work, don't focus on plot alone. Track the sentence-level choices. Count how many times a character repeats a phrase. Note where Reynolds cuts a paragraph short mid-thought. These are deliberate decisions that create the signature cadence his characters carry throughout entire books. Once you start seeing it, you can't unsee it, and your students will likely start noticing it too if you point it out the right way. One practical exercise I use: have students pick a strong emotion and write three paragraphs about it without naming the emotion or using any emotion words. Reynolds does this constantly. His characters describe their grief as cold or loud or heavy without ever saying they're sad. It forces readers to feel the character's experience rather than being told about it. My experience shows this exercise raises engagement significantly, but it only works if students understand that discomfort in the writing process usually means they're on the right track.
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