John Lake had never been a character before. He had always been a regular guy, a 21-year-old from South Florida who was living with his girlfriend in Valdosta, Ga., and working in a hobby shop. As a side job, he worked with his dad, uncle and several friends putting together fireworks shows. They shot shows all over the state of Florida.

I met Lake when he was working on a Fourth of July show in Gulfport, Fla. I was writing a story about how the fireworks crew put together the show. When a thunderstorm interrupted the preparations on the afternoon of the Fourth, I was with Lake and three others, waiting out the storm around a bar's pool table. One guy offered to buy me a soda.

No, thanks. Not unless I paid for it.

"Wait, so you can't take anything from a story?" Lake said. Then, as if it had just occurred to him what my presence really meant, he added, "Wow. I've never been a story before."

Well, he was about to become one. Over the next two days, Lake would be transformed from a person into a character in the tale of his own life as it occurred on July 3 and 4, 2006. He would be scripted and edited. His words would be framed by mine. His personality and appearance would be presented by the adjectives I selected and the details I chose -- and those I left out. I wouldn't make Lake, but I would make the person strangers met when they Googled his name.

That kind of responsibility worries me.

I understand that it's necessary for journalists to use people as characters. We use them to move a story forward, to set a theme, to exemplify an abstract concept. Those devices make it possible for a reader to decipher the meaning of a profile or a narrative. They make it make sense to write about somebody else, because if it's done right, it gives one person -- the source -- the potential to aid another -- the reader -- through his or her story. It lets a person attain wisdom from an experience outside of themselves.

However, I believe that a person's life has an inherent sanctity. It is the unique convergence of a unique set of factors. Every decision, thought, feeling, action, understanding, inclination, sensation -- those are the things that make a life. Lake's life is infinitely more complex than I could ever have presented in a character study, much less in a story that mainly focused on something else -- the process of assembling a fireworks show. The two days I spent with him are only two in the more than 7,665 that he has lived. It's nothing. And yet, it was enough for me to put him on paper as my central character.

I was once a character in a story written by someone else. My mother submitted a blurb to the local weekly, the Burbank Leader, to announce to my suburban hometown that I'd won a second-place award for a column published in my college newspaper. For years, my mother had seen the neighbors' kids graduate, get awards, get married, etc., in the "People" section, and now it was her turn to brag. I wasn't thrilled about the blurb. I tried to stop her, but I couldn't. I thought it was self-indulgent, and a little embarrassing. I was the star, but it wasn't about me at all. I'm sure many people who appear as characters in the newspaper feel the same way.

Even as I write this, I know that my mother will resent having become a character in this story. She will forever grumble about the time her ungrateful daughter slandered her on the Poynter Web site. For her, the blurb was about pride in her child. My mother will feel that this depiction is incomplete and one-sided. She'll be right. It is.

What gives me the right to make a person a character? When other peoples' lives exist on the edges of what I understand, is it right for me to tell their stories at all? Will I understand if I work hard and do my job the way I've been taught? Will I know the difference between what I know, and what I think I know? What if I screw it up?

My insecurity here is founded in a deep belief that any story a source tells me is that person's story, not mine. I'm just the messenger. To garble the message would be to render myself useless at best, and harmful at worst. I'd rather not be useless, and I can't accept causing harm.

However, just because a story doesn't belong to me doesn't mean it's not my story to tell. I think I am in a special position to tell stories, thanks to my training and my access to people who will publish what I write. That doesn't turn me into a confidence man who manipulates the secrets out of people, then puts them on display for personal profit. It does make me into someone who needs to respect the lives of my characters. The stakes are high. If you do it right, you can make one person's experience a source of wisdom for many. If you do it wrong, you'll injure someone you have no right hurting. The best thing, I think, is to try as hard as possible to understand your characters, do whatever it takes to do justice to their stories, and be mindful that their lives will continue long after the stories end.

With that in mind, I paused after writing the following passage:

"This was the third year this crew from Pyrotecnico, an Atlanta display fireworks company, has put together Gulfport's show. John Lake has worked it every time. And this year, he's the wizard."

I smiled. I knew, from my two days with them, that Lake's friends would tease him for appearing in print as a "wizard." It was an image that worked in the smoke and ash of the fireworks business I was describing, but I still knew he'd hear a few wisecracks.

Another thing I knew from the two days I'd spent with him was that Lake could hold his own in the crew's constant sparring.

He'll be all right, I thought, and filed the story with a quiet conscience.

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