I already discussed protagonists and their vital narrative role. Now on to the flip side of that coin: antagonists.
If the protagonist--the main character in pursuit of a goal--is the most important character in a story, the antagonist comes second by a hair's breadth. Conflict drives plot. The antagonist provides that conflict by opposing the protagonist's goals.
Let's examine two common claims about antagonists.
1. Purely evil "mustache twirling" characters are poor antagonists.
The truth of this maxim rests on the kind of story you want to tell. The Wicked Witch of the West would strike a dissonant tone in Heat, but she's right at home in her own fairy tale fable.
The antagonist should fit the genre. A story with a gritty realist tone demands a fleshed-out antagonist. Conversely, fairy stories are cautionary tales at heart. The villain of a morality play can embody one vice or another because he's more of a symbol than a character.
2. Antagonists have to be people.
This misconception is easily disproved by glancing at the canon of literature. A protagonist can find a worthy foil in an inhuman monster, in nature, and even in himself.
The Dark Knight aptly illustrates this point because it includes every kind of conflict to some degree. The Joker isn't really a character. Christopher Nolan has explained his decision against filming the Joker's origin story by saying that he wanted the character to be elemental--a force of nature.
The closest that The Dark Knight comes to having a classic antagonist is Two Face, but only after Harvey Dent loses his own man vs. himself conflict.
To sum up, the antagonist is the character and/or force impeding the protagonist's attainment of the story's main goal. One-dimensional antagonists are okay for morality tales, and they can be impersonal social or natural forces.
Tales striving for greater realism (including sci-fi and fantasy) should have antagonists who are just as fleshed out as the main character is. They should also be people who want something--directly opposed to the protagonist. If you're smart, your antagonist's ends and means will be fully justified; at least to himself.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Endings and Beginnings
Since most stories are told from beginning to end, it seems logical that they should be written that way. This is wrong.
Once again, I invoke the wisdom of Kurt Vonnegut in advising writers against drafting in chronological order. I don't meant that you should write backwards from the ending. What you should do is figure out what the story's climax is: where the conflict between the protagonist's goal and the antagonist's interference comes to a boil. That's the heart of the story.
Many people think that a story's ending is the point when the plot is resolved. This isn't necessarily true. Ending a story is less of a problem than it's often made out to be, and most stories have several possible exit windows. The key is to know when your themes are resolved.
When you've got your protagonist and antagonist, you know what they want, you know the point of greatest conflict between them, and you know the ideas which will inform that conflict, it's time to start writing.
As you know, a beginning is a delicate time. The most helpful piece of advice I've found on starting a story is Chekhov's Razor: "First, throw out the first three pages." Doing so will weed out your initial fumbling attempts to find a narrative thread.
I've found Vonnegut and Chekhov's advice on endings and beginnings indispensable. If anybody else has tips for tackling the bookends of a story, feel free to share.
Once again, I invoke the wisdom of Kurt Vonnegut in advising writers against drafting in chronological order. I don't meant that you should write backwards from the ending. What you should do is figure out what the story's climax is: where the conflict between the protagonist's goal and the antagonist's interference comes to a boil. That's the heart of the story.
Many people think that a story's ending is the point when the plot is resolved. This isn't necessarily true. Ending a story is less of a problem than it's often made out to be, and most stories have several possible exit windows. The key is to know when your themes are resolved.
When you've got your protagonist and antagonist, you know what they want, you know the point of greatest conflict between them, and you know the ideas which will inform that conflict, it's time to start writing.
As you know, a beginning is a delicate time. The most helpful piece of advice I've found on starting a story is Chekhov's Razor: "First, throw out the first three pages." Doing so will weed out your initial fumbling attempts to find a narrative thread.
I've found Vonnegut and Chekhov's advice on endings and beginnings indispensable. If anybody else has tips for tackling the bookends of a story, feel free to share.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Souldancer Excerpt 2
Time for another Souldancer sample. We join Nakvin of Avalon as she contends with a house guest who's rather outstayed his welcome.
“Not Thera,” said the priest, “but the wretched souls despoiled to restore hers.”
“What does he want with them?”
Sulaiman came closer than he ever had to shrugging. “To fulfill some perverse Working,” he guessed. “Or perhaps to keep company with kindred spirits.”
Nakvin fought to keep her face from betraying how close that was to the mark.
“Whatever his reason,” the priest went on, “Shaiel’s gain is our grave loss. You must send me to Mithgar.”
“I must do nothing,” said the queen. “I came to discuss state business; not to aid private vendettas.”
“Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” Sulaiman asked. “Shaiel imperils the cosmos of which your fiefdom is only part.”
Nakvin slammed her fist upon the desk. “Enough!” she said. “Don’t test me, Sulaiman. While you rotted in prison, I was busy learning.”
The priest’s smile was acid. “Kill me then,” he said, “as I know you wish to.”
Sulaiman’s abruptness gave the queen no chance to hide her shock.
“My god has left me,” he continued, “but I need not his gifts to read hearts. You have your sire’s throne. Let’s see you match her malice.”
“Go,” Nakvin sighed. “Find out what’s happening on Mithgar. Stop it if you can.”
Sulaiman brushed past her but stopped in the doorway. “Pray any power you like to send me victory.”
“She never answers,” said the queen.
Sulaiman’s eyes went rigid as iron.
“One whom Hazeroth of Gheninom fears can only be a terror not seen since the
old gods’ day. You heard what game the hunter seeks.”
It was an effort for Nakvin to speak.
“The Souldancer’s host.” “Not Thera,” said the priest, “but the wretched souls despoiled to restore hers.”
“What does he want with them?”
Sulaiman came closer than he ever had to shrugging. “To fulfill some perverse Working,” he guessed. “Or perhaps to keep company with kindred spirits.”
Nakvin fought to keep her face from betraying how close that was to the mark.
“Whatever his reason,” the priest went on, “Shaiel’s gain is our grave loss. You must send me to Mithgar.”
“I must do nothing,” said the queen. “I came to discuss state business; not to aid private vendettas.”
“Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” Sulaiman asked. “Shaiel imperils the cosmos of which your fiefdom is only part.”
Nakvin slammed her fist upon the desk. “Enough!” she said. “Don’t test me, Sulaiman. While you rotted in prison, I was busy learning.”
The priest’s smile was acid. “Kill me then,” he said, “as I know you wish to.”
Sulaiman’s abruptness gave the queen no chance to hide her shock.
“My god has left me,” he continued, “but I need not his gifts to read hearts. You have your sire’s throne. Let’s see you match her malice.”
“Go,” Nakvin sighed. “Find out what’s happening on Mithgar. Stop it if you can.”
Sulaiman brushed past her but stopped in the doorway. “Pray any power you like to send me victory.”
“She never answers,” said the queen.
Friday, March 8, 2013
World Building
All fiction genres share the same building blocks. They must have protagonists, antagonists, a goal, conflict, and themes. Only science fiction and fantasy add a step to these elements: world building.
In my experience, shoddy world building is the second most common cause of poor storytelling right behind underdeveloped characters. Some people harbor a naive view of world crafting in which rewinding time to the bronze age and introducing dragons suffices to ground a fantasy setting.
Much like writing believable characters, solid world building takes finesse. If the structures and rules of your secondary world depart too far from the reader's experience of the primary world, you risk breaking his suspension of disbelief.
On the other hand, an effective fantasy world must be able to foster and maintain escapism. Offering the reader vicarious adventure beyond the confines of reality is the whole point of speculative fiction. So the setting has to include at least one major exotic element: magic, geocentric cosmology, androids, FTL travel, etc.
Creating a sound secondary world is a tightrope act. Lean too far one way, and the audience can't relate. Lean too far the other way, and the setting becomes too dull to hold their attention. The best way to avoid both extremes is to lay a foundation of internal consistency.
Figure out how your secondary world most differs from the primary world. Is your world separated from ours in time? Is it another planet in the same universe? Is it in another cosmos altogether?
The answers will indicate how much your world's rules may differ from those of the primary world. (For example, since my fantasy setting is located in another universe I avoid using words derived from earthly people, places, and events.) Once you've set these standards, don't deviate from them unless the change results from natural story developments. Much like symbolism, world building is most effective when readers don't consciously see it.
That's my approach to world building. What are your picks for best/worst designed sci fi/fantasy worlds?
In my experience, shoddy world building is the second most common cause of poor storytelling right behind underdeveloped characters. Some people harbor a naive view of world crafting in which rewinding time to the bronze age and introducing dragons suffices to ground a fantasy setting.
Much like writing believable characters, solid world building takes finesse. If the structures and rules of your secondary world depart too far from the reader's experience of the primary world, you risk breaking his suspension of disbelief.
On the other hand, an effective fantasy world must be able to foster and maintain escapism. Offering the reader vicarious adventure beyond the confines of reality is the whole point of speculative fiction. So the setting has to include at least one major exotic element: magic, geocentric cosmology, androids, FTL travel, etc.
Creating a sound secondary world is a tightrope act. Lean too far one way, and the audience can't relate. Lean too far the other way, and the setting becomes too dull to hold their attention. The best way to avoid both extremes is to lay a foundation of internal consistency.
Figure out how your secondary world most differs from the primary world. Is your world separated from ours in time? Is it another planet in the same universe? Is it in another cosmos altogether?
The answers will indicate how much your world's rules may differ from those of the primary world. (For example, since my fantasy setting is located in another universe I avoid using words derived from earthly people, places, and events.) Once you've set these standards, don't deviate from them unless the change results from natural story developments. Much like symbolism, world building is most effective when readers don't consciously see it.
That's my approach to world building. What are your picks for best/worst designed sci fi/fantasy worlds?
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Nethereal Progress Report 3/6/2013
Most agents and editors are too busy to send anything but form rejections these days. I've sent out other queries that were answered with rejections, but all of them have either been form letters or polite but vague rejections. None of them gave direct criticism of my work.
I queried literary agent Russell Galen about Nethereal back in November. He was recently kind enough to give me my first piece of personalized feedback. It wasn't even that much: just a single sentence declaring that my book sounded "fine" to him. However, the slot on his dance card reserved for a sci fi-fantasy author is full.
After months of wondering if my story is irredeemable schlock, someone in the industry has confirmed that it has a modicum of literary (or at least commercial) merit. Again, I know full well how busy the agents who didn't give feedback are. No hard feelings.
I continue the agent search armed with Mr. Galen's encouragement.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
The Power of Symbols
Storytellers have always used symbols. Even the most ancient texts contain rich symbolism. So do tales predating the written word by millennia.
At first it seems counterproductive to wrap ideas in layers of metaphor. What's easier: saying, "Being too single-minded can land you in trouble," or writing a 635 page book about a guy chasing a whale?
So why do human beings like our messages delivered via symbols? Whatever the reason, it's ingrained deep in our nature. There's no denying that concepts encoded in symbols enjoy far wider distribution and have much longer shelf lives than dry, straightforward discourse. It's a safe bet that the number of people who could tell you one of Aesop's fables is greater than the number who can recite a given passage from Plato's Republic.
Symbols are powerful tools to convey meaning. Contrary to the example above, they can do so quite efficiently. A yellow sign with two stick figures on it prompts you to drive cautiously better than one saying, "There is a school nearby. Kids will probably be crossing this street at some point, so you should slow down."
Though symbols are effective, they are best used with a light touch. The paradoxical nature of symbols dictates that their effectiveness increases (at least in literature) with their subtlety. A scruffy ranger who wins a kingdom through trials and selflessness paints a better picture of messiahship than a talking lion. Sorry, Jack.
Speaking of which, the Christ figure is probably the most enduring and ubiquitous symbol in all of literature. The same holds for pre and non-Christian societies. Whether a writer thinks that the symbol's content is true or not is irrelevant. There's something fundamental to the human condition that makes most people want it to be.
I've been devoting this space to writing advice lately, but all I can really tell you about using symbols is that 1: you'll do it whether you mean to or not; and 2: resist the urge to explain the symbols you use. As Dean Koontz explains, stained glass windows don't have subtitles.
At first it seems counterproductive to wrap ideas in layers of metaphor. What's easier: saying, "Being too single-minded can land you in trouble," or writing a 635 page book about a guy chasing a whale?
So why do human beings like our messages delivered via symbols? Whatever the reason, it's ingrained deep in our nature. There's no denying that concepts encoded in symbols enjoy far wider distribution and have much longer shelf lives than dry, straightforward discourse. It's a safe bet that the number of people who could tell you one of Aesop's fables is greater than the number who can recite a given passage from Plato's Republic.
Symbols are powerful tools to convey meaning. Contrary to the example above, they can do so quite efficiently. A yellow sign with two stick figures on it prompts you to drive cautiously better than one saying, "There is a school nearby. Kids will probably be crossing this street at some point, so you should slow down."
Though symbols are effective, they are best used with a light touch. The paradoxical nature of symbols dictates that their effectiveness increases (at least in literature) with their subtlety. A scruffy ranger who wins a kingdom through trials and selflessness paints a better picture of messiahship than a talking lion. Sorry, Jack.
Speaking of which, the Christ figure is probably the most enduring and ubiquitous symbol in all of literature. The same holds for pre and non-Christian societies. Whether a writer thinks that the symbol's content is true or not is irrelevant. There's something fundamental to the human condition that makes most people want it to be.
I've been devoting this space to writing advice lately, but all I can really tell you about using symbols is that 1: you'll do it whether you mean to or not; and 2: resist the urge to explain the symbols you use. As Dean Koontz explains, stained glass windows don't have subtitles.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Writing Protagonists
I'd like to share a simple concept. If your protagonist sucks, your story will suck.
The engine that drives every story has three parts: a protagonist, something the protagonist wants, and an antagonist (human, environmental, psychological, etc.) who obstructs the protagonist's attainment of that goal. When you relate what the protagonist does to overcome the obstacles in his way, you are telling a story. Since so much rides on the protagonist, he'd better be interesting.
Here are a few tips for writing protagonists who engage and interest readers.
Goals: as I and writers far better than myself have said before, a protagonist must be properly motivated. There must be some goal that drives him through to the end of the story. Passive characters that events just happen to are dull.
Pseudorealism: note that I didn't say realism. That's because I write genre fiction. Fully realistic characters are preferred for interpretive fiction or nonfiction. For sci-fi and fantasy the idea is to give your characters (especially the protagonist) enough believable personality traits to balance the crazy make-believe elements.
Luke Skywalker is a space shaman prophesied to destroy an intergalactic empire. If someone approached you today and made the same claim, you'd rightly doubt his sanity. However, we suspend our disbelief in Luke's case because we also see that he's a working guy lamenting his frustrated dreams. That brings me to...
Relatability: a protagonist's mindset and motivations should be intelligible for the most part. This doesn't mean that you have to spell everything out. In fact, an touch of mystery is good for sci-fi stories. However, if your main character is inaccessible to common human experience, readers will have trouble vicariously inserting themselves into the tale through him. That in turn leads us to...
Sympathy; not Pity: the key to engaging readers is to ease their acceptance of the protagonist as a vehicle for their own vicarious experience. They must live the story through the main character. There is a spectrum of audience reaction to certain characters that runs from empathy to sympathy to pity.
Empathy means actually feeling what someone else feels. If your characters reach this stage (which I doubt is possible for fictional sub-creations), you've missed your exit and should turn back. If on the other hand the reader feels sorry for the protagonist with an undercurrent of contempt, you've engendered pity; not sympathy.
It's easier to describe what sympathetic characters are not instead of what they are. They don't have to be perfect. Protagonists can even have genuinely rotten flaws such as flagrant bigotry and past murder convictions. As long as the character has at least one redeeming virtue and expresses at least tacit remorse for past wrongdoing, he can earn our sympathy.
These are just a few qualities of effective protagonists. Can anybody think of more?
The engine that drives every story has three parts: a protagonist, something the protagonist wants, and an antagonist (human, environmental, psychological, etc.) who obstructs the protagonist's attainment of that goal. When you relate what the protagonist does to overcome the obstacles in his way, you are telling a story. Since so much rides on the protagonist, he'd better be interesting.
Here are a few tips for writing protagonists who engage and interest readers.
Goals: as I and writers far better than myself have said before, a protagonist must be properly motivated. There must be some goal that drives him through to the end of the story. Passive characters that events just happen to are dull.
Pseudorealism: note that I didn't say realism. That's because I write genre fiction. Fully realistic characters are preferred for interpretive fiction or nonfiction. For sci-fi and fantasy the idea is to give your characters (especially the protagonist) enough believable personality traits to balance the crazy make-believe elements.
Luke Skywalker is a space shaman prophesied to destroy an intergalactic empire. If someone approached you today and made the same claim, you'd rightly doubt his sanity. However, we suspend our disbelief in Luke's case because we also see that he's a working guy lamenting his frustrated dreams. That brings me to...
Relatability: a protagonist's mindset and motivations should be intelligible for the most part. This doesn't mean that you have to spell everything out. In fact, an touch of mystery is good for sci-fi stories. However, if your main character is inaccessible to common human experience, readers will have trouble vicariously inserting themselves into the tale through him. That in turn leads us to...
Sympathy; not Pity: the key to engaging readers is to ease their acceptance of the protagonist as a vehicle for their own vicarious experience. They must live the story through the main character. There is a spectrum of audience reaction to certain characters that runs from empathy to sympathy to pity.
Empathy means actually feeling what someone else feels. If your characters reach this stage (which I doubt is possible for fictional sub-creations), you've missed your exit and should turn back. If on the other hand the reader feels sorry for the protagonist with an undercurrent of contempt, you've engendered pity; not sympathy.
It's easier to describe what sympathetic characters are not instead of what they are. They don't have to be perfect. Protagonists can even have genuinely rotten flaws such as flagrant bigotry and past murder convictions. As long as the character has at least one redeeming virtue and expresses at least tacit remorse for past wrongdoing, he can earn our sympathy.
These are just a few qualities of effective protagonists. Can anybody think of more?
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