Tag Archives: protagonist

Where to Start?

18 Friday May 2012

Posted by in Advice, Meta, Theory

≈ Comments Off

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Start at the beginning, continue through to the end, then stop.

That’s pretty decent advice for storytellers (although it precludes more experimental narrative structures, like in the movie Memento) but if you’re struggling with where to start your story it doesn’t actually help. “Where do I start?” “At the beginning.” “But what is the beginning?” “Um…”

In real life, a person’s story begins at birth and ends at death. Or does it? Even for most of us, whose tales will likely not extend beyond our own personal terminal points, the beginning of our stories are not so clear. Is it at birth? Conception? When our parents met? What about the other direction? High school graduation? Military enlistment? The day we met our long-term partner?

A story, an artificial narrative, should be easier to define. Right? Maybe. Just like the question of where our personal narratives begin, we must ask when the story of our protagonist actually starts. Is it the birth of our main character? Probably not. Yes, a story about a person’s life can work (just look at Forrest Gump or The World According to Garp, but it’s a risky proposition. Maybe I’m just not exposing myself to the right stories, but the “person’s life as a story” seems to be a pretty rare narrative. Most people are simply not interesting until at least their mid-teens, anime and manga protagonists notwithstanding.

So, okay, I’ve established when we shouldn’t begin our story, but I haven’t really helped with advice for when we actually should.

One consideration to determine the start of your story is medium. Simply put, what form are you going to use to tell your story?

Let’s start short. For a short story, you want to begin your story as close to the end as possible. A general rule of thumb I was taught in my fiction writing class is to keep your short story all in the same day (or, you know, 24-hour period, if it happens at night). Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery”–an amazing story, by the way, that seems to have at least partially inspired The Hunger Games–occurs over the course of a few hours. But what a few hours those are!

For a longer narrative, say a novel or ongoing webcomic or serial, you want to start at the point the primary protagonist’s life changes in and intersects with the presumably longer narrative. Often, a longer narrative begins when someone enters or exits the primary protagonist’s life. If you’re going to make your main character an orphan, the day he or she becomes one works pretty well for this: it worked for the stories of Harry Potter and for Nobody Owens. On the other hand, if you want your protagonist’s life to change because something (or someone) entered it, the day that person (or thing) is introduced is also an excellent place to start. That’s what happened to Frodo Baggins and Antimony Carver, for example.

This, of course, is a very broad bit of advice, but it should help you at least conceptualize where in the narrative you start your story. If you’d like, we can revisit this topic in the future and look at more specific advice for starting out. I already plan on revisiting the topic at least thrice more: once to talk about the pros and cons of starting in medias res, once to talk generally about starting out in games, and once more to talk about starting games in medias res.

The start of your story is an important topic, after all, since in traditional print storytelling (short stories and novels) the beginning is absolutely the most important part. Without a good, solid beginning, you won’t be able to pull in an audience.

So definitely let me know where you’d like me to go with this idea in the future. And maybe I’ll share some of my own struggles with starting stories.

Come back next week when I look at the start of game narratives.

The Star of the Show

15 Tuesday May 2012

Posted by in Advice, Ann, Gaming, Inspiration

≈ Comments Off

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

This last weekend, I was an at excellent live action roleplaying game. The theme was a pulp adventure, so there were lots of high stakes and drama, but one thing that occurred to me as we ran through the adventure is that there were approximately 25 main characters in this story. They were all unique characters with their own motivations and depth, and watching us all funneled through a storyline was quite the interesting experience.

LARPs are an art form all their own and nothing I say here should be taken as a criticism of it, but it got me to thinking about story media in which there are singular–or at least smaller sets–of stars in the show, and how we define them.

One of my particular weaknesses in building characters is that I like to make plain Janes who have interesting people they support around them. I think this tends to be because I, personally, prefer to be in the role of a supporting cast and crew (which I’ll talk more about next week). That’s all fine and good in life, but when you’re building a star for a particular story, you’re looking at a different spectrum of qualities.

For example, one of my first LARP character ideas for this game was a young woman who had basically been raised on an salvage/mercenary airship, who had an eccentric godfather as the captain and lead of this crew. She was a sometimes adventurer, and otherwise jill-of-all-trades support. I mulled over this idea for a few weeks, but knew it was missing a spark. Ultimately, I realized she was a support member for a cast of more interesting NPCs who would not appear in the game.

Now, in her own story, she could emerge as the star of the show, or perhaps I could take a deeper look at the cast and have someone else emerge as the star of the show and let her remain as support, but none of this would have worked well in a LARP, in which there are 25 stars of the show–each with their own wildly divergent personal storylines. So I’ve kept the idea for a later story.

In an archaeological fantasy novel I was plotting some time ago, the main character was a concubine who had a secret an archaeologist very much needed. I puttered on this story for a while as well, and eventually when talking to a friend, she succinctly said, “So your main character is basically just a plot device?” and I realized I needed to take a deeper look. In that case, I decided she would make better support cast to the archaeologist, who had more at stake in this story.

Even in an ensemble cast, such as the trio from the Harry Potter books, there is a primary character, even if the supporting characters are just half a step away. Harry, in those books, has the most going on, and he has the highest personal stakes among the trio. In the Lord of the Rings, there is a huge cast, but eventually they are broken into smaller groups with their own emerging leaders. I’d say Samwise Gamgee and Aragorn emerge as the stars of the show when all is said and done. (And I suspect others have convincing arguments for other characters in the lead.)

It’s possible to have multiple stars of the show, but I believe one is likely to be slightly brighter than the others, and the star is not always the Point of View character. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are classic examples of this: Watson is the point of view because he is someone the readers can identify with, whereas Sherlock is not.

All that said, how do you find the star of your show?

Consider:
1. Which protagonist has the most stakes or personal investment in the story?
2. Could story/end result happen without that protagonist?
3. Are there specific, important things that character does in the story that can’t easily be replaced by or delegated to someone else?

These might not be the only litmus tests to define your star of the show, but they should help you get on your way. Do none of your characters “pass” the test? Or one specific one you want to be your star? Consider the star qualities, and rework that character so he or she can shine.

Face of the Enemy

30 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by in Mike, Theory

≈ Comments Off

Tags

, ,

So last week I talked about the importance of interesting and memorable antagonists. Ann provided a counterpoint about interesting and proactive protagonists.

This week, I’m going to talk a little more about antagonists.

First, let me revisit protagonists: in a lot of stories, particularly (it seems to me) in science fiction, a small group of protagonists face off against a much larger organization, be it a government (it usually is), an army of invaders, or reality itself (a la The Matrix). The protagonists are presented as heroic freedom fighters going up against some monolith enemy that nobody seems to like.

Many examples abound: the rebel alliance against the Galactic Empire, the Districts against the Capital, the fellowship against the armies of the Unblinking Eye, the Fremen against the combined armies of the Harkonnens and the emperor, &c. (This list barely scratches the surface, really.)

In those stories, the heroes are facing nigh-impossible odds against opponents so overwhelmingly powerful it seems improbable that they can succeed. Rather than even try to present the entirety of their respective conflicts, which almost always encompass multiple clashes of armies scattered across vast geographic areas, the storytellers focus their attention (and rightly so!) on a small group of protagonists. While it might certainly seem epic and story-worthy to talk about those small groups of characters facing off against the full weight of the oppressive regimes they face, few well-known stories do this. Why?

Because just as we as storytellers must focus our attentions on small groups of protagonists who help shape their struggles against their overpowering opponents, so too must we give a face to our otherwise faceless antagonists.

Endless ranks of anonymous, uniform masses can easily create a sense of scale, of oppression, and possibly even of dread (especially in a cinematic presentation). We are programmed by our storytellers to fear and hate large, faceless organizations, whether they be rightful governments, powerful megacorporations, or guardians of reality. Such an amassed force makes for a poor antagonist, though, simply because of that facelessness.

A vague threat is a poor substitute for a good antagonist. To really invoke an emotional response in your audience, you need to present someone to focus on.

With that in mind, let’s go back to my examples.

The Galactic Empire has umteen zillion stormtroopers, but it is Darth Vader who scares us. You know, from the moment you see him, that he is the “face” of the bad guys. He stands out. He menaces. While the rebels try to bring down the Empire, it’s really Darth Vader they must defeat.

The Districts want to bring down the Capital, but Katniss focuses her attention on President Snow. People die all around her, but ultimately those deaths push her ever closer to her goal. Tantalizingly close…

The Fremen are part of several massed battles led by Paul Atreides, yes, but ultimately it falls on Paul (and his sister) to overthrow the emperor and kill Baron Harkonnen and Feyd-Rautha, even as a climactic battle rages outside.

One reason Luke, Katniss, and Paul don’t have to try to take on massed armies on their own is that all of them have their own massed armies fighting for or around them. The conservation of Ninjutsu goes both ways. While the protagonists cut a swath through the enemy forces, the important, named antagonists can do the same to the protagonists’ allies.

This allows you to set up epic climaxes where the main characters face off against the main antagonists and have their duels, even while some immense battle rages around them. You should definitely give glimpses of the major battle raging all around them but keep the focus on the main characters—protagonists and antagonists alike.

And note that this sort of one-on-one battle (metaphorical or literal) isn’t only important in rebels-versus-oppressive-baddies stories. Anytime you have large forces colliding in your stories, it is vitally important to give all the sides at least one person each for your audience to identify with.

As a final example, think about the Trojan War and how it is presented to us in literature: In the Iliad, Homer goes out of his way to talk about duels, naming each opponent and describing the outcome, but spends little time at all talking about the massed armies.

Take a look at your stories–are your antagonists a faceless menace? Can you come up with a handful of them to stand as the face of the enemy?

Putting the “Pro” in Protagonist

27 Tuesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Advice, Ann, Theory

≈ Comments Off

Tags

, , ,

Last week, Mike talked about protagonists and antagonists, and pointed out that in many iconic stories, the protagonist is reactive and the antagonist is your proactive character. This week, I wanted to talk about reactive and proactive protagonists, and how they drive a story. Now, many characters are going to be a mixture of both–they might start reactive and then become proactive as the story progresses, or they might start proactive and then begin to react as their actions lead to fallout.

Many of us in our day-to-day lives are reactors. We sit comfortably in whatever we’re doing, whether that’s a desk job or acting as a lone gunman. The events that cause change–a lay-off, breaking up with a significant other, coping with a death in the family–are usually things that happen to us, rather than events we go out to seek. When it comes to storytelling, many characters are in the same situation, only that which they are reacting to often gets kicked up to the next notch or three in severity or drama. For example, instead of a fender-bender, the whole interstate crumbles below them. Instead of helping a friend move, they must move a Ring of Power across the known world. Given our experiences, we often default to make our characters reactive, because protagonist are capable of reacting to circumstances much greater than mere average Joes living average lives who do not get stories told about them.

So what about proactive characters? Proactive characters usually want something. They want something vitally important–whether for greed or love. It could be a person, an item, or an ideal. They want it so badly they’re pushing aside anything that gets in their way. Aren’t these qualities that we usually associate with antagonists? They certainly can be, but they work just fine for our protagonists, too. Your antagonists should have a level of proactiveness, of course, although they might start by reacting to a proactive protagonist. Chances are you have two willful people who want something that causes them to cross. That something could be money or world peace–it doesn’t matter. Your protagonist could be a treasure-hunter, and the antagonist another treasure-hunter competing for the same prize.

Ultimately, your character is likely to be a combination of reactive and proactive, but chances are that one is going to outweigh the other. Reactive characters often make us boggle at how strong they are–how one thing dumps on them after the other, yet they persevere. (Yet, most real-life people put into that situation will often tell you they would have preferred not to have to be so “strong.”) Proactive characters, I believe, are the people who wow us because they are who we secretly want to be–they aren’t afraid of change or to go after the things they really want–no matter what the setbacks are that happen along the way.

The Most Important Character

23 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by in Advice, Mike, Theory

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, ,

Quick, without thinking about it name the most important character of your story. Go!

Your main character, right? It seems pretty obvious. That’s the character your audience wants to see. That’s the character you have to get all of us to like, so we’re willing to enjoy your story. Even if your main character is a hateful prat, you have to make us love him or her, or else we’ll certainly never stay with your story to the end.

Well, yes, maybe. But I would argue differently. In my mind, the most important character in your story isn’t the one whose story it is, but the one who creates the story:

Your antagonist.

Think about all the stories you know and love. How many of them start with the main character doing something proactive? Can you think of any? I can’t. At least not any iconic characters. Luke Skywalker. Harry Potter. Frodo Baggins. Lyra Belacqua. Arthur Holmwood. Katniss Everdeen.

Their stories begin before we are introduced to them, but not because of anything they do. We are introduced to these characters right as they become personally engaged in their own stories. Right as something happens to them to change their world and drive them, usually reluctantly, toward becoming the protagonists of their stories.

Let’s think about the stories we know and the ones we want to tell. Something outside your main character’s control puts him or her on the path to becoming the protagonist of the story, and more often than not that something is put into motion by someone. That, of course, is usually your antagonist. It’s your antagonist who carries your story, whether you want us to hate or love your antagonist, agree or disagree with them.

Besides, we don’t need to hate your antagonist. In fact, I think the best antagonists are those we don’t hate. The ones who we might even agree with in some ways, were they not such extremists.

You can sometimes get away with a boring, stock, cardboard-character protagonist who nobody really likes. Tolkien did. Lucas did. More importantly even than your protagonist, your antagonist must be someone interesting. Possibly someone charismatic and likeable. Yes, you can also get away with uninteresting antagonists, but you really need something else to capture your audience’s attention and keep it engaged.

Let’s be honest, antagonists like Lord Voldemort and Sauron are not that interesting. One is half-dead for nearly half the books he’s in and the other is a disembodied eye in a tower. Both are more like story elements than characters. They push their respective stories into happening, but they are little more than evil-for-evil’s-sake mustache-twirlers like Snidely Whiplash.

So think about the antagonists who you like; the ones who are interesting. The ones who get you cheering even more than the protagonists in their stories. I consider Severus Snape, for example, to be arguably the most interesting character in the Harry Potter books. Other interesting antagonists I can think of include Spike from Buffy: The Vampire Slayer, Magneto from the X-Men stories, or Marisa Coulter of the His Dark Materials trilogy.

These characters do despicable things and oppose their corresponding protagonists at almost every turn, but we are drawn to them because, well, being bad is fun. Antagonists almost always have the most fun in stories, if for no other reason than because they lack inhibitions. Where the protagonists are often boring because they have to hold back and play the “good guys,” there’s something freeing about cheering—somewhat—for those who toss aside social mores in pursuit of their goals.

What am I getting at?

Think about your protagonist and how much effort you’ve put into developing him or her. Now take that amount of effort and put twice as much into your antagonist. Your story—and your audience—will thank you for it.

There’s a lot more I want to say about antagonists, but I’ll come back to them over the coming weeks.