Excerpt from the new craft book I'm writing, on Protatonists and Antagonists.

Hi folks,

As many of you know, I'm writing a new craft book on using movies to inform fiction techniques, titled A FICTION WRITER'S WORKSHOP AT THE BIJOU. In it, I'm using the film THELMA & LOUISE as my model. I've read thousands of screenplays and seen thousands of movies and this is, hands-down, the very best model for writers I've come across. In virtually every single frame, there's a teachable moment for fiction writers.

Delivering one of those "teachable moments..."

One of the problems I've determined that face writers are the terms we employ in our advice/instruction. We borrow freely from lay terms, such as "action" and the like and often the writer sitting in our classes apply the lay definitions to these terms, not realizing we intend a different meaning. The word "action" for example. Often, writers take this to indicate more melodramatic definitions and when they are told their story needs to begin with "action" they start off with shootings, buildings being blown up, kidnappings, murders and the like. Not that some stories shouldn't begin with those kinds of actions, but the term action when used for fictive purposes means something far more encompassing than simple physical actions. "Action" in fiction terms is used to denote almost any kind of activity involving conflict, either overt or covert. Dialog, for example, is action. Reading something that creates tension and a story problem is action. Seeing a dead bird by the side of the road is action if it elicits a memory and a realization.

I don't intend this to be a discourse on the word action, but am just using a simple term to illustrate how writing instruction becomes perverted by an imprecise understanding of the terms borrowed from the lay language, the word "action" being only one of many such terms incorrectly applied.

For example, in James Baldwin's brilliant short story, "Sonny's Blues," the story begins with the protagonist sitting in a subway car reading the day's newspaper. In it, he comes across a news story about his brother's arrest. Instantly, this creates a bona fide story problem for him. In this instance, reading is an action. Nobody was shot or killed, nobody was kidnapped, no bombs went off, none of that. He is just sitting... reading. That's just one of many examples of what the term "action" means in fiction.

Now. The two terms I want to talk about today are the terms "protagonist" and "antagonist." The following is an excerpt from Chapter Two of the book I'm writing. I'm aware that what I say here will go against what you may have been told from others. You'll have to determine for yourself if what I promulgate has sufficient evidence to prove what I'm proposing as the definitions for these terms. You may agree with me or you may choose to disagree. At the least, I hope I've given you solid food for thought.

And, without further ado, here's a bit of Chapter Two, on the definitions of Protagonists and Antagonists.

CHAPTER TWO

Protagonists and Antagonists

The two most important characters in a novel are the protagonist and the antagonist. I want to spend some time defining these two characters and their roles in the story as there are many misconceptions.

First, to define each term.

The Protagonist

The protagonist is simply the person through whose eyes and viewpoint we experience the bulk of the story. I feel it a mistake to assign moral qualities to either the protagonist or the antagonist. Therefore, I believe it’s misleading to use terms such as “hero” or “heroine” to describe the protagonist. Doing so assigns a moral value to him or her that is not only inaccurate, but that often leads to creating poor characters. When you think of protagonists as “good guys” and antagonist’s as “bad guys” or villains, the temptation is great to create one-dimensional, cardboard, almost “cartoonish” characters. Dudley Doright and Snidely Whiplash.

By the same token, the term “antihero” is misleading. By its very name, it also implies a moral quality assigned to the character. The protagonist is neither a hero nor an antihero. They’re simply the person through whose persona we experience the story.

Do yourself a favor. Don’t think of these two characters as “good” and/or “bad.” I think you’ll find you create far more complex and compelling characters by not doing so.

Same way with that term that’s crept into our writing lexicon in the past few years. That main character thingy, or that even more insidious appellation, that “MC” monstrosity. That says… nothing. Of course the protagonist is the “main character.” But, to refer to him or her with that term, negates somewhat the value of the protagonist. Describing the protagonist as the “main character” implies that it’s the story that’s mostly important (at the expense of character) and that’s simply not true. All stories, regardless of genre, are pretty much the same. It’s the protagonist in his/her battle in the story to resolve the story problem that’s important. Plots are limited—there are only 6-8, depending on the source. Characters—particularly protagonists—on the other hand, are limitless. The life of any story isn’t the plot. It’s how the protagonist and antagonist operate within the plot, not the clever and various ways in which the killings, bombings, kidnappings, love and/or sex scenes, naval button contemplations or whatever are depicted. Those things are incidental to the characters and only exist to serve the characters and provide the obstacles for the struggle.

The Antagonist

Likewise, don’t think of the antagonist in terms of villains. He or she is simply the person whose goal(s) conflict with those of the protagonist’s. Period. Again, just as with the protagonist, no moral value is assigned, at least in relationship to the definition of their character. Not the “bad guy” or “bad gal.” If you think of antagonists as villains, you’ll end up with Snidely Whiplash-type characters. One-dimensional, cardboard, cartoonish characters.

The antagonist, just like the protagonist, can be a good guy or gal or a bad guy or gal. Doesn’t matter. Novels aren’t morality plays. As Samuel Goldwyn said to the screenwriter who sent him a script with a theme of good and bad (badly paraphrased): “Don’t send a message. Western Union sends messages and they do it well. Send me a story.”

Can there be more than one protagonist or antagonist?

Nope.

One protagonist, one antagonist per novel.

Now, that doesn’t mean they each can’t have multiple allies. They both can and both most likely will.

Are there exceptions? Probably, although I can’t think of any right now. Remember that just because a novel was published doesn’t “prove” it was any good. Doesn’t mean it’s a good model to follow, necessarily. Bad novels get published just about every day. But, do yourself a favor and don’t use a bad novel for a template. I can pretty well guarantee you that there aren’t very many good novels with “co-protagonists” and “multiple antagonists.”

One of the reasons this is true is that when you begin creating more than a single protagonist and/or antagonist, the reader’s focus begins to get diffused. We can “see” an individual. Once you begin creating crowds, it becomes harder to figure out whose story it is or who we should follow.

Let’s look at Thelma & Louise for particularly great examples of a powerful protagonist and an equally-powerful antagonist.

By the way, the strength of your novel depends on the strength of your antagonist, not your protagonist. Write that down. The antagonist should be at least the equal in strength of the protagonist, and preferably stronger. This includes all forms of strength, including physical, mental, emotionally, resource-wise… in every way you can dream up. If the antagonist is weaker in any way than the protagonist, then the protagonist doesn’t have to do much to prevail, does he? And, you want the protagonist’s struggle to be uphill all the way.

The protagonist in Thelma & Louise is Thelma. Period. I know the title says Thelma and Louise, but it’s Thelma’s story. Louise is along for the ride and the primary role she serves is the Mentor role. Khouri was well-aware of that. If they were co-protagonists, wouldn’t she have given Louise’s big sex scene the same big stage as she did Thelma’s? She didn’t. It’s Thelma’s story, all the way.

Another factor that determines who the protagonist is is the character arc. You know, that old Freitag scheme that looks like a roller coaster? Only the protagonist gets that. His or her character has to undergo a significant change as a result of the struggle she’s undergone to achieve the story goal. Only Thelma undergoes this change in the story. Louise changes a bit, but by and large, at the end of the story, she’s pretty much the same as she was at the beginning. Thelma, on the other hand, has had a profound change from where she began. You’ll see that change as we go along here.

And, the antagonist is… Hal the cop as played by Harvey Keitel. Is he a villain? Nope. Not in the least. He’s undoubtedly the single most moral character in the story. His goal is completely honorable and good… for those looking for good guys and bad guys in their fiction.

It’s just that his goal is in direct conflict with Thelma’s. His goal is to rescue Thelma and her friend, Louise. To save them first from going to jail and then, as the story evolves, to save them from being killed. Absolutely, 100% honorable goal. Can you see how the terms “villain” doesn’t have a thing to do with Hal’s character? Do you think for a second that if Khouri thought in those terms—heroes/heroines vs villains—could have possibly written these characters—particularly Hal’s? Not a chance in hell! If her knowledge of story had rested on those kinds of definitions, she would be writing direct-to-video screenplays, if even that.

Please—if you get nothing else from this book—never again think of your characters as hero/heroine and villain!

Are there characters in the story who provide obstacles for Thelma? Sure. Her husband Darryl is about as “villainy” as you could ever wish for. Just about every male character in the story provide opposition. J.T. steals their money even though he does afford Thelma respect in their love-making. The state cop with the tailored uni and mirror sunglasses and male chauvinist hog attitude is villainy. The tanker driver with his pig-like gestures and intentions is villainy. Harlan, the would-be rapist is definitely villainy. The guys manning gas pumps when they stop, or are leaning up against building posts ogling them, are all minor variations of villainy. And, guess what? Just about all of those characters fit the Snidely Whiplash mold. No antagonists in that bunch, except in a very limited, stereotypical role, basically as villainous. Louise’s boyfriend Jimmy, is pretty much a good guy, but he’s definitely not an antagonist. He’s one of their few “helpers” when he comes to Louise’s aid (and, by extension, Thelma’s). No opposition to Thelma’s goal there.

The one character whose goal provides consistent and powerful opposition to Thelma’s goal is Hal. She wants to escape; his goal is to catch her.

And it’s that dynamic that makes for complex characters and complex stories. Two individuals, each with a goal at odds with the other. Both with worthy goals. No “good vs evil” going on here at all. Each the very model of a great protagonist/antagonist. A very powerful antagonist. Look at Hal’s strengths. He’s a lawman with tons of experience catching criminals. He’s got all the technological advantages possible. He’s got a virtual army of people to help him find and catch them. He’s got state of the art computers, communications, transportation, radar, phone tracking capability at his disposal. He’s got the state police along with the FBI at his disposal. He’s got a frickin’ helicopter! He’s got all this arrayed against a housewife and a waitress in a car and little money and their destination known. He’s extremely powerful and about as strong of an antagonist as you could ever invent. When Thelma defeats him—which she does in the final scene—it resonates with the viewer since she hasn’t beaten a weakling at all but an antagonist that was stronger in just about every single way. Think about how this story would have been had Khouri made Hal a nasty guy who hated women and just wanted to either kill Thelma and Louise or just wanted to put them in jail. She could have done that… if she thought in terms of “heroines” and “villains.” But she didn’t. She created a protagonist and gave her a worthy antagonist.

Perhaps why she won the Oscar for this story?

I'm busy at work right now completing this book upon the urging of my agent. Hope when it's done, you'll consider glomming onto a copy.

Hope this helps inform your own writing!

Blue skies,

Les 

P.S. Here's an "old" craft book I wrote that you may find useful.

On Saturday, November 23, I’ll be conducting a REALLY BIG (channel your inner Ed Sullivan voice here) workshop where I show the movie THELMA & LOUISE and provide commentary throughout, showing salient fiction techniques, for the Indiana Writer’s Center. This one is a labor of love and exhausting to deliver and I’ve heard rave after rave from those who’ve attended this one before. Click on http://www.indianawriters.org/ or go to http://www.indianawriters.org/products/a-fiction-writers-workshop-at-the-bijou for complete information.

A MAJOR FLAW IN TEACHING CREATIVE WRITING (FICTION) EFFECTIVELY LIES IN OUR TERMINOLOGY

What we say ain’t always what we mean…

I read a lot of blogs from other writers, agents, editors and other professionals in the writing game, and I read a lot of letters from writers responding to those posts. Alas, again and again, I see some general misconceptions about writing techniques and story structure that I’d like to address.

I see the same misconceptions from my students in my online classes and from clients I work with.

The misconceptions seem to arrive from misunderstanding the definitions of the terms we employ in describing fiction writing and fiction techniques.

I’ve come to believe that much of the misunderstandings writers have stem from the fact that many of our terms are lay terms, and while the definitions assigned certain terms have their root in “lay” or “dictionary” definitions, there are significant differences when applied to writing, and it is these differences that cause a certain amount of confusion.

That sounds like a lot of goobly-gook, doesn’t it? Sorry! I’ll try to explain better.

A good example of what I’m talking about that I’ve seen a lot written about lately refers to the term “action” in fiction. A non-writer usually thinks of action in reference to drama—books, movies, plays, and television—as some kind of physical activity. Many times, the word evokes images of melodrama—bombings, kidnappings, shootings, stabbings, beatings, rapes… violent physical action, in other words. Lots of noise, screams, smoke, and fury. Writers need to think differently and understand that action in fiction means something much more than in real life.

I just read a letter on another blog from a beginning writer who complained that she began her novel with “action”—in her case, an armed robbery involving her protagonist—and then couldn’t figure out why this didn’t “hook” the reader, i.e., the agent, she’d sent it to. She said he turned her mss down because while the robbery hooked him in the very beginning, it turned out to be mostly unrelated to the story that followed. This poor writer had done what a lot of writers seem to do. She thought that when teachers, agents and editors said they wanted to be “hooked” immediately on the first page, they were looking for something along the lines of that lay definition of action. A gun going off or whatever.

Not.

The term “action” when applied to fiction means something vastly broader and more encompassing of other activities than the stuff listed above. While it can include those kinds of activities, literary action also encompasses many other things. Dialog is action, for instance. A character driving down the road and seeing a dead plover is also action. A character reading a newspaper on the subway is action. Anything a character is doing is… action.

This one misunderstood term is to blame for many of the mistakes made in creating a manuscript, especially when trying to follow the advice of the pros.

I regularly get very nice letters from folks who’ve read my book on story beginnings (Hooked) who reveal, by their questions that they’ve fallen prey to that misconception of the word “action.” Statements like this are not atypical: “I know I’m supposed to start with action, but the story I want to write isn’t high-concept and is more of a character study. I can’t have my protagonist, Irma, getting raped. Nothing like that would ever happen to her. I know in your book you say the story has to open with action, but I don’t see how I can do that here. Should I write another story?”

That’s a made-up statement, but it’s accurate inasfar as the gist of some of the letters I receive. And, it’s reflective of a couple of things. One, a misunderstanding of the term action, and, two; a sure sign of selective reading. That’s fairly common, I’ve found. I’m probably guilty of the same myself.

To address the first, I’ve tried to make it clear in Hooked, the writer’s definition of action. I’ve given a number of examples of openings that illustrated forms of action that didn’t involve any guns, sexual attacks, bombs or any of that. For instance, one of the examples I used was of James Baldwin’s story, Sonny’s Blues, which begins with the “action” of the protagonist sitting on the subway reading a newspaper where he sees an account of his brother’s arrest. That’s “action” according to the literary definition. Another, where I described the opening of Tim Sandlin’s novel, Sorrow Floats, which begins:

            My behavior slipped after Daddy died and went to San Francisco. I danced in bars. I flipped the bird in churches. Early one morning in April I drove Dothan’s new pickup truck off the Snake River dike, and when the tow truck showed up they found me squatting in a snow patch in my nightgown crying over the body of a dead plover.

That’s beginning with action. The action is her crying over the dead bird. It’s not even her driving the truck off the dike. The action is simply her seeing this bird and weeping. (The other part of that is just backstory and setup). Seeing the dead bird is her inciting incident and it satisfies all the requirements of a good inciting incident and begins with action. Seeing a dead bird makes her realize what she’s been running away from and it’s from that point that the story begins.

And… it’s action.

I won’t go through the dozens of openings I used for illustration in Hooked, but nary a one begins with a gun going off or someone being raped or a President poised with finger on the red button. But, without exception, they all began with action. Action, according to the literary usage of the term, not the lay definition.

It is so crucial to understanding how stories are written successfully to fully grasp the definition of the term “action,” yet time after time, it’s obvious by the conversation that the student is thinking of the lay definition in his or her application and thought process.

To address the second point, many readers read selectively; that is, some of what they read becomes invisible to them and they "read" only the parts that appeal to them. I know I've defined action over and over in my books on writing, and still, I communicate with writers who say they've read the books, but still don't remember reading the parts where I showed other kinds of action. At least that's what it appears is happening. I think what happens is that sometimes some folks just don't read carefully. Wish I could say I'm not guilty of doing that, but I surely am and often. If anyone has a cure, please pass it on!

What happens is that the teacher and the writing student are trying to have a dialog that’s doomed to failure simply because they’re not on the same page as far as the definitions of the terms we employ. We’re close… but close doesn’t count in writing. Our chief tools as writers are words and they need to be precise. Clear and understandable. Unfortunately, our craft terms are perhaps the worst of any craft in existence and the opposite should be true. Instead of clearly defined, they are often murky and vague.

For another common example of a misconception in writing terms, let’s look at the term “problem.” A problem in lay terms can mean something like the person is being divorced. Is that a problem in “real life?” Well, usually. But, in terms of describing a protagonist’s problem for story, by itself, it doesn’t rise to the level of a story problem. It’s merely a bad situation. And, bad situations do not literature make. They can—but there has to be more to it than simply a bad situation. Any one of these things for example—a rape, a murder, a kidnapping, a divorce, a partner’s cheating, a person declaring bankruptcy, a bully giving wedgies to a skinny kid—any of those instances are great examples of “problems” in real life, but without more they aren’t in literature. They’re simply… bad situations. Good for anecdotes, but not yet for stories.

For something to be a problem in literary terms it has to represent a profound change in the protagonist’s life—signaling a change in the person’s life before the problem to what it is after the problem makes its appearance. It has to rise to the level that nothing can interfere with his or her struggle to resolve the problem until it’s finally resolved. If, for instance, the character can take time off for other things even briefly—then it hasn’t yet achieved the status of story problem. This is what happens often when writers believe their character’s inciting incident began in childhood (the inciting incident being the event that created and/or revealed the problem) and then they have the kid “take off” the next seven years so they can get old enough to tackle the problem. Might work in real life, but it’s just not a problem yet in story terms. It’s a… bad situation. If anything can get in the way of, distract, or cause it to be put on the shelf for any period of time whatsoever… it’s just not a problem in literary terms.

Also, the story problem has to have two levels. The initial problem is what I’ve created the term “surface problem” for. That’s what seems to be the problem at the onset of the story. Surface problems can be anything. But, they all have to be symptomatic of a deeper, more personal, psychological problem, to which I’ve created the term “story-worthy problem.” The surface problem is simply kind of the “material” manifestation of the story-worthy problem.

For example, in the movie Indiana Jones, Indiana’s surface problem is to win his father’s respect. To do this, he feels he has to find the Holy Grail. His surface goal which he feels will resolve his surface problem. But, his story-worthy problem is his lack of self-respect. In a story, the protagonist has to go through the struggle to resolve the surface problem to finally realize (as a result of the struggle) what his true (story-worthy) problem is.

In the movie, Thelma & Louise, protagonist Thelma’s surface problem is to escape her overbearing husband briefly. Her story-worthy problem—which she can only discover after going through her struggle—is to escape a male-dominated world in which she has little voice.

In David Madden’s novel, The Suicide’s Wife, the protagonist’s problem is that her husband has (supposedly) committed suicide and left her unprepared to face life’s everyday demands. Her surface goal to resolve this is to obtain her driver’s license. Her real story-worthy problem is to find out if she has the internal wherewithal to exist independently. The struggle she undergoes to resolve her story problem leads her to understand what that problem is symptomatic of and therefore gives her the capability to resolve the deeper problem.

In almost all instances, both the surface problem and the story-worthy problem are resolved in the last and final scene. When s(he) resolves the other one, at that point s(he) understands the underlying problem at the same time and by his or her choice in that final scene also resolves that problem as well.

The point I’m trying to make here is that when we use the term “problem” in writing and story terms, we’re not talking about real-life problems. There has to be more involved to make it rise to the level of a good story problem than just a bad situation. Problem as applied to story is something far more than a problem in real life.

There are many such terms we use as writing teachers that we’ve borrowed from the lay language, and because students and beginning writers very often ascribe those lay definitions to the terms, we have a problem communicating with each other and fully understanding and grasping the advice given We’re close… but close just ain’t good enough.

I’ve often thought that there is a great need for a text on this. It’s presumptuous, I suppose, for one person to think he or she can create a lexicon that all writers should follow, but somebody needs to do this. Right? Okay. I’m on it…

Anyway, I hope this helps a bit to “unmuddy” the waters…

Blue skies,

Les