The Covenant of the Arc

by Gary Fearon, Creative Director, Southern Writers Magazine

For many writers, the character arc is a vague concept that feels like an imposition.  When we already have an interesting plot that's fun to write, why must we burden ourselves with the laborious task of transforming our protagonist into a new and better person?

First of all, because the reader wants it.  Secondly, it's not as difficult or nebulous as it sounds.

The plot may be the driving force behind the story, but as good as it may be, that only covers the external. It is through the internal struggle of the hero that the reader will invest themselves and feel the real heart of the story.

Perhaps you've noticed how many famous tales feature an orphan.  From Oliver Twist to Harry Potter, it's a popular device.  Before the plot even develops, the protagonist is a sympathetic character lacking the stability of a true home.  An Oliver Twist will experience his emotional arc by looking for love in all the wrong places but ending up finding a family.  A Harry Potter will go from being an neglected child to claiming his rightful place in the world.

Similarly, in many a classic Western as well as modern-day action flick, the hero's family dies early on.  These lost souls who have had life as they know it taken away from them can experience their arc in a variety of ways: revenge, restitution, redemption, etc. A Jason Bourne, who loses both his memory and his identity, can regain his footing by discovering who he really is.

How many romances feature a selfish, stuck-up protagonist who finds the meaning of love and is transformed into happily-ever-after material?  Yes, it's a cliché, but the audience eats it up when the character recognizes that their ego is their own worst enemy.

One of my favorite comedies, Shallow Hal, centers around a man who judges everyone by their looks.  When Tony Robbins hypnotizes Hal and causes him to see people for who they really are, he finds true love with someone he would have totally ignored. Something as simple as a lesson learned is a sturdy arc.

In a lengthy series, only minor protagonist arcs are advised, because the audience wants the hero to stay comfortably familiar from book to book. Even when the womanizing James Bond got married at one point, his wife was out of the picture before the next book.

In literature you will see no lack of Scrooges who discover there is more to life than money, and adventurers who leave the safety of their world to go find themselves only to realize that there's no place like home.

And here's a tip: arcs aren't just for the main character.  A story wins extra points for depth when secondary characters get in on the action.  Someone who is an antagonist early on could well become an advocate for the hero when we least expect it.  This can be doubly satisfying because they not only help save the day for the protagonist, but demonstrate a change of heart themselves.

Each of us experience arcs of many kinds on a regular basis.  In the course of a lifetime, we couldn't count them all. Luckily, we only have to build one arc for our hero to give him or her (and the reader) the emotional anchor they're hoping for.

Gone But Not Forgotten

by Gary Fearon, Creative Director, Southern Writers Magazine


(Warning: may contain spoilers)

You gotta love this title.

A good protagonist is like a good friend.  Over time we get attached to them as if they were members of the family.  So when writers decide to kill them off, a little piece of us dies with them.

The Grim Reaper is no stranger to series like House of Cards, The 100, Game of Thrones and, like the title implies, The Walking Dead.  Cop shows and mysteries feature death in virtually every episode, but when the deceased is a fan favorite, it's a shocking turn of events.

In a recent conversation with a writer friend, I was mourning the loss of a primary character on one of the few dramas I follow, The Blacklist. After my rant, they in turn bemoaned the impending doom soon to befall a key character on a drama they follow just as avidly.  All of this is on the heels of the recent blockbuster Batman vs Superman, in which a beloved character meets their demise.

Meanwhile, here I am, still getting over Edith Bunker dying on an episode of Archie Bunker's Place in 1980.

I also never figured out why it was necessary to kill off Dan Conner in the final 1997 episode of Rosanne, when it was already going off the air.  But then again, Rosanne was often funny that way. Or not funny that way.

Getting rid of a main character on a TV series is sometimes the result of a pregnancy, a contract dispute, or some other irreconcilable difference.  Fortunately, writers of book series don't get painted into such corners with actors, so literary deaths have a bit more intentionality to them.  It seems the more dystopian the setting, the more likely it is that one or more of the good guys won't make it to the last installment.

No matter the medium, extinguishing a popular character is a bold move.  More than one author has faced backlash from angry readers afterwards.  J.K. Rowling alone has made postmortem apologies all but an annual tradition. As far back as 1893, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle felt the brunt of a perturbed public when he killed off Sherlock Holmes. The outcry was so loud that he soon resurrected the storied sleuth.

If a main character must die, it should further the plot and not be merely for shock value (or publicity). If it provides fodder for subsequent episodes that deal with finding the person's killer, for example, at least they did not die in vain.  The bereaved audience will find solace and satisfaction as justice is sought and served.

At the very least, the impact a character death has on the reading or viewing public must be given appropriate consideration.  They need time to grieve, so let them attend the funeral, hear the recollections of the deceased's friends and family, and basically say goodbye in their own way.

Since there are innumerable ways to bury a protagonist, the pen is indeed mightier than the sword.  If you should find yourself with a good reason to try it in your novel, proceed with caution, but be encouraged by those who've gone before you.  Obviously some writers are making a killing doing it.

Who's on First?

by Gary Fearon, Southern Writers Creative Director

At the beginning of every story, the audience is ready to meet the new set of characters you've dreamed up for them.  One of the challenges in writing that opening scene can be deciding which of your characters your audience will meet first.

Protagonist, in its original Greek, means "first in importance".  While this person will be the central figure of the story, we don't necessarily need to make them the first to appear.  There will be times when it's advantageous to bring them in later.

Taking a cue from stage plays, especially musicals, the star of the show is often saved until the end of the big opening number.  In West Side Story, both street gangs establish their roughhouse hatred for one another in song and dance long before we ever meet Tony or Maria.  In many cases, this is to allow a Broadway star to make their own magnificent entrance.  But this approach can also allow for a little discussion about the hero before they arrive on the scene, if we need some advance information about their importance. 

Then again, in The Addams Family musical, the entire ensemble (complete with stars Nathan Lane and Bebe Neuwirth) appeared onstage from the get-go.  These familiar characters needed no introduction, and the sum of the whole had much greater initial impact than if they had been introduced individually.

And there's The Sound of Music, which begins with the heroine, Julie Andrews, singing solo in a meadow.  We learn up front how much both music and the beautiful country she lives in mean to her before anything else takes place.

One of the most inventive character introductions I've ever read started with opening paragraphs describing a fellow walking through a college campus.  It spoke of him appreciating the seasonal decorations and other pleasant details, and at one point he stopped along the way to help someone.  Without a word of dialogue, and without knowing much about this fellow, we already identified with him and liked him. When this fellow arrived at his destination, which turned out to be hiding behind the girls' locker room, the tide began to turn in a very uncomfortable way.  The author had managed to make the reader bond unwittingly with the villain of the story.  Disquieting, and brilliant.

In a murder mystery, the bad guy will often appear before the hero does, if only in shadow.  By the time Perry Mason is called in, the adventure has begun and he gets to play hero from his very first scene. We never see him lounging at his desk with his feet up waiting for something to happen, because it already has.  This tactic is typical in most series, where we are already familiar with the lead character who will carry the adventure.

Who the audience should be introduced to first can sometimes be determined by their role in the story. Will everything revolve around their wants and needs, with a huge character arc taking place?  Or are they more a participant in a bigger theme (like class warfare, as in Romeo and Juliet)?  That bigger conflict may be the thing to establish first.

So whether you place your protagonist in the first paragraph or save them for a grand entrance, this most important character in your story deserves a proper introduction via fortuitous timing.

And speaking of timing, for those of you who came here expecting Abbott & Costello, why not take a break and check out the rapid-fire repartee of these vintage vaudevillians.  If you're a writer who hates to revise, you may be inspired to know that this now-classic routine was originally written as "Who's the Boss?"