by Donald Maass
Here, then, is some good news: The techniques of putting over dark protagonists are applicable to all protagonists. Find the secret strength in your main character, and it won't matter whether you are working with a hero or an anti-hero. Your readers will bond with both.
CUTTING HEROES DOWN TO SIZE
We have been looking at how to quickly show what is heroic in protagonists who aren't. What about protagonists who are heroic? If your protagonist is strong, do-right, active, principled, and upstanding, then you don't have an issue, right?
Wrong. Genuine heroes present as big a challenge, in their way, as downers. Heroes or heroines who are noble and true can easily become cardboard. Think of feisty romance heroines, hard-boiled detectives, save-the-world suspense heroes, fantasy orphan-princes, sassy vampire slayers ... these familiar lead characters cannot hold our interest over the long haul of a novel if they are one-dimensional. Indeed, if they are to keep us reading for more than a chapter or two, they must quickly become human.
Suspense novelist Tami Hoag is good at tough-as-nails protagonists. In The Alibi Man (2007), she reintroduces former undercover cop Elena Estes (previously featured in Dark Horse, 2002). Injured in a prior case, burdened with guilt over the death of a friend and co-worker in a bust gone wrong, Elena now lives in the guest house of a wealthy Palm Beach friend who owns a stable where Elena has found a happier life, sort of:
I am not a cop. I am not a private investigator, despite all rumors to the contrary. I ride horses for a living but don't make a nickel doing it. I am an outcast from my chosen profession and I don't want another.
Get the idea? Elena is the kind of kick-ass heroine who dominates contemporary women's suspense. Outspoken, opinionated, take no you-know-what, Elena's got a big chip on her shoulder. So, how do you feel about her? Is her strength attractive or off-putting? A bit of both, perhaps, but it is the off-putting quality that matters at the moment. Hoag knows that we need to see another side of Elena, and quickly, so she delivers it to us just a page later:
All my life I have preferred the company of horses to people. Horses are honest, straightforward creatures without guile or ulterior motive. You always know where you stand with a horse. In my experience, I can't say the same for human beings.
That morning I didn't settle in with my usual first cup of coffee to listen to the soft sounds of the horses eating. I hadn't slept well—not that I ever did. Worse than usual, I should say. Twenty minutes here, ten minutes there. The argument had played over and over in my mind, banging off the wall of my skull and leaving me with a dull, throbbing headache.
I was selfish. I was a coward. I was a bitch.
Some of it was true. Maybe all of it. ...
Here's the other side of this kick-ass heroine: She's not perfect; she knows it, admits it, and (at least a little) regrets it. At this point we don't need to know what the argument was about, or with whom, we just need to know that Elena Estes is human. She is not the embodiment of an impossible ideal. She has personal problems, just like everyone. By quickly cutting her heroine down to size, Hoag makes her not only real but a character who has room for change; that, in turn, signals to us that there also is story to come.
It's a strong story, too. Elena finds in a canal the body of a beautiful young woman with whom she worked in the stables. Drawn into the investigation, she runs afoul of a group of Palm Beach bad boys who provide alibis for each other when needed. One of them is a hated ex-fiance. Who really did it, though, is a question unanswered until the final pages.
Lisa Gardner is another top suspense writer with a handy knack for tough detectives. In The Survivors Club (2002), she introduces Providence, Rhode Island, police detective Roan Griffin and immediately lets us know that he's not a superhero:
At 8:31 A.M. Monday morning, Rhode Island State Police Detective Sergeant Roan Griffin was already late for his 8:30 briefing. This was not a good thing. It was his first
day back on the job in eighteen months. He should probably be on time. Hell, he should probably be early. Show up at headquarters at 8:15 A.M., pumped up, sharply pressed, crisply saluting. Here I am, I am ready.
And then ... ?
"Welcome back," they would greet him. (Hopefully.)
"Thanks," he would say. (Probably.)
"How are you feeling?" they'd ask. (Suspiciously.)
"Good," he'd reply. (Too easily.)
Ah, shit. Good was a stupid answer. Too often said to be often believed. He'd say good, and they'd stare at him harder, trying to read between the lines. Good like you're ready to crack open a case file, or good like we can trust you with a loaded firearm? It was an interesting question.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and tried again.
"Welcome back," they'd say.
"It's good to be back," he'd say.
"How are you doing?" they'd ask.
"My anxiety is operating within normal parameters," he'd reply.
No. Absolutely not. That kind of psychobabble made even him want to whoop his ass. Forget it. He should've gone with his father's recommendation and walked in wearing a T-shirt that read "You're only Jealous Because the Voices are Talking to Me."
At least they all could've had a good laugh.
Measure your feelings about Roan Griffin after this introduction. He's your prototypical wounded detective. (Why has he been off the job for eighteen months? His wife died of cancer.) What makes him appealing despite his all-too-typical psychological flaw? I believe it is the self-deprecating humor that Gardner gives him. At least the guy can laugh at himself.
In the next few paragraphs we find out that before his compassion leave, Roan Griffin was the lead investigator on many high-profile cases. Had Gardner begun with that information, we'd already be pulling away from her protagonist. He'd be too perfect, cardboard, an example none of us could live up to. By first making him human, Gardner makes it possible for us to like him before he even makes a move.
Roan Griffin will have to make some big moves, too. He's immediately plunged into a twisty case in which a brutal rapist is assassinated on the opening morning of his trial. Minutes later, the assassin's car blows sky high. The trail of culpability is thus neatly covered. The chief suspects are the three victims who escaped the rapist alive, the Survivors Club of the title. Roan's story is layered with other problems, as well, making for a high-impact read.
Wounded heroes and heroines are easy to overdo. Too much baggage and angst isn't exactly a party invitation for one's readers. What's the best balance? And which comes first, the strength or the humility? It doesn't matter. What's important is that one is quickly followed by the other.
Michael Connelly is one of our most popular crime fiction writers, thanks largely to his passionate and all-too-human LAPD detective Harry Bosch. In The Brass Verdict (2008), Connelly brings together Bosch and his half-brother (introduced in The Lincoln Lawyer, 2005), defense attorney Mickey Haller.
Connelly opens The Brass Verdict with a sequence that establishes Mickey's creds as a tough defense attorney. In the trial of a drug dealer accused of killing two college students, Mickey seizes upon a fatal lie told by the chief witness for the prosecution, a jailhouse snitch. He rips open the prosecution's case. Assistant district attorney Jerry Vincent offers a more lenient sentence, but Mickey's loathsome client wants to roll the dice. Mickey gets him acquitted.
Jerry Vincent is ruined. Zip up to the present day. Connelly knows that although Mickey showed strength in doing his job, morally he was wrong. He set a vicious killer free. If we are to cheer for Mickey now, the moral balance must be leveled. So, we learn that in subsequent years, Jerry Vincent prospered as a celebrity defender in private practice. Jerry even thanked Mickey for showing him the light.
That, though, is not enough to put Mickey Haller on the right side of the ethical line. Mickey must pay a price for his too-dogged defense of a killer, and so Connelly punishes him. Mickey goes out of action for a year for reasons he explains to administrative jud
ge Mary Townes Holder when she summons him to announce that he has inherited the law practice and lucrative open cases of the recently murdered Jerry Vincent:
"Judge, I had a case a couple years ago. The client's name was Louis Roulet. He was—"
"I remember the case, Mr. Haller. You got shot. But, as you say, that was a couple years ago. I seem to remember you practicing law for some time after that. I remember the news stories about you coming back to the job."
"Well," I said, "what happened is that I came back too soon. I had been gut shot, Judge, and I should've taken my time. Instead, I hurried back and the next thing I knew I started having pain and the doctors said I had a hernia. So I had an operation for that and there were complications. They did it wrong. There was even more pain and another operation and, well, to make a long story short, it knocked me down for a while. I decided the second time not to come back until I was sure I was ready."
The judge nodded sympathetically. I guessed I had been right to leave out the part about my addiction to pain pills and the stint in rehab.
"Money wasn't an issue," I said. "I had some savings and I also got a settlement from the insurance company. So I took my time coming back. But I'm ready. I was just about to take the back cover of the Yellow Pages."
"Then, I guess inheriting an entire practice is quite convenient, isn't it?" she said.
I didn't know what to say to her question or the smarmy tone in which she said it.
"All I can tell you, Judge, is that I would take good care of Jerry Vincent's clients."
Notice several things about this exchange. The once-arrogant Mickey is now humbled. His tone with Judge Holder is level and respectful. The judge has the power to deny Mickey the cases Jerry Vincent left behind, but it is more than that. Mickey is on shaky ground. He knows it. He is not in a position to demand, but neither does he beg. He just presents the facts. Mickey is a wounded protagonist, quite literally, but Connelly does not overplay it. He instead moves Mickey beyond his angst to a place of dignity. No wallowing for Mickey Haller. As a result, he becomes a hero whose strength comes from his experience and from lessons learned.
Even greater restraint can be observed in the return of Anne Perry's popular Victorian detective Thomas Pitt in Buckingham Palace Gardens (2008). In his first outing in several years, Pitt, now working in Special Branch on cases of political importance or special sensitivity, is summoned with his supervisor Victor Narraway to Buckingham Palace. There, a gutted prostitute has been found in a linen closet. The Prince of Wales is in residence, along with several guests with whom he has been discussing an African railway venture. Needless to say, if it becomes known that a whore was in the palace, never mind murdered, the scandal would be explosive. Pitt must uncover the killer, and quickly, as Queen Victoria is due to return to the palace in less than a week.
As Perry's fans know, Pitt is an unusually competent detective; sensitive, passionate, and principled. But that does not mean everyone respects him. The Prince of Wales has squeamishly turned over the ugly matter to one of his guests, the adventurous, charming, and seamy businessman Cahoon Dunkeld. From the outset it is clear that Dunkeld expects the murder to be hushed up, cleared up, and disposed of speedily:
[Pitt] must have made a slight sound, because Dunkeld looked at him, then back at Narraway. "What about your man here?" he asked abruptly. "How far can you trust his discretion? And his ability to handle such a vital matter? And it is vital. If it became public, it would be ruinous, even affect the safety of the realm. Our business here concerns a profoundly important part of the Empire. Not only fortunes but nations could be changed by what we do." He was staring at Narraway as if by sheer will he could force some understanding into him, even a fear of failure.
Narraway gave a very slight shrug. It was a minimal, elegant gesture of his shoulders. He was far leaner than Dunkeld, and more at ease in his beautifully tailored jacket. "He is my best," he answered.
Dunkeld looked unimpressed. "And discreet?" he persisted.
"Special Branch deals with secrets," Narraway told him.
Dunkeld's eyes turned to Pitt and surveyed him coolly.
How does Pitt react to being treated like a servant? Not at all. That is the point. It is only when he views the slashed body in the linen closet that his feelings come forward:
Pitt stared at her less with revulsion than with an overwhelming pity for the gross indignity of it. Had it been an animal the callousness of it would have offended him. For a human being to die like that filled him with a towering anger and a desire to lash out physically and strike something. His breath heaved in his chest and his throat convulsed.
Yet he knew he must keep calm. Intelligence was needed, not passion, however justified.
Is Pitt's "overwhelming pity for the gross indignity of it" affected by the condescending treatment he's just been handed by Dunkeld?
Obviously, but Perry is too subtle a novelist to say so. She lets the twin indignities, shown just a page apart, make her point. As the investigation progresses, Pitt suffers much more humiliation at the hands of Dunkeld, but he turns it around. A gamekeeper's son, Pitt is used to his inferior social status. He bears his burden stoically.
Is Pitt wounded? Yes. Anne Perry does not play on that, though, but rather lets it live under the surface. She turns Pitt's afflictions into integrity and makes him human in the highest way.
Is your protagonist a tower of strength? Does he stand up for what is right? Does she kick ass? Do you endow your main character with a cutting wit, a shrewd mind, soaring intellect, mental toughness, keen focus, unstoppable determination?
If so, you may have created a protagonist whom readers will hate. Although it may seem counterintuitive and contrary to the dictum of heroes for whom we can cheer, what these paragons of perfection need is humanity. Add it quickly, reinforce it throughout your novel, and we'll know that your tough, do-right, honest-to-a-fault, and formerly flawless protagonist is someone we can believe in because he is real
Just like you and me.
GREATNESS
What makes a protagonist not only a hero or heroine, but great? Indeed, what is greatness? Defining the term is difficult, because it is many different things to many different people.
Perhaps, though, we might agree on one effect of greatness: impact. Great people do not leave the world unchanged. Great characters similarly stir readers and stay with them. Is it possible to construct this effect? How?
It's tricky. Fiction has little impact when it is timid, cliche ridden, uneventful, and formulaic. The same is true of characters. Stereotypes have little impact. They fail to engage us because we don't believe in them. Great characters are especially prone to this problem. If you create someone who is made of goodness, lives by high principles, performs actions of high valor, and is pretty
much perfect, then your readers' reaction is likely to be a sneering
yeah, right!
Fortunately, you don't have to create a paragon in order to conjure greatness. An aura of greatness comes foremost not from who a given character may be, but from the profound impact that character has on others. It is not strictly necessary for a character to have done anything at all for their effect on others to be apparent.
Ethan Canin's novel America America (2008) is about a 1970s working-class young man, Corey Sifter, who gets a job as a lawn boy for the rich Metarey family in his upstate New York town. Corey becomes a de facto (though not wholly equal) member of the family. Family patriarch Liam Metarey pays for Corey's education and obtains for him a position as aide to Senator Henry Bonwiller, who is running for the Democratic presidential nomination.
Canin opens his novel many years later at Bonwiller's funeral. From the first lines it is clear that Bonwiller has had an enormous impact on Corey's life:
When you've been involved in something like this, no matter how long ago it happened, no matter how long it's been absent from the news, you're fated, nonetheless, to always search it out. To be on alert for
it, somehow, every day of your life. For the small item at the back of the newspaper. For the stranger at the cocktail party or the unfamiliar letter in the mailbox. For the reckoning pause on the other end of the phone line. For the dreadful reappearance of something that, in all likelihood, is never going to return.
At this point in the novel we know nothing about Bonwiller, Corey or what will happen. All we know is that it was "something like this," which is to say something big, newsworthy and possibly even historic. The after-effects have followed Corey through his life, leaving him alert for echoes.
Bonwiller's funeral is attended by crowds of bigwigs, reinforcing his importance. Corey by this point publishes a respected independent newspaper but chooses not to cover the event himself because, "I was at the funeral for my own reasons." Later in the day, when the crowds are gone, Corey returns to the freshly mounded grave. Regarding it, he reflects:
That was it. The quiet end of it all.
There was no one else alive now who knew.
Knew what? There are secrets, obviously; powerful ones worth keeping. It is many pages before we learn what they are. Was the Senator a leader or a rogue or both? Canin hasn't shown us: All he needs at this point is to reveal the impact Bonwiller has had. Greatness already is in the air.
Thirteen Moons (2006) is Charles Frazier's second novel, following Cold Mountain (1997). It's the story of a great man, Will Cooper, whose life spans almost the entire nineteenth century. As in Canin's novel, Frazier frames his subject's story. At the turn of the twentieth century, elderly Will Cooper is waiting to die. Notice how Frazier weaves strength into his narrator's final days:
There is no scatheless rapture. Love and time put me in this condition. I am leaving soon for the Nightland, where all the ghosts of men and animals yearn to travel. We're called to it. I feel it pulling at me, same as everyone else. It is the last unmapped country, and a dark way getting there. A sorrowful path. And maybe not exactly Paradise at the end. The belief I've acquired over a generous and nevertheless inadequate time on earth is that we arrive in the afterlife as broken as when we departed from the world. But, on the other hand, I've always enjoyed a journey.
