Tag Archives: Antagonist

Transfer And The Balance Of Power In A Novel

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cross blogIt’s the time of the month for some discussion on craft. Today, writing teacher Sydney Smith and I discuss the balance of power in a novel.

Transfer refers to the shifts in power between a protagonist and their antagonist, as each strives to get what they want. These shifts reveal themselves most clearly through dialogue, although they can happen in other ways, too.

SYDNEY:
We so expect to see transfer take place in narrative, that it stands out when it doesn’t happen. For example, when the protagonist tries to get something from their antagonist―a vital piece of information, for example―and they are defeated again and again. No transfer has taken place. Each player remains in exactly the same position in terms of power.

James BondImagine James Bond is up against Schickelgruber, a man who has programmed a lethal virus that could freeze all online activity. He threatens to unleash this virus unless the world governments submit to his rule. James is sent out to defeat Schickelgruber. But each time the pair clash, Schickelgruber wins. Not only does he always win, but James has no effect whatsoever on Schickelgruber’s defences. Schickelgruber does not have to strengthen his security measures. He doesn’t have to shift the virus to a safer place. His plans don’t have to be altered one iota. That’s because there’s been no transfer.

Far from the Madding crowdI watched Far from the Madding Crowd last week. Bathsheba Everdene rejected the marriage proposal of Gabriel Oak. At that time, he was an up-and-coming young farmer with a hundred acres of land and two hundred sheep. Bathsheba was a poor young woman with nothing but her intelligence and her education. But a reversal of fortune takes place. Gabriel loses his land and Bathsheba inherits a substantial property. He goes to work for her. When he tells her a few home truths, her vanity is offended and she fires him. But no sooner has he walked off with all his worldly possessions in a knapsack on his back, than her sheep sicken from eating too much clover. The only man who can save her flock is Gabriel, the master shepherd. She sends a minion to summon Gabriel back. The minion returns, saying Gabriel wants her to go and ask him herself. Bathsheba refuses in a huff. She isn’t stepping down from her pedestal for him!

‘He thought you’d say that,’ says the minion. ‘He said to tell you, beggars can’t be choosers.’

In the next scene, we see Bathsheba riding to Gabriel to ask him to help her.

That is transfer. And by the way, it worked so well that the audience erupted with laughter. Transfer works best when it wins a response of some kind from the reader/viewer.

JENNY:
This is a such good topic, Sydney, partly because I’ve never thought about it before, and partly because power is always interesting. Often writers do things instinctively, but don’t understand why. It’s helpful to analyse the reasons behind what we do. So, let me think this through.

TurtleReef_coverThe hero should never have the power in the beginning, at least not for long. In fact stories always start with a major change in the hero’s life, so there’s an early power shift right there. The hero might decide to make a radical change. In my novel Turtle Reef, Zoe (hero) moves to take a job at the Reef Centre, putting her way outside her comfort zone.  Or perhaps something outside the hero’s control catapults them into change.

More and more they lose their power to the antagonist. The shifting power dynamic between hero and antagonist gives the story its dramatic tension. If the contest is too one-sided, it will be boring. It needs push and pull, feint and parry, advance and retreat.

How will I apply this to my current work-in-progress? I’ll put my Kim (my hero) through the wringer, that’s how. Put her in situations where she’s not in control. Rip the power from her, and give it to the antagonist. Make her fight to reclaim it. She’ll make mistakes, misjudge people, pursue dead ends. Snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Struggle against her character flaw. Never realising that her antagonist is mirroring her in a kind of Machiavellian tango!  I can’t wait to get writing …

libraSYDNEY:
Well, yes. But Snideley (our working name for the villain of the piece) can’t have it all his own way. Transfer goes both ways. If Kim has no effect on Snideley, if Snideley doesn’t have to shift and adjust his tactics with Kim, that also means a lack of transfer.

I’ve read entire manuscripts where there is no transfer whatsoever. The protagonist ends up in the same place they started from. They have not been altered by the influence of other characters. They have not had to change their tactics in order to keep on going after what they want. And yet they must, and so must the antagonist. Without these transfers in power, the story will lack zest. It’ll resemble a lump of granite.

David and GoliathIf you look at the story arc for a major player in a novel, you will see a shift in power. The hero will usually go from weakness to strength. The antagonist will go from a strong power position (Goliath) to a weaker one (defeat). All that is brought about by transfer.

I have often found that when the writer hasn’t grasped the importance of conflict in narrative, they will often prevent transfer from happening. The villain will be impossibly strong, the protagonist passive. A passive character can’t bring about transfer.

JENNY:
That makes sense. If Snideley is too weak, Kim won’t have to struggle and grow. If he’s too strong and always winning? Well, Kim might give up, and sink into despair. I can’t have that. My hero and antagonist need the chance to turn the tables on each other.

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The Wound (plus a book giveaway!)

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cross blogWelcome to our monthly blog chat about the craft of fiction. Today, writing guru Sydney Smith and I talk about that great character driver – the psychological wound. (Fellow Penguin author Kathryn Ledson will be back on board in the New Year)

SYDNEY –
Some characters in fiction have suffered a psychic wound before the story opens, or suffer it at the time the story opens. They spend the rest of the novel trying to heal it. This effort at healing is what the narrative is about, and is a great motivator.

The psychic wound and the healing activity are a common feature of crime fiction. Harry Bosch, for example, Michael Connelly’s series hero, suffered a psychic wound in his boyhood when his mother was murdered and her killer was not found. Thirty years later, now a homicide detective with the LAPD, he is driven to stand up for all victims of murder, no matter who they were, and do his utmost to find their killers. His work is his attempt to heal his psychic wound.

Jenny, your next novel features several characters who have suffered a psychic wound.

JENNY –
The Wound 4Yes, Sydney, in my next novel more than one character will be suffering from psychic wounds that have happened before the story opens. I like to call them their back story ghosts. Since I know what they are already, I can work backwards to give characters convincing and relevant emotional arcs. These wounds will determine their flaws, how they see the world, what they think they want, what they actually want, and how they go about trying to get it. Their search for healing will drive the narrative forward. They’ll go (hopefully!) from being haunted by ghosts, to resolution and living their fullest lives.

SYDNEY –
You make a good point, Jenny. There is a vast difference between what a character thinks they want and what they really want. They create plot by doing things in pursuit of what they think they want―and wonder why their wound isn’t healing. It’s only when they finally understand what they really need that they are able to start the healing process.

The Last CoyoteAgain, Harry Bosch is a good example of this. He thought what he really wanted was to solve the murders of people he has never met, doing it as part of his job. It’s not until he realises that he has been overlooking the one murder that matters most to him, the murder of his mother, that he is able to start the healing process by searching for her killer. He does this in The Last Coyote. The novel signals in the first chapter that something is wrong. He’s been placed on stress leave and must see a police psychologist three times a week. He’s having a breakdown. Michael Connelly shows it very powerfully and poetically (yes, crime novels can be poetic!) through his house, which has been irreparably damaged by an earthquake. Though it’s too dangerous to be lived in, Harry keeps trying to fix it. He’s doing the wrong thing to heal his psychic wound―that is, he’s trying to fix something that is broken beyond repair in order to go back to the old way of living. It’s only when he sets out to find his mother’s killer that he is able to begin the long and painful process of healing.

JENNY –
In my characters’ case the wounds will be big ones, but small ones can also be great motivators. A man may be ridiculed for being small, and develop a Napoleon complex. The story goes that Napoleon compensated for his lack of height by seeking power, war and conquest. A woman might have had to raise her siblings, due to the neglect of their alcoholic mother. The perfect recipe for a control freak who believes if she doesn’t do it, it won’t get done. It’s only when wounded characters develop some insight into their lives, that they can see the world as it really is and begin to achieve their goals. I’ve outlined my new book very roughly, and this insight will come in the middle, which I think is just about right.

SYDNEY –
I absolutely agree with you, Jenny. Insight comes in at around the midway mark. That gives the characters time to sort out all the mistakes they made and begin to set things right.

The Wound 3The wound can apply to antagonists, too. I love a good antagonist. To me, a novel stands or falls on the strength and complexity of its antagonist. The wound can be a great way to give this character a back story ghost that keeps haunting them. A wound they feel driven to heal. In Pride and Prejudice, Mr Wickham has a wound. This was caused by Mr Darcy when he discovered at the eleventh hour that Wickham had plotted to elope with Georgiana Darcy. If Wickham had succeeded, he would have got his hands on her rich dowry, thus giving him a life of ease and luxury to the end of his days. His actions in the novel are his attempt to heal that wound by punishing Darcy. It doesn’t work. It never does for antagonists. Only protagonists are capable of insight and healing. But Wickham’s wound and his efforts to heal it through vengeance make him complex and formidable.

I suppose one of the many differences between a wound in a protagonist and a wound in an antagonist is that the former is sympathetic. It’s possible to imagine that Wickham felt wounded just because he was born the son of a steward and Darcy was the scion of a rich and illustrious family. It’s not very sympathetic, although in fact, I think this kind of wound to a person’s self-love is very common. A Napoleon complex might look different on the surface, but it comes from the same source, a wound to the sufferer’s idea of what is due to them.

But anyway, the point is that healing a wound is a great character driver, one of the best out there.

Thanks Sydney. Excellent advice as always! … To celebrate my new contract, and reaching 40,000 views on this blog, I’m giving away 2 copies of Billabong Bend. (If you’d rather another one of my books just say.) Thank you to all my readers! To go in the draw, just comment on this post. (Aust and NZ only) Winners announced 22nd December.
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What Makes A Good Antagonist? – Plus Book Giveaway!

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BB14Welcome to our cross-blog, which offers tips on writing. Every month writing mentor Sydney Smith ‘interviews’ author Kathryn Ledson and me on some aspect of the writing craft. We welcome your questions and comments. To celebrate my nomination for the Australian Writer’s Centre Best Australian Blogs 2014 (and also for reaching 30,000 views on my website!) I’m giving away a signed copy each of Wasp Season, Brumby’s Run and Currawong Creek. To go in the draw, leave a comment telling us who is your favourite fictional bad guy! (Aust & NZ residents only)

This month’s question is: What makes a good antagonist?

cross blogAccording to Wikipedia, “An antagonist is a person or group of people who oppose the main character.” But the antagonist can also be non-human. It can be a dragon, a Martian, a volcano, a disease like Parkinson’s; anything that opposes the protagonist.

Sydney:
An antagonist is a broader and more complex idea than a villain. A villain acts for purely selfish reasons and does destructive things with no consideration for the effect they will have on others. A villain is wicked. A villain is unable to change and grow.

An antagonist, on the other hand, is a character who pursues a certain goal in the story. This goal opposes that of the protagonist. In Pride and Prejudice, Mr Darcy is Elizabeth’s main antagonist until after the first proposal scene. But it is Mr Wickham who is the villain, and he doesn’t emerge in that light until after Mr Darcy sets Elizabeth straight about what really happened between him and Wickham.

Villains have a role in fiction. Crime novels use villains. A serial killer is a villain. Any character who feels entitled to murder to get what they want is a villain. But then we get into a tricky area, because some crime fiction heroes, like Lucas Davenport in John Sandford’s Prey series, feel entitled to shoot dead the killer he has been pursuing.

Jennifer:
Great antagonists make great stories, don’t they? Thwarting our hero at every turn, keeping the reader turning those pages. A compelling antagonist needs to be built with the same care as any other character. Unfortunately, I often read books where the bad guy is underdeveloped, a cardboard cut-out who is simply evil for evil’s sake. For me, an antagonist needs strong motivation and has to have something at stake, ie: needs to be trying to avoid something or gain something. They must be intelligent and adaptable – worthy adversaries. A compelling antagonist must also be flawed in some way, perhaps having a weakness that readers can relate to and even causes readers to be a little torn at times as to where their sympathies lie. I also love them to have secrets. But of course the most important thing is for the antagonist to stand fairly and squarely in the path of our hero.

the-perfect-storm 2I’m fascinated by the concept of non-human things being antagonists. I’ve just read The Perfect Storm, a creative non-fiction book by Sebastian Junger, where the weather is a spectacular villain. Literary fiction and commercial women’s fiction often don’t have a clear wrong-doer, but even so they must have someone or something opposed to the hero, or else the narrative drive just falls away. You suggested to me, Sydney, that in my book Currawong Creek the troubled four-year-old boy Jack was the antagonist, because his presence and behaviour constantly gets in the way of my hero’s plans. Whatever or whoever your antagonist may be, it’s worth investing plenty of time on them.

Sydney:
I think part of the problem is that writers think antagonists have to be bad people. This is surely connected to the common fallacy that conflict is negative. A good antagonist, like conflict, feeds the narrative. As you say, Jenny, without a strong antagonist, the story falls away. That’s because there isn’t enough for the hero to do! But an antagonist must do more than give the hero something to do. They have to be focused on what they want. They have to be prepared to do ANYTHING to get it. Stories ramp up the tension and suspense as soon as the main players are prepared to do anything to get what they’re after.

Kathryn:
Like Jennifer, I’m especially fascinated by non-human antagonists because for me their elusive non-humanness makes them even more frightening than your average axe-wielding psycho. The scraping sound in the attic. The jungle and its slithering, crawling, scuttling inhabitants. The house whose walls bleed. Christine. But human or not, one thing that gives an antagonist depth of character is his/her/its own goal, and motivation for it. I’ve learned (thank you, Sydney) that it’s vital for the author to keep this in mind and, as Jen says, just as important as the goal and motivation of the protagonist. Your antagonist’s goal and motivation should be so strong that if the story were written from his point of view, we would be barracking for him!

Jaws 2Let’s look at JAWS as a timely example, where the obvious villain has an apparent goal to eat everyone in that peaceful seaside town, selfishly snatching away and ripping apart whoever dares stick a toe in that water. However, if the story of the terrifying monster shark – let’s call him Bruce – were written from Bruce’s point of view, we’d discover his motivation for that goal. It might be to avenge all the horrible atrocities committed against his family by humans. When he was a tiny sharkling, perhaps he watched his mother being definned and tossed, alive, back into the sea where she spent hours lying on the ocean floor with baby Brucie pleading as she drowned, “Please swim, Mummy!” And she in turn warning him off, “Save yourself, my son!” Perhaps even the Horrible Human that the now fully grown and vengeful Bruce seems hell-bent on devouring is the one who murdered his mother. (Actually, I’m trying to remember the story and something like this might in fact be the case.) Anyway, if Bruce’s story were written well, we’d be standing in the aisles cheering him on! We might even go swimming that summer, knowing Bruce’s friends would be satisfied with their hero’s fine work; that the shark population was now safe from the evil doings of That Terrifying Human.

So you can see that, as a writer, knowing your antagonist’s goal and motivation can really help build its character, even if it’s never openly stated in the writing. But it will surely emerge, and the reader will sense it but possibly not understand why your antagonist is a truly terrifying one.

Sydney:
I totally get where Bruce is coming from. I feel like cheering him on – except that I’m not sure I agree with someone using violence to resolve their conflicts!

Kath has made a good point, though. Whether the non-human antagonist is a shark or a tsunami, anthropomorphising it will allow the reader to identify with it. Whatever the reader may think of this practice, it is effective. Perhaps it also shows the limits of the human imagination that we find it so hard to imagine a being whose psychology is different to our own. Even when we get back to basics – what does this creature need to survive? what does it fear? – we tend to make them human-like in their responses to these needs and dreads. I recall watching District 8, a movie out of South Africa, which uses a colony of aliens to discuss issues of refugees and asylum-seekers (and any marginalised group, really). The film-maker, who also wrote the script, was unable to imagine what it was like to be one of the aliens. His human hero was terrific, but the film fell short when it came to making the alien a riveting and complex character. Which means that the issues the film discussed were let down and undermined by this shortcoming in the movie.

In fact, now I think of it, any one of us can have trouble imagining what it is like to be someone else, human or animal or alien or force of nature, when what is really required of us is to step into the shoes of another being. Surely this is one of the great services fiction offers us all, whether it’s literary or genre: the chance to feel what it’s like to be someone else.

I love anthropomorphising! And Kathryn, you almost made me cry with your image of baby Bruce urging his poor dying, mutilated mother to swim … Readers, don’t forget to tell us your favourite bad guy for your chance to win books! Winners announced 30th March.

Kathryn Ledson is the author of Rough Diamond and Monkey Business (Penguin), part of the Erica Jewell series of romantic adventures. You can visit her website and find her blog at www.kathrynledson.com
Sydney Smith is a writing mentor, teacher and author of short stories, essays, and The Lost Woman, a memoir of survival. She is currently writing The Architecture of Narrative, a book about how to plot and structure fiction. She offers writing tips at www.threekookaburras.com. If you have a question on any aspect of writing, feel free to visit her at The Story Whisperer.