Interesting thought for the day: All storytellers are liars.
Authors, poets, filmmakers, artists … We make things up. We show things to audiences that aren’t real.
But we’re liars who admit we’re liars. The things we tell in our stories are acknowledged as fiction. That’s why it’s called “fiction” and not “deception.”
There is an unspoken agreement between storyteller and audience: I will tell you something untrue, and you will treat it as something true until the story is ended. Audiences know that they are witnessing a fabrication, and so it is acceptable.
But stories do discuss real things – people, events, feelings, ideas, places – although the story itself isn’t true. Even if it is retelling a piece of history, it’s prefaced by the words “Based on a true story.”
Yet if it presents itself as real history, but isn’t, then it’s an actual lie.
Stories are lies that know they are lies and willingly admit it. And so they aren’t true lies, because they don’t pretend to be anything else.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
Let’s assume for a moment that we’re talking about a story featuring classic good versus evil. There’s a hero and a villain. They struggle with each other for victory.
What makes the story good? Lots of things, but interest is a biggie. We like interesting stories. Inversely, we avoid boring stories. What makes an interesting story? Conflict. The hero has to struggle to reach her goal. She must overcome obstacles great and small, and in so doing display character growth and maturity. At the heart of that struggle is their nemesis, the story’s villain.
Good villains go through their own struggles. Does that surprise you? The hero isn’t the only one who must overcome. After all, the best villains are the heroes of their own stories.
Like heroes, villains have goals. These goals run directly counter to the hero’s, hence why they clash. Now, a villain may be stronger than the hero, or smarter, or generally more intimidating. Which is great! It makes the hero’s victory all the sweeter. But if the villain always wins and succeeds in all their schemes right up until the last hour when the hero finally, conclusively defeats her opponent, well … It’s not a bad thing, per se, but it’s a tad predictable, and rather repetitive.
But what if the conflict becomes a ping-pong match?
The hero wins one round. The villain wins the next. They trade blows and barbs; they’re evenly matched up until the last. Now that’s a good story! It keeps the audience on their toes. You don’t know what’s going to happen next. You’re dangling in delicious suspense. “What if?” you ask yourself. What if this story doesn’t end happily? What if the bad guy wins? After all, the villain is a match for the hero. It’s just like ping-pong, which can get really intense if both competitors are skilled.
Okay, we know that good overcomes evil 90% of the time, but the illusion of doubt is introduced. Disbelief is suspended. We are caught up in the moment of the story.
Meaningful conflict is driven by a question that any good story should prompt in the audience: What happens next? It doesn’t matter if deep down we know the answer. The question should still be whispered on our lips.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
There are bullies under the summer sun. They have no sense of mercy, they inflict harm without cause, and they don’t even have the decency to enjoy it. They buzz around like yellow caution signs of doom. They set up shop exactly where it will worst inconvenience you – butting into your backyard and your homes like they own the place. And if you say anything, they stab you.
I am, of course, talking about wasps. Nature, for all its horrors, is pretty chill all told. Spiders only bother you when you bother them (“It’s not MY fault you walked into the web I set up at eye level”). Tigers and bears and wolves are just hungry, or you got too close to their cubs. Who doesn’t get angry when someone messes with their kids? Sharks are the victims of bad press. Just because someone can’t blink or smile or emote in any way comprehensible to human brains is no reason to discriminate (also, get out of the water). And crocodiles and hippos … okay, they’re pretty bad, but if you keep your distance they’re okay.
Wasps don’t keep their distance. Wasps don’t need a reason. Wasps go out looking for trouble. Those narrow, spindly bodies, those pitch-dark eyes … Just look at the villainous invertebrates!
Look at them! Look at the vile monstrosities!
Not at all like the humble bee. Bees are selfless. Bees are productive. Bees can coexist with mankind. If you rile them up, they’ll sting once and give their lives for the colony. See, even if you’re being swarmed by bees, they’re still quite heroic when you think about it. They give themselves for a greater cause. Not wasps. The only thing a wasp has to give is PAIN.
They don’t produce honey or wax or even jelly. They got nothing (except the aforementioned giving of pain). All animals, no matter how scary, are reasonable enough when you get to know them. Except wasps. They gang up on you because you looked at them funny. They are genocidal, resource-hording invaders. They’re under your feet. They’re in your walls. They want your PB&J sandwich. They’ve claimed your favorite climbing tree and will obliterate you if you get too close. Screw you, wasps.
Wasps are jerks.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
When you think of writing a book, “commitment” is a word you might associate with time discipline, writing a certain number of words per day, or setting aside a chunk of your budget for publishing and marketing. You wouldn’t necessarily think of the writing itself. After all, writing is all about making changes. That’s what drafts are for! But there is at least one piece of the puzzle on which you have to make a choice early on, and from which backing out can be painful. That is choosing your narrative point-of-view.
Now, third-person is common and popular, but what if you go for first-person? Ah, then you really have to commit, because first-person narrative has a whole set of pros and cons to it that change the way you tell the story.
The pros? Writing in first-person lets you get inside the head of your POV character, whether they be the protagonist or someone else, and really dig into their psychology and the world they live in. It’s a very personal method of storytelling. You really get to know who this character is as a person. Plus, you get to shape the story and its twists and surprises in a fairly organic way. The reader can only know what the narrator knows (or thinks they know). And the narrator doesn’t have to be honest or reliable.
On the other hand, first-person limits the scope of your storytelling. You can’t describe a distant scene two countries over, you can’t pull back and dedicate a few paragraphs to an unbiased history of the setting, and most importantly, you are restricted to the one character. You can’t jump between multiple peoples’ perspectives.
Ok, that’s not true. Crazy geniuses can write books that feature multiple POV characters told from multiple first-person perspectives, but I’m not brave enough to try it. But if you have written or read such a book, let me know in the comments. I’d be interested in reading it.
Your narrative is narrow in scope. That’s not to say the story itself has to be . It can be a sprawling epic, but you will only see it through the eyes of one person. That’s why you have to be sure of yourself before you start. You’re gonna have to commit.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
Crossover, crossovers. People from different worlds smashing into each other. Different genres, different styles, different stories. Throw them in a mixer and see what happens.
What’s the appeal? I’d say it comes down to simple curiosity. What would happen if Superman met Captain America? How would Greek myths get on with Chinese myths? Can a pirate really defeat a ninja?
It’s a popular trend these days. Maybe not so much in novel writing, but movies love them, video games really love them, and comics are practically built on them. And they’re fun. But there’s something about these companies’ strategy that is missing the point of a crossover. Every time one occurs (multiple times a year), it’s built up as the MOST INCREDIBLE THING EVER. And people get excited sure. But not like they used to.
Way back in 2008, when Nick Fury stepped out of the shadows at the end of the first Iron Man film to talk about “the Avenger Initiative,” fans squealed with joy and anticipation. Nowadays, the next big Marvel crossover film elicits a non-committal “Eh,” at best.
As a writer, my professional opinion is that crossovers are not easy to pull off anymore, largely because they’ve been done to death.
And that, I think, is the strength and weakness of the concept. Crossovers are big events. They’re something special, something noteworthy. Two completely different worlds colliding is interesting, and fans are curious to see if it can be pulled off. Batman and Elmer Fudd? Yeah, it’s been done, and it won’t be done again because you can’t capture that kind of lightning in a bottle twice. Crossovers are like a fine wine, best in small sips. Overuse just makes you feel overwhelmed. Try imagining a world where the Super Bowl happens every month.
Another example: Back in the 1980s, Mario and Sonic the Hedgehog were the pinnacle of dueling video game mascots. Who was better? Who was cooler? Then, one fateful day, they appeared together in the same game. Awesome! But they’ve done so again and again, and what was something that nobody ever saw coming is now ho-hum, another day in the neighborhood. Video game characters appear in each other’s franchises all the time, now. It’s practically an industry standard.
As it turns out, such “events” are best when served rare. Very rare. Otherwise, they aren’t events. They’re business as usual.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
Masterpiece. It’s a word you hear often. So often, I feel that its meaning has been drained out of it. Like “genius” and “magnum opus,” it’s a label we often apply to something that we enjoy on a personal level, regardless of whether it deserves the title.
A little harsh? Probably. There’s nothing wrong with liking something. In fact, I encourage you to like lots of things. Enjoy life. But I like to overthink things and write them down, so why not dig a little deeper?
Masterpiece. It’s actually two words. Master. Piece. A master piece. In ye olden days, guilds and academies required their apprentices and journeymen to submit a masterpiece as part of their application to the status of master. Hence, they presented a piece that marked mastery of their craft, be it carpentry, smithing, jewelry, baking, or what have you. Proof and demonstration that they were worthy of attaining the highest rank, as judged by their superiors.
So, it was something that was measured against quantifiable standards. A masterpiece was actually a lot like today’s college senior capstones: a final paper or project that demonstrates the graduate’s understanding of their degree subject. Or perhaps more appropriately, it is like a doctorate or master’s thesis (and there’s the word “master” again!). That’s not really surprising, considering that guilds, like schools, train people for careers.
But the word’s meaning changed over time, as words are wont to do. Now, a masterpiece has come to hold an even more elevated meaning. It is not simply proof of an individual’s skill, but it is the apex of their skill. Mona Lisa is Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece. Not his first work, but widely considered his best. 1984 is George Orwell’s masterpiece, and Star Wars is George Lucas’s.
So what does the word mean nowadays? It means something superlative, something that represents the epitome of the creator’s talent and understanding of the art. It is applied to anything that can be considered great or notable. And in so doing, we have, oddly enough, brought the word down. A masterpiece is declared as such by critics who are not necessarily practitioners of the art. Anyone who favors a particular artist or author and is eager to share that love can declare their favorite work to be a masterpiece, regardless of what merit it actually represents. That happens with all words – their meanings change and are shaped by usage into something quite different, and will again in a hundred years or so – but looking back at a word’s origin can make you look at it a little differently. A little more carefully.
A masterpiece was originally something that proved the apprentice was worthy of the master’s rank as judged by his teachers. It was a stepping stone from a lower tier to a higher one. It was a gateway and a turning point in one’s life. It was something singular and unique. It was the masterpiece of your career. It was something special.
Call me grumpy, but I think we can be more mindful when using words like masterpiece. They are powerful words, and applying them more prudently can in turn make us consider the media we consume more carefully. A bit of critical thinking put into evaluating whether something is truly a master’s piece. And that’s good practice for any artist.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
Many thanks for visiting my blog. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
The story of the redeemed villain is a common and provocative trope in storytelling. It’s always fascinating to witness how a thoroughly evil and vile figure can turn around and repent of their ways. We like to see these tales play out and watch what happens next. It appeals to us.
Maybe the villain is likeable enough that we don’t want to see them die, or maybe we even see a little bit of ourselves in there, and hope that their redemption means there’s hope for us, too. Whatever the reason, a villain’s redemption is a major story beat, and should be treated as such. Which, in turn, means that writers should seriously consider it before going through with it. Is it the right move for the story? Is the villain truly redeemable, that is to say, is it a logical and fitting step in their growth as a character? Are they willing to seek redemption? Most importantly, can they be redeemed in a way that the audience finds natural and believable?
It’s easy to fall in love with a good villain and not want them to die. So, some writers just … give them an out. The villain evades consequences, sobs a few tears, gives a dramatic monologue, and skips on over to the side of good. And are welcomed with open arms. But is that how it would actually play out in the context of the world you’ve written? How bad is your bad guy? Did they blow up a planet, or just steal a few pies? If it’s the former, do you really expect them to be immediately welcomed and trusted by the heroes?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about a villain-hero team-up. Sometimes, good guy and bad guy have to work together, usually against a worse bad guy, but the villain remains clearly villainous, just currently motivated by shared interest. To be redeemed, a villain must be penitent. And to be penitent, a villain must truly feel remorse. And in feeling remorse, a villain must show a change in action and motivation.
A redemption arc is character development. The character will not be the same person at the end of it. Indeed, we writers should seriously consider this fact. If the villain was likeable because of their villainy, then redeeming them may in fact hurt them as a character. They’re no longer a villain. Will that take away what made them interesting and engaging?
On the other hand, you could have the villain redeemed through the classic act of self-sacrifice. It worked for Darth Vader, didn’t it? But, and hear me out, I think this is a bit of a cheat. Imagine how different things would have been for this classic movie villain if he had survived and had to stand trial before the people whose friends and family he had slaughtered. He would have to face his daughter Leia over the destruction of Alderaan. He would deliver himself into the hands of the Rebel Alliance he had hunted down for the whole trilogy. He’d have to live with the memories of his crimes. He’d have to do more than gasp a few words to his son as he lay dying to convince us he was truly changed. He would have to make his redemption stick. An interesting thought, no?
Redemption arcs are fascinating. They offer an incredible opportunity to explore facets of a character that usually aren’t. How and why does the villain do what they do? What would make them stop doing it? Can they stop? Do they have doubts? Do they value something greater than their current goals that they would give up their desires for? These are the sorts of questions that can help you figure out if your villain is a candidate for a moral turnaround.
The most important question to ask is: Does it serve the story? We are talking about fictional characters, after all. They’re not real people, they’re figures in a narrative that we as writers have the responsibility and privilege to manage and direct. Redemption and repentance in real life is quite another thing entirely, even if they do inspire our work. Real life is fuzzy. We can’t truly know other people’s motivations. But we can know exactly what motivates the characters we write, and so we can answer this question with confidence: Can my villain stop being bad?
If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
My first book, A God Walks up to the Bar, is available on Amazon.com. Witness the modern day adventures of the Greek god Hermes in a world much like our own – and with demigods, vampires, nymphs, ogres, and magic. The myths never went away, they just learned to move on with the times. It’s a tough job, being a god!
Tricksters are fascinating to read about and to write about. They’re the weirdos who exist on the fringes of polite society. They’re the ones who can get away with what other people can’t. They’re stick their tongues out at the world and make the rules work for them, rather than working according to the rules.
Tricksters are fun. They’re fun because, deep down, don’t we all enjoy seeing someone willing to say what we’re all thinking and doing what we wish we could? Tricksters are escapist characters. They pay back the jerks and the bullies, outwit the corrupt authority figures, and flout senseless and silly rules. We all enjoy our Robin Hoods and B’rer Rabbits.
Writing tricksters is fun, too. Writing the character of Hermes for my books has let me see the world from a different point of view. I suppose writing any character gives you such insights, but seeing the world through a trickster’s eyes …
They’re a surprisingly philosophical bunch. As characters whose primary role is to push boundaries and alter the status quo, they are naturally prone to questioning the point of things. Why are things the way they are? Why should (or shouldn’t) they change? Tricksters are the ones who can call out others for their actions and make the rest of the cast pause and think. And that makes for interesting writing. The archetype can fill all sorts of niches, whether the villainous anarchist, the secret mentor, the voice of reason, or the snarky smart aleck who gets all the best lines.
And then, of course, there’s the trickster as protagonist. Tricksters can carry a story all by themselves. By their very nature, they’re proactive. They get things done. The can save the day (or ruin it – protagonist doesn’t mean hero). Since the archetype is almost always transgressive in some way, he or she gets to give society a kick in the pants, usually by acting so outrageously or cunningly that nobody knows what to expect next.
Speaking of cunning, writing tricksters has also taught me a bit about plotting out, well, plots. I sometimes feel like we live in an age of fiction where schemes and trickery must be excessively complex. Writers like to create grand conspiracies, when a trickster is just as likely to tap you on one shoulder while standing on the opposite side. Committing a trickster like Hermes to the page has shown me that deception can be much simpler. Tricking people doesn’t really seem to be that hard. Often, it’s just a matter of reading people and playing up to expectations. Or remembering that most people just want today to be the same as yesterday and aren’t expecting to be hoodwinked. Then again, written characters also behave according to how the author has plotted them to behave, so maybe I’m just blowing smoke.
So, tricksters upend the social order. They slip into different roles with ease. They’re many things to many people. What they aren’t is moral, upstanding role models.
But …
What if a trickster tries to be moral? Is such a thing possible? Trickery is lying, and lying is immoral. Can you reconcile the trickster archetype with the hero archetype? Transgressing social values and upholding them? Can the two be melded? A liar with a moral compass? Can a trickster follow right and reject wrong? Can anything truly good come from trickery?
Very interesting philosophical musings, indeed. I’m still messing about with such notions in my writing. My version of Hermes is developing as I go, revealing new facets of his personality as my works progress. Tricksters aren’t simple characters, after all.
If you just so happen to be enjoying my blog, feel free to subscribe. I post updates on my writing career, I muse over storytelling and fiction, and I reflect on the curious and wonderful things in life.
My first book, A God Walks up to the Bar, is available on Amazon.com. Witness the modern day adventures of the Greek god Hermes in a world much like our own – and with demigods, vampires, nymphs, ogres, and magic. The myths never went away, they just learned to move on with the times. It’s a tough job, being a god!
Jake W. Powell 
