To and First . . . or what the Inciting Incident really is

As writers we’ve had it pounded into our heads that an Inciting Incident must be cataclysmic or apocalyptic or world-shattering to ensure maximum excitement at the beginning of our story.

Sure an Inciting Incident can be worlds colliding but it doesn’t have to be. It can be a major or minor event all depending upon your particular story and your particular protagonist.

Because of this, many writers often confuse what the Inciting Incident really is, or even just don’t know, so I’ll give you the proper definition now: the event which happens to the protagonist and presents their first awareness of the story’s central conflict.

Take note of the two key elements: 1. that it happens TO your protagonist, and 2. that it presents their FIRST awareness of the story’s central conflict.

If either of these is missing (To or First) then it is not an Inciting Incident.

For example, in the movie Jaws by Steven Spielberg, ask a room full of people what its Inciting Incident is and many will tell you that it’s obviously the opening scene where the shark brutally kills and eats the swimmer. And they will claim that’s because if not for the shark attack then the rest of the story wouldn’t have happened.

Wrong!

The Inciting Incident of Jaws is not the opening scene of the shark attack because the protagonist, Sheriff Brody, is not present, so it doesn’t happen to him nor does it present his first awareness of the story’s central conflict. If we wanted to make it the Inciting Incident then all we’d have to do is place Sheriff Brody on the beach to witness the shark attack.

Instead, the Inciting Incident of Jaws takes place several scenes later and is a minor event when Sheriff Brody first learns of the shark attack because this happens to the protagonist as well presents his first awareness of the story’s central conflict. He then reacts poorly, as all flawed protagonists do, by trying to keep the matter hush-hush and not shutting down the beach because their little island town thrives on tourism, but that’s neither here nor there yet.

So what makes a good Inciting Incident?

I’ll do you one better!

Here are the five most common Inciting Incidents:

1. A Telegram Arrives: the protagonist is invited into an extraordinary adventure or mission, or an adversity outside of the protagonist’s current worldview forces them from naïveté to maturity through the process of reflecting on his or her life while making changes.

2. A Great Crime: a personal or impersonal crime occurs which spurs the protagonist to seek revenge or justice (or hunt for/escape from the monster).

3. Forbidden Temptation: the protagonist stumbles upon something (a place, an object, or even a person) they know they shouldn’t interact with but they choose or are forced to do it anyway, or a new temptation requests the protagonist to betray their conscience for the sake of some benefit or greater good.

4. Meet / Split: the couple meets for the first time and an emotional connection is made whether romantic or platonic (either eventual sexual relations or a ‘buddy love’ duo) / or the couple already exists and some kind of betrayal occurs, usually an infidelity, so that they separate (the severing of a sexual relationship or best friendship).

5. The Proving: entry into some kind of tournament or competition for the performance of some skill or talent, whether team or individual, though told through the protagonist’s point of view.

*Notice that every example contains multiple versions of the Inciting Incident, and that’s because there exists numerous ways in which you can twist them to fit your particular story. For example #2: A Great Crime. A personal crime could be something like the protagonist coming home from work and discovering their murdered spouse lying on the floor. The impersonal crime twist on this is that the protagonist is a detective and discovers a stranger’s dead body by happenstance while investigating the scene of a police call. The former may spur the protagonist into seeking revenge, while the latter motivates the protagonist into seeking justice.

Inciting Incidents kick off your story’s central conflict, and they should happen as soon as possible, but you don’t want to begin your story with the Inciting Incident because we the audience need to be invested in the protagonist first. That’s why Inciting Incidents work best as a three-part sequence of events as follows:

1. Save the Cat, then Kick the Dog: first the protagonist performs an admirable act to establish likeability (Save the Cat), then they suffer an undeserved misfortune to establish sympathy (Kick the Dog). Likeability + Sympathy = Empathy. Protagonist empathy must exist, which is why you should always start your story with it, otherwise we won’t care when the Inciting Incident happens and that removes its impact.

2. Inciting Incident: the event that happens to your protagonist and presents their first awareness of the story’s central conflict.

3. Reaction and Response: the protagonist’s reaction and response to the Inciting Incident, and in a ‘wrong’ way because of their dominant character flaw, which only worsens the Inciting Incident’s influence upon their ordinary world no longer ordinary until they cannot ignore it any longer and decide they must do something about it.

I suggest making these three events the first three chapters of your novel for good reason. The first chapter establishes reader-to-protagonist empathy, a must in order for us to care about the protagonist and what happens to them. The second chapter introduces the story’s central conflict not only to the protagonist but also the reader; this is, if asked what your novel is about, the story the reader will describe. And the third chapter shows the protagonist’s flawed reaction and response to conflict though also displays their need for and possible willingness to change because of their dominant character flaw’s opposite virtue, providing us a glimpse of who they may become by the story’s end if:

1. Triumph: they eventually abandon their dominant character flaw for its opposite virtue and achieve their true potential through character growth, thus living a more satisfying existence than when they started because of it.

Or . . .

2. Tragedy: they eventually regress deeper into their dominant character flaw while rejecting its opposite virtue, thus living a more miserable existence than when they started because of it (or maybe even earning literal death).

Both of these (Triumph or Tragedy) are decided during the Rubicon that takes place at the end of Act 2, and which of the two the protagonist chooses (either flaw or virtue) will become their new dominant character trait for the rest of the story that is Act 3 . . . because Act 3 exists to reward the triumphant protagonist for choosing virtue over flaw which ends with the ultimate reward that is the story’s Climax, or to punish the tragic protagonist for choosing flaw over virtue which ends with the ultimate punishment that is the story’s Climax.

Point being, all Inciting Incidents introduce conflict. And all conflict falls into two categories:

1. Internal Conflict (within): the protagonist struggles with their own opposing desires or beliefs.

2. External Conflict (without): the protagonist struggles against an outside force, someone or something beyond their control.

*Remember: both Internal and External conflicts are necessary for an interesting story and believable protagonist.

And there exists six different types of conflict you can use to propel your story:

1. Person vs. Self: the protagonist struggles to discern what the moral or ‘right’ choice is, or it may also encompass mental health struggles.

2. Person vs. Person: the protagonist’s needs or wants are at odds with another character’s and they struggle for victory over the other.

3. Person vs. Society: the protagonist (alone or in a group) fights against injustices within their society, whether the government, a cultural tradition, or societal norm of some kind.

4. Person vs. Supernatural: the protagonist is pitted against phenomena (whether extraterrestrial, metaphysical, or technological) to create an unequal playing field while often raising poignant questions about what it means to be human.

5. Person vs. Fate/Destiny: the protagonist discovers an imposing fate or destiny and struggles to accept the sacrifices that come along with it.

6. Person vs. Nature: the protagonist is set in opposition to the weather, the wilderness, or a natural disaster, often battling for survival against the inexorable and apathetic force.

Inciting Incidents are simple really, and can be pretty much anything (surprising news of changing circumstances, a clue discovered to something known or unknown, a sudden turn of luck or misfortune, an ally becomes an enemy or an enemy becomes an ally, something of value is lost or stolen or broken, someone is kidnapped or killed, blah blah blah . . .) so long as it happens to the protagonist and presents their first awareness of the story’s central conflict.

The key is to take your beloved protagonist then inject something they’ve never dealt with before into their life that influences their ordinary world no longer ordinary in as permanent a way as possible and cannot be ignored while also relating to their dominant character flaw as well possesses a link to the antagonist.

Just remember the To and First rule and you’ll never question your Inciting Incident again.

Happy writing!

The Rubicon . . . or the Most Crucial Moment in your story

The Midpoint of your story serves a very special purpose because it’s when your protagonist achieves their full dedication to resolving the story’s central conflict by shifting them from Reaction (not in control of the conflict) to Proaction (taking control of the conflict). This is what is meant by ‘Midpoint Reversal’ because it’s a reversal of circumstances. The hunted becoming the hunter so to speak.

Before the Midpoint the protagonist is not fully dedicated to the cause. After the Midpoint the protagonist becomes fully committed because the Midpoint is a hefty no turning back point while raising the story stakes and making it too personal to ignore or abandon any longer.

And by the Midpoint at the latest the protagonist and antagonist must recognize that they are each other’s true obstacle standing in their way to achieving their goal and must be removed in order for them to succeed. This is often why in many stories at the Midpoint the protagonist and antagonist come to literal face-to-face for the first time, prompting this necessary recognition of conflict.

Think of the movie Gladiator with Russell Crowe and Joaquin Phoenix. Russell’s character Maximus is enslaved and dons a mask while fighting after being betrayed by Joaquin’s Commodus. At the Midpoint of the story, Maximus and Commodus literally come face-to-face in Rome where Commodus demands of the unknown gladiator to remove his mask and reveal himself. Maximus does, shocking everyone in the arena as well Commodus who presumed the famous general dead. This gives us a little taste of the protagonist vs. antagonist showdown that will happen by story’s end while letting us know that confrontation is now inevitable as well that once it happens the story is over. This also signifies that Maximus and Commodus now truly recognize each other as the main obstacle in their way to victory.

Midpoints also serve another special purpose because they help define whether your story is one of protagonist triumph or protagonist tragedy.

But how do you know which?

Easy.

Act 2A

Midpoint

Act 2B

Act 2A of a triumphant protagonist story is more successes than failures toward resolving the story’s central conflict. The Midpoint is where they achieve their biggest success yet called the False Victory (an All is Joy moment in which the protagonist is at their highest point in the story so far). Act 2B is more failures than successes because Acts 2A & 2B are opposites. Act 2B ends in an All is Lost for the protagonist, or the False Defeat (in which the protagonist is at their lowest point in the story so far).

-Triumphant Protagonist-

Act 2A: more successes than failures leading to the False Victory (all is joy)

Act 2B: more failures than successes leading to the False Defeat (all is lost)

To change their story from triumph to tragedy all one needs to do is switch Acts 2A & 2B as well switch the False Victory and False Defeat each leads to.

So Act 2A of a tragic protagonist story becomes more failures than successes. The Midpoint is where they suffer a major misfortune, or the All is Lost of the False Defeat. Since Acts 2A & 2B have been switched, Act 2B becomes more successes than failures, which ends in the All is Joy of the False Victory.

-Tragic Protagonist-

Act 2A: more failures than successes leading to the False Defeat (all is lost)

Act 2B: more successes than failures leading to the False Victory (all is joy)

Either way, what happens next is the most crucial moment in your story because after the All is Lost of the False Defeat, the triumphant protagonist abandons their dominant character flaw for its opposite virtue. And after the All is Joy of the False Victory, the tragic protagonist regresses deeper into their dominant character flaw while rejecting its opposite virtue.

Both of these determine your entire Act 3 and its outcome.

1. The triumphant protagonist confronts the antagonist and defeats them because of their virtue.

Or . . .

2. The tragic protagonist confronts the antagonist and is defeated by them because of their flaw.

Because . . .

1. A False Victory Midpoint (all is joy) gives you a triumphant protagonist during the story’s Act 3 Climax.

And . . .

2. A False Defeat Midpoint (all is lost) gives you a tragic protagonist during the story’s Act 3 Climax.

I call this most crucial moment of decision the Rubicon because it’s the most defining stage of protagonist change as well a point of no return. The Rubicon is the linchpin which connects Act 2 and Act 3 together. It’s the moment the triumphant protagonist truly realizes their flawed Shield for the burden it is and throws it aside to brandish their virtuous Sword. Or the moment the tragic protagonist rejects their virtuous Sword and regresses deeper behind their flawed Shield (I go more in depth upon this here: Wound, Shield, and Sword).

The Rubicon is the most important decision your protagonist makes in their story because it represents their defining moment of true change. And Act 3 is all about the rewards (if they abandon their dominant character flaw) or consequences (if they embrace their dominant character flaw) of their decision as well how they then apply it to its fullest potential (virtue) or detriment (flaw).

But remember, change is never instant. The Rubicon is more so the protagonist’s acceptance of (flaw abandoned for virtue) or surrender to (virtue rejected for flaw) this defining moment of change. And during Act 3 they may slip in the opposite direction a handful of times along the way while adjusting to this change before they fully embrace it then wield it against the antagonist during the final battle of the story’s Climax.

-Triumphant Protagonist-

Act 1 (show the flaw and hint the virtue)

Act 2A (more successes than failures)

False Victory (all is joy)

Act 2B (more failures than successes)

False Defeat (all is lost)

The Rubicon (flaw abandoned for virtue)

Act 3 (the rewards of the virtue applied)

-Tragic Protagonist-

Act 1 (show the flaw and hint the virtue)

Act 2A (more failures than successes)

False Defeat (all is lost)

Act 2B (more successes than failures)

False Victory (all is joy)

The Rubicon (virtue rejected for flaw)

Act 3 (the consequences of the flaw applied)

Act 2 is well known for causing writers trouble because it is the meat of the story and requires much juicy beef layered between the two slices of Act 1 and Act 3 story bread, so let’s simplify by visualizing a mountain and a valley:

1. A triumphant protagonist’s Act 2 is a mountain (^) with Act 2A the first and ascending side (more successes than failures) and Act 2B the second and descending side (more failures than successes), its highest peak the Midpoint (the All is Joy of the False Victory).

And . . .

2. A tragic protagonist’s Act 2 is a valley (v) with Act 2A the first and descending side (more failures than successes) and Act 2B the second and ascending side (more successes than failures), its lowest dip the Midpoint (the All is Lost of the False Defeat).

You can build your entire story around its Midpoint because the Midpoint determines everything else that happens before and after it.

But what if you don’t know the Midpoint?

It’s all good muh babies if you know the Climax, because the Climax is a more intense version of the Midpoint.

1. Triumphant Protagonist: the True Victory Climax is the All is Joy of a False Victory Midpoint on steroids. And between them is the All is Lost of the False Defeat before the Rubicon.

Or . . .

2. Tragic Protagonist: the True Defeat Climax is the All is Lost of a False Defeat Midpoint on steroids. And between them is the All is Joy of the False Victory before the Rubicon.

We’ll use Gladiator again as the perfect example of how the Midpoint and the Climax parallel each other:

During the Midpoint, Maximus and Commodus come face-to-face though do not engage in battle, only talk and threaten. During the Climax, Maximus and Commodus come face-to-face again and this time they battle to the death.

(*note: Though Maximus is classified as a classic Greek ‘tragic hero’, his story is not one of tragedy but triumph.

Antagonist Commodus’ dominant character flaw is cowardice ((first proven at the movie’s beginning when he arrives late to the opening battle on purpose)) so before the climactic final battle, Commodus visits a chained Maximus and literally stabs him in the back while hugging him to ensure he’ll win then orders the wound covered before they fight to the death in front of all of Rome in the arena.

Maximus tragically dies from the mortal wound, true, but only after triumphantly killing Commodus.

Protagonist Maximus’ dominant character flaw is selfishness ((he cares little for helping Rome over inflicting revenge upon Commodus)), but during his Rubicon he embraces its virtue opposite of selflessness while coming to grips with the tyranny Commodus is imposing upon Rome that will only worsen.

Before Maximus dies after killing Commodus, he orders Senator Gracchus reinstated and expresses Marcus Aurelius’ final wish: that Rome be a republic again. Maximus’ death thereafter reunites him with his murdered family in the Elysian Fields of afterlife as reward.

Maximus is an anti-hero, and the true measure of the anti-hero is that they first reject a cause for selfish reasons ((as does Maximus to Marcus Aurelius then Commodus at the beginning of the movie)) then they eventually take up and almost always self-sacrifice to the cause they now believe in for selfless reasons.

If Maximus would have accepted Marcus’ offer then he and his family would still be alive, and when he kills Commodus in the arena it’s for the selfless higher purpose of saving Rome from Commodus’ tyranny instead of selfish revenge for his murdered family . . . though that latter is a bonus).

But what if you don’t know your story’s Climax either?

The easiest way to have your story plot itself out for you is from the Rubicon. Once you discover your flaw vs. virtue argument (your true story when everything else of lesser value is stripped away), the next step is to decide what your protagonist chooses during the Rubicon at the end of Act 2 (which then becomes their dominant character trait for the remainder of the story). If they choose virtue over flaw then they are a triumphant protagonist. If they choose flaw over virtue then they are a tragic protagonist. Either way, the decision they make at the Rubicon determines your story’s entire Act 2 and Act 3. Find your Rubicon and you’ll automatically find your Midpoint and Climax.

Simple as eating cake.

Knowing your Rubicon then writing from it makes plotting the rest of your story a warm and gentle breeze instead of the turbulent tornado many writers often consider it. So discover your Rubicon and you’ll discover the rest of your story.

Happy writing!

Wound, Shield, and Sword . . . or the Three most important Protagonist character traits

Whether triumph or tragedy, every great story is about one thing above all else: change.

And it all revolves around your Protagonist.

As well every Protagonist has two stories to tell that are intertwined: Internal Struggle and External Goal.

But story really begins with the three most important Protagonist character traits: Wound, Shield, and Sword.

Every great Protagonist has a Wound (something earned from suffering a past traumatic event that has left them emotionally, psychologically, and sometimes also physically, scarred) which is the reason why they carry around their Shield (their defense mechanism they believe protects them from ever being wounded that way again), and their Shield provides them their dominant character flaw that is keeping them resistant to change as well preventing them from wielding their Sword (achieving their true potential).

You see, the entire point of your Protagonist’s Internal Struggle throughout their story is for them to learn to mend their Wound and thus stop carrying around their Shield so that they can brandish their Sword.

This can only happen through character growth. And character growth can only happen through adversity.

This adversity is necessary because change is never instant, and people are inherently resistant to change. We like and feel safe as who and how we are and that’s that so leave me alone, Buster Brown!

Though understand said adversity should not be random adversity, it must be linked in some way to the Protagonist’s Wound, Shield, and Sword. Otherwise you have an arbitrary collection of events that serve no true purpose and have nothing in common other than that they happen to the same character, and that’s boring bunk nobody wants to read because the story has no real reason to exist.

The point of the Protagonist’s Outer Struggle is to eventually confront the Antagonist (the obstacle standing in their way from completing their External Goal). But the flawed Protagonist doesn’t yet have what it takes to defeat the Antagonist until they achieve their true potential through character growth (mending their Wound while dropping their Shield and raising their Sword, thus relieving themselves from their dominant character flaw while embracing its opposite virtue) so the three go hand in hand for a complete and satisfying story.

Begin your next story not by plotting events but with cunning Protagonist design. Stab them with a Wound, hand them their burdening Shield because of it, then over the course of their story mend that Wound so they can throw their flawed Shield aside and raise their virtuous Sword to confront and defeat the Antagonist as only the changed Protagonist can.

Understand this most important distinction between Protagonist and Antagonist because 90% of great stories end in Protagonist triumph: the Protagonist represents the virtue of change while progressing farther away from their dominant character flaw, whereas the Antagonist represents the vice of resisting change while regressing deeper into their dominant character flaw. This key difference is what allows the Protagonist to eventually triumph over the Antagonist and is the moral point of your story. Flaw vs. Virtue, and the rewards or consequences earned by choosing either.

Also understand that your Protagonist has two Antagonists, not just one: the Internal Antagonist which is their dominant character flaw, and the External Antagonist which is the obstacle preventing them from completing their External Goal. And the Protagonist must overcome their Internal Antagonist before they can defeat their External Antagonist because overcoming their Internal Antagonist is what gives them the power to defeat their External Antagonist.

So many writers fail their story here because they focus on only the External Antagonist while not understanding how vital to the Protagonist’s journey of character growth the Internal Antagonist also is.

Anywho . . .

A Wound can be anything, really, so long as it’s emotionally scarring. A dead loved one. A childhood accident. An embarrassing public event. Barely surviving a traumatic situation such as with fire or drowning that leaves them stricken by phobia. Cheated on or betrayed by someone they trusted most.

A Shield is the Protagonist’s dominant character flaw and what they believe will ensure they won’t get wounded in that way ever again. It’s their instinctual defense mechanism to every situation until they discover and eventually embrace change. Never getting close to anyone out of fear from losing them. Staying clear of fire or water, or perhaps walking everywhere because they survived the car accident that killed their parents. Avoiding relationships so as to never be betrayed or cheated on again.

A Sword is the opposite virtue of the Protagonist’s dominant character flaw, and what allows them to achieve their true potential. Abandoning cowardice for bravery and finally standing up for themselves or others. A habitual liar realizing honesty is better than weaving a constant web of little white lies. Learning to trust again. A lonely widow accepting loss as a part of life and so enters a new relationship while leaving behind the baggage of the old one. Realizing hiding away from the world won’t heal their physical disfigurement so that they finally embrace it publicly.

The possibilities are endless.

And once you know your Protagonist’s Wound, Shield, and Sword, their story will practically write itself because all scenes in it must be connected to one of these three traits in some way.

Act 1: the flawed Protagonist living behind their Shield out of habitual practice because of their Wound.

Act 2A: the blossoming Protagonist learning of their Sword while considering the scary possibility of living without their Shield as their Wound mends slowly.

Act 2B: the regressing Protagonist returning behind their Shield because they endure more wounds worse than before, but now they recognize their Shield for the burden it truly is (usually because it causes great harm to someone they’ve come to care about).

Act 3: the changed Protagonist casting their flawed Shield aside and raising their virtuous Sword while waking to their full potential then proving its worth against the Antagonist.

Or to simplify the focus:

Act 1 = Shield

Act 2 = Shield vs. Sword

Act 3 = Sword

Change is scary but also a necessary part of life. That’s why it forms the foundation of the greatest stories ever told as well creates the best Protagonists.

As I’ve said, the three traits go hand in hand because they are linked. The Wound is the reason for the Shield, and the Sword is the virtue opposite of the Shield’s flaw. For example:

Wound: betrayed

Shield: distrust

Sword: trust

Here we have a wounded Protagonist whose husband cheated on her and so they get divorced. To protect herself from ever being wounded in this way again she hides behind a Shield of distrust with every reluctant relationship thereafter. But it’s only when she learns to abandon her Shield for her Sword of trust can she truly be happy and experience love again in all its glorious splendor.

Superhero movies make great examples of this process. The Hero lives stricken by their Wound and hides behind their Shield until they eventually cast it aside for their Sword and finally achieve their true potential as the Superhero they are meant to be.

Thor: Ragnarok. Thor’s Wound is loss (his dead mother Frigga and his exiled father Odin). Because of this Thor’s Shield is doubt, since he’s now king but he believes he’ll never live up to the expectations of being a great king as was Odin who is no longer there to advise him. And because of this doubt he believes his god of thunder powers reside in his hammer. It’s only when his sister Hela, the goddess of death, is released from imprisonment and wreaks havoc on their people after Odin dies and after Hela destroys Thor’s hammer does Thor, through a near-death vision with his dead father asking him if he’s the god of hammers then telling Thor he will be a better king than his father, realize his true god of thunder powers reside within himself and not his broken hammer. Thor casts aside his Shield of doubt, finally embraces his Sword of belief, achieves his true potential as the god of thunder and king of Asgard, and defeats Hela while saving his people from Ragnarok.

In Spider-Man: Homecoming, Peter Parker’s Wound is loss (his dead uncle Ben) and fear (of not being able to protect those he loves). This burdens him with the Shield of insecurity. Tony Stark provides him an awesome suit full of cool gadgets he’s not yet allowed to access. But Peter gets into trouble after hacking the suit so that Iron Man arrives on scene and cleans up Spider-Man’s mess. Angry, Tony demands the suit back, and Peter pleads that he needs the suit to be Spider-Man. Tony replies, “If you need the suit to be Spider-Man then you shouldn’t be wearing it.” Later, without the suit and after confronting the Vulture then buried under tons of rubble because of it, scared Peter Parker remembers Tony’s words about the suit. Peter, moments from dying and all by himself, realizes the suit is not what makes him Spider-Man, abandons his Shield of insecurity and brandishes his Sword of confidence, erupts from the rubble and as Spider-Man without the suit chases after then defeats the Vulture as only Spider-Man can.

The original The Matrix movie is another perfect example. Neo’s wound is disconnection (he endures a perpetual sense of loss that something is missing in and wrong with the world so he mires in loneliness as a cybercriminal while attempting to discover what is creating that inexplicable sense of loss), so he hides behind his Shield of distrust and disbelief, refusing to accept that he’s anything special or worthy of anything special, and certainly not the One even after meeting Morpheus and taking the red pill. But with Trinity’s help, because she loves him and refuses to accept that he’s not the One, Neo eventually casts aside his Shield and brandishes his Sword of trust and true belief, rising from the dead and defeating the agents as only the One can.

Notice something? A recurring theme in superhero movies is the hero’s Wound of loss, the Shield of doubt, and the Sword of belief in one’s self so that they can achieve their true superhero potential.

But don’t think Wound, Shield, and Sword are restricted to only superhero stories. They apply to every story of every genre. And they differ depending on the writer and their particular Protagonist.

For example, let us say you and I both start our Protagonist with the same Wound of loss (we’ll stick to the exampled theme above). This does not mean that they then must have a Shield of doubt and a Sword of belief. Loss can be anything, and we each deal with it in our own personal and private ways.

I’ll stricken my Protagonist with a loss of having survived the terrorist bombing attack that killed their parents. Then burden them with a Shield of anxiety in the form of agoraphobia (fear of public places) through crippling panic attacks. And their Sword will be courage so they can eventually overcome their agoraphobia to hunt down the terrorist organization responsible for their parents’ murder.

Whereas you might stricken your Protagonist with the loss of their children to disease. Maybe they’re religious and you burden them with a Shield of resentment so they blame God because of it and are jealous that their Atheist friends’ children are still alive and well. Then you give them a Sword of forgiveness so that they can eventually restore their Christian faith while regaining compassion for their fellow man despite the opposing beliefs involved.

See? Two completely different stories though both stem from the same Wound of loss.

Because in basic terms and regardless the fiction genre: the Wound provides an emotional detriment, the Shield an insecurity because of it, and the Sword a panacea to the Shield.

Again, the possibilities are endless!

Start with the Wound, then the Shield and Sword will arrive through natural conclusion.

And the best Protagonist wounds come from the writer themselves. So discover your personal Wound then give it to your Protagonist and write their story around it because this will provide your story and your Protagonist’s struggle precious honesty since you’ll be writing it from a place of personal experience.

We all love wounded Protagonists because we see them and say, “Hey, you’re like me. I feel your pain and so can relate to it on a personal level. Now I really want to know your story and how it turns out!”

And this establishes the most important Reader to Protagonist link: empathy.

Once you know your Protagonist’s Wound you can then write their story much easier because every scene should focus in some way on either tearing that Wound or mending it. Though this back-and-forth seesaw sequence of tearing and mending events and how you go about implementing them is entirely up to you and your Protagonist’s particular story.

Wound, Shield, and Sword . . . the three most important Protagonist character traits.

Happy writing!

Super Mary Sues . . . or Why Consequence Matters

Barry Allen is doing his thang when he hears a police report of two hackneyed supervillains, Captain Cold and Heatwave, causing chaos by attacking innocent civilians far across the city while attempting to rob DC’s version of a Brinks truck for its tasty monetary content. So our boy Barry spins ablur into his red-with-golden-bolt superhero suit and the Flash streaks at over 700 mph from one end of the ginormous city to the other in seconds, arriving on the scene lickety-split.

Where he stops moving fast and fights the rampaging villains (who are nothing more than two normal men armed with a heat and freeze gun) with normal punches and normal kicks. He even gets grazed by a few shots while dodging at normal speed before finally dispatching the bad guys despite it being previously established that the Flash can move so fast he can basically make time stand still for everyone but himself.

So what’s wrong with this scenario?

Everything!

And it’s the reason why I stopped watching The Flash television show years ago: disgust.

Who the f#$& would arrive on scene in a streaking blur then for no reason other than to establish fake tension stop moving fast and start moving at normal speed?

Exactly.

That’s just stupid.

And it’s bad, lazy writing.

Let alone if one can move so fast then they can think that much faster thus making them the most intelligent being on the planet able to consider a million options during the second it takes the villain to attempt punching them once.

I have the same problem with Superman or Wonder Woman, both of whom can move almost as fast as the Flash whenever they want and yet they almost never do. Because they are overpowered to the point of boring.

Superman is only a superhero when fighting someone who possesses his only weakness: kryptonite. Remove the kryptonite and you remove the consequences. Remove the consequences and I stop caring.

(Yeah yeah, Superman is weak against magic now too, though DC only added this flaw to his character after decades of wearing thin the whole kryptonite spiel, but you get my point.)

There’s nothing worse than overpowering your protagonist only to realize halfway through your story how overpowered they really are because you’re trying to live vicariously through your Super Mary Sue and so you’re forced to de-power them through stupid, illogical situations.

That special power you blessed your protagonist with which separates them from the rest of the normal herd must have an equal if not predominant consequence for its use. Otherwise why don’t they just go around using it constantly?

I love fantasy (so much I write it!) but I also hate it. Because the fantasy genre is one of the most abused genres in all of fiction existence.

Ignorant hacks who’ve read a few Harry Potter books and nothing but think: ‘Hey! I’ll make my protagonist an insecure adolescent outcast with a big heart who goes to wizard school where he meets other wizard friends who also don’t fit in with the cool kids but they’ll eventually fight an evil wizard to save the day and become the bestest wizards evar!’

These are the same uncreative writers who upon watching the Twilight series of movies immediately sat down to pen their next great novel revolving round their own version of a human/vampire/werewolf love triangle because originality is too much like real work.

Same imbeciles who’ve watched (because god forbid they actually read the novels) the Lord of the Rings movies also think: ‘I want to write a fantasy novel so first I’ll start with elves and dwarfs and hobbits and orcs and dragons and wizards, all apparently taking place in medieval England where swords never dull and socks never get wet and rabbits abound that feed every belly while containing all necessary nutrients because rabbit starvation doesn’t exist or anything!’

My biggest gripe about fantasy is the wizard character who shoots wizard’s fire or conjures other such spells and their only consequence for it is they get tired.

Really?

Tired?

That’s the f#$&ing best you can come up with?

Whenever I peruse my local used book store, I’ll begin by hunting through my favorite writers for an hour, and then I’ll make a point of spending another hour with random selection of authors I’ve never read or heard of before. I slip a book from the shelf, I glance at the cover, then I flip it over and read the back blurb.

If I read anything about elves and dwarfs and wizards and hobbits and orcs and dragons and a Big Evil brooding inside Castle Doom high atop Scary Mountain, I immediately return the book to shelf while making a mental note to never read anything by that author.

Because they’ve just proven to me they are: 1. completely unoriginal, 2. a talentless Tolkien thief, and 3. they assume me an idiot entertained by overused stereotypes.

If you care so little about your fantasy world and characters that the only effort you put into it is stealing from other writers, then I care even less about reading it.

When I first conceived the protagonist of my fantasy Soothsayer Series, way many years back when before I even considered writing it down because I instead preferred my active imagination, the thought popped into my head about the whole concept of how smoking one cigarette supposedly takes six minutes off your life as told us by my 7th grade health teacher Mrs. Sprunger.

No big deal, right?

Until you add up twenty years of habitual smoking and realize you’ve knocked off ten years from the rest of your shorter life.

Accumulative, that.

Also a sure consequence for instant gratification.

Enjoy it now, pay for it later.

Smoke up, Johnny!

My imaginary protagonist (not yet named Banzu) could slow time around him while he continues moving at ‘normal’ pace, though to an outside observer he appears sped up. As consequence, because he’s accelerated, he ages slightly faster in trade than everyone else while using his ‘power’. Not a big deal in the short run, but in the long run it slices off a big chunk of his lifespan. Use it for short bursts every day for ten years and he’s aged an extra five or so in cruel exchange. Just like the whole cigarette concept only applied to character.

I did this because every time Banzu even considers using his power his next thought will always be: is this really worth me dying sooner?

Ergo: conflict wrought from consequence.

And that’s my point.

Affording your protagonist a power with no consequence for using it parallels handing them a gun that fires an infinite amount of bullets. Sure it’s fun in video games, but in novels the tension comes when our MC Sureshot runs low on or out of ammo and there’s still bad guys aplenty armed to the teeth.

Isaac Newton declared, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. And when it comes to fantasy protagonist superability I declare, for every power there must be an equal if not predominant consequence for using it.

Is your protagonist psychic? Then hit them with a crippling headache for hours after they glean someone’s thoughts, or have them so scatterbrained thereafter because of the confusing jumble of memories they hardly remember their own name until the other’s memories fade hours later.

Is your protagonist superstrong? Collapse them into a one-day coma after they spend ten minutes throwing garbage trucks at the bad guys, or render them weak as a mewling newborn kitten between their short bursts of superstrength.

Can your protagonist fly without wings or plane? Then power their supernatural ability with the sun though with the caveat that during nighttime their ‘internal gravity’ becomes twice times their normal, making them sluggish with leaden bones, or heck even paralyzed until the sun rises again.

Or determine the strength of their power by the cycle of the moon so it waxes and wanes with beautiful Luna ala werewolves.

You catch my drift.

There’s a plethora of options afforded you when it comes to administering interesting consequences to protagonist powers.

Breathe underwater? Give them debilitating asthma outside of it.

Turn invisible? Only while naked and staying completely still.

Perfect night vision? Blind them during the day.

Immune to poison? Make their sweat toxic to everyone they touch.

Terrible nearsight to counterbalance super farsight, or vice versa.

Or determine your protagonist’s power by a rare element ingested (Brandon Sanderson framed his Mistborn series around this concept).

If your Super Mary Sue possesses an awesome power but with no consequence for using it then our immediate question is always: why aren’t they constantly using it?

But if you pair their power with an equal or greater consequence then we know why and don’t question it because the rarity of its use is logical.

Protagonist power should always come at a considerable cost to its wielder because this heightens the risk to reward ratio for its use.

One of my favorites is an alcoholic character I wrote who can ‘shoot wizard’s fire’ though only after ingesting strong amounts of alcohol to fuel it, so he must be drunk, and when he burns up the alcohol so too his fire dies out, leaving him powerless and with a grumpy hangover.

Then there’s Banzu who ages minutes over the course of seconds to everyone else while using his acceleration ability, not only shaving time off his total lifespan but putting into question his every relationship because he knows he’ll die much sooner than those he cares about.

So the next time you think up an awesome power for a cool fantasy superhero protagonist, your immediate question should be: how bad can I punish them whenever they use it?

Marvel’s Stan Lee is famous for the line, “With great power comes great responsibility.”

But I suggest when crafting your characters you change it to, “With great power comes great responsibility and even greater consequence.”

Happy writing!

Parry Purple Prose . . . or Learn how to Speed Read in less than 5 seconds!

Pick a novel, any novel.

Now I’m going to teach you a little trick I discovered myself years ago, and it takes less than 5 seconds to learn the ‘secret technique’ of its single enlightening sentence.

Ready?

Read only the first sentence of every paragraph . . . and also all dialogue.

BAM!

Now you know how to speed read.

But let’s extrapolate on why and how it works, shall we?

This secret technique works because the first sentence of a paragraph is the main point of the paragraph. Every sentence which follows expands upon that first sentence.

And dialogue (at least in well written novels by competent authors) contains pertinent information to the story or the characters involved otherwise there’s no reason for it to exist, because the point of dialogue is to present relevant information to the reader about either story-surface plot or underlying-character development.

A good indication of bad writing, by the by, is to peruse some dialogue when you’re deciding to buy a novel to read. If characters are talking about nothing that moves the story or any character relationships forward, are Hello’ing and Goodbye’ing all over the place, or there’s no subtle nuances of gestures happening during the exchanges of speech then you should buy a different novel to read.

Consider modern movies a moment. When was the last time you remember someone on screen answer their phone with a Hello then end the conversation with Goodbye? Exactly. These are unimportant to the story and the characters involved so producers have learned to cut them out to make space for more relevant information elsewhere (along with lots of other little editing cuts because all of those seconds add up to minutes better used to present the audience plot and character development).

My secret technique also helps you avoid the dreaded purple prose.

And what’s purple prose?

Extraneous description that is too elaborate or ornate while presenting little if any relevant information to the reader.

Meaning?

Let’s lead by example:

He moved slowly, at length, and carefully on tip toes through the dark room with an entirely unnecessary gaze trained on the red, wooden front door beckoning him closer, inch by creeping inch.

Yuck!

 And better summed:

He crept toward the door.

Now don’t get me wrong because not all prose is slathered in purple dread. Often it’s lyrical and poetic while crisping your imagination to vivid detail. But let’s not lose track of our focal point.

The average reader reads at 300 words per minute.

The average paperback novel (depending on trim size of mass market or trade, font and margins employed, paragraph breaks and dialogue length, white space, blah blah blah . . .) contains 300 words per page.

So considering all the various options we put into a blender then pour out we get an estimated 1 page for 1 minute of reading time (this also provides a good indication as to how long a standard paperback novel takes to read: 300 pages = 300 obvious minutes).

But my speed reading secret technique cuts that time by a factor of 10 (an estimated 10 pages for 1 minute of reading; 300 pages = 30 minutes . . . or even less once you grow accustomed to it).

Now, I don’t normally read this way because I enjoy reading . . . though sometimes you strike that boring novel in the middle of a beloved series which is obvious filler and fluff because the author is padding their novel with purple prose to their publisher’s expected word count, and you just want to get through it so you can move on to the next and better novel. Sure you’ll miss some minor details speed reading this way, but I guarantee you’ll still retain the overall important gist of the story.

Don’t believe me?

You and a friend choose an unread novel. Have your friend read it as normal while you speed read it using my secret technique. Now both of you write down a summary of the story you just read on a single sheet of paper each, exchange papers then compare and you’ll discover other than some minor details that both of your summaries are the same. Only it took your friend multiple hours to read the same novel that it took you to read in about 20 or so minutes (if we’re talking a standard paperback, mind, because as porn stars can attest to: size matters, baby).

You see, all that crap you’ve watched or heard about people running their fingers down the page in about 2 seconds while ‘speed reading’ every word of an entire book in 5 minutes is nothing more than a lie used to sell you expensive speed reading programs. As well science has already proven that it’s impossible for the human mind to actually speed read in such a way let alone retain the information.

That’s because my secret technique is the real way to speed read.

Do I recommend reading for leisure this way?

No, bitches!

Reading is fun and you should enjoy every minute of it. Especially so if you’re a writer because the more you read the more your writing improves. If I had to advise an aspiring author to spend one year writing every day but no reading or spend the year reading every day but no writing I would advise the latter every time.

But if you hit a slog of a novel, or even a slog of a chapter in an otherwise good novel, then you can apply my secret technique and instead of trudging through it while regretting your time you’ll actually enjoy yourself while still retaining the overall gist of the story and the characters involved.

My secret technique works great for the aspiring author seeking a fast track to learning and understanding plot, too. Sit with a handful of novels, as well a pen and notebook beside you, spend the next couple of hours speed reading all the novels you chose and after finishing each one write down a couple paragraphs about the overall story. You will notice that what you remember most and write about are the important plot points involved.

My secret technique also works great for lazy students who hate reading and are assigned a novel to read but put it off until the last minute.

Again, I do not recommend always reading this way, but the process of my secret technique provides you a valuable tool for learning as a writer. It also helps you as a reader to continue reading instead of setting aside a terrible novel.

So the next time you read a novel but a chapter or two in you pause and think, 'Ugh, this is pretty bad', say screw it, apply my secret speed reading technique and breeze through it.

Just remember:

Read only the first sentence of every paragraph . . . and also all dialogue.

You’re welcome!