Your Plot Shouldn't Rely on Miscommunication

We've all seen this story before. Two characters (best friends, a couple, business partners, the arrangement doesn't matter) find themselves at odds over a rather small but embarrassing misunderstanding. Maybe the fiancé thinks her husband-to-be is cheating on her with his secretary due to suspicious-looking-but-innocent circumstantial evidence. Perhaps a co-owner of a business thinks his partner is undermining him, when in fact he's trying to save their bottom line. The list goes on and on, but whether it's a mystery, a detective story, or one of the dozens of romantic or comedic plots out there, we've all seen some version of this story.

And it's a very shaky foundation to build an entire novel on.

Ah, that makes sense. Thanks for clearing that up, Becky!

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A 5-Minute Conversation Can't Carry a 200-Page Book

A common term for the situation in question is an idiot plot, best described as, "A plot that only happens because everyone involved is an idiot." After all, miscommunications happen in life, and people sometimes get the wrong idea about a situation. And when that happens there may be some immediate tension, and an awkward conversation that needs to be had to fix it.

The point, however, is that if you can fix a problem with a simple explanation, that really isn't something strong enough to hang your whole book on.

Okay, this is embarrassing, but I love you, so let me lay it all out for you...

Now, for clarity, this does not apply to situations where a person can't explain what's going on. For example, if you're writing a spy novel where part of the story is the spouse who's an intelligence operative keeping the nature of their work a secret (True Lies, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, etc.), that isn't the situation we're talking about. We're also not talking about situations where someone is deliberately lying, even if the reason they're lying is stupid. We're talking about a storyline where, rather than just asking what's going on and being honest with one another, characters just make assumptions, and cling to them no matter how obviously, ridiculously wrong they are.

As a subplot, or as a part of a larger story, you can get away with this. However, the miscommunication needs to facilitate a larger part of the plot. If it leaves someone emotionally vulnerable to make a poor decision before it can be explained, for example, then that is a functional use of this trope. But if the whole plot is, "I caught you in what looked like a compromising position with a co-worker/personal trainer/ex, and I left before you could explain things to me," that's not a load-bearing hook.

Especially if your whole cast has to keep making objectively dumber and dumber decisions to keep the charade going, instead of just laying out what happened over coffee and wrapping up the plot by chapter three.

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That's all for this week's Craft of Writing! For more of my work, check out my Vocal archive, or at My Amazon Author Page where you can find books like my sci-fi dystopian thriller Old Soldiers, the Hardboiled Cat series about a mystery solving Maine Coon in Marked Territory and Painted Cats, my sword and sorcery novel Crier's Knife, or my most recent short story collection The Rejects!

 

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You're Not Beholden To Other People's Magic Systems in Your Book

Making up worlds is hard. Creating fantasy worlds with a bevy of made-up creatures, magics, legends, and more can be a challenge that will leave your mental muscles shaking from the effort of putting so many bricks in place for it. That's why a lot of us lean on existing tropes; they help us take care of some of the heavy lifting, and they let us put real focus on the areas that are going to be right in front of the audience.

However, there are times that we forget these established elements of storytelling are meant to serve us. Nowhere is this more common than when it comes to magic systems. As such, I'd like to take a moment to remind everyone out there of something very important. It's your story... make the magic do whatever the hell you want it to do!

Abra Cadabra! Now do whatever the hell you want.

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Magic Must Serve The Story (Not The Other Way Around)

To get the obvious disclaimer out of the way, this advice is only applicable if you are creating your own story, and you are not beholden to an existing setting and its canon. Whether it's a book series you're contributing to as a ghostwriter, or an RPG setting your stories are set in, if you want your story to fit the existing rules of that world then you need to make sure you don't defy the already-established physics.

Now, with that out of the way, too many of us will act like our magic has to follow the same rules as other worlds, other books, or even other games, because we never stop to question it. However, if magic is going to be a big part of your story, then it's a good idea to examine the blueprint of the system you're using, and asking if it's the best fit for the story you're trying to tell.

Have we considered just doing away with ritual magic entirely?

For example, if you're used to thinking of magic in tabletop gaming terms, it might not occur to you that a fantasy story is not required to use Vancian Magic. And honestly, unless I were writing a fantasy story set in a place like my fantasy cities of Ironfire: The City of Steel or Moüd: The City of Bones (both of which are part of a gaming setting that runs on Vancian Magic), I would never use that fire-and-forget style of spell.

Because the idea of pre-packaged spells of a certain number, and of a certain power level, that achieve a specific purpose is a great mechanic for maintaining challenge and fairness in a game... but it is awful for smooth and interesting storytelling.

So whether your setting uses ritual magic, in-born magic inherited from supernatural sources, some variant of willpower-made-manifest, an unexplained awakening of the mind more akin to psychic phenomena, or just an ultra-soft, fairy tale style magic system where there's little rhyme or reason about how it works, you can use any (or even all) of these different methods in your story. But you need to actively choose how magic works in your story, and you need to make sure you're doing it as a conscious choice.

And if the magic system you initially went with becomes more of a hindrance than a help? Toss it out, and do something different. It's your story, and everything in it answers to your will. Remember that, and make no assumptions about how things need to be, or should be. Especially when it comes to your hocus pocus.

While we're here, you might also want to check out the following:

- The Pros and Cons of Using Tabletop RPGs as a Writing Tool

- Remember, Fantasy Can Be Anything You Want!

- Authors, Remember, You Don't Have To Reinvent The Wheel

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That's all for this week's Craft of Writing! For more of my work, check out my Vocal archive, or at My Amazon Author Page where you can find books like my cat noir novel Marked Territory, my sword and sorcery novel Crier's Knife, or my most recent short story collection The Rejects!

 

And to stay on top of all my latest news and releases, collected once a week, make sure you subscribe to The Literary Mercenary's mailing list. 

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Subverting Your Own Rules Isn't Clever, It's Just Bad Writing

When you write a story you are establishing the rules for how your world works. If vampires are destroyed by sunlight in your story, for example, then that is a rule in your world. If werewolves can only be harmed by gold instead of silver, it's your book, your rules. If spells need to be spoken aloud, and there need to be precise gestures with an implement such as a wand, a staff, or a beringed hand, then those are some of the foundation of your setting.

 

Because when you give your audience rules about the physics of your fantastical, they find it a lot easier to swallow.

 

They don't have to be complicated, just consistent.

 

A lot of authors run into a situation where they think the cleverest thing they can do to surprise their readers is to take those established rules and chuck them out the window when it's appropriately dramatic. However, that isn't a way to surprise your audience, or make you look clever... instead, all you're doing is pulling the mask off the villain at the end of the mystery and revealing it's a character no one could have guessed because the reader had never heard of them until that very moment.

 

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Readers Don't Like Cheats

Imagine for a moment you're playing chess with someone. It's a tight game, and things are getting pretty tense. Then, just when it looks like they're about to find themselves in checkmate, they declare that their last knight can, in these special circumstances, move all the way across the board to put the other player in checkmate.

Is it dramatic? Absolutely. But it's in direct violation of the rules of the game, and the other player would be well within their rights to tell the person trying such a stupid thing that if they're going to be a sore loser then they simply won't play with them anymore.

We agreed on the rules when the game started.

The same thing happens when you agree on the rules of your world. If you tell your readers that iron is a necessary component of spells, and that's why battle wizards wield cold iron staves and swords, then you can probably get away with using blood as a magical implement given that there's iron in it. That's unexpected, but it still falls within the rules you've described for your setting, and how things are supposed to work.

On the other hand, say that you made a big deal about how a legendary cursed item can only be destroyed by someone willingly sacrificing their own lives. If a character makes that sacrifice, the audience knows the consequences. You told them up-front that if someone does this of their own free will, they die. Period. End of story. So if you pull a last-minute trump card out of your behind so a character can make the sacrifice, but not actually die, all you've done is cheapen the story, and undermine the impact and stakes you set up in the first place.

You've done something worse, though... you've harmed your reader's trust.

Readers will accept all kinds of silly ideas and ludicrous explanations. They will put up with hackneyed premises, tired tropes, and shallow motivations. But the second you lie to them about how the world they're reading about works, you're actively hurting your credibility as their storyteller.

To be clear, we're not talking about gray areas where the reader isn't sure what's happening, or an unreliable narrator situation. If someone says that "most" wizards need to use a wand, or it's "common practice" not to transfuse an orc's blood into a human, you haven't told your readers that these things must be done in a certain way. You've admitted they might be uncommon or unusual, but you haven't said these things are impossible. You've given yourself some wiggle room for legitimate surprises.

It's when you directly contradict yourself that your audience is going to get pissed. When you tell your audience that something can't be done, or doesn't happen, and then you go back on that. Because once you lie to your audience about one thing, they can't really trust you when it comes to new proclamations. Are elves really the only ones who can perform these rites, or are you going to change that up when it's plot convenient? Are those black matter blades wielded by the dark army really impossible to counter, or will your hero find a heretofore unknown mystery element that can parry them? Can the Chains of Antioch truly bind gods and devils alike, or are they going to be broken just because it makes things easier for you?

You need your audience to trust you if they're going to come on this journey. So if you're going to lay down a rule, apply it consistently throughout the story. Don't just discard it when it gets inconvenient, or you'll find your readers may not wait around for you to explain yourself.

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That's all for this week's Craft of Writing! For more of my work, check out my Vocal archive, or at My Amazon Author Page where you can find books like my sword and sorcery novel Crier's Knife, or my short story collection The Rejects!

If you'd like to help support my work, then consider Buying Me A Ko-Fi, or heading over to The Literary Mercenary's Patreon page! Lastly, to keep up with my latest, follow me on Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, and now on Pinterest as well!

Older is Better: A Trope That's Become A Reflex For Many Writers

Ertrand raised his torch higher, examining the tomb of the ancient king. The name was incomprehensible, but the sheathed sword on the casket glimmered when he wiped at the dust. Taking hold of the hilt, he drew the blade, and examined it. It had the distinct sheen of the old styles of metal smithing, and the dry air of the tomb had kept it mostly intact. He slid it back into the sheathe carefully, and lifted it as if it were made of glass.

"Some collector is going to keep you on his wall," Ertrand said, wrapping his find in soft padding. "For my money, I prefer a sword that isn't so brittle it splinters when you strike a shield with it."

"Of course it's valuable! What? No, I have a high-carbon steel blade for a reason, you idiot!"

This is a scene we almost never seen in fantasy stories, and it's because of a trope that has bothered me more and more the longer I've been swimming around genre fiction; Older is Better. While this trope isn't inherently bad, I do think that too often writers in general (and those of us who work in sci-fi and fantasy in particular) reach for it out of reflex. We don't stop and think about whether it's a trope that makes our story better, or if it adds to the tale we're actually telling... we just put it in there for the same reason elves have pointy ears, and dwarves have beards.

Because that's how so many other writers have done it.

What Does It Say About Your Setting?

There are hundreds, if not thousands, of examples of this trope out there. Conan's Atlantean steel sword that can slash through Cimmerian blades and survive hundreds of years in a dank cave with impunity, for instance. The missing STCs from the dark age of technology in Warhammer 40k that represent the pinnacle of ancient human achievement. Most of the old elven weapons we see in Tolkien's works that are leaps and bounds beyond what even dwarven princes are given to wear at their sides when adventuring.

However, this trope goes beyond weapons and gear; it can extend to everything in your universe.

Especially your magic.

Are the ruins of the old empires huge, sweeping things that were built with techniques that have been lost to the ages? Were their enchantments so potent that nothing today's wizards can conjure can match them for glory? Did the old ones have the skill to weave fabrics that could endure for generations, and fit themselves to each wearer?

All of that stuff is cool, but it poses a central question that you as the author should consider... why?

Humans (as most of the time we have humans as our core races) are really inventive creatures, and when you ask a few generations of us to reverse-engineer something, our results can be rather startling. All you need to do is read the rant on why humans are so central in Star Trek to get the impression that we are both extremely dangerous as a people, but also extremely inventive.

The first version of this question you need to answer is "Why can't that ancient thing be made anymore?"

The route most authors go for keeping ancient achievements from being a part of the modern age is that the technique for doing so was lost to time, which is a historically valid option if you're looking for real-world examples. We have amazing metal working skills today, for example, but we have zero clue how an iron pillar in Delhi has stood for over 1,600 years without a single speck of rust. And sometimes if the technique fell out of favor, or it was rigidly controlled and those capable of making the thing died, the knowledge could be lost.

The second question you need to answer, and arguably the more important one, is "Why hasn't anyone figured out how to do it again?"

This is where things can get sticky, but where you have a lot more options. For example, is the pursuit of independent knowledge considered heresy (as you see in Warhammer's setting), stifling any meaningful efforts to recreate these ancient miracles? Are there not enough examples of the thing to reverse-engineer it (or is doing so a particularly dangerous process)? Or, my personal favorite, is a key ingredient for the old process no longer around, making it impossible to recreate in the modern setting (the bones of a certain extinct animal, a seed from a plant that was harvested into oblivion, etc.)? If something is not just difficult to create, but out and out impossible, then it makes the surviving versions even more impressive. But it could also mean that rituals, rites, and other tools are truly beyond the grasp of your protagonists, unless they re-discover the element needed to make the old methods work once again.

How Has This Loss Been Compensated For?

Magic sword, huh? Cool story, bro.

One of the other issues that comes with the Older is Better trope is that it often creates a photocopied setting; each era is just a smaller, less impressive version of the one that came before it. However, if something that made a previous era of prosperity possible is lost or forgotten (whether due to resources, a dark age, or what have you), then ask what people did to replace its loss. What direction did society go in, and how did it change?

If magic lost some of its potency, or vanished entirely except in rare cases, did that lead to a rise in more reliable forms of alchemy? If the method for creating relic shields that could guard against any arrow was lost, did this lead to a change in protections, or a change in tactics? If shimmer cloaks became so rare as to be effectively non-existent, then what replaced them as a status symbol and/or means of personal protection?

While having relics from the past, lost rituals, or ancient rites are fun additions to a story, too often writers forget that subsequent generations don't stay in a holding pattern waiting for those things to be re-discovered. They're going to be moving, changing, altering, and finding new ways to accomplish old goals. Sometimes this means embracing new technologies, and other times it means changing your entire society... but rarely do things stay exactly the same for huge swaths of time.

Even language changes, and a way of speaking or writing that would be quite plain just a few generations ago can feel strange and foreign. After several hundred years of linguistic drift, well, that might be another reason that lost methods remain lost.

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That's all for this week's Craft of Writing! For more of my work, check out my Vocal archive, or at My Amazon Author Page where you can find books like my sword and sorcery novel Crier's Knife!

If you'd like to help support my work, then consider Buying Me A Ko-Fi, or heading over to The Literary Mercenary's Patreon page! Lastly, to keep up with my latest, follow me on Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, and now on Pinterest as well!

An Examination of The Chivalric Hero

I've been on something of a character archetype bender of late round these parts. I started with an examination of classic anti-heroes, and then moved onto the barbarian hero, but there's one more archetype that I think is worth examining. One that I think we're all familiar with, even if we know them by other names.

The Chivalric Hero.

My strength is as the strength of ten, for my heart is pure.

While we often ignore or ridicule Chivalric Heroes in the modern-day, there's a lot we could learn from them by reading between the lines. Both in terms of understanding what makes their stories work, and what makes these heroes appealing in their own, unique ways.

Classic Heroes, and The Age of Chivalry

I've talked about this in the previous installments of my explorations into heroes, but just so no one has to backtrack and we're all on the same page, a Classic Hero is not just the story's protagonist. The term refers to certain traits that were shared by characters who fulfilled the role of hero within the story in antiquity.

These traits include, but are not limited to:

- Unique Birth: The children of kings and gods, Classic Heroes are special from day one.

- Surety of Action: Classic Heroes did not doubt themselves, and they acted quickly.

- Lack of Flaws: Classic Heroes often lacked flaws, or simply had a single, Tragic flaw.

- Were Attractive: Whether charmers or not, Classic Heroes exterior beauty reflected their power.

And so on, and so forth.

So where does chivalry come into this?

As time went on, and we entered the Romantic period (that is to say, stories written in common language, which also happened to feature knights, ladies, courtly love, and other hallmarks that grew into today's idea of the romance genre), we developed the Chivalric Hero. Characters like Lancelot and Arthur, Gawain and Galahad, as well as historical figures like Charlemagne and Alexander the Great were fitted into this mold when their stories were written around the heyday of John Milton.

While there is a lot of overlap between the Chivalric Hero and the Classic Hero, there is one notable difference right off the bat. The Classic Hero (characters like Achilles or Cu Chulainn, for example) fought almost exclusively for themselves. While they could be claimed by their nation or their people after death, in life their deeds and struggles belonged only to them. Chivalric Heroes, by contrast, fought for something higher than themselves. They fought for a lord, they fought for a code, and in many cases they fought for the idea of a nation, or for a god.

That difference in cause is, in some ways, one of the most significant things about the Chivalric Hero. It also explains where they draw their power from, and why the challenges in their stories are often of a baser, and more inner-directed variety.

You Need To Build Up Your Power (And You Can Lose It)

One of the most obvious aspects of many Classic Heroes, as well as the Barbarian Hero archetype, is their raw physicality. From Conan, to Tarzan, to Enkidu, these characters draw their strength from within. Their bodies and their skills are the wellspring of their ability to affect the story, and it is through them that they triumph over those who stand in their way.

For Chivalric Heroes, though, that often isn't the case.

A vow, inside a steel shell, is strength eternal.

Chivalric Heroes are often powered by external forces that are dependent on them performing certain tasks, or avoiding certain temptations. Dedication to a code, subservience to a king, or a willingness to keep oneself pure even through great hardship, are all common themes of these characters. And it is their actions that builds layers of strength around them that helps turn them into heroes.

Heroism is not something that most Chivalric Heroes have simply by virtue of existing; it has to be prompted by something. The character has to dedicate themselves to the service of god, to their lord, or to the code. They draw symbols and protections to themselves as well, layering them on in order to gain strength from those things. And when those symbols break, it is as if a part of the Chivalric Hero has also broken.

As an example, a Chivalric Hero's sword snapping in a duel would be devastating to them, if that sword was part of the layers that built up their strength. In many cases it isn't just a tool, but rather an extension of the character. Whereas someone like Kull or Conan, infamous barbarian heroes that they are, would simply toss the broken weapon aside, and snatch up another from a fallen foe. For a Chivalric Hero, that moment of their steel breaking is often symbolic of failing a test of some sort, and of being rocked to their core.

The threat of losing their power if they make a false move is a central theme for many Chivalric Heroes. Even Marvel's Thor (at least in his early comic incarnations, and his first film), had to prove that he was worthy to wield his powers. If he became cruel, or ruthless, or gave into vanity, then his strength would desert him, and his hammer would refuse to be wielded. This is not dissimilar to how characters like Lancelot or Galahad were considered titans in battle as long as their hearts remained pure, and they upheld their vows and oaths. It's also why temptation tends to be a central theme to their stories, and how resisting it is the true act of a hero.

From Tristan and Isolde, to Lancelot and Guinevere, to one could argue Samson and Delilah, to Gawain and the Green Knight, the true test of a Chivalric Hero is rarely in how many foes they can fight, or how mighty their blows are. It's whether they can resist temptation to do what it is easy, what is pleasurable, or what is beneficial to themselves over what is right. And the point that those stories make is that it is your ability to endure these things without giving into them that underscores you as a hero.

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That's all for this week's Craft of Writing! For more of my work, check out my Vocal archive, or at My Amazon Author Page where you can find books like my sword and sorcery novel Crier's Knife!

If you'd like to help support my work, then consider Buying Me A Ko-Fi, or heading over to The Literary Mercenary's Patreon page! Lastly, to keep up with my latest, follow me on Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, and now on Pinterest as well!

Good Writers Understand The Rules, Before They Break Them

There is no faster way to start a fight on a writer's forum than to talk about the rules of writing. Whether it was stuff we learned when we were kids in school (never start a sentence with "and" or "but" for example), or it's a little more complex (questions of whether the three-act structure is superior, or if Chekhov's Gun is ironclad, or simply a matter of opinion), there are few things writers love to argue about more than someone else supposedly telling them how to write their books.

"And ANOTHER reason why you're wrong and write bad books," said both sides.

This week, I wanted to take a position that shouldn't be controversial (but probably will be). Because yes, it is your book, and you may choose to follow the conventional wisdom of writing rules, or tear them up and throw them out the window. Books have been successful either way.

However, if you're going to throw out all of the very sound advice folks have about what you should and shouldn't do when writing a book, it's important that you understand why you're doing so. Breaking the rules just for the sake of breaking them isn't going to make your story any better.

We All Had Training Wheels, Once Upon A Time

In his book The View From The Cheap Seats, Neil Gaiman talks about the intoxicating feeling that every writer has had when they first started writing stories. That sensation of power that you are the master of an entire universe, and that you can make your will manifest, can often leave you drunk with power. A feeling that can lead to you thinking you're so talented that you don't need all those rules; your work will be all the more special for ignoring that hogwash.

You get drunk with other things later on in your career, most of the time.

The important thing to remember, or so the more famous Neil said, was to understand the rules of storytelling before you discarded them out of hand. To grasp their whys, and hows, and wherefores so that you could see the logic that made them work, and to understand what it would mean if you ignored them for your particular story. They are, in a very real way, like the load-bearing beams that hold up your story's house. Are they functional? Sure. Can you get rid of them? Of course you can... but you'll need to replace them with something that serves to hold your story up so that your narrative doesn't fall apart on you.

Shit... what was that one there for, again?

The common sense rules of writing (which you can pretty much read as anything you'll find in a book about writing, and most of the advice from people who do this as a living) all have their place. They are the stepping stones that you need to cross, and the knowledge you need to understand. They're the safety net below the trapeze. And if you're going to try a new, high-flying act that defies all the established rules, it's important that you have plenty of practice under your belt so that you know every possible thing that could go wrong.

Or, as my father said regarding carpentry projects, "You need to learn the correct way to do something, before you find the right way to do it." Because they aren't always the same way, but you should have the knowledge and experience to know when the "correct" method isn't the one your project needs.

Most importantly, understanding all the existing rules lets you know which ones are going to really work for your style, your story, and your audience, and which ones you can ignore without worrying about structural integrity. Because while you can ignore any rules you want to when it comes to your story, you still need to understand why you would ignore them, and the kind of problems you might have to deal with in the absence of that particular rule.

Gaining that kind of understanding takes practice, and a lot of experimentation. But trust me when I say this; riding without a helmet just because you can is no guarantee that your story will be better... if anything, it means the crash might be a whole lot messier if you aren't sure exactly what you're doing.

That's all for this Craft of Writing installment. Remember, write responsibly, and take all criticism you get with a grain or two of salt. For more of my work, check out my Vocal archive, or head over to My Amazon Author Page where you can find books like my sword and sorcery novel Crier's Knife.

To stay on top of all my latest releases, follow me on Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter. And if you'd like to support me and my work directly, you can tip me by Buying Me A Ko-Fi, or go to The Literary Mercenary's Patreon page to become a patron today!

Fantasy Writers, If You're Just Changing Something's Name, Don't Bother

How many times have you been reading a book, and come across what sounds like a really unique fantasy race? They're mysterious, they seem to be powerful, and there are whispers about fallen empires and hidden civilizations that might provide a clue to the current plot. Maybe you start getting excited, wondering when the big reveal for the Gethredgi is going to happen. Then, when our heroes find themselves in the depths of a darkened forest, they're suddenly surrounded by strange, shadowy shapes. Then one of them steps forward... and it's just an elf.

Ears? Check. Strange instruments? Check. Perfect hair? Big check on that.

It doesn't just look like an elf, though... it's an elf through and through. Nature loving, aloof, unusual but alluring, etc., etc. Basically the only thing different is the name, and it turns out that all the smoke and mirrors about lost empires or shadowy rumors was just a trick to keep them off-screen long enough that the reader didn't realize your big lead up was to a copy-paste of the same creatures we've seen since Tolkien put his stamp on the genre.

This is a problem that a lot of fantasy writers run into. They want their world and setting to feel different and unique, but they don't want to stretch too far outside of the tropes established by Tolkien, Dungeons and Dragons, and other fantasy mainstays. Because yes these short, burly, bearded master craftsmen who live in the depths of the earth and tend to be warriors are still a thing... but we're calling them the Sha'an instead of dwarves. And these big brutes who like to fight, are hard to hurt, and have a lovely combination of green skin and tusks totally aren't orcs... they're, uh, the Miskai.

If you've ever found yourself doing this, I want you to slap yourself in the face. Hard. Now stop doing this, because you're not doing yourself or your work any favors.

The Name Isn't What Makes You Unique

Too often writers confuse changing the traditional name of something with actual innovation (note that this also applies to minor cosmetic changes, like giving your elves silvery hair, or making your dwarves gray-skinned). If you haven't actually gotten down under the skin of a story element and altered the way it works and functions, then you haven't actually made something new or unique. You've just stolen a car, spray-painted it a different color, and are now trying to tell us it's a different car.

What's worse is that nine times out of ten you're just going to piss off readers because you're essentially expecting them to treat these minor alterations as if they somehow get you away from the accepted mythology surrounding these creatures.

Make your orcs rum-running, dirtbike-riding anarchists, and NOW you've got our attention.

Interestingly, though, if you leave the names the same but change everything else, you'll find that you both have a whole new monster on your hands, and that your readers will be excited about it.

As an example, take vampires. There have been a lot of different versions of them over the years, and we've seen them re-invented time and time again. We've seen them portrayed as the undead, the strigoi, as shambling, zombie-like creatures, as carriers of a plague, as immortal beauties, and we've seen them as split-faced, whip-tongued monstrosities.

Any time there was a huge change in these creatures, they were still called vampires. Whether it was moving from a mystical to a biological explanation, taking them from monsters to sex symbols, or making them from beautiful creatures into hideous freaks, there were huge shifts in the mythology, weaknesses, strengths, powers, and even appearance of these creatures. But they were always called vampires as a way to deliberately play on audience expectations, which would then be subverted.

By changing superficial things, though, you're doing the opposite of that. You're promising your audience that your creatures, magic system, wizards, what have you, are totally different, but then giving them the same old same that they're used to.

Don't Be Afraid To Stay The Same (Or To Change)

Too often genre writers are overly concerned with uniqueness and originality in terms of the tropes they're using. While you should definitely think about those things, what's more important is the story you're telling, and the characters whose journey we're following. As I said back in Your Fantasy Novel Probably Sucks, and Professor Awesome's University Explains Why, everything about your setting is the backdrop against which your story is actually happening. So while unique cities, bizarre magic systems, or a ground-up re-imagining of fantasy race mainstays will be unique, they won't be the things that keep your readers reading.

They'll read for your story, and your story is (or at least should be) about characters.

So if you get too bogged-down in worrying that your elves are too Tolkien, or your demons are too Moorcock, and your rebellious princess just feels like punk rock Disney, take a moment, and ask the important question; are your characters compelling? And if you feel the answer is yes, ask if leaning on these other tropes weakens your story.

If it doesn't, don't give yourself an ulcer over trying to re-invent the wheel.

Because sure, if your orcs look just like the Uruk-hai, and your elves are master archers, some people are probably going to roll their eyes a bit. But if your characters are good, and your story is solid, people are more than happy to walk down a road that has a few familiar sign posts on it.

And if you really want to give them a different experience, don't just throw on a different coat of paint. Dig deep, and go nuts with it!

That's all for this week's Craft of Writing installment. If you have examples where a creator tried to seem new and different by just slapping some new labels onto existing tropes, and it really didn't work, leave them in the comments below! For more of my work, go check out my Vocal archive where I write about gaming, sexuality, geeky things, horror, and a ton of other stuff, too. To stay on top of all my releases, follow me on Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter. Lastly, if you'd like to help support me and my work, consider either Buying Me A Ko-Fi to leave a one-time tip, or consider joining The Literary Mercenary's Patreon page, which is my bread-and-butter for making content just like this. Either way, there's a free book and my gratitude in it for you.

The Inherent Weakness of "The Chosen One" Trope

Harry Potter. Neo. Aladdin. Anakin Skywalker. All of these characters, and a thousand others besides, have the dubious honor of being the chosen one. No I'm not capitalizing it. Because, despite how common this trope is in our stories and myths, the idea of a chosen one has a serious flaw in it. A flaw that tends to make it ring a little hollow, and which has to be ignored like a sour note at a piano recital.

In short, of all the tropes out there, this one is perhaps the most passive way to fold your protagonist into the story.

Don't worry guys, I've got this... for reasons!

Characters Need To Act, Not Be Acted Upon

The trope of being the one, special person decreed to be the protagonist is functional, and it's been around since the days of ancient Greece. We wouldn't have been using it for so long if it didn't get the job done. However, the idea of being the one means that at best your protagonists are the ones being acted upon, instead of acting. At worst, you end up stripping them of their agency, and making them feel like all their actions are pre-ordained. That can be a rough story to keep interesting if you aren't Sophocles.

The guy who wrote Oedipus Rex, for those who were wondering.

The issue you run into is character investment, and development. If you've been bumbling along in your life as a med student/farmer/pot boy, and suddenly someone comes along to inform you that you have been chosen (named by a seer, described in a prophecy, etc., etc.) you aren't actually invested in the thing you were supposedly chosen to do. You literally just found out about this honor you were named to, and now you have to scramble to gear up for the challenge. In a lot of cases, you weren't even aware of the world that you now have to save (again, Harry Potter, The Matrix, etc.).

What you should do, instead, is to make characters who are invested in the tasks they're set, and the story they're a part of. Characters who want to defend their homeland, avenge fallen friends, score that big pay day, or just do the right thing want to achieve their goals for reasons we can sympathize with (or at least understand). We never question their motivations, or wonder why they don't just pack it in and walk away (a problem we often have with chosen ones who have nothing aside from their chosen status actually driving them toward the end game). And it saves a lot of time.

More on this at "The Chosen One" Vs. The One Who Chooses for those who are interested.

But If You're Going To Do It Anyway...

If you really like the idea of this trope, though, I can only recommend that you bend, twist, or outright invert it in some way.

As a for-instance, you have a protagonist that's mentioned in prophecy. Their status gets them access to resources, trainers, and confidence no one else would have had. Then, once they've done the thing they were supposed to do (even if it resulted in their glorious death), you reveal that the prophecy was hogwash. It was created, spread, and spoken of specifically to become self-fulfilling. It was all a cynical way to motivate someone to step up, and be the hero.

You don't have to go full inversion, though. For example, you could make it so that those who are chosen are not chosen for the purpose they think. Perhaps they're a sacrifice to sate an ancient god, their entire destiny of saving the world being true... from a certain perspective. You could even actively attempt to undermine the prophecy, with the character doing everything in their power to fight against their role, but their actions only bring them to the end that was pre-determined (Oedipus, if you're feeling tragic, or Inspector Clouseau if you want it to be amusing). Or you could make it so that the protagonist we have is a fake-out, and it's actually someone else who is the chosen one who steps up in the ultimate moment.

Again, I would recommend steering clear of this trope whenever you can. But if you feel it's integral to making your story work, at least do your best to make sure it doesn't rob your protagonists of their agency, or your tale of its tension. Otherwise readers are very likely to put it down, and walk away.

For more on character agency, check out What Is Character Agency (And Why Do You Need It)?

That's all for this week's Craft of Writing update. For those who'd like to check out more of my work, take a look at my Vocal archive. Follow me on Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter to stay on top of all my latest releases. If you'd like to help support me, head over to The Literary Mercenary's Patreon page or consider Buying Me A Ko-Fi. Either way, there's a free book in it for you!

Think Carefully About Your Protagonist's Reward

Every protagonist wants something out of their story. Maybe it's to take back the throne they were denied, to get revenge for a murdered father, or just to finish the mission so they can go back to that cabin in the woods. However, it's important to think about your protagonist's reward for completing their story, and to ask what sort of message that sends to the audience. Both for critical reasons, and to make sure your story doesn't slip off into trope town in the last couple of pages.

My pleasure is to serve... what, a kingdom and a princess? Well, if you insist...

What Are You Giving, and Why Are You Giving It?

We've all read enough fairy tales to recognize the formula. Protagonist does something clever, noble, etc., and in the end is rewarded with the princess's hand in marriage, and a kingdom of their own. You know, the Standard Hero Reward. And most of us wouldn't dream of putting that trope into our books, even if we were writing a kind of updated fairy tale romance. However, this trope's children still invade our books from time to time.

Goddammit... where are these things coming from?

The eldest child of this trope is the Rescue Romance, where someone who was protected in a dangerous situation will develop a romantic attachment to the person who saved them. That trope's younger, wilder sibling is Rescue Sex, which is fully down with the idea that if you swing in like Errol Flynn, then a tumble in the sheets is the least you should get for your efforts.

Now, these are problematic for reasons that range from suspension of disbelief, to character agency, to what it says about the values of the world we've created. However, it's important to examine them, and to ask why you considered using them in the first place as a mechanism to move your story along.

Let's take the Rescue Romance, for example. It's a perfectly serviceable bridge for establishing your protagonist's good intentions, and perhaps for showing just how capable they are in a tussle. It also gives them an immediate connection to the character you want them to develop a relationship with. And it's a famous enough trope that the audience enough is guaranteed to be familiar with it.

So why not use it? Well, it carries a lot of bad baggage, and that can turn off your reader. However, if you can dig through the trope's guts to find out ways you can re-invent it for your story, then you might be able to cannibalize the parts that work, while avoiding the elements of a problematic reward.

The easiest example is to have the rescue, but to have something go wrong with the romance. For instance, the protagonist's efforts to protect the other character might make them look dangerous and brutish, instead of heroic. This would give the character a challenge to overcome, and teach the lesson that while violence can solve the problem at hand, it may not have the desired effect. Alternatively, the character who did the saving may not be interested in romantic attachments... but the character who almost became a victim is. So now the protagonist has a character who's convinced that they're romantically attached, and that this one incident means they have a deep relationship. It could even be a solid lead-up for a stalker-style scenario where no good deed truly goes unpunished.

Is It All Just Sex?

No, but that is one of the most common kinds of problematic rewards we throw at our protagonists.

Any time you reward your protagonist's behavior, it's important to ask what message that communicates to the reader. For example, if your protagonist steps into a bar fight, and puts three men in the hospital, what is their reward for that? Are they arrested? Sued in civil court for damages? Or is the whole thing declared self-defense, and the cops send them off with a wave and a smile? And does that solve the problem of gang members hanging around the local watering hole, or do people try to get rid of your main character before they make things worse?

And then I just walked away... can you believe that?

Whether it's getting their old job back and being given a raise by a boss who didn't believe in them, managing to finally achieve that dream of being a famous singer, or finally getting their crush's number, ask if the reward your giving your protagonist fits with the story you're telling. And, if it doesn't fit, then ask how you can alter it to fix the issue.

That's all for this week's Craft of Writing post. Sorry I missed last week, but I had a convention to attend. If you'd like to check out more of my work, take a glance at my Vocal archive. To stay on top of all my latest releases, follow me on Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter. And if you'd like to support my work, then head over to The Literary Mercenary's Patreon page, or click here to Buy Me A Coffee! Either way, there's a free book in it for you as thanks for your support.