How To Write A Pitiful But Relatable Protagonist?

I’m not a huge fan of the super-smart detective. Give me someone who is in over their head, reacting with their gut to not-enough information, making poor choices as they go. Resilience is key to these kinds of characters: they keep getting back up after they’ve been beaten, and they’re scared to death. But they keep going because the alternative is worse. There’s a moment for me where the protagonist is battered and bruised and exhausted, and they look at their evidence board and make one more connection. It’s desperation that sells these characters for me, and it’s a delicate line to walk.

To better understand Romans 3, it’s helpful to see the Old Testament as the long setup for humanity’s collective failure. Yes, David was a man after God’s own heart, but he was a failure too. Moses was one of the greatest heroes of the faith, but he failed as well. In Romans 3, the full extent of humanity’s failure is clearly revealed. This is the “all is lost” moment before the redemption story takes another big step forward. Here Romans 3 simply and explicitly states what we already saw in the failure of every hero in the Old Testament. All men fail in the same ways. The covenants, the kings, and the prophets all pointed to a need that was finally beyond themselves. Romans 3 identifies that need and the rest of the letter fills it out.

Regressive character arcs are a powerful but underused plot device in fiction. Rather than growing and improving, the main character can get worse and worse until he becomes the embodiment of his worst traits. The arc of Walter White in Breaking Bad and that of Anakin Skywalker in the Star Wars prequels are classic examples of this type of arc. They are powerful because they show how humans can sometimes fail in the same ways even when they have the chance to do better. In order to write a regressive character arc, you must first have a good idea of where your character started out and what made him vulnerable in the first place. Then you must be able to show how outside forces can slowly bring him down to a low point. First, work out what your character was like before they started to regress. Try to make them somewhat sympathetic and relatable to the audience before they start to decline. This could be a character who is ambitious but also insecure. They may be an idealistic character who is naive to the true nature of the world around them. A great example of this type of character development is Macbeth and his fall from king to murderer. Or perhaps the character of Harvey Dent in The Dark Knight, who was the idealistic district attorney of Gotham City before he was corrupted by the abuse of power of the Joker. It’s easier to make a tragic fall believable when your character starts off with virtues that are laudable to the audience. Of course, pacing is important as well. Usually, a slow-burning story is best for a regressive character arc, because you can illustrate how each compromise the character makes leads to greater moral failures. In the beginning, the character should be making somewhat positive choices for somewhat negative reasons. Compare how the character behaves at the beginning of the story to how he or she behaves at the end. (For example, Walter White told Jesse that he started making methamphetamine only to secure his family’s financial future, but by the end, he killed people simply to protect his own done-wrong self.) Surround your regressive character with foils, people who could have been just as good or better in the same situation. They may even attempt to pull your character back from the edge. How does the rest of the world react to your regressive character? Some people may enable his or her behavior, while others try to resist it. As for the end of your story, a regressive arc does not necessarily have to end with the death or decline of your main character. In fact, he or she could win everything he or she set out to achieve, but suffer such great losses that, in the end, the victory is hollow. It is a very chilling realization, watching a main character finally grasp the full extent of all that he or she has lost. While exploring a regressive character arc can be frustrating for some writers and displeasing for some audiences to watch, it can make for a very powerful and memorable story. There are many examples of compelling stories that do not have heroes. Rather, there are main characters who, throughout the story, slowly lose themselves to their flaws. Their downfall can be truly tragic, making for a story that leaves a lasting impression on the reader. Just be sure to make their decline believable and earn their downfall.

Unfortunately, there is no sequel to ‘Jezebel’. The author’s genius in creating the work of “Jezebel” lies in leaving many, many questions unanswered. Any sequel would serve to ruin that work, which is intended to haunt its readers long after finishing the book. In interviews, the author has repeatedly stated that ‘Jezebel’ is a standalone work. While he admits he loves how his fans imagine the scenes not depicted in the book to continue the stories of the characters left untreated in the end, officially the story ends where it should: with the reader staring at the ceiling of their bedroom, replaying scenes from the book in their head. On Tumblr, there are many headcanons of what might have happened to the characters who were not fully developed in the end.

This relates to permission, too. A good sad poem gives permission for the reader to feel what they’re suppressing to feel. It shows that this feeling exists, has a shape, and can be held for a moment or two. A sad poem gives the reader a safe space to feel something difficult. The tears come from feeling given to cry, from feeling validated, and often this is due to the unflinching honesty of the speaker. A poem doesn’t have to manipulate to do this – in fact, it can simply witness, and invite the reader to witness too.

None. Paul Newman was actor, driver and philanthropist. Randy Newman is composer of very clever, often sarky songs played on piano. They are from two different families of genius, although I’d love to think of Paul Newman able to whistle ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On’.

No. But, there are lots of books about secret societies and arcane academia and so on that don’t feel at all like The Starless Sea, although they are clearly part of the same neighborhood. They are dark and not really whimsical, whereas The Starless Sea was primarily a positive and hopeful book. But they are all about mysteries that are revealed over the course of the book, and about the secrets that universities and colleges and seminaries and so on hide within their walls. Many of them are about ancient rituals that are still performed to this day, and so on. So, if you are looking for more of that, then dark academia might be the way to go. The Secret History by Donna Tartt, Bunny by Mona Awad, and Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo are all good examples. They are not really similar to The Starless Sea, but they are all about that sort of thing. Sometimes the best work in a genre or similar genre is by a different author, written from a different perspective, and so on.

Late at night I like to get a little selfish with my characters and have them write a letter to the person who hurt them the most. It’s very stripping of any of their normal defenses to write a letter to someone and usually it boils down to one real motivation. I also like to write a paragraph of future-self. I have my characters write a paragraph of themselves at age 80 looking back on their life and describing the one decision that they wish they had made differently. Usually, that reveals to them where their true values are. The “if-then” chain is another compact exercise that gets at a character’s motivation. For example, if they don’t get X, then what happens? And then what happens from that place? Keep going until it feels real and even ugly. This will reveal what a character is avoiding. Then, put your character in a room with one prop from someone they love. Make a choice about that prop. These small, tangible circumstances can reveal huge motivations about your character. I use these late at night when the world is quiet and my characters are loud enough for me to hear.

There’s something about ‘If I Let You Go’ that gives me shivers every time. It portrays a person so desperate yet so devoted at the same time. And, most importantly, he’s all in, which makes him a really interesting character to listen to. The song makes me think of someone who measures his stability by the people he’s involved with in his life. I listened to this track once on a late-night drive, and even though I hadn’t paid attention to the lyrics beforehand, it all made sense to me in that moment. There’s also a sense of self-awareness. The speaker gets that there is probably healthier to let go, but he’s too scared to do so. This creates an interesting paradox that I find really telling about the speaker. Rather than being one dimensional, he is complex and struggling to come to terms with who he is as well as how he relates to others in terms of love. It’s an interesting dynamic and I’m curious to know how the story would play out if the speaker were to choose himself for once.

I sometimes wonder if we are expecting too much from characters who are less than perfect in novels. Do they have to be redeemed of their flaws? Can’t they just be as they are: complicated, morally ambiguous characters who do good and bad things and are therefore not likable in equal measure? The demand for a neat redemption arc of flawed characters can create an unrealistic moral situation and reduce complex human nature to an unfair binary between good and evil. In reality, life is not a story. Some people are a mixture of good and bad and their value does not reside in their having turned into saints by the end of the novel. They can remain as they are and the reader can follow them on their journey of growth to learning to live with themselves the way they are.