Beyond
the protagonist, the antagonist, and the love interest, we so often find this
cloud of secondary characters orbiting the central figures like lost
satellites. These are the friends, the unrequited love interests, the henchmen,
perhaps even family members. They create the canvas from which main characters must rise. It's a
staggering shame that they are so often underdeveloped and mistreated. The easy
route for an author is to fully realize one or two main characters, and then
fill in the background with two-dimensional types and tropes. However, without
realizing it the author causes the main characters to suffer. Why?
The
secondary characters so often become reflection characters. A reflection
character isn't the protagonist. She is the character that, but for one
decision, could have been the protagonist. He is the character who, but for one
redeeming quality, could have been the villain. At a first glance, the
reflection character shares the qualities, perhaps even the background, of the
main character. But they fail or succeed in one peculiar way that removes them
from the spotlight. They demonstrate to the reader how the main character could
have evolved, and more importantly they justify why the main characters are, in
fact, main characters.
Let's
take a couple examples. Frodo and Samwise. Best friends. Both of a similar age.
Both reared in the Shire with the same values and world views. One becomes a
Ringbearer, the other is the Ringbearer's aid. No one can question that Frodo
would never have survived the narrative without Sam. But what was the
difference that prevented Sam from rising to the challenge in the way Frodo
had? Frodo possessed a spirit of courage and daring that Sam lacked. Sam was
dutiful almost to a fault, but given the active choice he would have left the
task of destroying the One Ring to others. Frodo couldn't do that. Hence, Sam
is a reflection of Frodo… he is the Frodo who would have stayed in the Shire,
and perhaps would have burned with it.
What
about villains? Let us consider Lord Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy. Both are
wizards. Both have a burning hatred for "mudbloods." Both are capable
of murder and torture. However, Voldemort becomes a living legend of evil,
whereas Lucius remains a lackey, and ultimately fails to commit to the master
plan. Malfoy's failures exist on several levels, but the distinction between
the two is deeper than simple ability. Malfoy had a family. And when the Harry
Potter saga came to a close, his connection to his wife and son remains intact
and central to his being. One could argue whether Lucius was saved by his
family in the end, but it is an obvious departure from the void that was
Voldemort's heart.
In
The Curse Merchant, my protagonist, Dorian Lake, is a single male, lives
alone, and cultivates a healthy career crafting charms and hexes for a select
clientele. He wears nice clothing, drinks expensive scotch, and drives an Audi.
His best friend, Edgar, is also a hermetic practitioner, dealing in reagents
and enchanted items from an antiques store in the countryside. Edgar drinks
beer, wears floral print shirts, and has a family. The two characters deal in
the same industry, but one would never imagine they were friends. When push
comes to shove, however, Edgar has what Dorian doesn't… family. He is a kind of
rock for Dorian to cling to. However, like Lucius Malfoy, Edgar's family keeps
him from committing to the quest. When the fire hits the brimstone, Edgar can't
be the hero. He's a father first.
So,
one litmus test for a deeply immersive read is whether the reflection
characters actually buttress the main characters. Whether we can clearly
identify that one difference, that one quality that keeps them in the
background. They are vital to our interest as readers, and if given a proper
treatment, can mean the difference between a story you can read and a story you
are drawn into.
Title: The Curse Merchant
Series: The Dark Choir #1
Author: J.P. Sloan
Genre: Urban Fantasy Noir
Publisher: Self-published
Format: Ebook
Words: 83,000
Purchase:
Book Description:
Dorian Lake
has spent years cornering the Baltimore hex-crafting market, using his skills
at the hermetic arts to exact karmic justice for those whom the system has
failed. He keeps his magic clean and free of soul-corrupting Netherwork, thus
avoiding both the karmic blow-back of his practice and the notice of the
Presidium, a powerful cabal of practitioners that polices the esoteric arts in
America. However, when an unscrupulous Netherworker interferes with both his
business and his personal life, Dorian's disarming charisma and hermetic savvy
may not be enough to keep his soul out of jeopardy.
His rival, a
soul monger named Neil Osterhaus, wouldn't be such a problem were it not for
Carmen, Dorian's captivating ex-lover. After two years' absence Carmen arrives
at Dorian’s doorstep with a problem: she sold her soul to Osterhaus, and has
only two weeks to buy it back. Hoping to win back Carmen's affections, Dorian
must find a replacement soul without tainting his own. As Dorian descends into
the shadows of Baltimore’s underworld, he must decide how low he is willing to
stoop in order to save Carmen from eternal damnation... with the Presidium
watching, waiting for him to cross the line.
Excerpt:
I watched Malosi as he turned north
onto the MLK expressway, pondering the man. I wondered how deeply Malosi had
delved into Osterhaus' world.
"You're a practitioner," I
stated.
"I've been trained in the
necessities. Just to do my job."
"Where did you receive your
training, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Mister Osterhaus. Everyone in
his employ has a basic understanding of hermetic theory."
"How many people are in his
employ?"
Malosi lifted a brow behind his
sunglasses.
"Enough."
"Just you, then?"
"Like I said."
I looked out my window, watching as
the taller buildings of downtown Baltimore cast their shadows over us. This
wasn't going to be a long drive.
"Do you have any advice for
me?" I asked.
"Advice?"
"For talking to Osterhaus."
He cocked his head and considered the
question for a moment, before responding, "Be polite."
He drove up Light Street and stopped
in an alley between a tall bank building and a red brick row house. I tried to
step out, but the door was locked. I had to wait until Malosi opened the door
from the outside.
Once free of the Cadillac, I looked up
and down Light Street, the clear sky above slowly succumbing to a front of
overcast clouds. Malosi gestured me towards a flight of steps dropping below
the street in the alley, leading to a basement entrance to the red brick
building. At the base of the steps was a thick iron door with a wrought bronze
knocker. Malosi pulled the handle and pushed the door open with a loud scrape.
"Watch your head," he
muttered as I stepped into the dark room beyond the door. A low-hanging wood
case crossed the lintel, and I eyed it as I entered Osterhaus' basement office.
Malosi closed the door, and my eyes
adjusted slowly to the dim light. The case above the door was part of an
intricate series of bookcases and display cabinets with leaded glass doors that
wrapped two walls. The near wall to my right was covered in a tapestry
depicting what I imagined was a scene of the Crusades. A solid, finely carved
wood desk sat near the far wall, leather-topped and well-polished.
The room was dim, lit only by two gas
coach lamps that flickered in a cased opening that lead to stairs slipping up
and out of view into the building above.
Malosi pulled one of two green leather
chairs from the front of Osterhaus' desk and held out his hand.
"Have a seat. I'll fetch Mister
Osterhaus."
I nodded, and watched as Malosi
disappeared up the flight of stairs with heavy footfalls.
The room was thick with the smell of
frankincense. I recognized the aroma, though it was laced with other sharper
scents I couldn't pick out. Cedar, perhaps. Something for wardings.
As I squinted up at the glass
displays, I noticed several vials of blown glass set in neat rows upon the
glass shelving. They resembled perfume bottles, the kind one buys at tourist
friendly kiosks in Venice. I was on the verge of piecing together all manner of
theories regarding the contents of those vials when I heard the upstairs door
open, and two pairs of footsteps descending.
I stood up in time to see a short,
thin man step into the room from the cased opening. He had a wiry frame, almost
shriveled as if elderly, though his face and eyes were sharp. He had a
hawk-like brow, jutting over clear blue eyes, sending bushy gray eyebrows up at
angles towards a receding salt-and-pepper hairline.
He parted his thin, crooked lips and
said, "Dorian Lake, I presume?"
"Osterhaus?"
His eyes narrowed, and he looked back
at Malosi with a nod before proceeding into the room and behind his desk.
"Believe it or not, Mister
Lake," he continued as he slid into his chair, "I've been meaning to
speak with you for some time now."
I took my seat, giving Malosi a
sidelong glance, making sure he wasn't holding a shotgun or baseball bat.
"That a fact?"
He stared at me with those piercing
eyes, and the more I took him in, the more I realized that I really hated this
man.
About the Author:
I am a
husband and a father, living in the “wine country” of central Maryland. I’m
surrounded by grapevines and cows. During the day I commute to Baltimore, and
somehow manage to escape each afternoon with only minor scrapes and bruises. I
am also a homebrewer and a certified beer judge. My avocations dovetail nicely!
