Your Protagonist
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heart and no future. But when a rescue craft leaves him to die in deep space, something in him snaps, and he dedicates the rest of his life to elaborate schemes of revenge. His overwhelming want is visible in every action he takes, every word he speaks. It's even (in a particularly clever plot element) literally tattooed across his face. When a character wants something – really wants it, beyond all reason – the audience will happily watch her do anything. Walk the dog, make a cup of tea, do her taxes, anything , because every little thing she does will be informed by that passion, that need, that's burning inside of her. Make your protagonist want something, and you've got us hooked.
MAKE HER INCREDIBLY GOOD AT WHAT SHE DOES Dear comic book fans: I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Wolverine is a very boring character. He's a short Canadian with a murky past and really good bone structure, and that's about the extent of his character development. So why is Wolverine one of the most popular and recognizable characters on the planet? Because he's “the best there is at what he does.” And sometimes that's enough to power an entire plot. Just ask James Bond. Believe me, if you're writing a simple or even unlikable protagonist, nothing endears them to an audience faster than sheer competence. Maverick in Top Gun is inexperienced, cocksure, and – as everybody repeatedly complains – dangerous to fly with … but he's just so darned good! And so we follow his story with rapt attention, suspicious volleyball scenes and all. Take Mickey Rourke's character in The Wrestler . At the beginning of the film, we're introduced to a man who can't pay the rent on his trailer, works a dead-end job, and treats his family like dirt. Why are we watching this again? Then he steps into the ring, and our eyes are opened. We see his grace, his skill and his bloody-minded dedication to his artform – and we're hooked. Remember: kick-ass protagonists are really, really good at what they do.
HAVE HER CHANGE ENORMOUSLY Some of the most satisfying stories are the ones in which the protagonist in Act 3 is barely recognizable as the same person who set out on the journey in Act 1. Remember Groundhog Day ? Phil Connors's transformation from boorish jerk to bodhisattva isn't amazing by itself. What's amazing is how far he had to come. His character arc was so unbelievably vast that the universe had to refashion the laws of time just to accommodate it! But how to make a character change that much? Unless you're writing Groundhog Day 2, you probably don't have the luxury of watching them grow over a hundred years. So here's what you do: give them a fantastic catalyst for change. In Braveheart , the catalyst for William Wallace's transformation is his wife's murder at the hands of the
