The Passive Middle
By Donald Maass | November 3, 2021 |
It’s been a passive autumn—in our discussion of fiction craft, I mean. It started with Kelsey Allagood’s WU post on September 18th , an excellent and provocative challenge to examine protagonists who are—as Kelsey put it—“not in the driver’s seat”. I took up the challenge to suggest that the secret of passive protagonists is not their suffering but their seeking.
So far so good but, as several commenters said, there remains the problem of constructing a story middle when a protagonist is, technically speaking, “passive”; which is to say, saddled with a backstory wound or burden, is a victim of fate, is helpless or powerless, has no means to move forward or affect their situations (what we call agency), or when a protagonist’s program is limited to avoidance or delay. Simply put, how do you make a middle out of a character who is stuck?
Let’s start with this: to fill a middle with wallowing is for the most part ineffective. There’s not much reader appeal in that, nor much drama. Hand-wringing, agony, anguish, uncertainty, unfulfilled longing, sadness, guilt, helpless fury, oppression, imprisonment, and victimization are human experiences, no question, but they lead only in one direction, down. Realistic those states may be but they work against the one essential element that makes a story a story: change.
Writers who successfully construct a middle without movement frequently work that magic trick with misdirection. They typically fall back on things like the inherent fascination of unusual characters or the power of dazzling writing to carry readers through. Michael Ondaatje is good at that. See Warlight (2018) or The English Patient (1992) for examples.
Consider also the middle inactivity in Ian McEwan’s Atonement (2001), which conjures a futuristic nightmare to elevate suffering as a tragic condition, or On Chesil Beach (2007) which suggests that an empty life and a broken marriage can finally become fulfilling through the act of doing nothing. In those novels, McEwan’s point and purpose is to celebrate being stuck. They are existential examinations, ennobling the humble and asserting that endurance is a high virtue and, really, the only way through inevitable human suffering.
McEwan’s stories are strong—as his many awards and film adaptations attest—but not every novel wants to travel that arduous road. (Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, 2006, is one that does.) Most novels are not wholly fatalistic. Most are at root optimistic. Most novels want to convey that healing, redemption, reconciliation, forgiveness or finding a measure of happiness are possible, even if—or maybe especially if—those outcomes arrive in unexpected ways. Which circles us back to the problem of the middle.
Entertaining with unusual characters can be fun but that ultimately that business becomes only an interlude. Quiet suffering rendered in dazzling prose might be sufficient for the small minority of readers who want only that in a novel, okay, but the magic tricks of truly passive middles inevitably must either hit a dead end, fall apart or finally give way to the necessity of reaching an ending. Something’s got to give.
The dramatic events that bring about change may come in a last act rush—it’s not uncommon to find that in novels with passive protagonists—but sooner or later they must come. Sooner or later there must be change. The most effective passive middle, ask me, comes about when a stuck character works, in some way, to become unstuck. There is drama in that. There may even be action, except of course that the word “action” can feel loaded in unwelcome ways.
Let’s, then, break down and reframe the terminology and methods of passive middles. Looked at the right way, they can be perfectly manageable.
Breaking Down Passive
A backstory wound is whatever in the past has hurt a protagonist. Moving forward in life is difficult until there is a look back at the past and a way is found to overcome its paralyzing effect. For that reason, stories about wound-bearing protagonists often involve a return, a going “home” as it were to face a perpetrator, a persecution or place of oppression. In the return, the weak self is confronted and a new strength is found.
A backstory burden is whatever a protagonist may have done to hurt others. The burden, simply put, is guilt. Moving forward in life isn’t possible until that guilt is relieved, atonement is rendered, redemption is demonstrated, and/or forgiveness is obtained. For that reason, stories about guilty-burdened protagonists often involve secrets, their concealment and exposure, or some type of consequence, confession, trial, test, redemptive act, exculpatory revelation, and/or (finally) forgiveness.
Situational passiveness is when a protagonist is put into circumstances in which a problem has no immediate or obvious solution, or when there is no urgency to affect a change. A cycle of pain, leading nowhere, may be in place. Lacking a prod or goad, a character has no particular necessity to move ahead. There are instead more reasons to deny or delay and remain comfortably/uncomfortably stuck.
Forced passiveness is when a problem could be solved easily with talk, moderate effort or strength of will but for some reason—perhaps the author’s own liking—there isn’t a way to fix things in a day. Here, the means to affect change hides wholly within the protagonist. To move forward involves unlocking something inchoate—but nevertheless real—dwelling inside.
Impossible passiveness is when there is truly no way out. All events, social forces and a protagonist’s personal nature mean that there is no possible outcome except tragedy. The Great Gatsby and Mystic River among many others enact such stories, though on examination the subjects of those novels do not stay still. They try to get out of the traps they are in, they just can’t.
Hurting, guilty, fated, frozen or trapped…there are many reasons for a protagonist to start off in a passive stance. The challenge is to turn passive, in some way, into active.
Crafting the Passive Middle
The first tool with which to do that is a crisis. That may be something that makes suffering no longer tolerable; if it continues there will be psychological death. It may be something or someone who stirs up the past and makes it newly important in the present. It may be something or someone who forces the passive protagonist into motion; requiring that something be done—or else. It may be something or someone that shakes up a static situation; what has been uncomfortably comfortable can’t stay that way anymore, if it does there will be a cost. It may be that an opportunity is presented to escape an inescapable trap, it must be tried even if it will fail.
The second tool is what a passive character is motivated or forced to do. A journey, task, scheme, gamble or plan comes into play. There is somewhere to go. There is something to get. There is someone to confront. There is evidence to bury or destroy. There is damage to repair—and to fix now. Sin must be confessed, time is short. An unlikely person arrives to help, challenge or in some way shake things up. A chance comes about—desperate maybe but singular; seize this opportunity it’s the last one you’ll ever get. A plan is hatched or a scheme is devised. There is a temptation too good to resist. There is a way or opportunity to put things back to the way they once were, the ultimate repair, all that’s required is…well, what?
The third tool is making things complicated. You can’t get there from here. What you want to do can’t be done. What you’re looking for can’t be found. The offender who hurt you has power. The victim you hurt won’t forgive. Denial isn’t possible any longer, new information has arrived, evidence is unearthed or gone missing. Help has conditions or costs. Repair isn’t possible, the damage is too great. What’s attempted has side effects or collateral damage. A betrayal or loss is suffered along the way. There is a fatal flaw or weakness in your protagonist that hits a test—and fails. There’s something that your protagonist didn’t count on or something that he or she didn’t know. The situation spins out of control. Things careen toward a violent catastrophe that your protagonist can’t prevent or that he or she causes through hubris, lack of knowledge, rage, or because of tragic bad timing or bad luck.
The fourth tool is an enemy: the offender, the hardened victim, the counter-force, the friend with a fatal weakness, the righteous and unforgiving seeker of justice, the one bent on revenge, the opportunist who can profit, one threatened or holding a grudge, a jailer with a club, a spy, one rigidly adhering to principle, an agent of chaos, or anyone who won’t quit until your protagonist is taught a lesson, contained, derailed or destroyed and they are satisfied. Unlike your protagonist, this character isn’t stuck. No, no. What fun would that be?
The fifth tool is to make any of the above colorful, large, legendary, over-the-top, intriguing, crazy, unusual, unique, terrifying, horrific, alluring, irresistible, or any other way greater than anything we’d probably encounter in actual life. Realism is great but after all, this is a story.
Passive is Powerful
As you can see, passive resonates with us because it’s the human condition. But so is doing something about it. You don’t need an action hero or kickass heroine to get us interested or stir in us hope. All you need is a protagonist who in one way or another tries to get unstuck. It isn’t suffering that keeps us on the journey, it is a protagonist’s seeking…and doing, struggling, and ultimately finding what is needed to no longer play dead but to come fully alive, even if that means nothing more than reconciling to the way life is.
What have you discovered today for your passive protagonist? What will prod that character into motion, and to do what?
[coffee]
Donald Maass (he/him) founded the Donald Maass Literary Agency. in New York in 1980. He is the author of The Career Novelist (1996), Writing the Breakout Novel (2001), Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook (2004), The Fire in Fiction (2009), The Breakout Novelist (2011), Writing 21st Century Fiction (2012) and The Emotional Craft of Fiction (2019). He has presented hundreds of workshops around the world and is a past president of the American Association of Literary Agents (formerly AAR).
Thank You for the post Don.
Would you include Stephen King’s Carrie as a passive protagonist? IMHO, the story makes good use of your tools.
1st Tool & 2nd Tool: Carrie is invited to Prom, and this gives her courage against her mother, and it’s a temptation too good to resist.
3rd and 4th Tool: Chris rigs the Prom election, unaware of how powerful Carrie truly is, while Carrie is starting to feel welcome. Chris is backstage hauling buckets of pig’s blood around, while Carrie is all but motionless out in the party.
5th Tool: Telekinesis is the perfect supernatural power to give to a passive protagonist. The only thing Carrie did to destroy her school was imagine it. Take away her power and all she would have accomplished is one long glare at everyone laughing at her.
James, I get the feeling that you were the student who always sat at the front of the classroom, hand waving in the air like a flag on a breezy day. Yep, who can argue? Carrie is a classic of passive aggressiveness, a stuck character who, in this case, is not getting into motion but sending *things* into motion. Good example.
Worse still, I had a voice like a squeaking shopping cart wheel until my sophomore year :)
I always seem to write about artists, of one type or another. I kept thinking of the ultimate artists – Vincent Van Gogh and Emily Dickinson while reading this. Some people would say their life story is tragic, but I think it’s hopeful. “it is a protagonist’s seeking… and doing, struggling, and ultimately finding what is needed to no longer play dead but to come fully alive…” In their sacrifices and struggles, they came fully alive in their process and as a result, created works that give us hope and life, too.
Thank you for this new vocabulary. It’s exactly what I need to help me define what I’m doing in my WIP and what tools I can use to shape it. I feel more confident today, before even going to the words. I have a toolbox now that’s made for my story. This is a really big deal! I’m blown away by this. Thank you!
Have you met Veronica? See her comment below. Artists and writers–and, I frequently see, their wives and daughters–are fascinating. They transform pain into beauty and suffering into meaning. Glad today’s post is helpful to you.
My main character is a dispirited spirit, stuck in a famous painting, consumed by anger and humiliation, unsung from the loss of her identity. To recover her dignity, she must free the only person who can return the favor – a disempowered single mom visiting the Louvre with her autistic son – a pair of social outcasts stuck between obscurity and failure to thrive.
But when ‘Mona Lisa’ blinks first, social inequality is exposed in two centuries. Who is heroic, who is hiding behind the false pretense of not being seen, and who will ultimately be saved in a time-sensitive triangle 500 years apart?
A similar situation, but without the element of comedy, to the pact between the two writers in ‘Throw Momma from the Train’ when a mutual challenge delivers a singular resolution that neither can face without dire consequences.
What a swell premise! You can’t get more stuck than the Mona Lisa. Even her smile looks frozen and forced, kind of how I look in family photographs. It’s awesome that you found a magical device for getting her moving–and for exploring social inequality then and now. Sounds terrific.
“Throw Momma from the Train” is a hoot, a comic escape from entrapment, as compared to the dark escape from entrapment in “Strangers on a Train”. Of course, the scheme in both cases is murderous so there are lessons to be learned.
My main character is a dispirited spirit, stuck in a famous painting, consumed by anger and humiliation, unsung from the loss of her identity. To recover her dignity, she must free the only person who can return the favor – a disempowered single mom visiting the Louvre with her autistic son – a pair of social outcasts stuck between obscurity and failure to thrive.
But when Mona Lisa’ blinks first, social inequality is exposed in two centuries Who is heroic, who is hiding behind the false pretense of not being seen, and who will ultimately be saved in a time-sensitive triangle 500 years apart?
A similar situation, but without the element of comedy, to the pact between the two writers in ‘Throw Momma from the Train’ when a mutual challenge delivers a singular resolution that neither can face without dire consequences.
Awesome post. I literally read and outlined where I am in my WIP with each of the steps you described. I have more laid down than I realized, but I am also seeing if I have too much, too many pathways, the reader will see I am lost in the woods, so to speak. Less is more. Focus is key. I also see more clearly why enjoying the work of Ian McEwan is often about the language, the aura of place, as the threads of the story line sometimes don’t satisfy: “through the act of doing nothing.” Thanks, Don.
Hey Beth, it’s interesting what you say about too many pathways. Simplify. Milo Todd’s recent post here on WU about the evolution of the Disney movie that eventually became “The Emperor’s New Groove” is an instructive look at the power of simplification. If you haven’t read it yet, take a look.
Thank you for the ideas in this post.
You’re welcome, hope they generate some story points for you.
Hi Don,
My protagonist is anything but passive, but I think today’s lesson applies to one of my secondary characters.
At first, he helps my protagonist. Once the main antagonist proves how dangerous he is, my allied character tells my protagonist to stop, wait, be patient, do nothing and maybe things will turn out okay. He warns her that her actions may make the situation worse. She doesn’t listen, with disastrous results.
At the end of the middle, a crisis occurs (spoiler: my antagonist commits a murder). My passive character doesn’t rush into action (he’s much too elderly), but he supports my protagonist, telling her: to go, do, don’t delay, don’t worry about the consequences. He’s not going to counsel her to do nothing when a murder has been committed. So this time, she has his support, despite the risks.
If you’re collecting examples, I’m reminded of A BEGINNING AT THE END by Mike Chen. It’s a post-apocalyptic novel about the aftermath of a pandemic. (It was written before COVID.) All the characters are passive and stuck, until, at the end of the middle, a child runs away and they’re forced to find her and tell her the truth they’ve been concealing from her. A crisis and a journey.
I wonder how a ticking clock might fit in here. Another trigger that ends a character’s passivity?
Thanks for the column!
Marcie
Mike Chen’s novel now vaults onto my to-read list! Thanks! (And when, oh when, are we going to get to read all of your WIP? PLEASE.)
Awesome! (And SOON!)
Thank you, Mr. Maass. You have identified for me at least one of the missing pieces in my protagonist and his story. Fixing these things always seems insurmountable until you find a way to surmount them.
Glad today’s post is helpful!
Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient, and Ian McEwan’s Atonement and On Chesil Beach — you picked three of my most favorite novels. Love this post! It totally pertains to my protagonist’s journey.
Mine too, Luna. Thank you Don for showing us how we can force our passive characters into taking action. I’m curious what you have to say about martyrs–they refuse to compromise with evil and will go to their death.
Vijaya, can you think of some examples of martyr characters?
The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein is a martyr character but I’ve never liked the book because the boy never seems to learn anything. He just takes and takes. But characters like EB White’s Charlotte or the real Joan of Arc lift up my spirits. And I’m puzzled about Winston in 1984–a truly tragic character because he’s no longer himself at the end of the book. I think I would’ve preferred for him to die a more heroic death than give in to the Party. So lots of thoughts jostling around in my head and much writing to do to figure things out. Thanks, Don, for always making me think more deeply.
I’ve got a protagonist who goes along to get along and I’ve been struggling with how to portray that sort of person authentically while keeping the dramatic tension. Something that I’ve played with, is giving my passive character a passion so that while she is frozen in many ways, she will absolutely go out fighting when it comes to her obsession with cracking the code within an old, mysterious book. While the book itself won’t be at risk, it represents truth, legacy, scholarship, which will be the stakes for which she will ultimately act. Somehow, giving her this small, physical manifestation of heroic ideals will hopefully connect readers to her. Anyway, thanks for all the helpful terminology–a great way to organize my thoughts while dealing with my passive middle.
Thanks Don for a kick ass quote I’m holding in my mind as I muddle through my middle and sharing in my story circles. “Passive is Powerful…passive resonates with us because it’s the human condition… It isn’t suffering that keeps us on the journey, it is a protagonist’s seeking…and doing, struggling, and ultimately finding what is needed to no longer play dead but to come fully alive, even if that means nothing more than reconciling to the way life is.” A perfect compass with tools when it’s become so fashionable to poo poo passivity. Strange maybe. But when I’m stuck in my writing I often hear John Lennon’s lyric to his son Sean circling in my head, “Before you cross the street take my hand. Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” A slice of parental life, which knowing the rest of the story, breaks the heart. Active or passive, life moves us in ways we don’t expect or choose. One way or another, we are all as Kelsey Allagood’s WU post on September 18th, eloquently put it—“not in the driver’s seat”.