Secondary Characters with Purpose and Pzazz

With rare exceptions, the world of a novel has more inhabitants than just the protagonist and an opponent or two. Other characters move in and out of the story, appearing at different intervals and lingering for different periods of time. We call them secondary characters because they serve the primary character’s journey—as tempter, mentor, paragon, sidekick, confidante, and so on. They’re not the hub of the plot, yet they’re just as essential—and need to be just as alive and convincing—as the primary characters.

Think of the “best supporting actor” category in the Academy Awards. Those roles are no less demanding and powerful than the leading roles—in fact, they’re often more demanding and powerful.  Because these characters get fewer minutes of screen time, their performances have to be potent and concise. They have to convince the viewer of their authenticity and fulfill their contribution to the story, without the luxury of prolonged exposure.

It’s the same for a novel. With less “narrative real estate”— that is, space on the page—secondary characters have to be deftly-drawn and story-specific. The reader has to feel that no other character could possibly have filled that role. Think of Lord of the Rings: Samwise Gamgee has to be exactly who he is. So too, Edward in Ann Napolitano’s Dear Edward could have had had no brother but Jordan; if he did, it would have been a different book. Try to imagine Jodi Picoult’s Wish You Were Here without Rodney, or with someone other than Rodney as Diana’s friend. No way.

Sometimes a secondary character is so compelling, in fact, that the author simply has to give him his own story. That’s what Alka Joshi did, when she wrote a sequel to The Henna Artist framed around secondary character Malik. As Joshi said in a recent interview: “Malik himself kept bugging me in my brain and said, I would like you to do the next story just about me!”

What’s the purpose of a secondary character?

Like every element in a well-crafted novel, a secondary character must be necessary, in one or more ways.  Here are four of the most common. The first two are about who the character is; the second two are about what he or she does.

As a mirror or “twin:” As a “twin,” the secondary character resembles the protagonist in a specific and important way; perhaps they come from a similar background or share a critical trait. When the reader sees what happens to this secondary character, he can see what is likely to happen to the protagonist, unless something intervenes.

The protagonist sees it too, and decides to emulate—or avoid—a similar path. Because of their similarity, the secondary character can serve as an exemplar or beacon: Be like me!  Or, in contrast, as a warning: For heaven’s sake, don’t be like me!  The mirror or “twin” thus provides powerful motivation for the protagonist’s journey.

As a foil:  Here, it’s the opposite. The secondary character differs from the protagonist in order to highlight qualities that the protagonist fears, desires, or lacks. The secondary character is the very thing that the protagonist is not. Thus, he can serve as a complement and aide in the protagonist’s quest, an icon of the unobtainable, or a portrait of a path not-taken.

A foil might also be the center of a subplot whose purpose is to illuminate a crucial difference between the two characters. In an example from film: there’s a pivotal moment in An Officer and A Gentleman when secondary character Lynette tells Paula, the female lead: “We’re the same.” But Paula declares: “No, we’re not.”

As a trigger for the protagonist:  The secondary character’s action at a key point in the story makes the protagonist face, dare, admit, choose—do something she wouldn’t have done otherwise.

In the example above, Paula was always different from Lynette; she doesn’t suddenly become different because of that scene (although that’s the moment when she claims that difference). When the secondary character is a trigger, on the other hand, he’s the catalyst for a step the protagonist must take in order to fulfill her journey. Because of something the secondary character says or does, the protagonist undergoes an emotional turning-point or inner shift that equips her for an outer action. She abandons a fear or misbelief, gains a new strength, becomes different from what she was before—directly because of her interaction with this secondary character.

As a catalyst for the plot:  In this situation, the secondary character’s impact is more external. Perhaps he fails to deliver an important message or gives the message to the wrong person—whether intentionally or accidentally, and whether he is aware of it or not. Events are set in motion that change the course of the narrative.

Without this character’s choice, distraction, or mistake, the story could not proceed in the way that it does. In Allie Larkin’s The People We Keep, for example, Justin’s role in the story is essential for the plot, even though he has no idea of its full effect—and doesn’t need to.

The secondary character’s true purpose may not be evident until late in the book. In Jean Kwok’s Searching for Sylvie Lee, it is a secondary character, the mother, whose revelation ties the story together. Without her, the story wouldn’t work—but the reader doesn’t understand that until the very end.

What makes a good secondary character?

Something about the character must be unique, memorable, and representative of who he is—evocative of the whole person, without turning him into a caricature.

It can be a voice, a way of speaking. There are many secondary characters in The Sound Between the Notes, but only Hollis would respond to an apology by saying: “Sorry don’t pay the rent.”  That’s Hollis, and no one else. Or it can be a signature trait, like a penchant for outlandish earrings or a fondness for bad puns. A telling detail is enough, as long as no other character shares it—the way Beryl tucks the packet of cigarettes into the waistband of her stirrup pants, or Libby’s air kisses.

As noted above, each secondary character must have a necessary and unique role in the story. If two characters serve the same role, one of them should (probably) be deleted.

Do secondary characters need their own story arcs?

While some of the secondary characters might—and possibly should—have their own arcs, typically these are a consequence of the protagonist’s arc.  (If not, then you probably have a dual POV narrative, with two story lines.)

By “a consequence of the protagonist’s arc,” I mean that as the protagonist changes, her relationships change, and the people in her life change too. For example: If the protagonist gains confidence, she might break free of a situation she’s been enduring for a long time.  In doing so, she might leave others behind, or deprive them of something she’s always provided. They now have to adjust to a new configuration in their own lives, as a result of this change in her.

Perhaps the secondary character didn’t seek this change and resists it, at least initially. Perhaps it’s something he’s yearned for, but has been unable to achieve on his own—like forgiveness or a second chance, now made possible because of the protagonist’s transformation.

In this way, the protagonist’s arc can have a far-reaching impact. Think of how Tom Wingo’s story arc in Pat Conroy’s The Prince of Tides leads to growth and change in the three women who love him in different ways. Or how Franny Stone’s inner and outer journey in Charlotte McConaghy’s Migrations leads to a profound change in the secondary character Ennis Malone.

Sometimes it goes the other way, when a change in the secondary character has a profound impact on the protagonist, tipping her into the final act that will allow her to see what she’s missed or misunderstood, and achieve her goal. A classic example is in Gone With the Wind, when Ashley Wilkes’ realization that he’s loved Melanie all along is the catalyst for protagonist Scarlett O’Hara’s awakening to her own emotional truth.

What if the secondary character’s arc doesn’t relate to the protagonist’s arc?

While there are complex novels with multiple characters, each of whom has his own journey, I think it’s fair to put a secondary character to the test of asking why he’s in the novel and how his story serves to strengthen the central theme.

Ask yourself:  What are the stakes for these secondary characters if the protagonist fails to achieve her goal?  What if the protagonist succeeds? Is there a cost or benefit, perhaps unseen until it occurs? Is there a new choice that the secondary character will have to make, sooner or later? A new way he will have to ponder his view of the past?

These stakes, for the secondary character, might not have a direct influence on the protagonist’s actions. Yet they can add texture by providing variations on a theme, or help to situate the story by showing how people behave in a particular time and culture.

Disappearing Earth by Julia Phillips provides a good example. There are many characters in Phillips’ novel, most with their own chapters. At first, it may seem as if these characters have no relation to one another, other than the fact that they live on the same remote peninsula. Yet by the end of the story, thanks to the tapestry that Phillips has deftly woven, we see how they are all necessary to the resolution of the story question that was raised in the opening pages.

What if my secondary character feels flat and one-dimensional?

You might want to get to know that secondary character better by spending a couple of hours with her—just her, without the distraction of the protagonist.

Try answering these questions, or other questions that you invent—in writing, not just mentally—even though the material won’t actually be in the book.

• What’s her home town like, and what does she really think of it?
• What’s a hobby that people would never guess she has?
• What’s her favorite food? Why is it her favorite? Who knows it’s her favorite?
• What pet did she once have, long ago, or would love to have?
• What motto would be on her coffee mug or tee shirt?
• What’s her recurring dream?

Another useful exercise is to re-write a core scene from the point-of-view of the secondary character, not the protagonist. What does she see, feel, or understand that the protagonist doesn’t? What nuance is revealed?

Is there a secondary character you’ve loved, perhaps even more than the protagonist?  Try to imagine the story without that character. What would change or be lost?

What about your own WIP?  Imagine each character, other than the protagonist, facing an accuser and having to justify his existence in the story. Does each character make a convincing case?