Hello, writers. We’ve talked a bit before about how there are no sidekicks in real life, and there shouldn’t be any in fiction either. Just as your villain thinks s/he’s the hero, the sidekick, too, should have his or her own reason for being in the story. In fact, all the secondary characters should.
They may be working against the protagonist, or they may be working with him/her, but either way, they should be doing it for their own reasons, not because they are 1) evil or 2) live to serve.
In the film Eighteen Again, the sidekick is asked why he comes out with the main character to hold a flashlight while the main character secretly paints a mural on an urban-blighted neighborhood. The sidekick answers, “Somebody has to shine the light.”
Sweet, but not believable. Most characters are not content to be the wind beneath someone else’s wing.
Each secondary character needs to have his or her own story arc: a purpose, a goal which is either accomplished or thwarted by the end of the story.
Even tertiary characters can have their own agendas. Think of the Welcome Witch at St. Mungo’s in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. She could have been dismissed in half a line: “The Welcome Witch directed them to a ward on the first flloor.” Instead she’s a character we have no doubt is drawn from life: snide, unsympathetic, and world-weary. Her goal is to get through this endless shift at St. Mungo’s and not take any crap from the wizarding public. Helping them comes a distant second to her main goal.
This sort of thing takes up wordcount, but it makes scenes come alive.
Tonight’s challenge:
The scene below is beset by a too-cooperative secondary character, in the form of a bartender. Rewrite it so that the bartender has his own goals and agenda.
The callow youth approached the bar at the Startled Duck and slapped down a silver coin. “A pint of ginger beer, please, and some stout for my companion.”
The bartender reached for a leather tankard and a pitcher.
“By the way,” the youth added, “Froop sent me.”
The bartender put down the tankard. “Oh! Any friend of Froop’s is a friend of mine.”
The youth nodded acknowledgement of this. “He said you could tell me where to find the Least Grebe.”
“Over there, most nights.” The bartender pointed to an empty table. “He usually flaps in around nine. If you come back then, you’ll probably find him. Or I could take a message.”
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