Some of the most memorable parts of books come from the relationships that are explored in them. For writers like me who love the worldbuilding aspects of fantasy, writing good character relationships is a conscious process rather than a natural outflowing of story. Even when it’s work, though, it is definitely worth the time and effort invested to create and develop characters who not only are real to readers, but who realistically interact with other characters and grow and change (or are a force for growth and change) as a result of those interactions. There are multiple types of character relationships that can be developed in a story, and different stories lend themselves more naturally to some than to others. Here are three types that you might choose from:

Mentor/apprentice relationships

We all know the story: the “chosen one” grudgingly comes to accept his destiny and grows from sulky farmboy into heroic knight through the wise tutelage of the old, retired sage who imparts to the lad his wisdom and skill, teaching him life lessons even as he teaches him the ways of the sword. Clichéd though it might be, mentor/apprentice relationships in stories can be very useful for growing a character into the person you as an author want them to be. In real life, we seek out people who know more than we do when we want to learn something, so why wouldn’t it work the same way in fiction? The main difference is that many storytellers choose to combine the mentor who teaches necessary technical skills (or magical skills, or whatnot) with a much-needed father figure, using practical tutelage as an excuse to sit Our Hero down and tell him the much more useful, but less obvious, things he needs to know to succeed as a person as well as a swordsman (or magician, or whatnot).

Some authors turn the cliché around, having Our Hero teach the mentor life lessons (e.g. renew his hope, restore his optimism or faith, bring him long-lost joy) even as he or she learns the technical skills that the mentor is supposed to be imparting. This trope provides a nice sense of balance, with both parties receiving solutions to their problems even when they were unlooked for by one of the characters. The trick with this relationship, as with any fictional relationship, is to both have it make sense, but also keep readers guessing. Readers expect that an old master with skills and a young talented person with destiny will come together in a story. They don’t expect the intricacies or complexities provided by third party characters who exert influence over one or both characters, or large-scale events that throw off the mentor’s (or apprentice’s) plans, or other plot or character happenings that an author can use to veer a story off in an unanticipated direction. Take advantage of your ability as an author to not limit yourself to just the dyad of the mentor/apprentice, and your relationships will be free to flourish (or potentially flounder) in new ways that keep readers turning pages.

Sibling (or other equal kinship) relationships

Siblings who are devoted to each other, siblings who hate each other, siblings who love each other but are constantly in competition – family of origin relationships provide a wealth of material for emotional and deep character development, as well as complex, dynamic interactions between characters. Siblings might seem to speak on the same wavelength, finishing each other’s sentences and working smoothly as a team, or might annoy each other with every word, pushing each other’s buttons and knowing precisely how to get under the other’s skin. They might have grown up together and have years of shared experience that they can draw on, or have been raised apart and have to discover what it is that they have in common. Loyalty to and love of family, though, is an ancient and powerful theme that resonates through some of the best stories. As an author, consider telling a story about main characters who have family that they love and care about rather than main characters who are loners. Not only do they give the main character a “foil” to be set off against, they also show similarities of character between the main character and their siblings, and give an opportunity for the main character to reflect on who he or she is and what he or she cares about.

Romantic relationships

In contrast to mentor relationships, where a junior character seeks instruction from a senior, or family relationships, where people are naturally forced into relationships with each other that they can’t escape from, romantic relationships are ones that characters choose and have to deal with the fallout of those choices. Two characters who are in love, or who fall in love despite themselves, are going to have difficult decisions to make, be confused, and, yes, make irrational (and potentially idiotic) choices because of their feelings for one another. These can lead to no end of fun with plot twists and also character development as they sacrifice for and rescue one another – or, alternatively, get themselves in trouble and need to be rescued. When writing romantic relationships, however, authors should be careful not to make a common mistake based on modern culture’s fairy tales. No matter what pop culture says, falling in love is not something that just happens apart from a character’s choice. As easy of a plot device as it is to say that a character “fell in love at first sight,” real actions of love will ring far more true if love develops over time. That’s not to say that characters can’t be attracted to each other. Certainly, as authors, we hope they will be if we want them to end up with each other by the end of the book! But just as in real life, infatuation is very different from real love, relationships in books should reflect the time and work it takes to build a relationship that causes one person to want to devote themselves to the other person’s wellbeing, or to take a bullet for the other, or even just to give up an annoying habit that the other doesn’t like. Shallow relationships are easy to write – but quickly lose readers’ interest. Deep relationships are harder – they take more conflict, more thought, and more creative work to show rather than tell – but in the end, they are also more satisfying.

What examples of good relationships between characters have you seen in books that you enjoy? What type of relationship are they? What makes them so satisfying to read?

One of the most fun parts for me about being a novelist is world-building. Creating new cultures, mixing, matching, and inventing new values, beliefs, and histories, and then putting characters into them with their own individual goals and struggles is a wonderful challenge. One problem that authors often face, however, is showing the differences across cultures in a way that is interesting for readers and creates challenges for characters (often, these are one and the same thing). While different clothing, different foods, and different climates are all good and oft-used ways of distinguishing peoples from each other, one way that doesn’t get used as often is differences in communication. What does that mean? Here are three contrasts of cultural communication differences…

• Loudness versus softness of speech

Some cultures prize being loud and bold in the way that one talks. Individuals may stand far away and shout at one another, stand close together and shout at one another, or be more quiet in the ways in which they address each other. Is raising one’s voice a sign of bold masculinity, or rude lack of self-control? Is being quiet a sign of respect or of cowardice? These differences may seem small, but they can be enough to make a character feel like something is different, wrong, or foreign.

• Directness versus indirectness of speech

While some cultures value saying what one means and meaning what one says, other cultures tend to view language as more fluid, or as only one tool of communication. When one agrees to a contract, is one really agreeing, or is one expressing politeness but also stating through subtle hints and external cues that both of you should know that he isn’t really going to keep it? When an individual from a direct culture goes to an indirect culture, he/she may be seen as boorish and clumsy, completely trampling on the tacit rules of communication that everyone knows from being raised in the culture. In contrast, when an individual from an indirect culture goes to a direct culture, he/she may be seen as incapable, untrustworthy, or just frustrating because of his/her lack of ability to follow directions or to state when something isn’t understood or won’t be able to be completed the way that is required.

• Argumentativeness versus politeness of speech

Some cultures value open debate and argument, while others avoid it to whatever extent they can. When someone offends you, do you insult him, his mother, and his dog, and challenge him to a duel, or do you smile, bow, wish him well, and then go off and silently work to destroy him? No culture is going to be without conflict. The question here is how that conflict is expressed. Characters from a polite culture might find themselves easily bullied or overpowered by individuals in an argumentative culture, but might also be more able to keep their calm and twist conversations to their advantage. Characters from an argumentative society would likely stand out in a polite society for their supposed rudeness, and they might seem to get their way more at the beginning of a story, only to find themselves countered later in the story by the “polite” individuals who have carefully worked behind his back to give him what they believe he deserves.

What other communication differences have you observed or might you imagine across cultures? Have you seen good examples of books that use communication differences to move plots forward or cause character growth?

One thing that fictional stories are exceptionally good at is exploring different sides of an argument or issue, giving a well-rounded treatment of it, and then coming to rest (more or less subtly) on one side or another. Of course, the potential for good exploration of issues does not mean that all novels explore issues well. Many authors abuse this power of the novel, making a book heavy-handed at best, and at worst, a thinly disguised essay with flat characters and trite plots. How can authors steer clear of these traps, without giving up the unique ability of a novel to wrestle with and comment on important topics? Here are three tips:

• Give good arguments on both sides of a topic

One common mistake that authors make is to only present good arguments on one side of a topic, or to only explore an issue from one character’s point of view, and to thus essentially silence other viewpoints. Let’s imagine that you want to argue through your story that wisdom is more important than book-learning. This is an interesting argument, and one that could be explored and taken in many different directions in a book. An obvious, but mistaken, way to present the topic would be the “fairy tale approach.” The mother of the main character, for instance, might tell him why it is important to always act wisely. Two of the main character’s friends might then behave foolishly, though they are both intelligent, well-educated sorts, and get themselves into bad situations. The main character, then, would repeat to himself his mother’s advice, act on her instructions, and find himself magically rewarded with health, wealth, and a happily ever after ending. This is not a satisfying story for anyone older than six or seven years of age.

Straw man arguments, weak arguments, or no arguments at all on the “other side” of an issue leave mature readers frustrated. “But what about all the times that practical common sense isn’t enough?” they ask. “What about the advances of science, saving lives by rebutting old wives’ tales that were seen as practical wisdom?” To combat this problem, authors must write scenes, characters, and dialog to show the best arguments of the “other side.” Only by showing the main character’s friends putting their book learning to good use and still failing due to a lack of wisdom can a good argument in favor of wisdom be made.

• Give all arguments from complex, preferably sympathetic, characters

The second mistake the authors often make is to give the good guys all the arguments for the “right” side of an argument, and the bad guys all the arguments for the “wrong” side. If you have a realistic, sympathetic protagonist proclaiming his views, and then a tin-pot dictator in a black cape arguing against him, even the “other side’s” best arguments will fall artificially flat because of the negative light in which they are being presented. A powerful way of playing with audience’s perceptions, actually, is to make a main character be relatively neutral in an issue, and give some good, correct points to your antagonistic character to say. They may be slightly wrong, and the main character may have to figure this out for himself, but by having truth and insight found in all characters’ speech and actions (to some degree), an author can force readers to pay closer attention to the argument itself without being swayed as much by who is talking.

Alternatively, you might choose to not have an antagonist be the figurehead for either of the sides of the argument you’re wanting to make. Give the two opposing arguments to a main character’s two allies, or have the main character disagree with his best friend. Either way, give convincing arguments on both sides of the issue to sympathetic characters, and readers won’t be given the option of shutting their brains off as they consider what you’re saying.

• Be nuanced in your conclusion

As an author, you have the ability to be as black-and-white or shades-of-gray as you want in your book’s conclusion. You might choose to have a strong, resounding victory of one worldview or belief system, with an overall story plot and a main character arc that both show the triumph of one way of approaching the world, while the antagonist represents the other way of approaching the world and is soundly defeated. If you go this route, however, you risk charges of being blatant and heavy-handed, or even “preachy” with your theme.

A more nuanced approach to the issue, created through the use of multiple scenes, can give readers a more complete and satisfying treatment of an argument and a more powerful conclusion. One advantage of the novel form is that you don’t have to depend on just one scene to tell readers what you believe about a particular issue. Instead, throughout a book, you can show different characters approaching the same broad issue from multiple perspectives in multiple situations. Sometimes, one approach may prevail, while other times, the other might end up being the right to use in a given situation. The amount of “wins” you give to each side of the issue will help influence readers to favor one side or the other. As an author, you may choose to have a 90-10% split for a definitive “this is right!” message, or for a more ambivalent ending, write something closer to a 51-49% division. Personally, I have tended in the past toward about a 75-25% goal in my writing – enough to show depth to an issue, but with enough weight of plot evidence on one side to make it clear to readers what my conclusion is.

What good books have you read recently that make a strong (i.e. more towards 100-0) or an ambivalent (i.e. more towards 50-50) argument about an issue? How did these authors make their points well (or poorly)?

Too often in fiction, writers take the easy road of having white-hat versus black-hat stories: heroes are handsome and likeable, villains are ugly and mean, and it’s plain from the beginning who the audience is supposed to root for. These stories can be done well and are often enjoyable to read. But they also make it difficult for writers to surprise readers, and limit the types of stories that can be told.

Very often in real life, a person doesn’t know who their real allies and opponents are at the beginning. People can seem one way, and then turn out to be very different. When the same holds true in fiction, it can make stories more gripping, twists more astonishing, and readers ever more eager to turn the page. This is not to say that all characters have to be morally ambiguous. In contrast, giving villainous characters likeable traits and heroes annoying ones highlights the important parts of their natures while enabling readers to more fully interact with them as people. It’s easy to give heroes unlikeable traits at the beginning of a book – this is the basis of character development. It’s harder to treat villains well, to keep them evil while giving them just enough good qualities to make their offers seem tempting, their lies attractive, or their goals reasonable. Here are three ways that authors can do it.

Give the villain a sense of humor

We all like to laugh. We may fear and hate serious, black-caped villains who threaten to destroy the world, but we don’t ever feel ourselves being tempted to join them. A villain who laughs, in contrast, who quips and jokes and is fun to be around (at least when they aren’t busy plotting how to bring down Our Hero), is dangerous to the hero’s soul – and to ours. It’s easy to be swayed by someone who is funny, because funny people are likeable, and we tend to agree with what (and who) we like. When evil is dark and serious and foreboding, it’s easy to notice it and avoid it. When it wears cheerful colors, a bright smile, and invites you to come along and join the fun, it’s much harder to refuse. Writing humorous villains, then, is a way of presenting a far greater temptation to a main character than they might otherwise face, and is a way of setting up a conflict that will be far more powerful for readers in the end, when they realize that the laughing villain is truly as dangerous – and needs to be stopped just as much – as the one who wears black and sneers at the world.

Give the villain a group of trusted friends or family

We’re all used to reading about lone villains who have isolated themselves from the world and hate everyone in it. It’s easy to fight against people who are fighting against everyone else – knowing that if the Lord of Darkness falls the entire world will rejoice is a powerful motivator to the hero. What if, instead, the villain is part of a small group of people who all trust each other, like each other, and work together as a team? The mafia would be a good example of this. Loyalty to one’s family is a good and honorable thing, and having readers see that loyalty gives a sense of depth and complexity to characters that wouldn’t otherwise exist. Murder is just as wrong when it’s done by a lone vigilante versus a mafia hitman with a wife and children, but a traditional hero would probably feel guiltier about bringing down the second than the first. Even if the hero doesn’t respond differently, if a reader sees the villain having human bonds and caring about other people – even if they’re other bad people – it can make their evil deeds seem more forgivable or justified. This then becomes an opportunity for discussions about the nature of morality and what, truly, the hero is fighting for.

Give the villain a brain

The famous Evil Overlord List is a classic example of how often this recommendation is not followed. Villains who are boring, trite, or maniacally-clever-but-make-stupid-mistakes are hard to take seriously. Heroes have to fight them, but there’s no doubt of what they’ll do. In contrast, villains who are smart, capable, and one step ahead of the hero make readers sit up and take notice. We tend to like people who are able to make things happen, who are movers and shakers, who are able to enact their will on the world. When someone evil is also capable and creative, that spells doom far more quickly than a villain who wastes time or resources, and/or is constantly narrowly escaping being caught by the cleverer hero.

Smart villains, villains with human ties, villains who make us laugh – these are the truly dangerous men and women we find in novels and meet on the streets. These are the ones that we not only need to fight against, but guard our hearts and minds against. These are the villains that make readers think, and heroes struggle.

How have you seen smart, connected, or funny villains used in stories?

Magic is an integral part of nearly all fantasy stories. It gives fantasies a sense of wonder, a way in which the world is different from reality, and a source for fascinating drama, mind-blowing action scenes, good character development, and extreme world-building. Any author who wants to write a magical fantasy, then, needs to either choose or create a system of magic. There are several different types of common systems that can be chosen, and several different common ways in which magical systems can be created. What are they, and how do you choose? That’s what the topic of today’s and next week’s Savvy Saturday blog posts will be about. This week, let’s look at three of the most commonly chosen systems of magic, how they work, and their benefits and drawbacks.

Commonly chosen systems

Elemental Magic

 Fire, water, earth, and air, sometimes with light, dark, electricity, or metal thrown in for good measure, make for a standard and easily accessible system of magic. Mages may be able to access only one of these elements, or more than one. They may have personality types, physical characteristics, or a personal history that reflect their element, or they may not. Often, mages can actually manipulate the element in question (e.g. a fire mage calling fire to hand and throwing fireballs), and they may also be able to use the element to accomplish other tasks (e.g. a fire mage having super physical speed through use of the element’s power). This system of magic is attractive due to its mirroring of distinctive sources of power found in nature. It has a feel of realism to it that speaks to readers on a primal level. We have all felt the power of a storm or a fire – it makes sense that in a magical world, that power might be able to be harnessed and used.

One benefit of using this system of magic is that readers will already likely be at least slightly familiar with how the system of magic “should” work, so there is less mental effort involved and slightly less explanation needed on the part of the author as to why and how the system of magic works. On the other hand, because it is so commonly used, deviations from “standard” elemental magic will need to be explained more, and it is harder to create an elemental magic system that feels different and unique from other worlds that already exist. Books that use elemental magic should ensure that they have unique characters and compelling plot, as the system of magic is going to be more familiar (and less of a unique draw) to readers than other systems might be.

Life Force Magic

A second, and equally popular, type of magical system to choose for a fantasy world is one in which magic stems from the life force of the mage him- or herself. In some stories, everyone in the world might be able to harness their life force to do magic, while in others, only special individuals are born with the power. In some stories, life force magic is always corrupting and destructive (one has to use up life force to accomplish magical deeds), while in others it is a natural non-destructive ability like flexing a muscle. Particular rituals may be needed to unlock one’s magical potential, or to transfer life force from one individual to another, or to impart one’s life force into the action which one is attempting to accomplish. (For instance, spells might require the use of the mage’s blood to seal them or give them power.) Like elemental magic, life force magic is perceived as natural – there is a power and mystery to life itself, so it makes sense that in a magical world, that power should be able to be tapped into and used to accomplish great things.

Similar to elemental magic, one of the benefits of writing a story involving life force magic is that it is intuitive and natural for readers to understand. Drawing from a well of power inside oneself, or stretching a magical muscle the way one would stretch one’s arm, is an easy picture for authors to paint and for readers to adopt. However, as before, the popularity of this magical system means it can be difficult to write a magical world that feels unique and different. This magical system also does not lend itself as well to creating different natural visible classifications of mages; if all mages draw their power from the same source, differences would need to be created and pursued by the mages themselves rather than imposed externally. This can be a source for differentiation of a world, and thus a good and useful thing for an author, but will then need to be explained well to readers.

External Artifact Magic

Another common source of magical system is one that is based on sacred or powerful objects external to any individual. Magical swords, rings, rocks, crowns, trees, feathers, and so forth are in some ways the easiest form of magic for authors to work with. They may have specific external powers (e.g. a ring that controls the weather), or powers that enhance the wearer in a particular way (e.g. a ring that increases an individual’s intelligence). They may be sentient, semi-sentient, or simply things without any will or awareness. They may have an unending power, or be very finite in scope (e.g. a ring that grants three wishes). Artifacts of this sort may be explained away as having been created by a long-lost civilization, or be gifts of the gods, or be created by mages who have power of a different sort.

Benefits of artifact magic include being able to have ordinary people accomplish things that otherwise would be impossible, thus giving readers an added sense of relatability with characters. In addition, the existence of artifacts can be good plot devices or character development tools, as characters or kingdoms seek to gain, destroy, or otherwise interact with artifacts and the individuals who own or seek to own them. Drawbacks of this form of magic include its potential lack of internal consistency. Authors would either need to establish what artifacts can do and what they can’t, or risk having a world seem contrived and not make sense. The introduction of too many artifacts can also lead to power-glut or the temptation to make magic solve everything. If too many solutions to a world’s problems are the use of external magic, it detracts from the power of a story’s characters and their arcs and internal struggles. Readers want to see how people solve problems, not how people find cool things to solve problems for them.

Which of these three magic systems most appeals to you? Have you seen examples of them in use? Are there other benefits and drawbacks that you see? Leave a comment below!