I think I just aged my Gen X-self with that title. No one says something “rules” anymore, do they?
Okay. Let’s try this again…ahem (straightens Hermès scarf tied like a man’s tie)…
I’m lowkey in my antiheromaxxing era.
Better?
No matter how I say it, Antiheromaxxing or Antiheroes Rule!, I love antiheroes. Give me a morally-grey, mentally captivating, and deliciously thought-provoking main character and I’m reading them. And I love, love, love writing them.
I write this as my first manuscript is out on submission for publication and I’m deep in the work of my second. (Lie: I’m only 1/10 of the way to my ideal word count.)
My first MMC (Male Main Character—don’t worry, I just learned this, too) is the antihero love of my life. He does terrible things, he does wonderful things. Sometimes he thinks only of himself, sometimes he puts everyone else first.
As I wrote him, I didn’t really care if the reader liked him. My aim was for the reader to have to know what he’ll do next. To turn the page. Stick with him for 87,000 words. Time will tell if a publishing house agrees with me that I reached that goal.
Now, I’m writing a novel with three FMCs (Female Main… “I’ve got it!” you’re likely shouting) protagonists, all of whom are deeply flawed, emotionally complex, and keeping dark secrets. But are they “good”? Are they “bad”? I don’t know. And, as an author, my job isn’t to decide that. My job is to make you care about them enough that you want to keep reading, to stay with them as the walls begin to close in.
Ideally, I try to craft my antiheroes so that you’ll want them to succeed—in whatever way success means to them. And then I want you to feel uncomfortable that you do.
Because that’s what great antiheroes in fiction do. They don’t simply make us wonder what they’re capable of. They make us wonder what we, the readers, are capable of forgiving.
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