Warning: This Q&A is a little different, involving only one question and basically being an essay on why I made Cassie the way she is. Anyone not particularly interested in the technical aspects of novel writing are advised to skip it. Also, the usual caveat applies–this is only my opinion, but that’s okay since it’s my books I’m discussing.

A question came in for the Q&A, which I decided to answer in detail. That’s partly because I’m sick and taking a day off from my usual writing schedule, not feeling very creative at the moment. So I have the time. But it also happens to be a question that I’m asked regularly in interviews, and I’d like to set the record straight.

I read alot of urban fantasy and love yours, but it seems Cassie is, I don’t know, a little weak? Why did you make her the way you did? I mean, she can’t even shoot a gun!

First, I’m going to be bitchy, because I am always bitchy, and because my head hurts right now. And point out that this:

Alot

is an alot. By the way, if any of you aren’t yet familiar with the awesomeness that is Hyperbole and a Half may I suggest you remedy that immediately? You are missing out.

You mean, I assume, that you read a lot of urban fantasy, and I’m glad that mine is a part of that (although probably not now, huh?) Anyway, I used to be confused by questions like yours, since I didn’t view Cassie that way, even in the first few books of the series. But eventually I realized that the question wasn’t referring to personality/backbone but to power.

Cassie starts the series as a clairvoyant who stumbles into time-travel abilities once she becomes Pythia, the chief seer of the supernatural world. Now, that doesn’t seem like a bad skill set to me (sometimes, especially near a deadline, I’d love to be able to turn the clock back!) But compared to the usual gun-toting, wisecracking, blow-’em-up-and-sort-’em-out-later types that populate much of urban fantasy, I suppose her attributes do appear a little “softer.”

My answer to this question was usually to point out that Cassie is the lead character, but that the Cassandra Palmer series is an ensemble effort (think Avengers Assemble rather than The Hulk). And that Cassie’s abilities were designed to complement those of the other characters. So she didn’t need to be all things to all people and do every single thing herself, which I always found stretching credulity anyway.

Now, that wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth, either. At least, not the whole truth. I just didn’t think that the bloggers who asked me for a short Q&A really wanted a novel on character creation. But you asked and I’m bored, so here goes.

Have you ever noticed that many urban fantasy series are fairly short-lived? In some cases, maybe the books just didn’t resonate with readers and they got the old corporate ax. But in many more, it was the author who chose to end them after only three to five books. Now, maybe some of those authors just like writing shorter story arcs, which is absolutely their prerogative. But that often seemed like kind of a waste to me, since a good portion of the space in most fantasy series’ early books is devoted to world-building. Ending a series early therefore doesn’t leave a lot of time to explore the characters’ personalities, or provide much room for a story arc.

That’s particularly true since, unlike epic fantasy, urban fantasy tends to have a limited page count. My publisher prefers nothing over 120,000 words, and ideally would like the books to come in at closer to 100,000. It’s simple economics: it costs more to edit, print and ship longer books, and while e-books are making those distinctions less important, they’re still there. I know because I frequently go over that maximum!

So, why have such short series? I think the reason has to do with where some authors choose to start their characters. Of course, few these days are going to go Dicken’s route and start a character off at birth, but every author has to decide whether to begin the story earlier or later in their character’s development. And most choose later. Why? Because it plays well with readers.

There’s little that most fantasy fans like more than an ass-kicking, name-taking, alpha lead character to drive a series. That’s why the rows of urban fantasy books tend to be dominated by leather-wearing protagonists, usually in scary surroundings and carrying one or more deadly weapons. And hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. And going that route does have some pretty big advantages.

For one, a lot of readers are not known for patience (don’t look at me like that–you know it’s true), and if you want them to get past book one, you have to hook them early. And the easiest way to do that is to give them what they want. So if they want the traditional butt-kicking hero, why not just give it to them?

For another, it’s just plain easier to write a hero who is at the top of his or her skill set. You don’t have to come up with explanations for why your lead is heading boldly out to confront the bad guys. Why wouldn’t he? He’s Iron Man! Or the Hulk! Or Captain America! He can handle himself. But, of course, if your hero is a normal gal in a happy face T-shirt who couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a gun even if she threw it, AKA Cassie when my series begins, then you have to work much harder to get her into a believable set of circumstances where she must confront the villain. You also have to manage to find a way for her to beat him when the opposite would seem far more likely.

It’s not surprising, then, that many urban fantasies choose to start their hero out either at or near the top of her game. And for a few books, that works great. The series is dynamic, villains are falling left and right, quips are being quipped and fun is being had. But then comes book number four, or possibly five if the writer is especially skilled. And the wall is hit.

The problem is that, even in fantasy–or maybe especially in fantasy–characters have to act in a way that is believable. When you’re demanding so much suspension of disbelief where your universe is concerned, something has to ground your story and that something is usually going to be your characters. And what is not believable is to have a character who never changes.

Change, whether good or bad, is part of human life, and a static character therefore starts to feel unreal after a while. The problem is, if you’ve started a character out near the top of her arc, where are you going to take her? Yes, it is possible for people to change in emotional ways: to work through a problem they’ve had with someone or something in their past (AKA the Inigo Montoya approach). Or to find true love (AKA the Harlequin approach), although that’s more often found in the realms of paranormal romance. Or to fulfill a destiny in some way. And all of those are legitimate story arcs. However, they also tend to be short ones.

So after a few books, when much of the world building is done and the characters are set and the hero has completed her arc, the author starts to wonder…now what? Or sometimes the audience does, when it seems like a bunch of otherwise good characters are wandering around in search of a storyline. The reason they don’t have one is that their story has been told. It’s done, it’s over, and all that’s left is to ride off into the sunset. And so the series folds.

At least, ideally it does. Since the only other option is to morph the character out of all recognition, AKA the weird approach, and essentially give yourself a new character to work with. And therefore a new arc, for a few books anyway. This has been done successfully on occasion, but it’s risky, since it can cause a backlash from readers when they see a favorite character change to the point of no longer being recognizable.

Which brings us back to Cassie–or Frodo at Bag End, or Harry Potter in his closet. Having heroes start at a much earlier point in their arc often makes an author work harder at the beginning, because there’s not as many bells and whistles to keep people entertained, and because their character can come off looking weak even in comparison to her own supporting cast! But it pays dividends in the long run. A lot of dividends.

Dividend 1: It makes the series longer, since your character needs time to change from Harry Potter to Harry Freaking Potter, which in turns allows you more books with which to explore his psyche and flesh him out. When your story starts before everything gets crazy (or at least before it gets as crazy as it inevitably will), the reader gets to grow along with your hero. They get taken on the journey, too, instead of just being shown this character that is already fully formed before the first scene opens. Also, if your main character’s arc is longer, it gives an opportunity to flesh out side characters as well, leading to a more well-rounded cast.

Dividend #2: It is wonderful for building tension. Nothing takes the wind out of a story’s sails faster than having overpowered heroes. You want the protagonist to have to work and struggle to overcome the odds against him or her. You want to have readers on the edge of their seats, wondering how your hero is going to get out of it this time. You want readers to identify with the character, to worry along with him, to bite their nails and be glued to the page, thinking that maybe this is the end because ohmyGodnowaywesurvivethis! And you don’t get that with an overpowered hero.

Dividend #3: You get to help with genre diversity. Urban fantasy is still a relatively young genre, which means it’s a bit more dynamic and less set in its ways than some. But there are already signs of tropes, clichés and stock characters developing. And let’s face it, if every hero is a super-powered, suave, take-no-prisoners type, things get boring fast. Personally, I like to play against type.

That’s why even my other heroine, Dorina Basarab, who is a lot more traditionally butt-kicking than Cassie, has elements that make her very unusual for the genre. She’s a dhampir, half-vampire/half-human, with something of a split personality thing going on, since her two halves never really merged all that well. In a sense, she’s two people in one, and at least one of them is as crazy as a bed bug. But that’s half the fun! Longer series give you a chance to do some pretty unusual things with your characters, and that’s only healthy for the genre overall.

Dividend #4: For the reader, your world and characters start to feel like home. Because, seriously, how many people read Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe stories for the mystery? I’m a mystery buff, and I love me some Rex Stout. But I’ll be the first to admit that his ability to put together a compelling mystery was, er, somewhat limited. But it didn’t matter, because nobody read them for the mysteries anyway. We read them for the characters.

We wanted to know what Fritz was cooking that day and what Wolfe was reading and what girl Archie was pursuing and how the orchids on the roof were doing. And we wanted to know these things because we cared about the characters, and because that old brownstone had become a second home for us, one where we felt completely at ease and yet suitably tingly, because a body could drop out of a closet at any second. It was our second home because we’d visited so many times over such a long period, that it began to feel like we’d actually lived there, too. But you don’t get that feeling out of a one-off book, no matter how good it is. For that, it takes a series and a long one. And a long series takes a special kind of protagonist.