The first rule of writing club? Stop protecting your protagonist. That was the jarring advice Jim Shepard gave our diverse group at the Sirenland Writer’s Conference – memoirists, fiction writers, and biographers alike receiving the same fundamental critique. His observation landed like a truth bomb in that Italian villa classroom: we were all unconsciously shielding our main characters from full accountability.
What made this revelation so startling was its universal accuracy. None of us had realized we were doing it. The fiction writers softened their narrators’ rough edges. The memoirists (myself included) portrayed our younger selves with defensive tenderness. Even the biographer hesitated to fully examine their subject’s complicities. We’d become literary bodyguards, intercepting any scrutiny that might reveal our characters’ unflattering dimensions or active roles in their own conflicts.
This protective instinct manifests in subtle but damaging ways: skipping over moments where protagonists make questionable choices, downplaying their contributions to conflicts, or framing them as passive victims of circumstance. In workshop discussions, we discovered these patterns cut across genres. One novelist realized her ‘lost’ main character actually possessed more agency than she’d acknowledged. A memoirist confronted her tendency to omit personal failures that contextualized key relationships. The biographer admitted glossing over their subject’s moral ambiguities.
Why does this happen? Writing resembles parenting – we nurture these imaginary beings into existence, watching them stumble through the worlds we create. That emotional investment makes objective evaluation nearly impossible. There’s also the vulnerability factor: exposing a character’s flaws often feels like exposing our own creative shortcomings. As Jim noted, ‘You can’t write interesting saints.’ Yet modern readers crave precisely what we hesitate to deliver – protagonists whose fingerprints appear on their own problems, whose imperfections make them recognizably human.
That week in Positano became an intervention for our writing habits. The realization wasn’t that our characters needed more trauma, but that they needed more truth – the kind that comes when we stop being their publicists and start being their biographers. Because here’s the paradox: by protecting our protagonists from full accountability, we actually weaken their stories. The narrative tension deflates when characters don’t earn their consequences or contribute to their conflicts. Readers sense the absence, even if they can’t name it.
This protective tendency explains why even seasoned writers benefit from workshops. Like optometrists flipping lenses, good writing groups help us see our characters at proper focal lengths – neither too forgiving nor too harsh. They spot the moments where we pull punches, the scenes where responsibility gets conveniently redistributed. That external perspective becomes the antidote to our unconscious guardianship.
So the question isn’t whether your protagonist deserves protection, but whether your story deserves a protagonist who doesn’t need it. Because the characters we remember – the ones that linger in book club discussions and literary analysis – aren’t those who emerged unscathed from their narratives, but those who bore the scars of their own choices. They didn’t just experience their stories; they authored them, for better and worse. And isn’t that what we want our writing to achieve?
The Psychology Behind Protecting Our Protagonists
Every writer has been there—crafting a protagonist we adore, someone whose journey feels personal, whose victories we celebrate, and whose flaws we… well, we might gloss over those a bit. At the Sirenland Writer’s Conference, Jim Shepard’s blunt advice—”Stop protecting your protagonists”—hit like a lightning bolt because it revealed a universal truth: we shield our characters without realizing it. But why? What drives this instinct to polish their edges and soften their mistakes?
The Mirror Effect: When Characters Become Extensions of Ourselves
One of the most powerful reasons we protect our protagonists is self-projection. Whether writing fiction or memoir, we pour fragments of ourselves into our characters—our fears, desires, and unresolved struggles. This emotional investment makes it painfully hard to expose their (and by extension, our) vulnerabilities. A novelist might avoid letting their hero make morally questionable choices, not because it serves the story, but because they subconsciously fear judgment. Similarly, memoirists often sculpt their past selves into sympathetic figures, downplaying their own role in conflicts.
Key manifestations of this habit include:
- Softening flaws: Transforming a character’s jealousy into “passionate concern,” or their selfishness into “self-preservation.”
- Avoiding agency: Depicting protagonists as passive victims of circumstance rather than active participants in their downfalls (e.g., “The divorce shattered her” vs. “Her refusal to communicate fueled the divorce”).
- Simplifying conflict: Resolving tensions too neatly to spare the character—and reader—discomfort.
The Fear Factor: Judgment and Relatability
Behind every overprotected protagonist lurks a writer’s anxiety: Will readers still root for them if they’re flawed? This fear stems from a misunderstanding of human connection. Readers don’t crave perfection; they crave authenticity. Consider iconic characters like Gone Girl’s Amy Dunne or Breaking Bad’s Walter White—their monstrous choices fascinate us because they reflect the messy reality of human nature. By sanitizing our characters, we strip them of this magnetic complexity.
Breaking the Cycle: Awareness as the First Step
Recognizing these patterns is half the battle. Try this exercise: Re-read a scene where your protagonist faces adversity. Ask:
- Where did they contribute to the problem? (e.g., Did their pride escalate the argument?)
- What’s the ugliest emotion they’re avoiding? (Shame? Guilt?)
- How would their enemy describe this scene?
Example: In a workshop, a memoirist wrote about her “betrayal” by a friend—until feedback revealed she’d omitted her own habit of canceling plans last-minute. Adding this layer transformed a one-sided victim narrative into a nuanced exploration of mutual failure.
Why This Matters
Protecting protagonists doesn’t just weaken individual characters; it drains stories of their tension and truth. As Jim Shepard’s workshop proved, even experienced writers fall into this trap. But the moment we stop shielding our characters—letting them be selfish, cowardly, or outright wrong—is the moment our writing gains depth. Because flawed characters don’t push readers away; they pull them in closer, whispering, You’re not alone.
The Workshop Casebook: How Both Fiction and Memoir Writers Fall into the Protagonist Protection Trap
At the Sirenland workshop, Jim Shepard’s critique revealed something fascinating—whether we were crafting fictional worlds or excavating personal histories, we’d all developed the same blind spot. Our protagonists emerged unscathed from every conflict, their flaws gently airbrushed, their mistakes conveniently justified. Here’s how this phenomenon manifested across genres:
Fiction Writers: The Agency Vacuum
The first case came from a novelist writing about a young woman drifting through life after a traumatic event. The prose was lyrical, the emotional landscape richly drawn—yet something felt hollow.
“Your protagonist reacts beautifully to every hardship,” Jim noted, “but where’s her complicity?” The room fell silent as we realized: this character had become a passive recipient of misfortune rather than an active participant in her own story. Without agency—those conscious choices that inadvertently deepen conflicts—her journey lacked narrative teeth.
This exemplifies a common fiction trap: when we shield protagonists from responsibility, we rob stories of their inherent tension. Readers instinctively recognize this absence. They might not articulate it as “lack of character complicity,” but they’ll describe such stories as “flat” or “unconvincing.”
Memoirists: The Victimhood Vortex
Then came the memoirists—myself included. One writer recounted childhood neglect with poignant detail, yet the narrative subtly positioned her younger self as purely blameless. When Jim asked, “What might you have done to exacerbate situations?” she initially resisted. Later, she admitted: “I’d sometimes provoke my parents to confirm they didn’t care.” That admission transformed her manuscript from a one-sided lament into a complex exploration of family dynamics.
Memoir protection often manifests as:
- Selective Memory: Highlighting others’ faults while minimizing our own
- Retrospective Justification: Explaining away past behaviors with present-day logic
- Emotional Bookkeeping: Keeping meticulous score of wounds received while forgetting those inflicted
The Cross-Genre Pattern
What united both groups? An instinctive narrative defense mechanism. Fiction writers anthropomorphize their creations (“I can’t be cruel to her!”), while memoirists conflate honesty with self-flagellation. Both forget that true connection comes from vulnerability, not virtue.
Consider this writing exercise we developed:
- Identify Protection Points: Mark scenes where conflicts resolve too neatly
- Inject Complicity: Ask “How might my protagonist have contributed to this problem?”
- Rewritethe Fallout: Show consequences flowing from character choices, not just circumstances
A participant working on a WWII novel initially portrayed his resistance fighter as flawlessly courageous. After this exercise, he added moments where the character’s pride endangered others—suddenly, the story gained moral complexity that resonated with modern readers’ appetite for authentic characters.
This isn’t about manufacturing flaws, but uncovering the ones we’ve instinctively papered over. As Jim reminded us: “The best stories happen when protagonists stop being passengers and start being drivers—even if they’re driving toward cliffs.”
3 Practical Steps to Break the Habit of Protecting Your Protagonist
The Accountability Checklist: Quantifying Your Character’s Mistakes
Every compelling protagonist makes active choices that contribute to their struggles. Yet most writers unconsciously whitewash these decisions. Here’s how to confront this blind spot:
- Identify Key Conflicts: List 3-5 major turning points where your protagonist faces adversity
- Chart Their Responsibility: For each conflict, answer:
- What specific action/inaction of theirs worsened the situation?
- What alternative choices existed?
- How might others perceive their role differently?
- Grade Their Complicity: Use a simple scale (1=minimal responsibility → 5=primary cause)
Example: In a memoir about career burnout, the writer initially framed the protagonist as a victim of corporate culture. The checklist revealed:
- Chose 80-hour work weeks despite warnings (Responsibility: 4/5)
- Dismissed family’s concerns as “lack of ambition” (Responsibility: 3/5)
The Perspective Flip: Rewriting From the Antagonist’s View
Your character’s flaws become glaringly obvious when seen through their rival’s eyes. Try this exercise:
- Select a pivotal scene where your protagonist “gets away” with questionable behavior
- Rewrite it from the perspective of:
- Their greatest critic
- An impartial observer
- The person most hurt by their actions
- Compare versions – what defenses did you instinctively include in the original?
Workshop Insight: A novelist discovered her “charming rogue” protagonist came across as manipulative when described by his jilted lover. This revealed unconscious narrative bias.
Building an Effective Feedback System
External perspectives are crucial for spotting overprotection. Structure critiques with these guidelines:
For Beta Readers
- Ask targeted questions:
“Where did the protagonist frustrate you?”
“Did their mistakes feel justified?” - Provide chapter-by-chapter reaction notes (emoji ratings work well)
In Writing Groups
- Institute a “devil’s advocate” role for each discussion
- Use this prompt: “What’s the protagonist trying to hide from us?”
Professional Feedback
- Highlight 2-3 specific traits you suspect you’re protecting
- Request: “Challenge me where the character gets undeserved sympathy”
Pro Tip: Track recurring critique themes – if multiple readers mention “the boss was unfairly villainized,” examine your protagonist’s workplace behavior.
These methods transform theoretical advice into actionable steps. By systematically exposing our protective instincts, we create protagonists who earn their journeys – flaws and all. As one workshop participant realized: “I wasn’t doing my main character any favors by making her blameless. Her poor decisions made her human.”
Why Today’s Readers Crave Flawed Protagonists
Modern storytelling has shifted dramatically from the era of spotless heroes and one-dimensional villains. Contemporary audiences don’t just tolerate imperfections in characters—they actively seek them out. A 2022 Penguin Random House reader survey revealed that 78% of respondents found morally ambiguous protagonists more memorable than traditionally ‘heroic’ ones. This isn’t surprising when we consider how our understanding of human psychology has evolved.
The Psychology Behind Our Love for Imperfect Characters
Readers connect with flawed characters because they mirror real human experience. Neuroscience research shows our brains respond to fictional characters’ struggles as if they were our own. When a protagonist makes questionable choices or displays relatable weaknesses, it triggers deeper emotional engagement. Consider these reader preferences from recent industry studies:
- 72% prefer protagonists who make visible mistakes
- 65% will abandon stories with ‘too perfect’ main characters
- 83% remember stories longer when protagonists have authentic flaws
This explains the enduring popularity of complex characters like Jay Gatsby (whose obsession destroys him) or Fleabag (whose self-sabotage feels painfully familiar). Their imperfections create narrative tension and emotional resonance that polished heroes simply can’t match.
Case Studies: When Flaws Became Strengths
- Literary Fiction: Celeste Ng’s Little Fires Everywhere features Elena Richardson—a controlling, judgmental mother whose flaws drive the novel’s central conflicts. Readers don’t need to like her to find her fascinating.
- Memoir: Tara Westover’s Educated gained critical acclaim precisely because she didn’t shield her younger self from scrutiny. Her honest portrayal of her own complicity in family dysfunction made the story universally relatable.
- Genre Fiction: Even in commercial genres, imperfect protagonists dominate bestseller lists. Lee Child’s Jack Reacher thrives precisely because of his social awkwardness and violent tendencies—qualities that would disqualify him as a ‘hero’ in traditional narratives.
The Market Speaks: What Publishers Want Now
Literary agents consistently report that manuscripts featuring:
- Protagonists who are active participants in their own downfalls
- Characters with contradictory moral compasses
- Narrators with unreliable perspectives
receive more attention in acquisitions meetings. As one New York editor noted: ‘We’re drowning in sympathetic protagonists. Bring me someone deliciously problematic.’
This trend reflects broader cultural shifts toward authenticity. In an age of curated social media personas, readers hunger for stories that acknowledge the messy reality of human nature. Your protagonist’s flaws aren’t weaknesses—they’re the hooks that will keep readers turning pages.
Writing Exercise: Take your current protagonist and list three decisions they’ve made that a reasonable person might consider selfish, short-sighted, or morally questionable. Now ask: How can these ‘flaws’ create richer conflicts in your story?
The Power of Imperfect Protagonists
Every great story thrives on authenticity, and authenticity stems from one undeniable truth: flawed characters make unforgettable narratives. As we’ve explored throughout this guide, the instinct to protect our protagonists is both natural and counterproductive. Those very imperfections we hesitate to expose—the questionable choices, the moral ambiguities, the moments of weakness—are what transform fictional creations and personal memoirs into resonant human experiences.
Why Flaws Matter More Than Perfection
Modern audiences crave characters with texture. Consider the protagonists we remember decades later:
- Jay Gatsby’s obsessive idealism
- Elizabeth Bennet’s prejudiced first impressions
- Walter White’s gradual moral decay
These characters endure precisely because their creators dared to expose their contradictions. Your protagonist’s complicity in their own struggles isn’t a weakness in your writing—it’s the secret ingredient that makes readers lean closer to the page.
Putting Theory Into Practice
Remember the three tools we discussed:
- The Responsibility Checklist (Download template here)
- Identify 3 key moments where your protagonist actively contributed to their problems
- Note how acknowledging these changes the story’s emotional weight
- The Perspective Flip Exercise
- Rewrite a pivotal scene from your antagonist’s viewpoint
- Notice what new dimensions appear in your protagonist’s behavior
- The Feedback Framework
- When receiving critiques, specifically ask:
“Where does my protagonist seem too passive or blameless?”
“What uncomfortable truths about them am I avoiding?”
Your Challenge This Week
Choose one scene where your protagonist emerges suspiciously unscathed. Then:
- Add one concrete action that makes them partially responsible for the conflict
- Include one thought or line of dialogue that reveals an unflattering motivation
- Share your revision in the comments—we’d love to see your breakthroughs
Final Thought
The bravest thing we can do as writers isn’t crafting perfect characters—it’s having the courage to expose their beautifully human imperfections. So I’ll leave you with this question: What uncomfortable truth about your protagonist have you been protecting readers (and perhaps yourself) from discovering?
