Why villains—not heroes—hold the key to unforgettable mysteries and horror stories.

I once forgot my villain’s name.

You could read any childhood fairy tale, I’m talking old-school here, and realize just how true that statement is — Snow White, written in 1812 by the Brothers Grimm; Cinderella, written in 1697 by Charles Perrault; and Little Red Riding Hood, also written in 1697 by Charles Perrault under the original title of The Little Red Hood (Le Petit Chaperon rouge). Before that, it was passed down through oral tradition.

Who dominates those stories?                    

The Villain.

There’s a reason we all know these stories, even though they were written hundreds of years ago; we need to make sense of senseless things. And yes, many have been softened over the years to avoid traumatizing today’s children.

Originally, the wolf came out on top in The Little Red Hood; he ate both the little girl and her grandmother. The story was a warning. There was no hero.

Just saying.  

This brings me to the most important character in your story, aside from your hero, that is: the villain. Keep that in mind. It’s not your hero’s buddy or even her adorable dog that uncovers all the clues or fights off the disgusting lizard creature that just crawled out of the toilet.

Let me say that again; it’s your villain.

We’ve all encountered flat villains if we’ve read enough books. Hell, I’ve even created a few myself. Two-dimensional characters that should be dressed all in black and twisting their pencil mustaches while laughing maniacally.

The villain in one of the first books I ever wrote was so weak that I forgot her name and many of the important details about her. I was so focused on developing my hero that I hardly paid any attention to my villain. The villain is your catalyst; treat them accordingly. If you’re forgetting your villain, what makes you think your readers will remember them?

We all have the potential to become something terrible, to do terrible things. What is that final straw, that inciting incident that makes us change for the worse, not the better? Let’s be honest, even Satan himself was once an angel.

My advice?

Write your villain first. Make them full-bodied and multi-dimensional. Give them a reason to become something unimaginable to most of us, whether it’s a monster or a murderer. (Tip: It doesn’t even need to appear in the pages of your novel, but you should know their backstory.)

Every time I create a new villain, I want to understand their motivation.

Is it greed? Why? Were they poor growing up? Were they wealthy? Are they desperate to experience what they were never given, or do they only know chaos and fear losing what they have?

Is it love gone wrong? Do they have mommy issues, daddy issues, or both? Have they only known abuse and pain their whole lives, and now they feel justified in lashing out at the world around them?

What about the villain that isn’t human? Don’t worry; I heard you say that…

Your monster, whether it’s slithering on its slime-covered belly or crawling out of the pentacle your misguided teenage character just drew on her bedroom floor, all pose the same questions. What is its motivation? Hunger? Fear? Power?

All of those things seem very similar to their human counterparts, don’t you think?

Take Candy Holt, the rebellious villainess and hero of my ongoing serial, Hard Candy. She’s a mess not only because of her past as a human but also because of what she’s done for love and survival as a vampire. Her husband was murdered over some scraps of food, and she’s killed more people than she cares to remember. Did that change her? Of course it did. Wouldn’t it change you?

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what the body count is, what form the villain took, or even if they win or lose. What does matter is that your villain receives just as much time on the page as your hero, and when you look back at your work ten years from now, you can say that you remember the bad guy as clearly as you do the person on the front cover, and that you haven’t forgotten their name or why they did what they did.

We created them; we owe them at least that much.

Until next time, dip from your inkwell often,

Mira Wolfe Writes …