The perfect pupil for a mentor/pupil relationship, if literary tradition is any indication, fits the following template:
- “Ordinary” looks
And it doesn’t hurt if he’s orphaned and maybe living with a possibly unsympathetic uncle.
Epic heroes like Harry Potter and Luke Skywalker come most readily to mind. In that same vein, we never see Frodo Baggins’s parents, while his Uncle Bilbo plays a prominent role. Oliver Twist at least lives in a workhouse instead of with heartless relatives; his literary cousin, Pip Pirrip, lives with a trenchant sister rather than an uncle (although her age does put her in a different generation than him).
And all of these heroes are “ordinary,” except that they’re not.
In many cases, the author goes out of their way to describe an average appearance, perhaps something tipping toward the lower end of the physical appearance spectrum. But not too low. We wouldn’t want our hero to be outright ugly or repulsive. Instead, we find them skinny, a little on the short side, with unruly hair or freckles or some other minor aesthetic flaw. They can grow into their handsome looks along with the plot.
(If they have a quick transformation into handsome looks via magic or some other supernatural means—which, sadly, does happen—the MarySue alarm should be clanging in your ears. Just FYI.)
In essence, the “perfect pupil” is a blank canvas, something that the mentor, narrator, and author all can draw upon to create the hero that we as readers are conditioned to expect.
And while it’s a nice template, and has certainly been put to good use, imagine the possibilities if you switch up the elements. Take a moment to consider the following character templates as the pupil in a mentor-pupil relationship:
- Male, well-meaning, eye-candy
- Male, malevolent, “ordinary” looks
- Male, malevolent, eye-candy
- Female, well-meaning, “ordinary” looks
- Female, well-meaning, eye-candy
- Female, malevolent, “ordinary” looks
- Female, malevolent, eye-candy
With only three characteristics, a whole spectrum of scenarios emerge. (And that without even taking the pupil’s family situation into account.)
And now, a linguistic aside. Among its methods of language classifications, the field of typology looks at basic, “unmarked” word order. That is, it asks, “What is the underlying structure for this language?”
With three constituents—Subject (S), Verb (V), Object (O)—there are six possible combinations:
These are listed in order of frequency across the world’s languages. (Old English was SOV, but Middle English switched to SVO. Possibly because it was actually a creole between OE and French and creoles tend to be SVO. But I digress.)
For a decent chunk of time, #6 (OSV) was only theoretical. What language could possibly have a basic word order of Object-Subject-Verb? Even its nearest neighbor OVS amounted to only 1% of samples.
And then linguists went mucking about in the Amazon basin. Surprise! There lurked the underlying OSV structure.
This structure, with the handful of languages that fall into its classification, statistically amounts to 0% of the world’s languages.
But it exists.
(Proud Yoda would be.)
While it’s certainly fun to explore the field of languages that fall under the more common SOV and SVO word orders, the mere existence of OSV is something to celebrate and cherish.
In that same spirit, while it’s certainly fun to explore the ranks of male, well-meaning, ordinary-looking heroes, variations of that template ought to be encouraged. There’s room for a full spectrum of characters in literary canon. Any gaps simply mean we haven’t gone exploring deep enough into our creative jungles.