The Trope of the ELM

I’m currently reading a science fiction adventure novel. I’m at about the halfway point. Yesterday, reading a tense, high-action sequence involving a number of the characters, I was struck hard with how much the story relies on the Exceptional Lone Male trope.

I’m using “trope” in this post to mean a motif, rhetorical device or set of elements that appears in stories. I believe that like many things, the existence of a trope is, or can be, neutral—Character Finds a Hidden Letter is a trope, for instance. Tropes can be limiting if they perpetuate stereotypes. They can limit enjoyment in other ways too.

Exceptional Lone Male, which I will now abbreviate as ELM, a time-honored trope. By the way, there’s nothing necessarily wrong with it. I’m sure it appeals to young men. There is certainly, at least in speculative fiction, an Exceptional Lone Female trope as well, which appears to young women. Both of these are related to the Chosen One trope. All of these encourage stereotyping if the writer isn’t careful, but this post is less about the obvious stereotypes and more about the overall affect of an ELM trope.

Generally, for me as a reader, this trope shuts me out of the story. I, a lowly woman, may only watch from the sidelines, occasionally giving little adoring gasps, as the Exceptional Male, by his lonesome, figures out the math, slays the monsters, wields the weapons, finds the treasure, and saves the world.

By the way, an effect of ELM—the other males in the story, unless they are a designated adversary, behave much the same way. (Okay, maybe slightly fewer adoring gasps.) They fall reverentially silent before the great wisdom of the ELM. Even a male subject matter expert in a subject about which the ELM knows nothing will often miss the subtle clue that the ELM intuits, like this:

Hydrologist, who has studied in his field for 20+years:  So, I just can’t figure out how there would be water there. There’s no logical reason.

ELM, nineteen years old, raised on the streets, 4^th grade education: Wait… doesn’t water flow downhill? Maybe there’s a hidden spring higher up.

Hydrologist: My God! I never thought of that.

I use tropes all the time. My point is that the writer should drive the trope, not the reverse. Using the trope without conscious awareness is what leads to unintended stereotyping.

Maybe the ELM trope is something the ELM himself needs to wrestle with. He believes he is the Lone Male—maybe he has to learn that other people can help. Maybe the hydrologist says, “I can only assume there’s a spring higher up.” The ELM can still find the water and save the day.

At the very least, if you’ve signed on 100% to ELM, and least wink at the audience once in a while, so we know you know what you’re doing. Have a flunky roll their eyes, or the girlfriend say, “You could ask an expert—oh, sorry, I forgot who I was talking to.”

Tropes are seductive, that’s the problem. I’ll fall into a trope intuitively, or by habit, and it will feel right, plotwise and dramatically. This isn’t because it’s right, but because it’s familiar. I was raised on this stuff. We all were. One trope of mine, surprisingly, is “a part of the government is evil.” This is just weird on its face. I’m one of those rare folks who likes government. I worked close to local government for literally decades. Those people weren’t evil. (Okay, well, maybe one or two were.) I don’t believe “government is evil,” or even, “government is inherently draconian” but I’ll reach for that first if I need an adversary in a speculative fiction story—because it’s easy.

If I’m going to use “a part of government is evil,” then it’s on me to ask myself some questions about that. What do I mean by “government?” Is it federal, state, regional, or local? Is it a corrupt elected official? Or a “shadow bureaucracy,” made up of long-term employees who know all the secrets? (Actually, I wish I’d been part of a shadow bureaucracy.) Is it enacting the stated wishes of the populace and growing unintended consequences, or has the process been hijacked?

Just examine the story patterns you chose intuitively or seem to fall into. Ask yourself questions about them. Push them to the extreme before you commit to the story. Flip the perspective. For instance, with the Exceptional Lone Male, take a look at your story from the point of view of the people he leaves in his wake. Are they happy and grateful? Do they feel left out? Do they think he’s jerk? Do they admire him, but feel sorry for him? What?

Anything I say here applies equally to ELFs or Chosen Ones.

And now I’ll go back to the ELM I was reading about. Perhaps there’s another part of the world he needs to save.