Heroic Myth and Adrian Tannhauser

During class last week, one of my students asked about the importance of creating a character for our stories. I responded with this quote:

“For me, the novel is character creation. Style is nice, plot is nice, structure is OK, social significance is OK, symbolism worms its way in, timeliness is OK too, but unless the characters convince and live the book’s got no chance.”
–Larry McMurtry, quoted in Larry McMurtry: A Life by Tracy Daugherty

Then I was asked: How much of the character’s attributes are necessary to have in your head before you begin writing about them (with them)?

That is a good question. For me, I usually allow for the broad strokes first. Here’s a glimpse into the creation of Adrian Tannhauser and how I settled on creating a private eye to tell my stories.

Just as the cowboy is the direct descendant of the chivalric knight, the private investigator is the next generation of the American cowboy. Both the cowboy and the PI live on society’s frayed edges, forging a place for themselves on the outskirts of civilization where the lamplight ends and darkness is at hand. I wanted to explore what being a PI in the 21st century meant. I also wanted to make him a combat veteran since America has been at war in the Middle East for most of the 21st century.

When crafting my veteran turned private investigator, I wanted a name beyond the English/Irish/Scottish tradition. Since I am interested in Norse mythology, I looked to the body of myths of the North Germanic peoples for a German-sounding name. At the same time, I rewatched Blade Runner and the brilliant “Tears in Rain” speech that refers to a forever-unexplained Tannhäuser Gate:

I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die. 

A folk tale from the 16th century tells of Tannhäuser, a knight and poet who discovered the Venusberg, the subterranean home of Venus, the Roman goddess of love and spent a year there worshipping her. Eventually, Tannhäuser was remorseful for living a hedonistic life, left the Venusberg, and traveled to Rome to ask Pope Urban IV to absolve him of his sins. Urban replied that forgiveness is impossible, as much as it would be for his papal staff to blossom. Dejected, Tannhäuser left Rome. Three days after Tannhäuser’s departure, Urban’s staff bloomed with flowers. Urban dispatched messengers to retrieve the knight, but he had already returned to Venusberg and was never seen again.

I decided to invert the idea. 

What if the pleasures of Venusburg were instead the pain found on the field of combat on foreign soil? What if he came home seeking forgiveness but lacked the wherewithal to ask for it? What if an injury prevented him from remembering the best of his world while accentuating its worst? Now, the staff of Pope Urban IV is Tannhauser’s wooden cane. His left leg injury is the physical reminder of his time in the otherworld; of his failure. Unforgiven, he now fights a war on the streets of America, determined to save others’ souls because he cannot forgive himself. 

The pursuit of mercy through justice might save others, but will it save him?

This is who Adrian Tannhauser is.

Later, as I wrote his stories, I knew he was a man of honor, defending people who cannot defend themselves. I understood his underlying anger, estrangement from his family, and desire to come home–physically and emotionally.

Now, as I write the last story in the collection of short stories that culminated in my thesis, I see how far I have taken this premise and how much more there is to explore.

Onward.

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Race Bannon by Doug Wildey, private commission. This updated version of Bannon is the closest thing to Tannhauser in my mind.

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