SPBMI: Goods, Evils, and Story-Craft

Anyone who's known me for any length of time should be familiar with my love for J R R Tolkien, and I’m always looking for new ways to engage with his stories. One of the ways I’ve been doing that — aside from re-reads whenever possible — is through podcasts, the best of which is the beloved Prancing Pony Podcast. Its original hosts, Alan and Shawn, strike the perfect balance between scholarly discussion and humorous warmth. I’d highly recommend them to anyone interested in a deeper look into Tolkien’s work. They’ve only recently finished an extended study of The Lord of the Rings, lasting 200 episodes over 6 years, so there’s a mountain of content to explore.

One of the most interesting themes the podcast has followed over the years began at the very start of their journey with The Silmarillion. Published after his death, it’s the heart of Tolkien’s ‘Legendarium’, detailing the ancient histories of Middle-Earth which lead to the events of his other novels. It’s an intimidating tome for even the most seasoned of fantasy readers, but the Prancing Pony Podcast has done an excellent job of making it delightfully accessible.

One particular passage, from the opening pages of The Silmarillion, might seem fairly insignificant upon a first reading, but I’ve slowly realised it’s one of the most foundational aspects of Tolkien’s world-building and storytelling. In simple terms, Eru (God) and his spirits are singing the song of creation, in unison and harmony. But one spirit, Melkor, sings purposefully out of tune, hoping to form his own melody to his own ends. However, despite the ruin and discord that he enacts on the world, Eru says this:

And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined.

It’s pretty archaic, and the idea it presents seems counter-intuitive. All of Melkor’s plans and works, however corrupt, still have their source in Eru, and nothing he tries will change the course of the divine symphony. In fact, his rebellion is already part of the plan for this new world. Anyone who schemes to steer the Creator’s song to their own selfish ends (and there are many more who try) “shall prove but mine instrument” in the making of greater good. The Prancing Pony Podcast affectionately named this concept SPBMI (pronounced spuh-bim-me), an acronym of its core phrase.

(A brief aside: I recently learned something new, which may be only new to me. With acronyms, you speak the abbreviation as if it’s a word: NASA, SCUBA, GIF, and so on. However, when you speak each letter of the abbreviation — like in DIY, DNA, or FAQ — it’s called an initialism. Some words, like ASAP and LOL, can weirdly be both. There’s also loads of interesting stuff about how we’ve done this for thousands of years, but that’s even further aside than I planned.)

SPBMI is an idea that’s brought up over and over again in Tolkien’s works, and its application is very straightforward: the presence of evil consistently enables the rise of heroes. A dragon who stole a kingdom’s treasure will spark a quest to see it returned. A powerful ring will unite a fellowship to see it destroyed. A besieged nation will restore its rightful king who leads his allies to victory. A common thread here is the importance of community. It’s the bringing together of disparate skills and perspectives that creates something greater than the sum of its parts, able to conquer great threats, and it’s Melkor’s self-imposed solitude and lack of kinship that leads him to his self-absorbed, dissonant ideas. Evil is, then, in a strange sense, an opportunity for and instrument in the creation of togetherness and the making of good.

The Biblical influences in this creation myth are fairly apparent, but SPBMI may have some scriptural foundations too. From the story of Joseph, for example: in jealousy and spite, his brothers sell him into slavery in Egypt. However, after years of trials, Joseph rises in status to become the right-hand-man of Pharaoh, and is able to rescue his family from famine. Genesis 50:20 is almost a re-wording of SPBMI:

You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good, to accomplish what is now being done — the saving of many lives.

It’s a nearly identical notion: an act of great selfishness and evil is revealed to be a pathway to unforeseen victory.

But SPBMI isn’t just applicable to Tolkien or his Biblical inspirations — I think it’s great advice for all kinds of storytelling. For any character to develop, for any plot to move, for any story to flourish, it needs problems to overcome. Tough questions to answer, difficult situations to navigate, opportunities for growth. Every ‘evil’ — misunderstandings, misfortunes, complications, challenges — should prove to be our instruments in the crafting of something ‘good’. And these ‘goods’ and ‘evils’ vary hugely between genres, depending on the intention of the story. Romance is only compelling if there are flaws and barriers to tackle before the declaration of love. Solving a mystery is only satisfying if there are difficult clues to crack. Horror is only cathartic if there’s something to fear. As writers, we should be throwing as many trials in the story’s way as possible, ensuring the desired result — intrigue, terror, wonder, hope — is earned, and all the more rewarding in their despite.

SPBMI has become a pretty powerful tool in the way I approach writing, and I think it’s also a solid piece of wisdom for life in general. How can you grow to meet this challenge? What does this setback teach you? What ‘good’ can come of this ‘evil’? In the real world, these concepts are always fuzzy, and it’s an undeniably difficult perspective to find. But maybe we should all seek ways of viewing trials as a vessel for growth: in the rallying of community, in the conquering of adversity, and “in the devising of things more wonderful”.

Take care, and fare well, wherever you fare,

— H