Characterisation: Do
Protagonists Have to be Likeable?
Many years ago, when I first
started writing, I joined a peer-led website set up by the Art’s Council to
help budding authors develop their skills. In essence, you uploaded the opening
chapters of your novel (or a short story) to the site. To gain a reading credit
(i.e. to get another member to read and review your chapters) you had to read
somebody else’s sample first. There was a categorised scoring system – 1-5 – for
Use of Language, Dialogue, Settings, Characterisation et cetera. At the end of
the month, the top ten best-rated stories would be read and reviewed by a
leading literary agent.
This was a hugely beneficial if
frustrating experience (there was a lot of tactical scoring, hatchet jobs,
time-wasters). But it certainly made me – someone with no writing background to
speak of – a better writer, more aware of the ruthless editing process
essential to the development of any story.
Almost inevitably, I became involved in a spat with a member over one of
the samples I’d uploaded to the site. Not only did this particular reviewer
score my story very poorly, they took to the member’s notice-board to complain
about what they saw as me glamorising sexual assault. To put the scene in
question into context, I wanted to make the villain of my novel, A Quiet
Place to Die – a cowboy builder – as odious and reprehensible as possible.
To do so, I set him up as not only conducting a clandestine affair with a local
divorcee, but humiliating her in a rough sex scene. As this took place
relatively early in the novel, I wanted the reader to know that this particular
character was a horrible bastard, the ‘bad guy’, even though the novel’s other
main protagonist – a psychopathic bank robber on the run – was a far more dangerous
individual. In this graphic, unflinching manner, the attempt was to shift
sympathy, allegiance, from one unworthy character to another.
In response to the comments left on the site’s notice-board, I tried to
explain exactly why I’d written such a brutal scene and what I hoped to
accomplish – and the very fact that the reviewer had reacted in this way made
me feel as if I’d succeeded in what I set out to do.
Opinion was split.
Some members who saw the post fully agreed with the reviewer. For them,
sexual violence of any kind had no place in literature. Others were in
agreement with me – that if an author provokes such an impassioned reaction in
a reader then they’ve succeeded in their role as a writer.
But the incident, the online spat, was
nothing if not instructive. In the aftermath, I asked myself: do the main
characters in books have to be likeable? Does there have to be some balance
between good and bad? That if you create a truly reprehensible character, do
you have to offset that with a character of proportionate goodness? In other
reviews for my other stories, it became a recurring theme – how readers wanted
to be able to cheer someone on (and that’s exactly how the vast majority actually
expressed it), that each story has to have a sympathetic character, a ‘good guy’.
But – both then and now – I’m not sure if
I agree with that.
For a compelling character is a compelling character. And just like in
life, not all stories have a happy ending. Not all people are good. And not all
stories are black and white. Naturally, an S.S. officer at Auschwitz or a mass
murderer or child abuser (and I know they’re extreme examples) are not going to
be likeable characters. Their acts are far too reprehensible. But in less
dramatic incidences, greedy, self-serving, back-stabbing, lying, cheating,
swindling, philandering characters – the anti-hero as a vehicle to drive a
novel forward – can be the most satisfying and riveting of all. Even if they
don’t necessarily undergo moral regeneration (Raskolnikov from Crime and
Punishment), see the error of their ways (Ebenezer Scrooge from A
Christmas Carol) or get their comeuppance (Patrick Bateman from American
Psycho) these characters are the most interesting, complex and colourful in
literary history.
Fast-forward to today.
My latest novel Bestial Burdens has just been released through
Cephalopress. I actually wrote this novel way back in 2011. At the time, I felt
it was certain to be my breakthrough book, that a contemporary novel about sex
and therapy was a sure-fire winner, that it had all the ingredients a modern
novel should have – big characters, big ideas. Sadly, it garnered little or no
interest from agents or publishers. Every six or so months, I’d take the manuscript
out of my desk drawer, play around with a few things, and scour the internet
for a publisher that might be interested in putting out something different
from the standard genre fiction fare which dominates today’s bookshelves. In my
darker moments, I wondered why the novel had failed to generate any interest
whatsoever. My reluctant conclusion: characterisation.
There are two main characters in the
book: Shaun Fox, a narcissistic therapist, an arrogant, conceited, complacent individual
who treats his many sexual partners like objects, or worse: portable case
studies. And his new client, Lucas McGoldrick, an ex-porn star struggling to
come to terms with fatherhood late in life, a former alcoholic and drug addict,
a man who’s done many shameful things in his life (most notably star in
infamous seventies porn film Animal Farm).
Undoubtedly, Shaun is a gifted and
empathetic therapist – he’s very good at his job. He helps people with a range
of emotional/mental health issues. But his attitudes towards women, sex,
relationships make him a very unpleasant character indeed. Hardly somebody any
reader could “cheer on”. But that doesn’t make him any less of a compelling
personality. The duality of his character – personal and professional – is
counterbalanced with his developing relationship with Lucas. And it’s this duality that is at the heart of
the book – the parallels Shaun starts to recognise between not just his own colourful
sex life but his outlook and worldview in general, and Lucas’ dark past, the
drink and drug addiction, the countless intimate acts with countless strangers,
the meaninglessness of sexual gratification, that made up life in the 1970’s
porn industry.
And again, I’m drawn back to the issue
of whether characters have to be wholesome and good and worthy to attract a
more general readership. And why aren’t more readers interested in deeply
flawed personalities? Is it because such negative traits are too close to home?
Do they need their fictional favourites to possess characteristics they, or
anybody else on this planet, don’t naturally possess?
For the reasons outlined above, I suspect that many people will dislike Bestial
Burdens, that they’ll find the Shaun Fox character too distasteful. To the
extent, that they might only read a handful of chapters. But I created these
two characters to examine modern attitudes towards relationships, intimacy,
making a connection with that one special person, of treasuring that above all
other things. In many ways, it is both critique and sad lament to each
individual’s search for love, something more important than mere sexual
pleasure. If the route taken is an unpalatable one for some readers, then I’m
afraid they’ve picked up the wrong book.
Bestial Burdens (Cephalopress)
is now available to buy in both paperback and Kindle. Click on the link below
to order your copy today:
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