A "Strong Female Lead" Who's Actually Strong Instead of Annoying

I just finished W. R. Gingell's Masque. (If you haven't read it yet, you should--it's incredibly fun. What sane person wouldn't love a retelling of Beauty and the Beast that's also a murder mystery set in a fantasy world full of fabulous fashion and dangerous magic? It's not just for girls, either. My husband had a hard time putting it down.)

I've been thinking about the heroine. In this day and age, most authors recognize the need for the obligatory Strong Female Lead and declare their heroine to be, you know, strong. Yet a lot of those SFLs are flops. Often they become an excuse for lazy storytelling because they are allowed to "get away" with choices and actions that would be called-out as immature in a male. Isabella, the protagonist in Masque, is not at all a flop. Why?

Most protagonists who fit under the SFL label do so either by virtue of martial prowess or through having a strong-willed, impulsive personality with a formidable temper.

Isabella is not martial. She does have a very strong personality and is essentially impossible to stop once she gets an idea in her head. Other characters sometimes call her enraging, stubborn, etc. Yet she is not driven by whims. She has, in fact, great self-control. The author makes the point several times that Isabella holds her temper on a very tight reign--she refuses to let herself remain angry or to speak in anger. In fact, if she believes she has overstepped and hurt someone's feelings or been unfair, she immediately--and disarmingly--apologizes. All of this makes her role as a professional diplomat much more believable.

Key point: Isabella's will is a true strength because she has it under control instead of being controlled by it.

Hand-in-hand with her self-discipline, her inner moral compass plays a significant role in defining her character. Although on the surface of the story she has a good deal of fun chasing the murderer, she is clearly driven by much more than a desire for a good time. When necessary, she makes sacrifices (even of her ability to pursue her investigation!) for the sake of people she cares about. Not only does this bolster the idea that she is a strong female lead, it also makes it more credible that the male hero would be attracted to someone he finds so frustrating.

Ultimately, Isabella is strong not because she insists on her own way but because she has self-control and tries to do what is right. That, I think, is why Masque is so satisfying even though it isn't intended to be taken very seriously.

And by the way, as I said at the beginning of this post, you should read Masque.

The Dangerous Lure of Reviewing Books I Didn't Like

Producing something tangible is satisfying. An article, a doll dress, a fancy dinner, a pretty Christmas ornament. Reading books doesn't in itself create that sense of accomplishment, unfortunately, especially when the books are on my Kindle and never make a physical appearance here, there, or anywhere.

Perhaps that is why it creates a sense of having done something, having produced, when I leave a review on Goodreads or a blog.

The problem arises when I read a book that disappoints. A book that makes me angry at the author for squandering the rich potential of her premise or her characters. It would be so satisfactory to review it! I can hear the dissection of errors in my head. It would be fun to write that dissection down. Besides, it would break the silence of my Goodreads account.

The problem is that I, too, am aiming for future publication; and I doubt it is a good idea to potentially alienate people I hope to think of as colleagues (or their literary agents). Of course I don't think these folks are particularly likely to be reading what I post on the internet right now, but it's possible someone may Google my name someday. I wouldn't want them to decide I am clearly a person of appalling taste for disliking something they created or helped to sell.

You would think that not writing something would be easy. But sometimes it's hard! That urge to produce, I suppose. Perhaps it's egotistical of me even to think my reviews matter this much. I'm curious: for those of you who write, what are your rules for reviewing?

How to Write Romance without Annoying Me

I hear that the romance genre sells more books than any other. It makes sense, I suppose. Women like romance. Even I like romance in real life. After all, my husband is both sweet and good looking. I even enjoy observing other people's romances (I will be attending a dear friend's wedding soon, and oh how happy I am for her!).

I don't like most romance novels, though. Mostly I content myself with saying politely that I am not their target audience. I really don't get why people enjoy reading... well, you know what these books are like! Some women find relaxation in the soothing predictability of implausible characters behaving in unrealistic ways. If I want something soothing, I'd rather watch the Great British Bake Off.

On the other hand, what would stories be like if they didn't involve human relationships? Many of the best novels in the world involve couples who end up married. I'm all for those books.

I can't pretend to speak for other readers. However, I can speak for myself. Here's how to avoid making me annoyed with your story.

1. Never Make Me Feel that the Author is Drooling Over the Male Lead

Sometimes I am reading along, enjoying the developing relationship between the love interests, when all of a sudden male lead walks by, and apropos of nothing, the author pauses to mention the way his trousers fit or the way his shirt drapes his torso. No. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

If you are writing a book and you want readers to know how unusually developed the character's musculature is, make it fit subtly into the context. For instance, "Although he is the same height as his cousin, his chest and shoulders are twice as broad. There is no way he could have borrowed Reginald's shirt for the party as he told the police inspector after the brutal murder of the girl in the spangled orange dress."

2. Make up Your Mind About Whether or Not the Obstacles Between the Couple are Real

It's a convention, of course, that a pair of obviously-unsuited-but-passionately-interested people should spend the whole book believing that tremendous obstacles make their relationship impossible. Then the climax comes. They kill the bad guy or find the diamond or win the race. All of a sudden they fall into each other's arms. Dude! Come on. It's a bad convention.

In Pride and Prejudice, the obstacles between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy are overcome not by his successful rescue of Lydia, but by the character change they have both experienced. Darcy's willingness to help Lydia simply illustrates and proves that he has changed.

If the barriers between your couple are psychological, please make sure you know how and why the couple overcomes them. Show that to the reader ("because the author wants them to end up together" is not a valid reason). You can't replace character development with a really cool fight scene at the end. If you do, I will be annoyed and want to thump you with my copy of your book.

3. Don't Give the Couple Random Character Traits that Seem Pretty Untrue

I've been reading John Truby's book on writing, and he points out that many authors mistakenly attempt to make their characters vivid by giving them lots and lots of random characteristics and traits. Randomness isn't terribly effective.

Specifically, a huge percentage of female leads in romances are labeled "intelligent," "tough," "successful," and so on by the author. The author tries to prove these labels by making the heroine someone who has clawed her way up the ladder in a challenging profession. Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief. Yet the heroine spends the whole story acting in a way that is counter to her stated personality and worldview. This is hard to do well. Instead, please make your characters' personalities part of the plot. If you make them the kind of people who would probably do the things they do (and then, to be really interesting, make them change), I will be happier. Thank you.

4. Don't Impose Modern Sexual Mores on Historic Times

Everyone sleeps together before marriage, right? Nope. They don't.

In a historical setting, the presumption would be safer the other way around. In fact, in light of the pervasiveness of the morals and manners of her own era, your heroine is probably no more likely to engage in such activities than you are to make racist jokes in public or to take up smoking for your health. Should you be determined to impose your own values on her, you need plausible reasons and should portray plausible consequences. How would you feel if you started "talking racist" because your new lover thought it was a great way to get rid of inhibitions? Yeah, I hope you'd be pretty uncomfortable. So would she.

Conclusion

Love is really a wonderful thing. It's serious enough that we should handle it, even in fiction, with respect. That's why the world needs good, non-annoying romances.

When Your Characters are Like Evil Robots: Thinking About Storytelling

(Ha! I'm back! I have grandiose plans of posting once a week again here, but I also sort of think that I'm going to write lots of articles for The Federalist, keep posting on Sister, Daughter, Mother, Wife, finish my novel, make a quiet book for my son--I've pinned all these ideas on Pinterest--and also decorate the house for Advent. While pruning a zillion bushes in the yard. So, yeah. I get these delusions of grandeur whenever the three-month-old falls asleep for ten minutes). 

I've been reading books on my Kindle and pondering the wherefores and how-is-it-done's of fiction. I really loved Amends (review here) and The Dean's Watch (review here). They are polar opposites as far as tone, setting, and style go; but at the same time both convey the sense that their authors are compassionate people. I, too, would like to write as if I understand the fundamental flaws and human ugliness in my characters, yet love them anyway.

I have also been reading a few books that aren't as expertly written. One (a retelling of St. George and the dragon, set in the twilight-years of the Roman Empire and involving persecuted Christians and a pagan priestess) is constructed upon a fun and engaging premise. I want to like it, and I will probably finish it just to see how the author brings his ideas to completion. My problem is that I read for style and literary value as much as story. Maybe more. Because of that, this book doesn't work for me.

I found myself complaining to my husband (poor man) about a number of little issues within the book, and eventually, I realized that they probably all stem from the same problem. So many things happen in the book--the antagonist launches into action, characters join forces to travel together, someone helps our protagonists, etc.--for no good reason. That is, as a reader, I feel as though they happen because the author wanted them to, rather than because they grew organically from the things that had already happened. If that makes sense.

It's not that the author fails to provide any ostensible motivations. We are, for instance, told that the antagonist "hates" the protagonist and see that they have a rivalry. Unfortunately, the level of dislike that the author shows us (during a boyish insult-fest in the street) isn't enough to explain why the antagonist would jump from saying, "Your father is a coward" to deciding, "Today I will kill your mother." And killing the poor lady. And that's just the start of his aggression.

My guess (unless the second half of the book reveals a backstory heretofore unhinted at) is that the author doesn't really know why the antagonist would do such a thing. Not in an in-depth way (the way that the author of The Dean's Watch would have known). He simply needs his antagonist to get the story started. It's an easy trap to fall into. My own novel is not exempt from this problem. Clearly, I need to spend a lot more time trying to know and understand all of my characters. Then I will need to spend a lot of time learning to succinctly show their feelings and motivations. Hmm. This book of mine is going to take a long time to write. Even then, who knows if it will be any good? But, of course, all I can do is try. And keep writing.

Very Inspiring Blogger Award

I just noticed that, after a long absence, Christie of the lovely blog Spinning Straw into Gold has posted again. Away I went to read the article. It turns out that she has won a "Very Inspiring Blogger Award" (yay!). As I scrolled down, I discovered that she has nominated Don't Forget the Avocados for the same honor (yay again!).

Thus, I am supposed to share with you seven things that you may not know about me.

1. The knees of my jeans often have food and drool stains on them. This is not because I eat with my knees. It is because my fifteen-month-old likes to wipe his hands and face on my body while expressing his impassioned desire to be picked up.

2. I really like the color red. Red tea pots, red dish towels, red mugs, etc. Even my toaster is red. However, I never did manage to convince my husband that a red accent wall would be a good idea.

3. The heroine of my novel-in-progress is from Berkeley, California, and her mother is a professor of folktales. This background becomes useful to my heroine when she is kidnapped by a folktale queen.

4. I prefer to compose all stories and articles in Times New Roman, even if I need to change the font to something else afterwards. Somehow, Times New Roman keeps the words flowing more smoothly for me.

5. I am fond of nasturtiums, feverfew, and Martha Washington geraniums (I picked some of the latter to put in my bridal bouquet).

6. The first "real" book that I read independently was Little House in the Big Woods. I devoured this at the age of eight, and thus began my life as a reader.

7. My younger sister used to hide my books to try to make me play with her.


OK, now it's my turn to nominate some other blogs. I'm sticking to those of a literary-ish theme.

Vintage Novels: Suzannah writes some very thought-provoking articles about writerly and readerly things.

Semicolon: I keep an eye on the book reviews here, and have found some great titles I would not have read otherwise.

Amongst Lovely Things: I really appreciate Sarah Mackenzie's discussions of classical education, homeschooling, and building a family culture around books.

Alison's Open Sketchbook: Alison is a visual artist, not a writer, but I enjoy the thoughts that arise in her life as a creatively-inclined mom.

Like Mother, Like Daughter: Most of this charming blog is not about books, but take a look at the Library Project on their site (the button at the top doesn't work: search for the term in the search box, or use the link I'm providing).

Learning to Be a Novelist

My manuscript is progressing. Right now I have about 13,000 words, and my modern-day heroine has been successfully kidnapped by a folktale queen.

I like this book quite a bit. My ability to control a story--cutting, adding, and changing in order to achieve the desired effect--has increased significantly in the last year. It’s exciting to be able to do things that that I didn’t use to be able to. I still struggle to achieve the layers of richness and nuance that I would like, though, so I clearly have a lot of work and learning ahead.

One interesting question that the class has raised is whether an author needs to "love" their protagonist. It seems that most of my fellow classmates do feel deeply attached to their main character. I like my heroine, but I don't know that I love her. Is this because I don't delve deeply enough into her personality? Is it because I keep her at (too much of) a distance from myself? Is it because I won't know her fully until I finish the book? Is it because I just don't attach as easily as some people to fictional creations? I'm not sure yet.

I submitted the first six pages in my novel-writing class, and look forward to receiving the teacher’s critique tomorrow (so far all feedback has been through peer-workshopping, which always raises an interesting variety of opinions).

My current plan for the novel is to begin each chapter with a brief quotation from a historic folk/fairytale. Each quotation relates to the events of the chapter. The use of quotations seems to draw forth a mixed response from my fellow students, so I’m curious: do you (intelligent readers of my blog) like quotations at the beginning of chapters, or do you find them annoying/pretentious/something else?

The Uncomfortable Mind of an Artist

It can sometimes seem as though would-be artists (including writers) cultivate chaos, doubt, and drama in their own lives because they think that therein lies the path to true creativity, or because they think it is glamorous to be a "suffering artist." I have not always been as understanding of these people as perhaps I should be.

Alison has recently started a series of articles for SDMW about how the pursuit of beauty (something she sees as the activity of all artists) is both alluring and crushing. It is one way in which natural law asserts itself and raises the great questions of human existence. There is a lot of food for thought in what she says. Her second article, in particular, helped me to see the struggling, chaotic, searching, artistic-type in a new light.

I recommend that you read both "Order, Beauty, and the Urge to Create" and also "Science, Beauty, and the Law that Kills."

On a related note, When Every Day is Judgement Day is another article by a different author (who comes from what seems to be a mainstream secular perspective) on a related topic. I was fascinated by her characterization of perfectionism as an attempt to drive a (futile and crippling) bargain with fate.

Why I Won't Post as Much for a While

I have been wanting to (a). focus on fiction in a more disciplined way, and (b). be pushed to improve my writing. Over Christmas I decided that the perfect solution would be to take an online class. I need to take it now, since there is another baby Mussmann on the way (due this July) and newborns aren't always very good at allowing their mothers to spend hours on the computer. If you know what I mean.

Therefore, I have registered for a novel writing class for Winter Quarter. The goal of the class is to produce a complete novel outline as well as a polished fifty pages of the novel. I'm very excited about working on my story concept and about immersing myself in the world of fiction for a few months. Hooray!

The only sad part is that, because my writing time is limited, I probably won't be able to blog much. If I vanish from this space until April, fear not, I am not dead--merely busy, and hopefully producing a masterpiece-ish tome of insight, adventure, and pleasing sentence structures.

The Myth of Arthur, the Problem of Articulate Villains, and Suzannah Rowtree’s Novel

I just finished my Advanced Reading copy (yes, it does make me feel delightfully important to be the recipient of an Advanced Reading copy) of Suzannah Rowntree’s novel, Pendragon’s Heir. The book is essentially a retelling of the story of Camelot, and therefore an exploration of the elusive, tragically costly, yet beautiful vision of building a city of light upon earth. Our young protagonist, Blanche, has been raised in Edwardian England. However, she discovers very early in the story that she is both the subject of prophecy and the daughter and heir of King Arthur. Or at least, she probably is--gossip about her mother’s chastity has sown doubt in some minds. Initially resistant to the idea of giving up her pleasant life in order to re-enter the medieval world of errant knights and rampaging villains, Blanche gradually matures into her role of heiress to a struggling kingdom. Meanwhile, her relationship with the impetuous, gallant (and admiring) Sir Percival also grows.

I soon found myself caring about the protagonists and enjoying all of the characters. Did I mention that there are several of the fey folk in this story? They are delightfully handled, and I am a sucker for well-portrayed fey folk. The relationships between characters are nuanced and often unexpected, and I was impressed by the action sequences and the author’s ability to write so many tense, believable, non-repetitive scenes of combat (although I admit that I know absolutely nothing about how to fight, and might not notice if the blows and techniques were unrealistic). In addition, the story explores significant themes. It is satisfying overall and demonstrates the degree to which the author has immersed herself in medieval and Arthurian imagery. I recommend that you read it.

In fact, the book is so good that I feel free to critique and analyze it as freely as if it came from the presses of a major publishing company. There is no need for me to be “kind” to the author by keeping any complaints, quibbles, or questions to myself. The pacing of the book is not perfect. Although both the beginning and end are taut and fast-paced, there was a section in the middle that felt a little too slow and episodic. I think this is because the main threads of the overall plot (and the relationships between the main characters) were allowed to sink out of sight while the characters gathered information and experienced minor adventures. The information and the adventures were needed for the overall story, but did not convey as much of a feeling of forward momentum. Some readers may disagree with this, and argue that I merely have a short attention span for knightly adventures.

I also find myself deeply struck by the problem of Simon Corbin, an articulate character who attempts to prevent Blanche from taking up her role as heir. In the language of a free-thinking Edwardian skeptic, he rejects belief in God as well as the idea that anyone owes a duty to a kingdom, a higher power, or a moral code. He argues for modern progress instead of feudal virtue. In a later scene, he challenges an idealistic knight with the argument that, just as even the “best” leaders sin, and just as good men use ignoble methods in war and conflict, it is delusional to believe that right can be defended without doing wrong. Ultimately, the conflict of the book could be said to be between these two positions: between those who wish to use only ethical means to create a kingdom patterned on visions of heaven (even though they know this struggle appears doomed), and those who wish to use any means necessary to create a kingdom according to their own ideas of what would be best.

On the one hand, I commend the author for creating Simon Corbin, because he is no straw man. It adds realism that our hero and heroine cannot best him in debate. However, I rather wonder if some readers (especially those who do not share the author’s beliefs) will not find Mr. Corbin’s arguments the more compelling (I once ran into this problem in a short story of my own: I tried to let both sides speak for themselves, and my liberal teacher thought that my story had made a much stronger case for liberal relativism than for conservative beliefs, because those were the arguments that resonated with her). Will such readers wonder if someone like Corbin might not have made a better ruler than a king who allows random knights to run around, walloping each other into an early grave, while the peasants do all the actual work? After all, Mr. Corbin is the only one who addresses “realistic” issues such as sanitation and the suffering of the poor.

The motivations of the good characters are harder to put forth in tidy, convincing arguments, and they rest more heavily on what might uncharitably be called mystical naivete. Here of course we see, in a nutshell, the challenge of a Christian author who speaks from her own perspective while trying to avoid heavy-handedly “proving” her own point, or pausing the narrative for a discussion of theology. If one speaks too often or too directly about God, one risks alienating non-Christian readers or of failing to remain in the role of novelist. If one approaches philosophical and religious themes more obliquely, one can have trouble providing a full, compelling picture of one’s beliefs.

I have been asking myself if Miss Rowtree should have handled her story any differently. It might have strengthened her tale if the good characters had defined Arthur’s kingdom more concretely, and, in particular, truly acknowledged the humanity and needs of the peasantry. I realize that this story is intended to fit into the tradition of the knightly tale, not that of a realistic novel, of course, but I wonder if Mr. Corbin should have been allowed to introduce the sufferings of the poor without having the protagonists also truly acknowledge this issue.  

Such questions aside, I enjoyed reading this novel, and I enjoyed thinking about the questions it raised in my mind. Many thanks to Suzannah for the opportunity to do so! I loved (and still love) her characters, and I look forward to seeing what she writes next. 

In Which I Try to Pin Down Differences Between Great Authors and Not-Quite-Great Ones

I am simultaneously reading two books right now. One is Lavinia by Ursula K. Le Guin (this is a reread for me) and the other is Anon, Sir,Anon by Rachel Heffington. I’ve written about Lavinia before. Richly steeped in the world of ancient Italy, it is the story of a minor character from Virgil’s Aeneid. Not only is it a remarkable portrayal of a woman who is strong without falling into modern tropes or cultural expectations, but, in the true spirit of Virgil’s original epic, it is also an examination of the concepts of piety and virtue. I am discovering all kinds of themes and ideas that I had not noticed the first time.

Ms. Heffington’s book is a period murder mystery, set (as the book jacket tells us) “against the russet backdrop of a Northamptonshire fog.” Thus far it is enjoyable in its own way. The character who most interests me is the eccentric, Shakespeare-quoting, cantankerous old uncle who eschews relations and solves murders. The language is bright and sprightly, full of the obvious influence of various English authors from past eras (perhaps especially P.G. Wodehouse). It is in the handling of the characters that Ms. Heffington’s relative inexperience shows most. I find myself sometimes unsatisfied as a scene progresses. I wish to remain absorbed in the story, but little flaws--little clouds in the clarity of the author’s purpose when a character speaks or acts--arise to push me back to the status of objective observer and critic. It is not reasonable to expect every author to write with the skill of Mrs. Le Guin, but it is instructive to ask oneself what the difference is.

When I read Lavinia, every single word communicates to me. The feelings and personalities of the characters feel utterly real. If a situation is ambiguous, I know that it is on purpose. When I read “lesser” authors, I usually know what they are trying to tell me, but sometimes they fumble. Sometimes I am not sure whether or not a given impression was intentional. Sometimes their characters seem unintentionally inconsistent, or it seems as if the character may have said their line merely because the author thought the line was funny or clever, instead of because the line tells the reader something about the character. I'm sure my own stories have this problem, as well. 

I am trying to form hypotheses about what causes these differences. I think certain mistakes tend to rob a passage of narrative power:

1.      Too many minor emotions in one scene. The protagonist and other characters are afflicted with a whole chain of feelings (embarrassment, pique, amusement, fear, etc.) without proper build-up.

2.      Vagueness of purpose. If an author has made it clear that a particular character is, say, overly imaginative and inclined to be unduly fearful, I accept scenes in which the character behaves that way. If the author instead makes the character just a little too imaginative or fearful in a random moment or two, I tend to suspect that the author is unintentionally overdoing the scene. This makes me frustrated.

What else?

5 Favorites: Recommended Reading (About Reading)

In "Reviewing school books," Emily points out that, "Among journalists, there have been a number of studies showing up to an 80% decrease in copycat suicides when journalists follow certain guidelines." She discusses one family's loss of their high-school-aged son to suicide, and looks at how authors and teachers can responsibly address self-harm in a way that is less likely to lead youth to follow in a suicidal protagonist's footsteps.

We might wonder why youth should read "dark" books at all, but Nathan Wilson says that we owe our kids a "Dark-Tinted, Truth-Filled Reading List."

This review has made me eager to read Rachel Heffington's book as soon as it comes out. It will be very easy to remember the release date ("remember, remember, the fifth of November!").

Italo Calvino provides a delightful discussion about readers' interaction with the Classics.

Here is a beautiful discussion of "fantasy, realism, and telling the truth" for the writers and storytellers out there. I have ordered the book from which these extracts are pulled.

Could You Write a Book Review Without the Letter “Z?”

A...B...C...D...E...F...G...

No doubt you could. Probably you could write quite a good review while avoiding any other particular letter of the alphabet, or even, if you were attentive, several letters. Yet what would be the effect on your composition? You might focus on each word in a new way, noticing and enjoying its sounds, and vocabularizing creatively, but the effort of constantly redirecting around forbidden words would surely also sap your will to write. Especially if the penalty for “slipping” was prohibitively severe.

In Ella Minnow Pea, a progressively lipogrammatic epistolary fable (or, in paperback, Ella Minnow Pea: A Novel without Letters), Mark Dunn’s 2001 story, the nature of language and censorship are explored. This YA, epistolary novel is set in the fictional island nation of Nollop. The inhabitants of said island eschew technology and revel in language. They revere Nevin Nollop, creator of the pangram, “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” and have in fact erected a statue to that celebrity with a tile for each letter of his famous sentence. When, one day, a letter tile falls down, the council of Nollop reaches a strange decision. They announce that Nollop is speaking from beyond the grave, and that he wants the islanders to ban the letter that has fallen. Anyone caught writing the letter or speaking a word in which it is found will be subject to severe penalties. Of course, the rest of the tiles do not stay put, and the council’s decrees become more and more paralyzing to the culture and daily life on their island.  

Might Miss Austen Have Been Pleased? Literary Links in 7 Quick Takes

1.

***

Increasingly, I wonder if brevity is the key to artistry, just as simplicity is often the heart of beauty. Good children’s novels are lovely because they distill observations about life and ideas into a short, simple, and potentially profound format. They appeal to the child and cause the adult to think. They are truly soul-stirring pieces of literature.

Brevity, conciseness, and distillation don’t necessarily require that pictures be small and books be short. Will Strunk, of Strunk and White’s Elements of Style, says, “Vigorous writing is concise… This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every word tell.” Sometimes a very long story gives the impression that every word is essential. However, often a space-challenged medium forces a storyteller to bring out the very best in his tale. Often shorter novels actually say more. Miss Austen’s books are not in the least long, as novels (especially nineteenth-century novels) go, but they are polished to such a degree that they say a great deal.

I found much to think about in Eva Brann’s fascinating (and admittedly long) discourse on Austen’s novels. In Austen-esque language, she discusses Jane’s Austen’s character and personal life as well as her artistry. You really should read it: “The Perfections of Jane Austen.” 

Confessions of a Slightly Obsessed Blogger (or, “I want more Google followers”)

I have several small thorns in my blogging flesh. One is that the post which Google places in the “most popular” position at the top of my sidebar is an essentially meaningless little announcement. Its apparent popularity is due to the fact that it contains a Beatrix Potter image that somebody has pinned to Pinterest. That one announcement continues to rack up views and to skew my statistics. Thus, the posts that I consider much more interesting, important, significant, and literary are displaced by a drawing of a mouse in a dress. Alack. Someday, I hope, my real articles will outpace that image. If I was less obsessed with my blog, I would think about this fact a great deal less.

Another little thorn is shaped like this: when I put extra effort into crafting an especially serious, thoughtful little article that I am quite fond of, it tends to get far fewer page views. Isn’t that just like life?

The truth is that I am a little obsessed by blogging. My husband’s eyes glaze over when he hears me mention the word “blog” (he just walked by, saw me typing this, and said that I should remove the word “slightly” from the title). I’ll even lie in bed at night and tell him how much I want more Google+ followers. Why? Just because I do. Badly. Very badly.

Strong Woman Who Punches Hard

The portrayal of female characters in modern books and movies, especially genre fiction, is a narrow one. It is seen as morally imperative that these ladies fulfill a specific role: that of the “Strong Woman Who Punches as Hard as a Man.” Yet isn’t it rather Victorian to require that all heroines must be role models? Why are we so afraid that if all the women in action movies don’t wield fists of iron, the girls of American will become repressed maidens who faint at the sight of math?

Sophia McDougall has an interesting article in the New Statesmen, in which she points out how demeaning this role actually is. A few quotes (not all of it in the most delicate of language):

“Sherlock Holmes gets to be brilliant, solitary, abrasive, Bohemian, whimsical, brave, sad, manipulative, neurotic, vain, untidy, fastidious, artistic, courteous, rude, a polymath genius. Female characters get to be Strong.”

“The Strong Female Character has something to prove. She’s on the defensive before she even starts. She’s George from The Famous Five all grown up and still bleating with the same desperate lack of conviction that she’s ‘Every Bit As Good as a Boy.’ ”

“Nowadays the princesses all know kung fu, and yet they’re still the same princesses. They're still love interests, still the one girl in a team of five boys, and they’re all kind of the same. They march on screen, punch someone to show how they don’t take no shit, throw around a couple of one-liners or forcibly kiss someone because getting consent is for wimps, and then with ladylike discretion they back out of the narrative’s way.”

“I want a wealth of complex female protagonists who can be either strong or weak or both or neither, because they are more than strength or weakness. Badass gunslingers and martial artists sure, but also interesting women who are shy and quiet and do, sometimes, put up with others’ shit because in real life there’s often no practical alternative.”

 

Would any mainstream action movie allow a heroine to be as "weak" as Sherlock Holmes? 

McDougall’s critique is fascinating. It highlights the way that unctuous moralism in stories often backfires. Personally, I want my daughters to be strong and courageous. I also don't want them to be robbed of their femininity by modern feminism or pressured to behave according to our culture's narrow definition of "strong" (essentially, the idea that strong = aggressive). Our modern era doesn't seem to "get" that femininity is a varied, healthy, human thing. On the other hand, the Victorians did not get it 100% right either-- their popular fiction also took certain aspects of womanhood, exaggerated them, and portrayed that exaggerated version as the ideal female. Perhaps the real solution is to read stories from many eras, instead of limiting ourselves to the wisdom of only one.

This issue is all the more interesting because many cultural conservatives and Christian families gravitate toward "hero movies" (especially those made from classic comic books) as demonstrating the clash between good and evil, and as providing masculine role-models. If conservative Christian families feel that it is helpful to young men to identify (albeit in a limited degree) with Captain America or Superman, what of the young women? Can there be any inspiration in this kind of movie for them? 

What do you think? Does the narrow role of modern heroines cause harm, or is it merely irritating? 

Tom Gauld. 

Somewhat Related Reading:

- An interesting take on the rather sad decision of a gender studies professor.

- A post of my own on fantasy warfare and gender realism.

I'm linking up to Wednesdays with Words!

The Station Inspector and Writing with Compassion

Recently I watched the movie Hugo. It prompted me to think about storytelling, and about how difficult it is to create lifelike worlds on paper or screen. Sometimes writers focus so much on crafting their protagonist that they forget to also breathe life into the people who surround him. We human beings tend to be self-centered and inclined to view others only as they relate to ourselves, yet literature is supposed to help lift us out of ourselves and show us more about the world than we are capable of finding inside our own heads. Fiction in which non-protagonist characters have no meaning except in the way they relate to the protagonist’s goals and development is too “realistically” unreal—like our heads, it shows us only what we know already and fails to stretch the way we think about life.

Hugo contains plenty of whimsically fantastical elements, yet it is also an unusually real movie because even the minor characters are nuanced. Despite their brief appearances and scant dialogue, they are treated as individuals, and are not defined merely by their relationship to young Hugo. For example, consider the Station Inspector. Although he menaces Hugo’s daily life and treats orphans cruelly, harshness is not the entirety of his character. The movie hints at his childhood and wartime backstory, and sympathetically portrays his awkward attempts to kindle a romance with the flower seller. The movie is constructed as if the Station Inspector possesses neither more, nor less, of a right to happiness as anyone else. He is simply pursuing his misguided duty as he sees best (emphasized by the scene in which he matter-of-factly saves Hugo from a passing train, then immediately resumes his attempt to collar the boy). In fact, he even travels a bit of character arc on his own—and not merely for Hugo’s benefit. He does not simply soften through his new-found love and release the boy. Instead, his softening is not yet complete in the moment of Hugo’s capture, and the boy is saved only because the Station Inspector is offered a reason for mercy that is compatible with his sense of duty.

How is an author to create such lifelike nuance without burying their story under the weight of irrelevant information? In order to do this, every word must be purposeful. Perhaps every phrase should serve multiple purposes. A scene might center around our protagonist, yet also allow other people’s stories (or hints of stories) to weave through the main plot in a way that adds to the theme or connects to later events. The material in the story should all be relevant to the tale the author is telling—and affect the life of the protagonist—yet it should not all draw its meaning from the protagonist alone. Perhaps that can only happen if the author likes people.

It seems to me that an author who hopes to write in this style cannot do it artificially. Surely such an author must cultivate the compassion that sees others as intrinsically valuable human beings whose lives are interesting in their own way. The author should develop understanding for why people behave in the ways that they do, and the skill to communicate the individuality of humanity’s masses whilst they wander past the protagonist. Perhaps this is simply a way of life.

Fantasy Warfare and Gender Realism

Our culture’s desire for equality has drastically changed the stories we tell. Even modern editions of Richard Scary’s picture books (as opposed to the original editions from the 1960’s) are altered: note that the genders of most of the animals on this book cover have been reversed so as to make the point that daddy helps with breakfast and that women are policebears, too.  Yet despite the strides our culture has made in erasing traditional gender roles, a sense of urgency remains, and storytellers feel morally compelled to present readers with the type of gender relationships that are now considered equal.

This puts the writer of fantasy fiction in a challenging position. Although their stories are often set in medieval-style surroundings, modern readers expect women who are strong not only emotionally but also militarily. Yet often this is done in a style that is utterly unrealistic and would be laughable if readers were not so conditioned to expect (and demand) that gender play little role in the physical prowess of fictional characters. When reading (or watching) stories in which women don armor and routinely fight men twice their size, I often long to ask the author why he/she thinks that even liberated, modern women don’t play on male football teams. I am not about to suggest that all female characters in fantasies limit their activities to embroidery and food preparation. However, if authors wish to truly address gender in a meaningful way, they must consider it realistically in conjunction with their worldbuilding. The following points should be considered:

1.      Although women’s physiques provide an advantage over men in some athletic pursuits (swimming across the English channel, for instance), the typical women does not possess the speed, reach, or weight-lifting ability of the typical man. Hence, gender segregation is maintained in professional sports.  If we moderns do not send women to play against men’s football teams, would a culture really send their women against the equivalent male team when the stakes are victory or death?

2.      Before modern medicine, the mortality rate of all populations, especially infants, was high. In addition, humans tend to pair into couples, and in eras without wide-spread birth-control, young women spent a significant amount of time pregnant and nursing.  Would a medieval-style culture really send their young women (their only hope of maintaining a population) into battle?

What is a writer to do? If it is important to your story that women routinely fight alongside men, create a system of weaponry that makes this realistic, or at least deal realistically with the physical implications of women's bodies. In addition, however, the culture must be addressed. What would compel a group of people to send their women into battle, when most humans throughout history have not routinely done so? Consider the fact that until the advent of modern technology, physical strength was so important in daily life that the physical capabilities of men and women remained decisive factors. It is only nowadays, when women really can perform most jobs as easily as men, that the concept of gender equality is accepted. Yet also consider the cultures of the past in which women were treated as possessing the same moral rights as men, or did participate in leadership roles. How do the shaping beliefs of those cultures compare to your own worldbuilding?

Above all, however, I urge writers to broaden their definition of strong women. Why must battle be the only test of moral, mental, and emotional strength? Why must the woman ALWAYS pick up a sword before the story ends? Women throughout time have shown courage in many ways. They have provided medical care, maintained the farms and cities their men fight for, outwitted invaders, and contributed immeasurably to moral by choosing to maintain courageous attitudes. When their world is crushed by enemies, women have helped to build new worlds. It is sexist and blind that many writers and readers do not recognize the power and triumph in these activities. Although there is a time and a place for women to pick up a sword, the writer who does not recognize that combat is only one facet of strength is in danger of narrowing women’s spheres instead of broadening them. This stereotype is maintained when female protagonists reject the “women’s sphere” with contempt, as if all traditionally feminine activities are demeaning, instead of also drawing strength from it. Developing a broad (and realistic) image of gender in stories is important because, despite all of the fantastical elements, fantasies are still about human beings. That is what makes them good stories.

Dilemma-Framing: Why The Hunger Games Needs Yellow Boots

“You don’t understand,” whined Pettigrew. “He would have killed me, Sirius!”  

“Then you should have died!” roared Black. “Died rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you!”                 

(Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkabaan)

The framing of a question is huge. I could ask, “Should hard-working, undocumented workers receive a chance to earn citizenship?” Yet if I hoped for a different answer, I might say instead, “Should illegal immigrants be required to respect American immigration laws?” My framing would not only reveal my own bias, but would also influence a percentage of poll-respondents and thus shape the final results. Fiction authors are constantly framing moral dilemmas. They do this not only to advance the plot but also to guide the sympathies of the reader.


Suzanne Collins frames the shocking events of The Hunger Games so successfully that readers are able to sympathize with a heroine who kills fellow-teenagers. Her protagonist, Katniss, enters the arena only though sacrificial love for her sister and is clearly a victim of a corrupt system. Furthermore, although Katniss initially communicates a willingness to kill rather than die, the plot is arranged so that she kills only indirectly or when motivated by strong emotions with which reader can identify. In the end she even risks her own life in an effort to save a friend and fellow contestant. In the world that Collins has created, Katniss did the best she could in a terrible situation.


Yet the thing about dilemma-framing is that it involves a certain sleight-of-hand. I can ask a toddler, “Do you want to wear the blue shoes or the red shoes?” cleverly framing the situation in order to prevent discussion of the yellow boots. Collins has chosen to present Katniss’ experience in a way that prevents readers from pondering the implications of the missing options.

While reading The Hunger Games for the first time, I hoped that Katniss would rebel completely. The degradation that she endured, not only by committing horrible acts but by doing so as the slave of masters who wanted entertainment, is horrifying. I wanted her to refuse to participate, perhaps in solidarity with other decent teenagers. Yet Katniss is not a person who is willing to sacrifice herself for an idea, a gesture, or in hopes of inspiring change in the world. Even when she is later made into a political figure by others, her choices are driven only by personal loyalty to a few beloved people.


Collins has created a character who is pragmatic and deeply damaged by the tragedy she has endured. She is believable. Yet something about this world is not realistic: there is no religion, no ideology, no philosophy. No one is guided by belief. Is there any oppressive regime in the world that does not use belief to try to control the population, or any resistance to oppression that does not involve belief in something better? In Collins’ world, characters are influenced only by love for individuals or ambition for power, neither of which is based on something bigger than themselves and their friends. Even the loyal Peta’s reluctance to lose his identity as a decent person does not involve an external definition of “decent”— and by the end of the series, he is willing to support any act so long as it helps to protects Katniss.


The characters of The Hunger Games face their dilemmas without the support of beliefs, and this limits their options. Yet the thing is, in real-life moral dilemmas, there are always options—and sometimes the hidden option is to suffer. Sometimes death is better than degradation. Sometimes doing the right thing in a horrible situation is a victory regardless of the cost. It can be argued that Katniss did the right thing when she risked her life to save her friend Peta. Glad as I was that she did not betray him, I cannot help feeling that this kind of morality is not enough—motivated only by personal loyalty, and perhaps fear of ostracism, it does not free Katniss. She is still trapped within a pragmatic, tribal outlook that leaves her a pawn among both tyrants and rebels, and ultimately does not give her much hope in the face of continued tragedy.

It is tempting to say that The Hunger Games is a series without belief. Yet perhaps the yellow boots are present after all, and the story does communicate a strongly-felt understanding of morality. In this series, it is notable that only ambitious and ultimately dangerous characters think that they know how the world should be run, and are eager to implement this vision. Leadership itself is dangerous because it involves a willingness to assert one’s own vision as superior to another's. In Collins’ world, perhaps belief is too dangerous to be indulged in because it leads to attempts at control, and the only safe option is a kind of moral agnosticism. Perhaps this is the ultimate post-modern morality. If young readers are told that Katniss is a wonderful role-model, they are handed the unspoken message that survival is the highest goal, and that sometimes in life they will have no choices. Also inherent in this message is the understanding that beliefs and ideas (other than individual loyalty to people) are irrelevant in crises, and are certainly not worth dying for.


If an author intends his or her characters to commit some normally-unsympathetic act, it is the author’s job to frame it in a sympathetic a manner as possible. Yet it is also the job of an honest author to demonstrate that the act (as are all acts) is a choice, with a moral weight, and that committing it carries a moral load. Only in this way do books echo real life.