When Good Characters Behave Despicably (and They Should)
By Kim Bullock | April 24, 2017 |
Flickr Creative Commons: Luis Ramirez
Several years ago I read The Underpainter, a novel by Jane Urquhart. The protagonist, Austin Fraser, creates a series of paintings depicting the people who have touched his life, then erases the details by applying progressively lighter shades of paint. Over the course of the novel, the paintings become a metaphor for how an emotionally crippled man has avoided true connection. Urquhart herself said in a June 2001 interview with January Magazine that she ‘hadn’t expected [Austin] was going to do what he had at the end’ and was so furious with him that she nearly couldn’t publish the book.
I was furious with him, too. The Underpainter remains the only novel I’ve ever thrown across the room in disgust. It took a full day for me to cool off enough to retrieve it and keep reading. As awful as Austin was, I still wanted to love him. Even as I write this, his rejection stings.
Shortly after I finished The Underpainter, I inherited a box filled with drafts of a memoir written by Madonna Ahrens, the protagonist of my own novel-in-progress. The manuscripts served as a series of portraits of her husband, landscape painter Carl Ahrens. The top, most recent version, was identical to the one she had self-published in 1945. It featured a Brontesque hero—tall, dark, brooding, and a trifle too perfect.
Earlier drafts made allusions to Carl’s temper, always followed by an anecdote illustrating his extreme gentleness. Yes, he could be cantankerous and difficult, she admitted, but illness and pain were the cause. Only a kind, compassionate man would revive a stunned honeybee or engineer an artificial leg for his rooster. The takeaway message, in modern terms: cut the guy some slack.
Tucked inside the earliest draft, on a loose, handwritten sheet, I discovered a truth that left me seething, one Madonna had taken great pains to conceal.
He was afraid of my youth, my [singing] voice, even my appearance, and wanted to make sure of keeping me all for himself by shutting out every aspect of my life which he could not entirely dominate. It was quite understandable. He had changed the whole course of his life because he loved me…As he gave his love freely and without compromise, entirely to me, he not only wished, but demanded, the same in return. He must be first, before the children, before music, before anything at all, and not only first but second and third as well.
It was not a happy moment to discover that the hero of my WIP was (at times) a controlling ass-hat, especially since I share DNA with said ass-hat. I did not want to know about, much less ‘excuse’ this aspect of his personality. An easy solution would have been to tuck that sheet away and feign ignorance.
A few things made me choose a different path:
- If the regal woman with the steady gaze and defiant chin didn’t want the truth out there, she wouldn’t have left a paper trail. She was no victim.
- Pain exuded from every line on the painter’s face, yet he gazed upon Madonna with naked adoration. He was no tyrant.
- That they were both behaving in ways contrary to their natures intrigued me.
It was quite understandable, she had said.
Despicable behavior can be both wrong and understandable. Characters who infuriate can leave more of a lasting impression upon readers than ones who are simply likable. Think Nick and Amy in Gone Girl or Humbert Humbert in Lolita. I despised all of them, but I remember their stories years later. I don’t remember the name of the perfectly upstanding main character in the novel I read last week.
Why is that?
To err is human. We all have that mistake in our past, the one that comes to the forefront of our minds as we attempt to sleep, the one we’d do anything to prevent being discovered. We lie. We betray. We become consumed by greed or envy. We spend money we don’t have, fight for the wrong cause, marry the wrong person, secretly resent the intrusion of our children, stab friends in the back, and sabotage our health. Some of us even kill.
Characters who blunder make us feel better about our own mistakes. They give us permission to admit to our failures. They grant us a safe preview of the guilt, shame and consequences of acting on our temptations. They help us to understand that there is a rainbow of gray on the spectrum of good and evil. Angels and devils are boring. Give that devil something or someone to protect, and readers have an empathetic foothold to carry them through a story. Have that angel involved in their kid brother’s death, and readers will want to know why.
When mistakes have consequences, the world makes sense. Even if we ultimately forgive a character, most of us want to see them squirm first. If they are beyond redemption, we want them to get their comeuppance. Think Joffrey or Ramsey in Game of Thrones. Did anyone not cheer their demise?
Even the most grievous of sins, under the right circumstances, might be forgivable. Some marriages should be broken. A child might end up better off without their parent(s). A lie might spare feelings, save a life, or avert a war. A mistake might force a character onto a different, better path. The “blessing” might not (and probably shouldn’t be) apparent right away, but it can contribute to a compelling character arc.
Okay, but how do I pull this off without alienating readers?
All of us have either been a teenager, a parent of a teenager, or both. Children this age, no matter how wonderful they may be, are by definition both lovable and master manipulators. Watch and learn.
Here are a few of their strategies that I’ve successfully applied to my own manuscript:
- Pillow every verbal barb or slap-worthy misdeed between acts of kindness or demonstrations of love.
- Make sure there is an understandable (not necessarily justified or right) reason for the action.
- Weave in subtle clues of what that reason might be until the moment when revealing the truth will have the most emotional impact.
What about you? Have any of your essentially good characters done something despicable? What methods have you used to redeem them in the eyes of other characters and your readers? Is likability an essential character trait to you? Have you ever loved an irredeemable character, or wanted to rescue one who had no interest in being rescued?
[coffee]
Kim (she/her) has an M.A. in English from Iowa State University. She writes mainly historical fiction, though has also contributed non-fiction articles to historical and Arts and Crafts publications in both the United States and Canada. She has just finished The Oak Lovers, a novel based on the rather colorful life of her great-grandfather, landscape painter Carl Ahrens.
Juvenile me says, “Ha! You said ass-hat”! *giggle*
Yes, I’m having trouble with this in my WIP. Every beta reader hates a certain character who is based on someone in real life. But that’s how he is. I don’t think he’s mean. So I’m trying to make his connections with the other characters deeper and possibly make him a little less of a jerk.
I don’t want to change his ass-hatness too much because that’s who he is. I think it makes him more interesting.
Good job. Looking forward to your book.
Hi Valerie,
Yes, it certainly is a challenge when the person you are writing about actually lived and breathed. In my case, I can’t escape from the (well-documented) fact that Carl did sometimes attack his contemporaries in the press. That they attacked him first, in private, is less known. That part can easily be explained away to make him sympathetic. The possessiveness, not so much. I’m never going to LIKE that, but I have come to understand it and, I hope, convey that in my prose.
It sounds like you are on the right track to fixing the problem in your own manuscript. Do you know why he behaved as he did? If so, try to hint at that in strategic places and maybe eventually reveal it outright. If not, you might have to give him a reason.
Good luck!
Thanks for a fun and well-written essay, and for the great tips, Kim.
Perfect timing. I currently have a protagonist heading down a very dark path. You’ve shown me that the nature of work I’m doing will make his motives clearer, and – hopefully – make him more relatable. As you’ve done with Madonna, I’m finding that I can use his love interest as both a lever to make him worse (she’s more likeable, and he uses and dismisses her at every turn), as well as a gauge to show readers why and how his faults are understandable and forgivable.
I’m rooting for you, and Carl and Madonna! Thanks again.
Hi Vaughn,
I’m glad you found the article helpful, and I look forward to reading what you come up with. You write such compelling characters! I’m also glad that you got to the end of my manuscript still rooting for C and M.
Thanks for the shout-out on FB as well! :-)
Kim, I love this post! I love characters who cross lines and are complicated and motivated by things we can’t see right away. Things that get revealed as layers get peeled away. One of my characters constantly got the ass-hat buzzer from beta readers until I discovered why she behaved the way she did. Her reasons made her human and fallible and vulnerable – and thus in need of a coat of armor. And I love the teen-strategy tips. Having been there and survived, I am now able to laugh.
Hi Susan,
Thanks for commenting! It is so empowering when you discover why, isn’t it? After I knew that I actually found it fun to write Carl’s temper tantrum scenes. He needed a major coat of armor!
People are not perfect. Characters shouldn’t be either.
I’m lucky with my teen and tween so far. Their “moments” are few and far between. I was less of an angel at that age!
Great reminders, Kim. In fiction some of the most compelling characters you wouldn’t want to be friends with, but they reveal fascinating aspects of the human condition. We need them. Contrast is color–it opens us to the story. Thanks.
Absolutely, Beth! I couldn’t agree more. If a character is too likable and perfect, I rarely remember them a week after closing the book. Yet, I’m doomed to remember Austin Fraser forever…
Likability is definitely an essential trait in the genres I write: YA and cozy mystery. Teenage readers aren’t as tolerant of fictional follies and foibles as adults, who can see the truth and humor in fools. And cozy mystery readers are happy to see bad characters behaving badly and getting their comeuppance, but they must love the protagonist.
In other genres, I’ve observed that protagonists can get away with despicable acts and still be likeable not necessarily by being kind–which helps, of course–but by being (a) charismatic and (b) victims. Hannibal Lecter can get away with being a sadistic cannibal because he’s trapped in a cage and treated like an animal by hateful authorities. Lisbeth Salander can get away with torturing, raping, hacking and stealing because she’s abused by powerful men. Amy Dunne can get away with being a psychotic murderess because her husband cheated on her.
If the character acting out is in great pain, readers are more likely to sympathize and excuse atrocious behavior.
T.K., absolutely about the great pain angle. I have observed that in many novels and am counting on such sympathy in my own work-in-progress.
I forgot all about Hannibal Lecter. That’s a fantastic example of a character who will stay with you, who you root for even though he’s rotten.
Good point about the cozy mystery and YA take on this topic. These tops certainly might not work with all genres.
Kim, I love this. I’ve been wrestling with this idea and just last week, I had my apparently too-perfect protagonist start an unprovoked argument with her best friend, tossing a sharp barb in the process.(It’s justified in her mind, of course.) It actually felt good! I was inspired as I went over my notes from Donald Mass’ workshop at the Unconference. There it was–my extemporaneous thoughts about an argument between them. Make your characters uncomfortable, right?
Densie,
I completely forgot about that exercise Don put us through! I got some good stuff from that. As I said in my post, my protagonist was no victim!
It can be fun and cathartic to write those scenes where characters behave badly. Sometimes they are simply saying the things we ourselves would like to say, but don’t dare!
Thanks for the interesting topic, Kim. Sounds like your characters may also be under the influence of the times. Not that some men can’t be too possessive in the modern era, but a greater level of control and possessiveness was more acceptable, even socially valuable, in other eras.
I just finished my 8th cozy mystery, and two of the suspects, a couple, have treated their daughter, the murder victim, in an appalling way, shunning her for a crime they believe she committed, shaming her in public. They — esp the woman — were so much fun to write! Even when I found their inner motivation, their (to me) erroneous view of the world, that explained their behavior — but nothing can excuse it. They are not ultimately the killers, though, so I think it works.
One of my favorite novels remains Olive Kitteredge, Elizabeth Strout’s linked story collection. Olive was brilliantly portrayed by Frances McDormand on HBO. She’s prickly, sometimes nasty, clueless, and rude, but sometimes unbelievably kind and understanding. And yet, while she makes me cringe, I root for her. I hope someday to write a character so true and honest.
Hi Leslie,
Oh, yes, Olive! She is a prime example of what I mean here. The ultimate complex character. With both the book and novel versions, I went back and forth between wanting to smack her and hug her.
In regard to my own WIP, yes, you are right that some of the possessiveness was more acceptable in that time period. The worst of if occurred between 1910 and 1920. What especially infuriated me, though, was that it was well documented that Carl was extremely progressive in his views about women. He admired, respected, and befriended many strong, independent women and keeping his own wife’s ambitions in check went against everything I knew and loved about him. In the end, though, this makes his behavior more intriguing and, I believe, leads to a more heightened emotional outcome.
Good luck with your cozy mystery. I’m curious to see what happens just from what you said here.
Ah, the inconsistency of the human! One of the things that makes writing fiction so fascinating, and so frustrating!
Good luck with the novel.
Thank you, Kim. I took notes because I’ve been grappling with these concepts on both sides of the fence–to give the protagonist and the antagonists counterbalance. Since I’m writing memoir right now, it’s sometimes difficult to see through this lens. We do like characters better when we see their intentions yet they still make mistakes, blunders, and experience consequences, yet come through the other side with a better understanding of themselves.
Hi Janna,
Memoir can be tough since you are dealing with people who really lived or, perhaps, are still living. There is always the worry that those people will read the memoir and believe they were portrayed unfairly. Unless they share what their intentions were, though…
I suppose the best you, or anyone else, can do is to write your truth, as you see it.
Thank you so much for commenting, and good luck with your own manuscript!
Thank you for this food for thought, Kim.
I don’t know if it is our responsibility, as authors, to make our characters likable or even to try to redeem them. Maybe it is simply to try to tell their story–and allow them to breathe on paper.
That’s food for thought for me as well! I l hope in the end that they breathe on paper as much to readers as they breathe in my mind.
Kim, you had me at despicably.
My penultimate novel is about a guy who owns a party supply store and secretly helps terminally ill “clients” end their lives using helium. My latest novel features a guy who becomes a vigilante serial killer after learning he has inoperable pancreatic cancer. My upcoming novel stars a guy who travels the globe pretending to be a pedophile in order to rescue victims of child sex trafficking. Did I mention he struggles with opioid addiction?
There are few things I love more than creating malcontents, sociopaths and murderers readers can’t help but root for.
It’s all so despicable, but oh so human.
Thanks for a great post, and best of luck birthing your own flawed yet lovable (or at least likable) protagonists!
Wow, Greg, you do have some interesting characters going on there! I’m especially intrigued by your upcoming novel. Can’t say I’ve heard that premise before.
I think you are facing a far greater challenge than me!
Not really. I met a guy who actually does what that character does for a living, and he’s been invaluable in providing me with facts and true stories I can exaggerate.
First, this made me laugh and nod: “Children this age, no matter how wonderful they may be, are by definition both lovable and master manipulators. Watch and learn.” Ha!
With one character who did a despicable act, I leaned on “reasonable doubt.” Why did he do what he did? We look to what we know first about his character. Is he all bad? We know he isn’t, before the act. Is he all good? We know he isn’t, before the act. He is a shades-of-gray character from the start. Add extenuating circumstances to his despicable moment, and book-club readers have something to debate.
Thanks for a great post, Kim! (I’m so intrigued by Urquhart’s The Underpainter!)
Hi T,
I’m not surprised that line about teenagers got a reaction from you. Parenting them is an adventure every day, isn’t it.
You do a fantastic job of keeping readers on edge when it comes to whether a character is “good” or not. You also make readers question their prejudices. I never thought I’d fall in love with someone whose face is covered with tattoos.
The Underpainter, and really all of Urquhart’s books, are quite literary. Landscape is a character, which I love. Language is lush and poetic. If you do read it, you will probably want to strangle Austin half the time. The other half you’ll want to hug him, but he probably won’t let you.
Hi, Kim:
There’s a bookstore in Izmir, Turkey, that’s filled with English-language paperbacks, a great many of them castoffs from American servicemen and women or their spouses serving with the NATO station there. My wife and I go browsing there every time we visit her family, and this last time I picked up a novel by Georges Simenon titled Dirty Snow.
The protagonist is a petty thug during the occupation. He is utterly reprehensible in virtually every way, except it’s clear (to the reader, not him) that he is smitten by a girl who lives in his building who possesses the optimism in the human spirit and the courage he has lost. He does not become redeemed. Her influence does not save him. In fact, at the novel’s end, he’s still in denial about her effect on him.
When I was finished — and I could barely put the book down — I marveled at how I’d found such an utterly repellent character so compelling. The trick, of course, was the presence of the girl. Even though in the end that presence amounted to little, her existence provided the possibility of a turn toward something nobler, more complex, on the part of this otherwise loathsome loser.
I’m still in awe at how Simenon pulled that off. But he has a knack for the compelling ne’er-do-well. If you’ve never seen the films Monsieur Hire (with Sandrine Bonnaire) or The Clockmaker (with Phillipe Noiret), both based on Simenon’s non-Maigret novels, do yourself a favor. and track them down. They’re little dark gems.
Wow, David, thank you so much for this! I will definitely have to track down Dirty Snow, just so I can watch and learn. Thankfully, the hero of my story has many good qualities. If beta readers are any indication, he’s always loved even when he’s not liked. I may have a less redeemable character in a future novel, though.
I am obsessed with the afflicted character who is hateful, but in such pain we have to attempt to fix him, or at least forgive him. As Kim wrote: “they give us permission to admit to our failures”
Delighted to see your analysis of this issue, Kim. My critique group wrestled with the same situation last week: a biographer needed to find a way to incorporate a quote that struck us as diametically opposite to the character she’d created. I was tempted to cut it, as you may have been with the evidence of Carl’s possessiveness. Better not, of course! I like your methods of incorporating despicable behaviour.
And how lovely that you used Jane Urquhart’s book as an example! At one of Toronto’s International Festivals of Authors (1998 perhaps?) I heard her interview the wonderful Timothy Findley. Based on his praise of her work, I splurged and bought a hard copy of The Underpainter. She’s become one of my favorite authors, as evidenced by how often I’ve blogged about one of her books.
I picked up The Underpainter after a Canadian friend of mine compared my prose in an earlier manuscript to Urquhart’s work. I had no idea what a compliment that was at the time. I love all her books! I much prefer Canadian literature to American, over all. Must be in the blood. My ancestors are some of the earliest settlers in Kitchener (Berlin) and Elora, Ontario.
I get that a lot — readers throw my novel across the room — they want to love my character, but he is afflicted. We want to cut him slack (as you say) But, at what point do you cut a painfully afflicted “ass-hat” that slack? Love your line, “Despicable behavior can be both wrong and understandable.” At what point do you save yourself before you bleed out? My book is often compared to Gone Girl and Big Little Lies. So here I am again on my next book. Struggling with similar issues, since I always write about affliction. Thank you for your essay because I surely needed it right now!