We partly define our reality by its flaws, by its inconsistencies and their effect on our own suffering. As we struggle for satisfaction and fulfilment, it seems obvious that the hurdles on the way to said satisfaction should be part of the framework we use to measure truth and what is real.
Remember in The Matrix where Smith tells Neo about the first matrix construct, in which reality was designed to simulate humanity’s idea of perfection? The people held within the construct could not process a reality that filled their every want, and their minds rejected it, leading to their death. (If you don’t remember the scene you could always go and watch it, but to be honest I’ve pretty much spoiled it for you now.)
This is an extreme example of the cliché ‘too good to be true.’ Something or someone who appears too close to accepted ideas about perfection is deemed suspicious, potentially false. An offer or transaction without a sense of balance, without some caveat of loss to weigh against the gain, is rendered fundamentally suspect.
Obviously this concept extends to our attempts to render reality. When we create a facsimile of the real it has to include facsimile faults, or something appears… off. Fictional characters need fictional flaws to be convincing, unless their perfection is a conceptual part of the story. My buddy Nash has, as always, explored this concept to humorous effect. Man, I hate that guy.
Flaws need not refer solely to character points. A good old-fashioned injury might easily suffice, at least in part. If you read the introductory chapters of several novels in a row you’ll see what I’m talking about, everyone has a wine coloured birthmark on the back of their neck, or a scar on their chin from falling through a screen door, a slight crook in their finger where they got it caught in a bike chain, different coloured eyes after a head injury as a toddler. Or a… never mind, you can see what I’m driving at.
It’s a good start because physical injuries are easy to envision in comparison to other, less palpable flaws. Readers have a tougher time understanding and relating to, say, a slowly developing inferiority complex than a gammy eye or a chin scar. Unfortunately the need for verisimilitude extends beyond facial disfigurements. In fact, many of us do have a slowly developing inferiority complex or something equally baffling, and so creating a rounded fictional character means taking a swing at that as well.
There are a few easy ways out of this requirement. This first is to include a personality flaw that is the mental equivalent of a physical injury- one that is easily graspable and has effects that are immediately obvious. These faults are often most obvious in genre fiction, where a character can be as much a plot solving device as they are dynamic creations in their own right. For example, several famous fictional detectives have foibles that are easily explained and can be consistently transplanted from one tale to the next. In most cases these fatal flaws are nothing more than vaguely antisocial vices: alcoholism, drug use etc. Huh, I think I just referred to alcoholism as a ‘vaguely antisocial’ phenomenon, I’m sorry about that. But in most cases the problems faced by Rebus, Holmes et al are not the socially crippling addictions and psychological problems faced by proper people. Phillip Marlowe drank too much fine scotch while playing chess- he never woke up in a bus station covered in his own sick.
The second way to create believable characters with believable flaws is to simply pick one that seems truthful or relevant and then tell the reader as much.
“Johnny was a handsome twenty five year old with a creeping inferiority complex and a scar in his eyebrow left from when he had ploughed through a glass coffee table as a toddler.”
That covers all the bases, but it feels a little forced, doesn’t it? Well actually I made sure that paragraph sucked to prove a point, and because I’m a horrible human being, but I think the theory stands.
If you attend a creative writing class for any length of time, someone will eventually bring out the old favourite: ‘show don’t tell.’ This refers to the belief that good writing does not rely on telling the reader what is happening, telling them what to think, what conclusions to draw. Instead good writing should simply describe, show the reader what is happening, and if the quality of the prose is high enough then your intention might shine through.
So in order to provide a plausible demonstration of a character’s flaws, a writer has to rely on their actions. If your protagonist is a stifling egomaniac then he’ll have to act like one. Or more importantly, if you WANT your protagonist to BE a stifling egomaniac then you’ll have to MAKE him act like one. On the other hand, if you keep making your character act like a stifling egomaniac then that is how the reader will see him, regardless of what you intended.
So really there are no flaws, only flawed actions. A bit like real life, which obviously is what we’re trying to emulate. To be honest, I forget what I was going for here. I’m a forgetful guy. As I just demonstrated, hey wait, THAT was it.
Updated only when you aren't looking.
Monday 26 October 2009
Monday 19 October 2009
Fight
You might have already decided, having spared a glance at the unexplainably tiny mugshot that rests on the top right of this page, that I am not really the fighting type. Perhaps it is the lovely pink tassels on my hoodie. Perhaps it is the fetching blue fingerless mittens. Perhaps it is the fact that it is clearly the middle of a cold night, and I am eating an iced lolly with apparent enjoyment.
You would be correct in your supposition. I am strictly a lover, rather than a fighter. (And how!)
Despite the aforementioned rages, I like to think I have a long fuse, especially against human provocation. It takes a fair bit for people to piss me off, a lot more in fact than is required by inanimate objects like low coffee tables and tins falling off shelves. This means that I am unlikely to respond with violence to all but the most hearty smack talk.
This makes me sound like some kind of pacifist Zen master, who fears to tread the path of anger lest the ancient kung-fu dragon imprisoned in my soul once again ventures forth to punish evildoers by kicking them in the face until they fall over. What it really means is: I am an abject coward. Like, totally. I’m frightened of everything, especially getting kicked in the face until I fall over.
I am, therefore, not going to be starting any fights, unless they are the sorts of fights where you hide until your assailant has given up and gone to watch a movie or started making toast, and then you wallop them over the head with a half brick. Now I know Hollywood exaggerates everything but I’m pretty sure that if those sorts of encounters counted as legitimate scraps we would have been told by now. The only time I’m going to get into a proper fight is after I’ve exhausted all my other options. These include but are not limited to:
1. Running.
2. Hiding.
3. Paying someone else to fight on my behalf.
4. Asking to work off my incurred debt to my assailant, perhaps by becoming their valet or PA.
5. Getting on my knees and begging them not to hit me.
This ought to mean that I manage, through a combination of sheer cowardly custarding and patience, to avoid getting in a rumble at all. Not so, and why? Because I’m the sort of guy people love to fight. On the face of it, it seems obvious: I’m an obnoxious bad dancer with a sharp tongue, who spills his pint a lot. But that isn’t the real reason. People want to fight me because I am a coward.
Nash has, as always, made this point before, and accurately described the sort of person that takes part in nightly street brawls. I would, if I may, like to explore the concept a little further, to demonstrate that not only is violence against others reprehensible, but also a big sack of bullshit.
The masculine culture of fighting in public operates under some pretty fuzzy logic. We are taught from a young age that hitting people isn’t nice, no seriously Billy stop that or you will get SUCH A SMACK. No weekend warrior, despite their level of intoxication, really thinks that clobbering another person is all fine and dandy. The actual act, therefore, requires some pretty hefty rationalisation to make it palatable.
Fighting is seen as a competition, or a means to settle disagreements. Two men enter, one man leaves upright. It brings to mind the epic wrestling bouts of the Olympian Greeks, or perhaps the gladiatorial contests of the Romans. Maybe even the seconded duals involving sword and pistol partaken in by Jacobean gentlemen to settle arguments and pay debts of honour. Well, it brings them to my mind, but I doubt a significant fraction of these recreational rumblers paid close attention in history lessons.
The point I’d like to make is that the fights I see in and out of clubs, in train stations and house parties, the sort I can sense arriving like the electricity in the air before a thunderstorm, aren’t a competition of any sort, and settle no arguments. Perhaps if the gladiatorial aspect was stronger one might claim that they were battles of honour and perhaps the occasional few are. But I can say in all honesty that I have never seen a fight in which none of the following took place:
a) One participant was significantly larger, more aggressive or better armed than another.
b) There was a discrepancy in numbers, i.e. one poor bastard was outnumbered.
c) The fight was begun instantly and without warning, to the shock of one party.
The last one is one I see most often. You upset another young man through some minor or imagined slight, and they nut you before you can assess the situation. The next morning they tell their friends about the sarky cunt that started on them, and how they sorted him out. I’ve been shoved, punched and headbutted without warning. I have NEVER been challenged to a fight.
The myth of ‘talking it outside’ is exactly that, existing only in BBC1 soaps and romantic comedies. People that are regularly involved in fights are bullies, sorry chaps. You don’t start a fight you can’t win, and so you don’t start a fight you aren’t certain you can win. Unfortunately, well… I look like a fight you can win. Maybe I should change my profile picture.
You would be correct in your supposition. I am strictly a lover, rather than a fighter. (And how!)
Despite the aforementioned rages, I like to think I have a long fuse, especially against human provocation. It takes a fair bit for people to piss me off, a lot more in fact than is required by inanimate objects like low coffee tables and tins falling off shelves. This means that I am unlikely to respond with violence to all but the most hearty smack talk.
This makes me sound like some kind of pacifist Zen master, who fears to tread the path of anger lest the ancient kung-fu dragon imprisoned in my soul once again ventures forth to punish evildoers by kicking them in the face until they fall over. What it really means is: I am an abject coward. Like, totally. I’m frightened of everything, especially getting kicked in the face until I fall over.
I am, therefore, not going to be starting any fights, unless they are the sorts of fights where you hide until your assailant has given up and gone to watch a movie or started making toast, and then you wallop them over the head with a half brick. Now I know Hollywood exaggerates everything but I’m pretty sure that if those sorts of encounters counted as legitimate scraps we would have been told by now. The only time I’m going to get into a proper fight is after I’ve exhausted all my other options. These include but are not limited to:
1. Running.
2. Hiding.
3. Paying someone else to fight on my behalf.
4. Asking to work off my incurred debt to my assailant, perhaps by becoming their valet or PA.
5. Getting on my knees and begging them not to hit me.
This ought to mean that I manage, through a combination of sheer cowardly custarding and patience, to avoid getting in a rumble at all. Not so, and why? Because I’m the sort of guy people love to fight. On the face of it, it seems obvious: I’m an obnoxious bad dancer with a sharp tongue, who spills his pint a lot. But that isn’t the real reason. People want to fight me because I am a coward.
Nash has, as always, made this point before, and accurately described the sort of person that takes part in nightly street brawls. I would, if I may, like to explore the concept a little further, to demonstrate that not only is violence against others reprehensible, but also a big sack of bullshit.
The masculine culture of fighting in public operates under some pretty fuzzy logic. We are taught from a young age that hitting people isn’t nice, no seriously Billy stop that or you will get SUCH A SMACK. No weekend warrior, despite their level of intoxication, really thinks that clobbering another person is all fine and dandy. The actual act, therefore, requires some pretty hefty rationalisation to make it palatable.
Fighting is seen as a competition, or a means to settle disagreements. Two men enter, one man leaves upright. It brings to mind the epic wrestling bouts of the Olympian Greeks, or perhaps the gladiatorial contests of the Romans. Maybe even the seconded duals involving sword and pistol partaken in by Jacobean gentlemen to settle arguments and pay debts of honour. Well, it brings them to my mind, but I doubt a significant fraction of these recreational rumblers paid close attention in history lessons.
The point I’d like to make is that the fights I see in and out of clubs, in train stations and house parties, the sort I can sense arriving like the electricity in the air before a thunderstorm, aren’t a competition of any sort, and settle no arguments. Perhaps if the gladiatorial aspect was stronger one might claim that they were battles of honour and perhaps the occasional few are. But I can say in all honesty that I have never seen a fight in which none of the following took place:
a) One participant was significantly larger, more aggressive or better armed than another.
b) There was a discrepancy in numbers, i.e. one poor bastard was outnumbered.
c) The fight was begun instantly and without warning, to the shock of one party.
The last one is one I see most often. You upset another young man through some minor or imagined slight, and they nut you before you can assess the situation. The next morning they tell their friends about the sarky cunt that started on them, and how they sorted him out. I’ve been shoved, punched and headbutted without warning. I have NEVER been challenged to a fight.
The myth of ‘talking it outside’ is exactly that, existing only in BBC1 soaps and romantic comedies. People that are regularly involved in fights are bullies, sorry chaps. You don’t start a fight you can’t win, and so you don’t start a fight you aren’t certain you can win. Unfortunately, well… I look like a fight you can win. Maybe I should change my profile picture.
Sunday 11 October 2009
Story: 'Crossroads'
A new short story which can be found at:
http://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=0AZMsaF3qj2kKZG01a25rNV8xZnJzOXI4Z2Q&hl=en
It's called 'Crossroads.' If you liked the last one I wrote then.. well, actually this one is nothing like the previous one. So, if you hated 'The Stooge,' maybe you should give it a try. If you like my stuff- or pretend to like my stuff because you're a good friend and that's what good friends do (and your constant support is much appreciated, don't ever change), then give it a go too.
I tried to make it a bit... actually, creepy is too strong a word, I didn't really get what I was going for. Still, it's a little different from stuff I've done before.
Same deal as before, double space it to make it easier to read. You could even print the damn thing if you feel like it, as it's only a few thousand words, which works out at about six pages.
Any comments can be addressed to verbalslapstick@googlemail.com. I promise this email address works correctly this time, I fluffed the original one by spelling it incorrectly.
Thank you to anyone that reads it, and thank you to everyone that stops by here. You're all smashing people.
http://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=0AZMsaF3qj2kKZG01a25rNV8xZnJzOXI4Z2Q&hl=en
It's called 'Crossroads.' If you liked the last one I wrote then.. well, actually this one is nothing like the previous one. So, if you hated 'The Stooge,' maybe you should give it a try. If you like my stuff- or pretend to like my stuff because you're a good friend and that's what good friends do (and your constant support is much appreciated, don't ever change), then give it a go too.
I tried to make it a bit... actually, creepy is too strong a word, I didn't really get what I was going for. Still, it's a little different from stuff I've done before.
Same deal as before, double space it to make it easier to read. You could even print the damn thing if you feel like it, as it's only a few thousand words, which works out at about six pages.
Any comments can be addressed to verbalslapstick@googlemail.com. I promise this email address works correctly this time, I fluffed the original one by spelling it incorrectly.
Thank you to anyone that reads it, and thank you to everyone that stops by here. You're all smashing people.
Tuesday 6 October 2009
What'll we do tonight, brain?
I wish I used my brain more. A common lament, I suspect, but I mean it in a sense beyond the immediate. Obviously I do still wish I were more thoughtful and considering in my actions, more capable of logical or complex thought processes. I wish I pondered the consequences of my doings to a greater extent, to thereby avoid the unfortunate mishaps that seem to plague my adventures (unwise sexual encounters, I’m talking to you).
I wish I were smarter, definitely. But, like being taller (or, indeed, a baller) or having better eyesight, wishing for extra cranial capacity is unlikely to get me anywhere. I can certainly try and find more things to put in my brain, and this is an endeavour that will hopefully fill my entire life.
But what I really wish is that my brain would give me a little more say about what goes on aboard the good ship JP. It seems to me like I don’t get enough say in the matter.
Your brain is the most complex machine humanity has ever encountered. Abstract thought is all very impressive but what you ought to be really grateful for is all those sublime reactions that keep your body ticking away, all of which your brain takes care of at no extra charge. Regulating temperature, blood concentration, insulin and glucose levels, the rates at which your organs function, your metabolic rate and the hormones that control your emotions, urges and desires. We think ‘run’ and your brain begins to balance the systems to maximise our running output, as well as sending countless electrical signals to the relevant muscles to get us up to speed. Your brain does a whole load of shit without you even having to ask.
Your brain keeps your body working as best it can within preset parameters, a concept known as homeostasis. Consider the myriad systems it is in control of. Consider the thousands of impulses needed every second just to direct these systems. Now imagine trying to control them all through direct thought. If we were in complete control of our bodies, we’d burn our minds out in no time, struggling to cope under the immense pressure of just staying alive. Good ol’ brain, then.
Still, sometimes it’s difficult not to feel a little hard done by. The knowledge that some clinical depression is caused by chemical imbalances in the brain makes it seem like Mr. Thinky up there is holding out on us. We could be happy, if our brain felt like making us so, only it doesn’t. We don’t have to be fat; our brain could just jiggle the hypothalamus around so we didn’t feel quite so hungry. The possibilities are endless.
For me, it would have to be sleep. Insomnia may have a genetic component; it seems likely, as it appears to run in my family. My father struggles with it, and my youngest brother also. As disorders go it ain’t so bad, but it’s not a huge amount of fun either. It is even harder to swallow when I lie awake thinking that blissful oblivion is just a few hormones away.
Imagine if we could work on a more cooperative basis with our brains. When we thought it was time to go to sleep, we could just tell the brain it was so, and off we’d go together. Everybody gets what they need. An ideal system.
Of course it can’t work like that. Machines do not work that way, and at the level we are talking about your brain is just that: a machine. As far as I am concerned it is probably for the best, as I doubt I am really the man to be left in charge.
My brain does a lot for me, that we have already established. And how do I repay its kindness? I poison it with drugs and alcohol. I feed it more than what it needs of some things, and starve it from all the rest. I go without sleep, and then complain when its rhythms are upset. Homeostasis matters not a jot to me, I smash through the brain’s delicate systems in search of selfish hedonism.
So I can’t really complain. If I’m going to do Ecstasy, I only have myself to blame when I can’t get warm for hours at a time. When I’m drunk and constantly need a pee, I can feel my brain prissily stating:
“It isn’t MY fault. Everything was going fine until YOU got involved. Now look at us, not enough serotonin to go around, and I can’t get your bloody heartbeat to slow down. Yes, I KNOW you need a pee, you’ve ingested five pints of fluid. No you can’t have any more hormones, they’ve all gone. Well you shouldn’t have demanded them all at once, should you? And for fuck’s sake would you put that cigarette out? Can’t I leave you for five seconds without you deliberately ingesting a toxin? Was all that basic danger recognition we learnt as a toddler a complete waste of time? Honestly, I don’t know why I bothered dragging you down from the trees.”
So maybe it’s best that my brain does all the really challenging stuff itself, and leaves the idle musings to me. And maybe I should treat the old guy a tad better than I do. But I really would like some sleep now. Pretty, pretty please?
I wish I were smarter, definitely. But, like being taller (or, indeed, a baller) or having better eyesight, wishing for extra cranial capacity is unlikely to get me anywhere. I can certainly try and find more things to put in my brain, and this is an endeavour that will hopefully fill my entire life.
But what I really wish is that my brain would give me a little more say about what goes on aboard the good ship JP. It seems to me like I don’t get enough say in the matter.
Your brain is the most complex machine humanity has ever encountered. Abstract thought is all very impressive but what you ought to be really grateful for is all those sublime reactions that keep your body ticking away, all of which your brain takes care of at no extra charge. Regulating temperature, blood concentration, insulin and glucose levels, the rates at which your organs function, your metabolic rate and the hormones that control your emotions, urges and desires. We think ‘run’ and your brain begins to balance the systems to maximise our running output, as well as sending countless electrical signals to the relevant muscles to get us up to speed. Your brain does a whole load of shit without you even having to ask.
Your brain keeps your body working as best it can within preset parameters, a concept known as homeostasis. Consider the myriad systems it is in control of. Consider the thousands of impulses needed every second just to direct these systems. Now imagine trying to control them all through direct thought. If we were in complete control of our bodies, we’d burn our minds out in no time, struggling to cope under the immense pressure of just staying alive. Good ol’ brain, then.
Still, sometimes it’s difficult not to feel a little hard done by. The knowledge that some clinical depression is caused by chemical imbalances in the brain makes it seem like Mr. Thinky up there is holding out on us. We could be happy, if our brain felt like making us so, only it doesn’t. We don’t have to be fat; our brain could just jiggle the hypothalamus around so we didn’t feel quite so hungry. The possibilities are endless.
For me, it would have to be sleep. Insomnia may have a genetic component; it seems likely, as it appears to run in my family. My father struggles with it, and my youngest brother also. As disorders go it ain’t so bad, but it’s not a huge amount of fun either. It is even harder to swallow when I lie awake thinking that blissful oblivion is just a few hormones away.
Imagine if we could work on a more cooperative basis with our brains. When we thought it was time to go to sleep, we could just tell the brain it was so, and off we’d go together. Everybody gets what they need. An ideal system.
Of course it can’t work like that. Machines do not work that way, and at the level we are talking about your brain is just that: a machine. As far as I am concerned it is probably for the best, as I doubt I am really the man to be left in charge.
My brain does a lot for me, that we have already established. And how do I repay its kindness? I poison it with drugs and alcohol. I feed it more than what it needs of some things, and starve it from all the rest. I go without sleep, and then complain when its rhythms are upset. Homeostasis matters not a jot to me, I smash through the brain’s delicate systems in search of selfish hedonism.
So I can’t really complain. If I’m going to do Ecstasy, I only have myself to blame when I can’t get warm for hours at a time. When I’m drunk and constantly need a pee, I can feel my brain prissily stating:
“It isn’t MY fault. Everything was going fine until YOU got involved. Now look at us, not enough serotonin to go around, and I can’t get your bloody heartbeat to slow down. Yes, I KNOW you need a pee, you’ve ingested five pints of fluid. No you can’t have any more hormones, they’ve all gone. Well you shouldn’t have demanded them all at once, should you? And for fuck’s sake would you put that cigarette out? Can’t I leave you for five seconds without you deliberately ingesting a toxin? Was all that basic danger recognition we learnt as a toddler a complete waste of time? Honestly, I don’t know why I bothered dragging you down from the trees.”
So maybe it’s best that my brain does all the really challenging stuff itself, and leaves the idle musings to me. And maybe I should treat the old guy a tad better than I do. But I really would like some sleep now. Pretty, pretty please?
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