flaw

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.