
Where Wolves, Cats, and Guinea Pigs Run Wild
The freebee advertisement magazine that shows up in our mailbox once a month contains a small amount of non-advertising content between the ads. I always read the Albuquerque area gardening column, often skim through others.
A while back, while skimming a column that contains quotes connected by a theme (ex. Friendship, Wisdom, Joy), I saw one credited to Charles de Lint. My initial pleasure turned into musing when I recognized the quote as from one of his stories. In other words, Charles de Lint didn’t say that, his character did.
This may seem a fine point, suitable only for English majors and other content nerds, but it continued to haunt me long after the magazine went into the recycling. In that particular case, the quote was probably pretty much in line with Charles de Lint’s own philosophical position. (I do know him, and so am speaking from at least a moderately informed position.)
However, what if the quote had been from one of the antagonists in the same novel? Crediting that quote to Charles de Lint would have been accurate on the same grounds the first quote was while, at the same time, doing de Lint a great injustice.
Think I’m obsessing? Try this one on for size.
“My Precious. My Precious.” J.R.R. Tolkien.
I’ve met writers whose signature characters are incredibly wise, astonishingly competent, well-organized people but who, in their personal lives, make unwise choices, are unable to find their way in an unfamiliar environment, and whose offices look as if they’ve been repeatedly hit by whirlwinds.
Another common source of awkwardness is when the author is assumed to share the tastes and/or habits of a character. I’ve lost count of the number of readers who are astonished to learn that not only don’t I have a wolf or wolf-like dog, I have never owned a dog, nor do I ever plan to do so. Cats and guinea pigs are my non-human co-residents of choice.
Author/character identification can get awkward when a story touches on uncomfortable topics. After The Dragon of Despair was released, I received an e-mail in which a reader lambasted me for being a child abuser, because of what happens to Citrine Shield in that novel. Anticipating my response that Melina Shield is responsible for what Citrine goes through, the writer of that e-mail said (I paraphrase), “And don’t say Melina did it, because you created her and you did it.”
Wow! Apparently, the fact that I also created the people who rescued Citrine, as well as Citrine herself, meant nothing. Because I could envision a horrible situation, I must be capable of committing such atrocities and of deliberately tormenting a child. (Never mind that the child existed in a fictional universe, while I live in our consensual reality.)
Getting the author and characters tangled up increases with the attachment people feel to a book. I’ve repeatedly had to inform astonished fans of Roger Zelazny’s Lord of Light that he was not a practitioner of any form of Buddhism. After all, he smoked and his characters smoked, so if one of his protagonists is Buddhist, he must have been Buddhist. (As an aside, whether Sam was Buddhist or his world’s Buddha, or simply running a scam, is a question the novel leaves open to debate).
It seems that the closer a topic is to the emotional, psychological landscape, the more it is assumed, for good or ill, that this reflects the author’s personal views. Therefore, a writer of Military or Espionage fiction can never have served in the military or been a spy. Writers of alternate history do not need not to have lived in pre-Republic Rome or in Hitler’s Germany. Writers of fairy tales do not need to have cut off the head of a horse to release a prince trapped inside.
But write about being depressed. Write about a death in the family. Write about a religious belief. Suddenly, it’s assumed that the author is writing autobiography. In this day of social media—where readers may know more about the author’s personal life or experiences—the urge to read biography into the fiction has risen. However, it’s always been there.
Write what you know involves research, but it also involves empathy. Sometimes it involves delving into something that horrifies the writer, rather than what attracts.
Well, I’m off to draw up some notes for a novel in which one of my protagonists is a sixteen-year-old girl (which I was) and another is a treecat (which I never was). Let’s complicate that matter by noting that said sixteen-year-old girl (Stephanie Harrington) was convincingly created by a man (David Weber) who had never been a girl of any age. At the time the original Stephanie Harrington story was written, he wasn’t a father of a girl that age, so he couldn’t be said to be drawing on his parenting experience.
“I’m sorry, too. Even my best words are not enough.” Firekeeper, Wolf’s Search, by Jane Lindskold.