Characters are not people. Stories are not real life. That is why it works.
If I was to teach you a story about the entirety of humanity, how long will it take? How much time do you have?
The oxymoron of those questions is that the scale is unfair. Trying to teach everything is unfair to the teacher and student. However, we still crave lessons that teach us about ourselves. That means we have to be economical.
We see this dilemma for every storyteller.
From the dawn of campfire tales to modern cinema, humans have craved stories.
We pause and listen to it. We recreate it. We identify ourselves in others and learn their lessons.
Yet, in the creation process, there are two fundamental paradoxes.
Characters are not people.
Stories are not real life.
That is why it works.
I am struggling with this paradox as a new writer, even though I understand it. I naively believe that every character has to be as human as possible. How else will the audience relate to the character? How else will you see yourself in others? How else will the lesson work?
Well, I was very wrong.
This deliberate separation, seemingly counterintuitive, forms the foundation of any story. While lacking the complexities of real-life, characters tap into specific emotions and struggles. Stories follow a structure, life does not. This turns into a learning experience for the audience.
Similarly, by detaching from the messiness of reality, stories create a controlled experience. They distill societal issues and human predicaments into a distinct reality from ours. While they have familiarity, they are more narrow and deliberate. They have a structure and a direction, unlike life.
Unlike real people, characters are sculpted constructs. Writers inscribed their personalities, motivations, and flaws. This very lack of individual completeness, ironically, becomes their strength. Writers use struggles and triumphs to represent the broadness of the human experience. This allows reflection in their triumphs and tragedies without requiring us to live through them.
This is the basis of relatability. Take, for instance, the quiet desperation of WALL-E, the lonely robot in Pixar’s film. While a mechanical being on a desolate Earth, his yearning for connection resonates with us. We recognize his loneliness, laugh at his clumsiness, and ultimately root for his happiness. Not because he is a real person, but because he embodies a facet of the human condition.
With WALL-E, we do not have to suffer his loneliness. We get to understand it and come to terms with it. Also, thank god we do not live with his loneliness. I don’t know how I would struggle being that alone.
Furthermore, characters offer a unique lens through which to explore a specific set of emotions. Unburdened by the societal constraints and personal baggage that shape our own vast array of emotional responses, characters focus on specific emotions. Think of the rage of Maximus Decimus Meridius (Russell Crowe) in “Gladiator.” The brutal loss of his family fueled his thirst for vengeance.
We don’t condone his violence, but we empathize with his pain. We understand the fundamental desire for justice that drives his actions. This experience allows us to explore human emotion and expand our emotional vocabulary.
Furthermore, we don’t explore Hannibals’ emotions for family, because that is not the point of the story’s lesson. We don’t explore Goku’s emotion to greed because that is not the point of the story’s lesson. The minimisation of a character from real people allows a more nuance approach to learning.
So, why does this paradox matters to fiction writers? Why have I chosen this as a topic for the day?
Because it makes it easier to write arcs and characters.
Firstly, this duality allows me to explore complex emotions within controlled environments. Safely. Unlike real people, fictional characters embody specific emotions or struggles. Walter White’s journey from mild-mannered teacher to drug kingpin brings us to focus on themes of ambition, morality and the corrosive influence of power. This controlled use of the character makes it acceptable for the audience to connect with these themes without suffering from them.
Secondly, this paradoxical nature grants writers the freedom to push boundaries through structure. Only then are we able to delve into uncomfortable realities because there is a purpose. This allows them to delve into the darker sides of the human psyche to learn. Take, for instance, Humbert Humbert (Jeremy Irons) in “Lolita.” He plays a deeply flawed narrator whose descent into obsession forces the audience to confront uncomfortable truths about desire and abuse. While undeniably disturbing, such characters allow the audience to explore sensitive topics. This is all done without the audience having to actually go there.
Thirdly, it allows understanding of the Character Craft. The comfort to deliberately separate fiction and reality is something I have benefitted from. I can design characters that spark relatability by tapping into universal emotions. All the while, I do not require them to be perfectly real. Characters will maintain enough “distance” to allow for interpretations. If the character is too lifelike, it suspends interpretations and obstructs learning.
Fourthly, it allows navigation of the Emotional Journey. New writers often struggle with balancing emotional impact with believability. I certainly do. The paradox reminds me that powerful emotions exist within a fictional framework. This is achieved through change. I am learning to explore narratives through characters’ struggles. This is done knowing that emotional engagement doesn’t have to compromise the integrity of our world.
Fifth, it pushes Boundaries and Challenging Conventions. Understanding the paradox empowers me with the ability to experiment with unconventional characters and narratives. I can explore the gray areas. I can create morally ambiguous characters and present uncomfortable realities. Tough questions can be asked without risking the audience’s safety. All the while knowing that the “story shield” allows for exploration and discussion. This allows stories to tackle complex issues without the risk of real-life consequences.
Lastly, it structures the lesson. Story structures help for a lesson by providing a clear framework for organizing information. This helps engage the audience with the message. The familiar elements of a beginning, middle, and end allow audiences to follow the flow of ideas and easily build connections. This makes for a more memorable and enjoyable learning experience compared to the randomness that is life.
We shouldn’t overlook the raw power of lived experience. True stories offer unique access to human struggles and triumphs. Memoirs, documentaries, and even news articles can tell stories that resonate with profound immediacy. These stories can transcend fictional constructs, directly evoking emotion and understanding. They bridge the gap between story and lived experience.
However, they still observe the paradox. As we cannot know the full extent of their humanity and life. The characters are often incomplete, allowing a more focused approach to their messages. Their events are structured with a beginning, middle and end, so the audience can learn from their lived experience.
In conclusion, the character-fiction paradox isn’t just an intellectual curiosity; it’s a crucial tool. By understanding it, I have been able to write fiction with a deeper clarity.
This lesson has been somewhat comforting. It has allowed me to focus more on the creation rather than perfection. After all, there is a difference between being relatable and being exact.
Still doesn’t help with anxiety with finishing a book though.
That’s a topic for another article.
