HAS QUIRKINESS REPLACED REAL CHARACTERIZATION?

 

I’ve been noticing a trend that, while having trickles of historical roots, has become a flood in the last thirty years or so.

 

What should be the literary building of characters in storytelling is almost entirely replaced with a small collection of quirks, and this bouquet of quirkiness passes for whole three-dimensional beings.

 

Just a few examples to illustrate the point would include the movie Adult Best Friends, the middle grade novel Simon Sort of Says, and the novel The Accidental Tourist by a writer I admire. They are good stories, all of them. But they reek of quirks at the expense of thoughtful interiority.

 

I’m guilty of this myself. Some of my stories take the easy route, relying on superficial peculiarities rather than delving deeper. It’s not only easier, but it also seems to pay in terms of beta readers, agents and editors noting how much they enjoyed these “characters.”

 

I’m beginning to smell this literary “trick” a mile away. Like potato chips, it’s tasty, but ultimately not nourishing. Entertainment doesn’t mean the soul should be left hungry.

 

I’m going to try to think and mind my use of quirkiness the next time I conjure a person on a page.

THE TAIL/TALE OF TWO CATS

 

Many years ago, in a land far away, I had two cats who grew up as brothers.

 

One, named Kitten, was no kitten but a hefty oversized gray tiger cat. The other, named Blue Boy, had a more apt name because he was a Blue-point Siamese with the bluest eyes.

 

Here they are in an old photograph—

These brothers, no genetic connection, got along well. They even devised plots together to fool their parent, which was yours truly.

 

You see, they were put on special diets because of health (Blue Boy) and heft (Kitten) issues. They were not supposed to have the same food. They agreed on this point, but not on which food was for each. No matter how carefully and cheerfully offered, the moment I turned my back I’d sense them sleekly sneaking their way, each to the other’s food bowl.

 

My stern look and vocal admonition would quickly make them reverse course back to their assigned places. But then, if I looked away again, there they went doing their switcheroo.

 

This got me thinking about the human aspect of coveting what others have. In some instinctive way we share this with animals.

 

There’s a reason it’s one of the Ten Commandments. (Number ten, to be exact: “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s.”)

 

My cats told me it is basic, instinctive, and not rational in the least. 

A reminder when bringing fictional characters to life that reason does not rule them.