Whatever Happened to Iago?

Whatever happened to the character that just was, with no explanation as to why he was? There are glimmers of him every once in a while. Heath Ledger’s Joker was in love with chaos, teasing us with one sad back story after another, never letting us know which, if any, were true. But on the whole, even the most flat of bad guys have a flashback explaining how it all went so horribly wrong.
Is it possible, with all of our therapy and practiced introspection, that we can no longer take a character at face value? As readers, are we too into the mechanics of a personality to enjoy or loathe a character? If they do evil acts, shouldn’t our first thought be that they are evil instead of questioning how overbearing their mother was? Can someone be violent without having had the horrible pants wetting incident in school? Can we believe a hyper calorie-counter that was never teased for being overweight? Are we so trained to look deeper that we look straight through the surface?
As a writer, how do you use your audience’s expectations for a character to the story’s advantage? There is a temptation to give an explanation for every act, tracing it back through Freudian layers of childhood trauma. The problem is you can go too deep with a villain and in effect water down the admiration for the hero. After all, how many times have you felt sorry for a killer in a story once you discover he’s lost his own loved ones? It’s a balancing act that must acknowledge the complexities of personality while at the same time guide the reader towards the intended perspective. Motive is one thing, empathy is another.
Nothing is ever black and white in life, nor should it be in a novel that wishes to reflect true experience. The problem is, I find we are able to relate more to a fictional character than real people. After all, Meryl Streep helped us understand the pressure and sacrifice her Miranda Priestly endured in The Devil Wears Prada, but we rarely give our own boss’s possible stress a thought before labeling them a jerk.

It Doesn't Add Up

We need it, we want it, we crave it at odd hours of the night, but very few of us can handle the discipline of a long term commitment... especially with food.
Like it or not, everyone has a relationship with food. It can be good or bad, healthy or unhealthy. Some take food for granted, eating whatever looks good, while others rejoice in the health benefits of the colorful salad before them. Of course, no matter how healthy your diet may be, we each have our weakness, whether it be the siren call of the sprinkle-covered, chocolate-creme-filled doughnut, or the ribs and potato plate at your local steak house. You may resent the taste that causes addiction-like reactions and hangover regret in front of the mirror the next day, but its pull on you is undeniable; you need it to live.
But what determines how we will handle such desire? Is it our upbringing, education, friends, the magazines we read or the posters we see that determine if our dinner out will be a time to celebrate or a battle of will? I don't know how I came up with my approach but it seemed so obvious to me at the time: enjoy but have less. Eat your slice of cake - but share a few bites, leave some on your plate for lunch the next day, take only one and put the bag away. It was the practice of restraint but with enjoyment. After all, the best part about giving something up for Lent is the joy of that first sip/bite you have of it on Easter.
But now every bite is a chore. It needs to be examined for what it contains and for what it lacks. There is no celebration, just math - how much protein, calcium, iron, zinc, fiber, sodium, how many calories, how much fat? Then comes the long division - if I eat this now and have this later but not have this again till the weekend will I still need to take a supplement? More importantly, how long should I stay on the treadmill, because I'm awfully tired which means I could be low on iron. If I'm low on iron I really should eat this instead but that means I won't have any calcium today.
The joy of food is gone as I try to fit all the day's nutrients within a number of calories that won't have me buying Spanx next month. Worse, I'm an English major trying to re-learn math. My addition is struggling and I can't get my subtraction to work. The exercised calories meant to be burned don't seem to have any effect on those consumed. Perhaps I should enroll back in school. Unfortunately, a child's introduction to math starts with the question of 'if you have three apples and I give you three more what will you have'? My answer now is 'a whole lot of fiber'!

Pocket Loyalty

I’m in the middle of reading four books at the moment. Two fiction – one for the train ride into work, one for these snowed in afternoons that require hot chocolate and a soft blanket. The other two are of the ‘improve your life’ non-fiction variety. Not so much self-help as further learning. The concept of understanding something new about yourself or the world gives you the feeling that you’re moving forward. I’m not sure if it’s reminiscing about the exciting days at college or just the feeling of stretching my brain beyond my everyday skill set, but learning more about the seemingly unexplainable world we live in makes me feel more prepared.
But is it only non-fiction books that can speak these truths to us? Is that why non-fiction is purchased more than fiction? Is that why publishers are more likely to take on an unpublished writer if the work is factual?
From what I’ve seen though non-fiction doesn’t quite breed the same sense of lasting passion that fiction does. Even The Power of Now didn’t yield the kind of constantly-in-my-pocket obsession that Catcher In The Rye has done. And what about Jane Austen’s work? How many movies & spin-off books has the recent health book you bought yielded? Celiac Mummies just doesn't have the same appeal as Pride & Prejudice & Zombies. Meanwhile in the last twenty years I’ve seen six different versions of Emma alone.
Is it all just a form of escapism or is it something more? Can fiction do what non-fiction can’t? Can it connect on a deeper, less material level? I don’t know about you but I never fell in love with an older man who had his crazy first wife locked away in the attic, (unless there's something my husband wants to tell me) but there is something about Jane Eyre that I related to at age fourteen, age twenty-one and again at twenty-nine. Has there ever been a non-fiction book that has inspired the minds of children the way Harry Potter has or welcomed a pre-teen into a crush the way Twilight has done? Love her or hate her, Bella will be apart of those young girls' (and most of their mothers') lives forever. Forget Daddy issues, they’ll each have Edward issues.
Perhaps non-fiction is more likely to be a fad while fiction takes the slow and steady path of loyalty. Non-fiction speaks to us now and leaves us when we fill the void with the next self-help book. Fiction stays with us and begs to be picked up again and again. With a non-fiction book you can skim and search the appendix to find instant gratification, with fiction you need the build up from Chapter One for the full effect.
In an age of twitter speak and text messages are we being programmed to forgo the details and get to the heart of the matter? Which in turn, takes out the heart? Non-fiction has its place but after a few weeks or months that place is often at the used book store. Fiction though, stays on my bookshelf or in very special cases - my pocket.

Does This Disease Make Me Look Bitchy?

If I was a character in a book what word picture would be painted? If someone were giving me a toast what adjectives would be used? When asked to describe myself in three words I choose creative, empathetic and open-minded. In none of these answers would I expect to hear sick. Yet, that seems to be the first thing people think about me. I used to be the friend that was fun, funny and even the ubiquitous 'so nice'. Now the first thing that gets mentioned is that I can't have pizza and beer.
I used to be annoyed when I was described by how I looked as if that somehow was important to who I was. But at least my style, hair color/cut or tattoos are choices I've made, an expression of self that hints at who I am. Being sick is not a choice.
I do realize that having Celiac Disease influences who I am. I am now overly aware of cosmetic ingredients and how to read food labels. Being spontaneous with food is no longer an option and I have a new appreciation for good days. But when you hear someone has Celiac Disease you don't think she must know a lot about nutrition, instead you think she's weak or, my personal favorite, high maintenance.
While I don't go out of my way to hide my food restriction, I don't advertise it either. I'm not embarrassed by it. It is, after all, a part of my life but so is my uncle who's gone through more girlfriends than his daughters have had birthdays. He's influenced me (by teaching me to avoid any man like him) but he is not me, nor even a close representation of me. Celiac Disease is teaching me many things, but it is not now, nor ever will be, who I am.