A Talk about “Writing Diverse Characters”
I gave a talk at the Japan Writers Conference about writing diverse characters. Like I said in my post leading up to the conference, I chose to go in with practically no preparation. I ended up so tense that I foolishly rehearsed talking about certain things—and those things were, predictably, the things I ended up wanting to talk about. I wanted to not prepare to avoid biasing myself in favor of certain topics, you see—but by rehearsing some things and not everything (which is of course impossible, since I couldn’t have known going in what people would want me to talk about), I biased myself in favor of talking about those things. For better or for worse.
Considering how much it stressed me out to try that format, and how I basically failed at my goal of giving a talk unbiased by my own preferences of topic, I was a little surprised that so many people seemed happy with the outcome.
The idea was that by asking people to introduce themselves early on, they would have a sense of which of each other to turn to, and I could also tailor what I talked about to what I thought it would help people to hear.
There are things I would do differently if I chose to do it again. But considering I felt like I had no idea what I was doing going in, I think it went pretty well!
There’s one thing I didn’t get to that I regret: talking a little about bias. I said that I operate by trying to understand my own biases, and the way that I think, and trying to balance that out. (Edit: I do intend to make a less personal post eventually, with links to more resources! This is not that, though if you follow the links below, some do lead to resources that may end up referenced in that post, as well.)
It’s a simplistic explanation of a complicated subject, so I’m going to write a post, now, explaining some facet of my mindset.
Discomfort in Comfort
The bottom line of what I’m about to describe is simple: I’m not comfortable being comfortable.
In essence, I suppose I try as much as possible to be aware that I’m only 1 of 8,000,000,000. I’m nearly nothing; and in fact, I aspire to be nothing—to be a blank canvas on which any story can write itself.
Obviously, that’s impossible. Complete absence of personality and preference and bias is probably unhealthy. Probably, everybody has a degree to which they’re comfortable leaving their own skin in their minds; a point beyond which things start to feel wrong.
I can’t speak for anyone else, but I live in a state where almost everything feels just a little bit “wrong”. I don’t know if it’s a factor of how I grew up—always an outsider, always the Other. I don’t know if it’s because of the mind games my cognitive scientist father played with me as a child—teaching me to exercise my imagination. I don’t know if it’s a predisposition, or PTSD, or maybe even a benign temporary state that I will grow out of.
Whatever the case, nothing makes me more uncomfortable than feeling like people are trying to accept me into their “group”. It’s not that I don’t want to be in a group; it’s not even that I don’t join the group.
But I am conscious of the group thinking; of any points where it becomes us vs them; of the ways that I adapt to the group. I’m also always conscious that the very same process that brings us closer together is also driving us further away from the rest of the world.
From a more selfish perspective, I’m also aware of the fact that the group might, at some point, decide—with good reasons that my mind can easily produce—that I don’t really belong.
Flexible Opinions
Opinions, to me, are just things in a box that I carry around. Sure, there are some that I’m more attached to than others, but I see them as tools in the constant search for better ones. So I’m that annoying person who, when surrounded by people all echoing the same opinion, will ask for an explanation from another viewpoint in order to see how this opinion is expanded and defended.
I have been conscious of and highly suspicious of my “brain holes” as well as everyone else’s, to the extent that I start to simply set myself at opinions opposed to whatever I’m reading or whomever I’m talking to, if the person or writing seems too ingrained in one particular perspective. If I catch myself thinking, “This just sounds right,” I immediately go looking for data to disprove it—or, if I don’t have time for that, just find a counterpoint opinion and send my mind to time-out over there.
Often, I end up debating these opinions I’ve randomly selected on a sort of a reflex—I’ve taken this stance, and feel I must defend it.
It’s not a lie, exactly, because I believe it’s my opinion in the moment. But these come and go so quickly—in a matter of days or hours, sometimes.
This doesn’t necessarily mean I’m always out for a debate. That gets exhausting. And there are times when I want validation. But then I usually go to people whose honesty I trust, and sometimes tell them that I’m feeling vulnerable and don’t want opposition.
So there are settings where I want and maybe even need validation.
That preface is a counterpoint to my next generalization: verbal validation in particular can make me feel uncomfortable, in some settings. Maybe this is one of the reasons why I’m so at ease with the idea that some people really don’t understand or like TLTLBU; I’m more comfortable trying reading or listening to someone’s thoughts to try and understand what put them off my writing than I am simply accepting that someone really liked my writing.
So…What?
So what? What’s the point of any of this? Am I saying people should try to be like me? No. Of course not. I think the world takes all sorts of people to function, and if everyone thought like me…yikes.
I’m not sure what the point is, actually.
Someone said that good writing comes from extremes, and I should be trying less to be balanced.
Maybe that’s true. There are certainly ways to interpret those words—not necessarily how they were intended—in a way that would be productive.
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention in this post that I’m a recovering codependent: I used to use my flexibility of mind to mould my thoughts as closely as possible against another person’s, whom I liked. This doesn’t mean I’d just agree blindly with everything they’d say; but I’d find an angle that worked for me that was mostly in alignment with other people I liked—or, often, in alignment with what they thought I did or should believe. I couldn’t tell you which came first—my malleable mind or my codependent tendencies.
But the keyword there is recovering. That is no longer who I am.
So who am I, really? What lies at the core of all this malleability? I’m honestly not sure. I used to think there was nothing there. I’m starting to realize that there is a person there; but right now, all I know about her is that she doesn’t like thinking in absolutes, and she likes trying to understand people on a deeper level than mere surface logic.
I only just realized a few months ago that I think in specifics but often speak in generalizations. I used to think that this was what everyone did—until I realized that some people genuinely seem to think of certain things (usually places and people and other things they’re not familiar with) in generalizations. I’m not sure what to do with that. I feel like if I were speaking in specifics, I’d come off as extremely pedantic, and be tedious. (I don’t just mean I’d be tedious to listen to—I mean I’d be tedious talking.)
I don’t know what to do with it, but it’s a new fact about me that I know am aware of—and in being aware of it, I’m also aware that this isn’t necessarily the case for others.
But not knowing who I am beyond a few things doesn’t hurt my writing—it’s a factor that can (and does) help bring it to life.