Women Developing Their Characters: An Argument for Protagonist Diversity Beyond the Audience Surrogate
Women Developing Their Characters: An Argument for Protagonist Diversity Beyond the Audience Surrogate
Almost everyone loves to project themselves into a good fantasy from time to time, whether it be through a video game, book, television show or just in our own minds. Some media, such as video games, make this process very easy by putting the player in the protagonist’s shoes throughout the story. In literature, the easiest way to accomplish this effect is to use what theorists call an audience surrogate. Audience surrogates appear throughout literature, but some popular examples include Dr. Watson from the Sherlock Holmes stories, Nick Carraway from The Great Gatsby, and Bella Swan from Twilight. These characters have minimal character development of their own, have back stories that many people will see as relatable, and do not change much or at all throughout the story. Their job is to be a ‘camera’ for the reader, a role to slip into in order to fit themselves into the story. As a result, the audience surrogate also asks questions that the author thinks the audience will ask and injects the voice of the average reader into the story world.
The trope of the audience surrogate proliferates in popular literature, including horror, because it is accessible, makes reading easy and rewarding for the reader without much critical thought, and offers access to the fantasy of personally having a great adventure or having a better or more fulfilling life. In the horror realm, Ash from the Evil Dead series functions as an audience surrogate. He is a down-to-earth everyman, usually he is a fish out of water, asking the questions the audience would ask, and offers the fantasy of surviving terrifying paranormal attacks when others don’t.
I would argue that while the audience surrogate has undeniable appeal, this trope’s boom among audiences, especially fiction which targets younger women, has created a trend in reading tastes which may hinder diversity in horror stories with women protagonists. In the rush to provide something exciting and immersive to readers, my concern is that we are teaching a generation of readers that the only acceptable protagonist and story setup is the one in which they are centered and which features a fantasy figure in the lead. This type of demand intersects with many larger issues in our society, most notably who is considered desirable, who is considered ‘normal’ and ‘relatable’ and who is considered acceptable fantasy fuel. There is no wrong way to read, and of course stories that are pure fantasy fuel for the reader are not only valid but fun — however, we need to keep room in our minds and on our bookshelves for different protagonists, ones that don’t look like us and aren’t immediately likeable.
Without this diversity, certain literary devices simply aren’t possible, and in the specific case of horror, it may bar women from successfully starring in certain types of stories. I find myself thinking about classic characters from horror and horror-adjacent works in which men are allowed to be terrible and are either given time to change themselves or simply celebrated for being a beautiful monster. For instance, what reception would A Christmas Carol have if it were new today? Oh man, that Scrooge guy is such a jerk that I couldn’t get into it. DNF. One star. Or Hannibal Lecter, for another example. There are still new and wildly successful stories being put out about him, and he is an unrepentant killer. Don’t even get me started on Dexter. Why does it become so much harder to accept when it’s a woman? Amy Lloyd documents this phenomenon well in her personal essay Are Women In Fiction Allowed to be Unlikeable? when she states, in comparison to Hannibal’s reception, “Compare that to reactions to Amy in Gone Girl. I’ve seen her character called misogynistic and misandrist, depending on which Reddit forum you’re looking at. My own reaction to Amy was one of excitement. ‘Finally!’ I thought, ‘now women can be real villains too. Not an evil stepmother or a Lifetime movie mistress but a bon-a-fide psychopath just out there doing her thing. Progress!’”
I think that, to some extent, the rejection of difficult women protagonists stems from the expectation that women perform niceness and desirability at all times. If a woman is angry, violent, unsuccessful or has other unappealing traits in this same vein, it feels like more of an offense because those things are considered undesirable, thus making it harder to use that character in an aspirational fantasy. Some may argue that having women protagonists perpetually living their best life and exemplifying a strong, sexy, successful persona empowers women, and certainly we need these stories as examples of women’s success and joy. However, demanding that every woman protagonist be someone that the reader can sink comfortably into as a fantasy ultimately does our work, and the reader, a disservice. Must women perform desirability constantly to be accepted even in fictional worlds, where technically anything is possible? When executed effectively, writing and loving difficult women protagonists is its own form of rebellion. Women in fiction do not need to be beautiful, smart, nice, emotionally self-possessed or successful to have something important to say and a key place in a meaningful narrative.
Additionally, speaking in a purely literary sense, the allowance for protagonists who are difficult, deeply flawed and unlikeable on the surface opens the door for so much more meaning and a diversity of stories that is just not possible when fulfilling reader fantasies is the only goal. For one thing, audience surrogates rarely experience significant character change beyond perhaps learning a lesson from watching others. In order to really bring readers into a particular protagonist’s journey, we must be inside their head as they strive, journey and ultimately change their perspective. Much deeper characterization is possible when a protagonist is their own person and not a vessel for the reader. Flawed protagonists can also make writing a subversive narrative much easier, both in structure and plot. For a good example, I would point to Herman Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener, about the world’s most difficult protagonist (seriously I hated this guy but loved the story), an insignificant clerk that just refuses to do anything, opts out of life and eventually dies, assumedly of his own inertia. It throws every admonishment about ‘active’ protagonists out the window, and it works. We all need room for this kind of wild experimentation in our own work, which is why protagonists that are disobedient to reader expectations can be so valuable.
Speaking of reader expectations, I think this would be a good time to engage with some of the horror tropes that could be impoverished without complex and difficult women protagonists. Mental illness is a prevalent theme in the genre, and something that has historically been used to isolate and stigmatize women in particular (see the ‘madwoman in the attic’ trope from gothic fiction). Unfortunately, non-neurotypical and mentally ill women are often labeled undesirable, and their lives and difficulties are not exactly prime fantasy material for readers looking for an escape. This subtle ableism in our cultural gaze makes it easier to reject protagonists whose stories may be writing back to the damaging aspects of the madness trope in horror and blazing a new path.
The discussion of disability and desirability in horror as it relates to difficult women protagonists brings me to my final point, which is why I believe that it is vital and necessary that this type of narrative remains a supported part of our culture. When we are asked to step into the mind and experiences of someone who is unlike us, someone who we may not be able to like at first, the experience of following along with them on their journey builds empathy which we desperately need to make this world a better place. The ‘other’ is othered to us for a reason, usually because they are hard to understand or relate to from our particular corner of the world. In order to continue horror’s beautiful tradition of humanizing the monster and the other, something which I feel is one of the highest and best uses of the genre, we need to continue asking more of readers and encouraging ourselves to think critically about what we are reading and why. We could all benefit from reaching out to works that don’t pander to us, whether that be from a cultural, racial, gender, sexual orientation or other perspective. We should all be asking ourselves, when we want to call a protagonist unlikeable, just what it is that is making us react against them so strongly. If it is because they are written in an inaccurate, insensitive, or otherwise prejudiced way, then I get it. But if it’s a woman who isn’t being easy or desirable, consider giving her another chance.
Since I’ve outlined some of the ways in which the audience surrogate trope might go astray, I wanted to include a few books in which complicated women are well-written and exemplify the kind of empathy I am hoping for. I would argue that Nell from The Haunting of Hill House is an excellent example, for although she is not necessarily a difficult character, inhabiting more of a victim role for most of her life, she draws readers effectively into the mind of a woman on the verge of madness who eventually falls in. The television adaptation makes Nell a much more difficult character, and in my opinion, that was one of the aspects of the show that made it an appealing adaptation. More recently, I enjoyed The Animals at Lockwood Manor by Jane Healey. The protagonist, Hetty, is a cold and plain woman with a troubled past, and Lucy, her counterpart in the story, is the proverbial madwoman in the attic taking back her humanity and chance at redemption. I found the book an enjoyable writing back to classic gothic fiction, and it had many of the tropes that I love with critiques of the problematic parts of older works. I also think that the depictions of women’s anger and revenge in Gabino Iglesias’s Coyote Songs were refreshing in portraying the unmitigated rage of women who have experienced deep societal wrongs with no apologies given. And, of course, if you’re interested in this topic, please do go and read Amy Lloyd’s excellent take on the subject at Penguin.
Now that I’ve stated my case, what do you think? Are difficult protagonists and antiheroes important to read, or just, well, difficult? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
Elizabeth Hirst is an author, animator and all-around arts junkie from Hamilton, Ontario. She began writing books as a child, because she couldn’t find enough stories that made rural Niagara magical. Her previous credits include They Called Her Canada: The War Diaries of Nursing Sister Bessie Beyer and contributions to the Mousehunt and Levynlight apps. For five years, she ran Pop Seagull Publishing, an indie press devoted to unique Canadian voices in science fiction, fantasy and horror, and that formative time has shaped the way that she approaches her fiction. She is a former editorial assistant for Amazing Stories Magazine, and a graduate of the Odyssey Fantasy Workshop, Class of 2006. On a typical weekend, you can find her at the museum, enjoying live theatre, or reading books at the gym.
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Read Elizabeth’s previous novel, The Face in the Marsh here.
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