Ethics in SF continues with an installment on rooting for villains.

Ethics in SF: A series of interviews, articles and debates on the Reality Skimming blog, hosted by Lynda Williams, author of the Okal Rel Saga.

Villains Seducing Readers

Ever heard someone say “the bad guy is so much more interesting”? I have. Personally, if the good guys don’t capture my attention, I won’t read a book to follow the bad guys’ story. But as there now seem to be stories written precisely for that preference, I guess it’s not a given.

So what is it that puts the spotlight on evil-doers? Being let in on the villain’s thoughts and back story might be part of it. From his perspective he is right, and maybe looking through his eyes gives the reader the same idea. Or maybe the reader expects more surprises from the villain, as not all stories give heroes a lot of scope for change.

In black and white, the bad guys attack and destroy; the good guys defend and imprison. Okal Rel’s Gelacks go layers beyond this tidy division. Heroes and Villains alike believe in sustaining the environments in which life thrives. They settle their differences in one-on-one – and often lethal – combat, so that even good guys could be called ‘murderers’ according to another culture. You won’t see even the nastiest Gelacks building death rays, but they still stand out a mile: most of them because they do unforgivable things to the nicest Gelack, Amel.

H’Reth is a homosexual in a very homophobic society who sexually abuses Amel in secret. Di Mon is a homosexual in a very homophobic society who waits until he can have a consenting boyfriend in secret. And so the line is drawn.

Can I see why H’Reth feels sorry for himself? Yes. Do I agree with his justifications for abusing Amel? No. Am I glad we’re rid of H’Reth in the end? Yes.

I could probably answer the same three questions the exact same way for any one of Amel’s abusers. I know people who answer ‘no’ to the last for Ev’Rel. However fascinating her character, I fail to understand what dragging out her reign would have done for the series. The villains have their time, and the heroes need to move forward.

Forward means change. And even I admit good guys are more interesting when they have to bend their rules. These are adjustments that most writers of Sci-Fi and Fantasy have to face sooner or later.

For one thing, to draw a line as simple as “good guys don’t kill”, a writer needs the means to get them out of trouble accordingly. In Star Trek, there is the very convenient “stun” setting on most weapons. I myself arm the hero of my latest novel with a bullet-proof vest and a tranquillizer gun. There are always short-term alternatives to killing, but then what? To keep your hero clean, the villain either lives to strike again or is ended by something completely outside the hero’s control – because the whitest hat out there will risk his own life to save his enemy.

I’d say Harry Potter is just such a white hat, and much as I approve of him, his decision to rescue Malfoy & cronies from their own cursed fire attack on Harry & friends wouldn’t have felt right to me without Ron’s admonishing “If we die for them, I’ll kill you, Harry!”

There will always be situations when the hero not killing is just infuriating, and there are more and more fictional heroes now who elicit cheers (and perhaps shock) because they do not hesitate. Malcolm Reynolds of Joss Whedon’s Firefly universe is a hero off the beaten track. Returning to his ship to see River held at gun point by the law man who has been threatening his crew, he does not wait to be threatened again. He shoots; River’s captor falls dead beside her; problem solved. Malcolm moves right along, not dwelling afterwards – as many heroes do – over the moral ambiguities.

Heroes like Malcolm still have admirable ethical codes, and are certainly easier to relate to than superman. Who can honestly say they would have no murderous impulses toward someone who had ruthlessly killed their loved ones? Who wouldn’t stand by and watch as the tyrant responsible for a city of suffering falls from a precipice?

I bring it up, because I am wondering if it is one of the things that attract readers to villains. Villains give themselves permission to act on instinct and desire; they don’t let morals tie their hands. I can understand the appeal in this, but carried too far it becomes nothing more than seduction for the dark side. Deeply invested as I am in the messages conveyed by fiction, I find this phenomenon disturbing.

Is it a mistake to make villains relatable? Well, as a reader, I hate a villain who is just there and just wants to destroy just because. They definitely need motivation to fit into the story and with that comes some unveiling of a personality. I am so far building the villain in my novel for the sake of tension and obstacles and don’t care too much why he’s doing what he’s doing. This makes it difficult for me to deliver on bringing his character to life. But when I do manage to make him real enough in my own head, I don’t want to let him loose in my story in such a way that would gain him supporters. Curious as to how he got the way he is? Fine. Want to explore a few reactions like fear, anger, pity, even amusement if he has a good sense of humor? Absolutely fine. But get to the point that you wish the heroes would suffer or die just so the villain could finally get what he wants, and I’m sorry, but get out of my novel and have your own nightmares.

A wise librarian and story-lover (who also happens to be my godmother) will check the endings of books before she commits to them. She, like me, is not in it for shock value (villain wins? wow, didn’t see that coming!) She wants to know the ending won’t let her down. She can fall in love with the characters who deserve it; watch their struggles and set-backs with the underlying assurance that their efforts won’t be cheapened by ultimate failure.

My endings will always be for my heroes’ perseverance, because my heroes are my message.

Your Turn: Comment with your own reaction to the questions.

This week we bring back our 2011 feature, Ethics in SF, for a look at violence in fiction.

Ethics in SF: A series of interviews, articles and debates on the Reality Skimming blog, hosted by Lynda Williams, author of the Okal Rel Saga.

Writing as a Violent Act

When I attended the When Words Collide convention in Calgary last August, I sat on the ‘Writing Difficult Scenes’ panel with a number of folks, including Lynda Williams (author of the Okal Rel Universe saga), fellow On Spec editor Barb Galler-Smith (author of Druids, Captives and Warriors) and others. I made a comment that I liked gritty scenes and that one of the most personally disturbing stories I ever wrote was about castration. The story was later published in Northern Frights V. After the con, Lynda asked if I might write about violence on her blog, Reality Skimming. She assumed that I liked to write ‘extreme stuff’, and that I might address some questions on ethical considerations.

I had to decline.

Why? Because what I write isn’t excessive compared to some of the really extreme stuff out there. But it did get me to thinking about the portrayal of violence in fiction, and what works for me and what doesn’t.

Violence in fiction needs to be there for a good reason. With my castration story, the horror wasn’t only in the act to which I alluded in the end; the horror came from my protagonist’s lack of conscience, her ability to manipulate events and her sense of loss and betrayal coupled with her need to control. Embedded even deeper in the story was the idea that her psychopathy stemmed from demonic influence. I kept the reader guessing, never knowing what my anti-hero might do next. Horror is much stronger when it leaves an aftertaste, when you can surprise your audience and make them wonder about the potential of such things happening in their own lives. I set out to write a story that suggested an unremarkable girl with a crush might hide something sinister, might stalk the object of her infatuation and see his involvement with another as an ultimate betrayal. Her love interest and his paramour had no idea of her intentions until my protagonist took matters into her own shaking hands.

I’m not titillated by blood spatters and intestines looping about one’s knees, left to steam in a pile on the floor with a ‘the end’ sign affixed to them. On their own, such scenes are gratuitous. For such visceral elements to work, they must be appropriate to the action. More importantly, there must also be a strong emotional reaction to them on the part of the point of view character. The stronger and more graphic the scene, the more I need to understand the character’s motivation and his psychological make-up. These things should be in place before the violence occurs, or afterwards, in some kind of a review. I have no sympathy for characters (or their writers) who fail to give me a reason for the violence. Even then, it will also be a question of whether the seeds sown beforehand are enough. Many times they aren’t, or there’s a disconnect, where, despite an attempt at validation, the violence is justified by a thin excuse like ‘that’s just what werewolves do’. A defense such as this shows a lack of imagination and the effort needed to present something original.

So perhaps I’m talking about the skill level of the writer, or maybe it’s just a matter of personal taste as to when something is ‘not enough’. I prefer to see some sophistication in what I read, which is another way of saying that I want to see solid characterization. Gratuitous violence rarely includes the inner workings of the characters’ minds or their world. It gives no understanding into the horror. The point is to shock rather than to offer insight.

Of course, there are times when the characterization doesn’t provide insight, but the theme does, and being theme, the reasoning doesn’t become apparent until the piece is seen or read in its entirety. One of the best examples comes from the movie, Pulp Fiction. Lots of violence there, but every brutal scene is linked with elements of down-home, folksy Americana, like the music in the background, the settings—kitchens, bathrooms, pawn shops, restaurants with look-alike Marilyn Monroe waitresses, consumer goods—hamburgers, gourmet coffee, magic markers, or simple niceties, like saying ‘pretty please with sugar on top’. Spoiler Alert: When Pumpkin and Honeybun chat over coffee and then hold up the coffee shop, when Jules recites Ezekiel 25:17 before he executes Brett, when Butch toasts toaster pastries and notices Vince’s gun on the counter before he blasts him full of bullets, or when Jules is more concerned about Vince bloodying Bonnie’s bathroom towels than the dead body in the back of their car, the message is obvious: Our culture is familiar, misdirected and dangerous. Violence is Us. The theme shows us who we are. Not to mention the irony and black humor that causes us to laugh because we recognize ourselves in it. If Pulp Fiction portrayed violent scene after violent scene without any juxtaposition to the culture, it wouldn’t be the amazing piece of fiction it is. It’s also interesting to note that the actual violence portrayed is short-lived. It doesn’t go on and on. When Marsellus tells Zed that he’s going to ‘get medieval on your ass’ we know that he’s going to have thugs take pliers and a blowtorch to Zed for sodomizing him, but we don’t actually see this scene. Marsellus threatening Zed is enough.

Violence is the stuff of action. As writers, most of us will pen a violent scene at some point or another. Therefore, it’s important to understand why we’re writing the scene, who we’re writing for, and what our motivation is. Here are a few reasons I’ve come across as to why writers write violent scenes:

1. They write them to prove they can.
2. They write them to live vicariously through them. The violence gives them an outlet where they can blow an enemy away or portray a rival in an unflattering light.
3. They like being able to stomach vivid, violent events with dispassion. They have guts. They can handle it.
4. They write the story to impress or compete with others. Anything you can do, they can do bloodier.
5. They write the scene or story because it’s based on real life. The event actually happened to them or to someone they know.
6. They write the piece in the hopes that it will work for a particular anthology, magazine or publishing house.
7. They write the scene or story to give the reader a thrill.
8. They write the scene because violence is the outcome of rising tension and action.

All of these reasons (with the possible exception of #5) fall short of why we should write violent scenes or stories. If we’re writing to prove we can, that’s fine for a start. Many of us begin this way. We want to push ourselves to see what we can do. But as we mature as writers, we need to get beyond this motivation. Reasons #2, #3, and #4 are misdirected. They’re all about the writer, and the focus is in the wrong direction. Reason #6—writing for a publication—is strictly pragmatic. On its own, it’s slightly removed from what a better motivation might be. Reason #7—writing to give a thrill—heads in the right direction, but it doesn’t go far enough. Reason #8—violence as an outcome—makes sense and is justified, but it shouldn’t be the sole reason for penning a violent scene. As for Reason #5, if a writer is writing a memoir, or using a past experience to add reality to a story, it may or may not be an appropriate reason for writing it. It depends on whether or not the violence provides a fulfilling experience for the reader.

The point of any violent scene or story should be to give one’s audience a visceral, an emotional and, by the end of the work, an insightful experience. Some readers are happy if they encounter only the first element. I’m not one of them. The trend to make things more graphic than ever doesn’t satisfy me. What does is encountering violence in a creative work that punches me in the gut, the heart, and the head. That brings me a new understanding or a way of looking at things. That makes me feel deeply for the characters. That makes me want to do something about a situation. That makes me feel richer for the experience, because what’s happened in the story matters.

Creating stories that do those things, takes a lot of work. There are many layers, and there is much thought and craft that goes into making them. Certainly, much more than the shallower stuff that settles for the shock of a cheap thrill. Here’s a final reason:

9. A writer depicts violence because it provides the platform and stimulus for higher ideals to address it. Those things might include actions involving sacrifice, forgiveness, love, justice, determination, survival, hope, gratitude or redemption.

This last point invites us to strive for loftier goals than simply pointing out that ‘life is hell and then you die’. But that’s me. And there are many folks who write from the opposite camp, where violence is depicted and relished for its own gory sake.

Your Turn: Comment with your own reaction to the questions.