I love writing about ‘difficult’ females. Women and
girls who don’t fit into the ‘good’ or ‘bad’ trope, but adapt their behaviour
depending on circumstance – even if that means behaving abominably. Alas,
becoming a published author taught me something important about myself.
I need to be seen as a ‘good’ girl.
Who’d have thought it?
Fifty-seven-year-old-feminist me – who worked in the cutthroat world of women’s
magazines for twenty years, raised insomniac twins, lifts weights (albeit not
very heavy ones) and can force a worming tablet into the mouth of a cat that
can’t retract its claws – falls apart when people think she’s anything other
than ‘nice’. In short, I like to be liked. And, when you’re writing thriller
fiction featuring morally ambiguous women, this can become a bit of a problem.
My debut novel, The Final Hours of Muriel
Hinchcliffe, featured two such ambiguous characters: sparky, opinionated
carer Ruth and her ‘charge’, the tragic, glamorous Muriel, both equally capable
of eliciting sympathy and revulsion, sometimes within the same sentence. I
loved the fatally flawed pair of them to pieces. Both my future agent and my
publisher at Pan Macmillan clearly loved them too – as did many readers.
But a handful of readers didn’t, and I can see why.
Ruth and Muriel are all kinds of messed-up and, at times, downright evil.
‘Thoroughly unlikeable characters’ was one reader comment. ‘So unpleasant!’ was
another. For all the reviews praising the novel’s humour, plot, twists and
turns and character development, it was the few bad ones I remembered – and
took personally. ‘Horrible’, ‘unlikeable’, ‘unpleasant’. It didn’t help when a
family member emailed me to say, ‘Loved the book, but blimey – those women
you’ve created! What on earth goes on in that mind of yours? I hope I’m never
left alone in a dark room with you!’
Then the penny dropped. I was finding negative
responses so upsetting because I felt readers were conflating my characters
with me.
The grown-up inside me said, ‘Suck it up,
buttercup. It’s nothing personal.’ But the good girl kept wailing, ‘I’m nice!
And my characters aren’t “bad” – they’re misunderstood!’ (I tried to shut her
up with wine and chocolate, but to no avail.) Do male writers, I found myself
wondering, struggle with the same level of self-doubt? Or face censure for
creating morally ambiguous male characters?
Meanwhile, I was trying to get my head into Book
Two – the book that would become my latest novel, Tell Tale, which
featured, of course, a morally ambiguous female character. Only this time, the
character was an eleven-year-old child – an outspoken busybody, gossip and
stirrer. Oh, how I loved her. Not least because this child was also sharply
observant, funny and had real chutzpah despite being brought up in
less-than-ideal circumstances. And she does some truly terrible things. She –
and I, as her creator – well, we just couldn’t help ourselves. But all the time
I was writing her story, I couldn’t help self-censoring. Was Debbie-Marie
Tunstall being too bad in this particular chapter? Would she come across
sympathetically enough to the reader? Of course, it wasn’t Debbie-Marie’s
reputation with readers I was worried about at all. It was my own. And that, I
realized, was doing Debbie-Marie a disservice.
The first draft was shelved. I started on a second.
It was weak, because Debbie was weaker, and therefore my writing was too. I
just didn’t have the same belief in the world I was trying to build. I needed
Debbie to remain her deliciously flawed self. I started a third draft – this
time, my mind in a slightly happier place. I had adapted to being a debut
author, having my book out in the world and feeling ‘exposed’ (yes, I had many
recurring dreams about being naked in public during this time). My skin was
thickening up. I told myself, ‘Remember who you were before you got the agent
and the publishing deal. You were writing in obscurity and had the freedom to
tell your characters’ stories honestly. You owe it to Debbie-Marie Tunstall,
and all the other characters in Tell Tale, to do the same – warts and
all. And if that means not being a “good” girl – which, at 57, you’re frankly
wise and confident enough to deal with – well, so be it.’
Because being ‘authentic’ (I’ve been told by my
young-adult twins that this is a buzzword in social-media land) is a moral
victory in itself, and means I’m being ‘good’ after all.
And now that Debbie-Marie Tunstall is out in the
world – well, it turns out that readers like her very much indeed.
Which, in spite of the above musings, I’m VERY
relieved to hear.
Tell
Tale by Claire Parkin (Pan Macmillan) Out now
How
do you catch a serial killer when no-one believes you’re telling the truth? Wales,
1984. Llanfair's most notorious busybody, Debbie-Marie Tunstall, has really
gone and done it this time. Her snooping and merciless announcements of
observations written in her Kajagoogoo notebook have gotten her into so much
trouble that even her mum can't defend her. She has no choice but to run away. And
then finds herself the sole witness to a murder. From a decades-old tragedy to
the immediate danger of a potential serial killer on the loose, Debbie takes it
upon herself to piece together the mysteries. But even if she uncovers the
truth, will anyone believe the village’s biggest tell-tale? Because in
Llanfair, secrets are buried just beneath the surface, and what Debbie has
inadvertently stumbled upon could unravel the very fabric of her community .
You can find Clare Parkin on Instagram @Clairepauthor.
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