Enjoyment V Endorsement

If fiction were evidence of criminal intent, half the publishing industry would be serving life sentences.

By all reasonable standards, I should probably be under investigation.

I've written about murder, kidnapping, organised crime, violence, manipulation and people whose moral compasses appear to have been assembled backwards. I've created characters who do things I wouldn't dream of doing myself, given them perfectly convincing reasons for doing those things, and occasionally made them so entertaining that readers end up liking them.

Which, according to some rather questionable interpretations of fiction, must mean I approve of their behaviour.

Apparently, somewhere between inventing a character and publishing a book, an author becomes personally responsible for every opinion, action and depraved thought that appears on the page. It doesn't seem to matter whether the character is a protagonist, antagonist or someone who survives approximately three paragraphs before making an exceptionally poor life decision. If the author wrote it, somebody somewhere will decide it must reflect what they believe.

By that logic, Agatha Christie would have some serious explaining to do, and Stephen King should probably never be allowed near a small town.

I have no problem with readers questioning how difficult subjects are portrayed. That's a perfectly reasonable conversation to have, and sometimes those conversations raise important points about how stories are constructed. What I find considerably less reasonable is the assumption that depicting objectionable behaviour automatically means approving of it.

Because if we're going to start treating fictional characters as representatives of their creators' personal beliefs, we're going to need an absolutely enormous number of defence solicitors.

My Characters Are Not My Moral Representatives

When I create a character, I'm not conducting an elaborate exercise in self-portraiture. I'm creating somebody who needs to exist convincingly within the world of the story, complete with their own motivations, experiences, prejudices, contradictions and occasionally spectacularly questionable judgement.

Some characters are decent people placed in horrible circumstances. Others are thoroughly unpleasant individuals who happen to possess a few redeeming qualities. Some are cruel, manipulative or violent while remaining entirely convinced that their behaviour is justified. Their personalities don't need to reflect mine, any more than their appearance, profession or life experiences do.

The difficulty comes when people begin assuming that making a character's reasoning understandable is the same as agreeing with it.

A believable murderer needs a motive, whether that motive is revenge, jealousy, financial gain, self-preservation or simply the enjoyment of killing. A controlling partner needs to think and behave like somebody who exercises control over another person, which often means constructing elaborate justifications for their actions. A corrupt leader might genuinely believe they're making difficult decisions for the greater good, even while causing enormous suffering to the people they're supposedly protecting.

If I want those characters to feel real, I have to understand how they think. I have to consider what they believe about themselves, what they want, what frightens them and how they explain their behaviour when challenged.

None of that requires me to share their opinions.

In fact, restricting characters to beliefs I personally endorse would make writing rather fucking difficult. Every disagreement would become an exercise in correcting somebody's worldview, every villain would need to recognise the error of their ways, and the entire cast would eventually start sounding suspiciously like the same person having arguments with themselves.

Characters should be allowed to exist as individuals, including when those individuals are complete bastards.

Unreliable Narrators Are Not Reliable Moral Guides

One of the most interesting aspects of writing in first person is the opportunity to explore the difference between what a character believes happened and what the reader gradually understands actually happened.

People are extraordinarily good at justifying themselves. They minimise their own mistakes, exaggerate the faults of others and reinterpret events to make their decisions seem reasonable. Sometimes they do this deliberately, but often they're so invested in their version of events that they genuinely cannot recognise how unreliable their account has become.

A fictional narrator can behave in exactly the same way.

Take Kellan Quinn, the protagonist of my novel The Outbreak. He's a former abattoir worker attempting to survive a world that's gone spectacularly wrong, armed with a monkey wrench, a considerable vocabulary of profanity and a somewhat flexible interpretation of acceptable behaviour.

Kellan tells his story in first person, which means readers experience events through his perspective. They hear his explanations, his frustrations and the reasoning behind his decisions. When he decides somebody is a threat, they're presented as a threat because that's how he sees them. When he uses violence, he often considers it necessary, whether the situation genuinely demanded it or whether he's simply decided that hitting somebody with a wrench would be the most efficient solution.

But Kellan believing his actions are justified doesn't mean I expect readers to agree with him.

His history influences how he responds to danger, particularly where his family and the people he cares about are concerned. He's capable of loyalty, affection and considerable self-sacrifice, but he's also impulsive, aggressive and perfectly willing to make decisions that somebody else might find horrifying.

And because everything is filtered through his narration, readers have to consider what he might be overlooking, exaggerating or refusing to acknowledge about himself.

That's intentional.

I don't want Kellan to stop halfway through a chapter and explain that his behaviour was morally questionable. He wouldn't. Half the time, he'd probably be too busy insulting somebody to entertain the possibility that he might be wrong.

The reader, however, is free to reach an entirely different conclusion.

That's what makes an unreliable narrator interesting. The story doesn't always need another character to step forward and formally announce that the protagonist is wrong. The contradictions can exist within the character's own account, allowing readers to recognise things the narrator himself might never admit.

Unfortunately, when people assume that every unchallenged statement within a novel represents the writer's own beliefs, unreliable narration becomes almost impossible to discuss sensibly.

A character expressing an opinion isn't necessarily the narrative endorsing that opinion, particularly when the wider story provides reasons to question it.

Sometimes the narrator is the last person anybody should be trusting, which is rather unfortunate when they're also the bastard telling you what happened.

Understanding Someone Doesn't Mean Excusing Them

I find villains considerably more interesting when their motivations extend beyond simply being evil because the plot requires somebody to be evil.

People rarely think of themselves as villains, even when their actions are indefensible. They develop explanations that allow them to continue seeing themselves as justified, misunderstood or unfairly treated. They blame circumstances, other people, past experiences or whatever convenient excuse makes their decisions easier to live with.

Exploring those motivations can make a fictional antagonist more convincing without making their behaviour any more acceptable.

Grim, another character from The Outbreak, is a useful example. He's Kellan's older brother and the leader of a group known as the Reapers. Where Kellan can be impulsive and morally inconsistent, Grim is considerably more calculating. He understands the value of power, obedience and fear, and he's willing to exploit vulnerable people, including children, to maintain control and pursue his objectives.

Grim doesn't need to announce that he's evil. His decisions demonstrate the kind of person he is.

What's important to me as his creator is understanding why he believes those decisions serve his interests. His willingness to sacrifice other people isn't random behaviour inserted to make him appear frightening. It's part of how he operates, and it influences the choices he makes throughout the story.

I can understand Grim's motivations because I created them. I can explain why he behaves the way he does, why he considers certain people expendable and why his relationship with Kellan is so complicated.

That doesn't mean I think he's right.

It certainly doesn't mean I approve of using children as leverage, manipulating people through fear or treating human beings as resources to be exploited.

Those are aspects of his character that make him dangerous.

If I refused to write them because somebody might mistake his beliefs for mine, I'd be removing the very qualities that make him function as an antagonist.

The same principle applies beyond my own writing. A character who grew up surrounded by violence might later become violent himself. His experiences could help explain how he developed his attitudes, but they don't automatically remove his responsibility for the harm he causes.

Likewise, a character who commits terrible acts in the name of protecting their family might genuinely love those people. Their affection can be sincere, and their willingness to protect their loved ones might even be admirable in isolation. Neither fact erases what they do to everybody else.

Human beings are capable of possessing contradictory qualities, and fictional characters should be afforded the same complexity.

Giving a villain a tragic history doesn't automatically redeem them, and allowing readers to understand their motivations doesn't require those readers to forgive them. Sometimes understanding makes a character's behaviour more disturbing rather than less, because it reveals just how deliberately they've chosen to hurt other people.

I can understand why a character makes a decision and still think they deserve to be hit with a fucking chair.

Those positions aren't mutually exclusive.

Depiction and Glorification Are Different Conversations

This doesn't mean that fiction is incapable of promoting harmful ideas. Of course it can. Authors make deliberate choices about how events are framed, whose perspectives are prioritised and what conclusions readers are encouraged to draw.

A story might consistently excuse cruelty, romanticise exploitation or portray particular groups of people through harmful stereotypes. Those are legitimate subjects for criticism, and readers are entitled to question whether an author has handled difficult material responsibly.

However, identifying those problems requires examining the narrative rather than simply compiling a list of objectionable things that happen within it.

An abusive character, for example, might describe his behaviour as protective and loving. He could insist that his partner needs him, that his restrictions are reasonable and that any conflict between them results from her unwillingness to appreciate his efforts. If the story is told from his perspective, those justifications might dominate his narration.

But the surrounding events could reveal an entirely different reality. His partner might become increasingly isolated, frightened or dependent. His account might repeatedly contradict what we witness, exposing the manipulation beneath his supposedly affectionate explanations.

In that situation, the narrative could be examining how controlling people rationalise their behaviour rather than inviting readers to agree with them.

Of course, a different book might present similar conduct as unquestionably romantic, with little awareness of its implications. Readers may reasonably criticise that portrayal, just as they may disagree about where the distinction lies.

The point is that the presence of harmful behaviour doesn't settle the question.

Context, narrative perspective, character development and the consequences depicted within the story all contribute to how something is represented. Ignoring those elements in favour of declaring that the author must support whatever appears on the page reduces literary analysis to a particularly unhelpful game of spotting offensive content.

And if the only acceptable fictional characters are people whose behaviour nobody could possibly object to, we're going to be left with some phenomenally dull books.

Fiction Doesn't Have to Provide a Moral Instruction Manual

Another expectation I find increasingly frustrating is the idea that stories must demonstrate appropriate moral consequences for everything that happens within them.

If a character behaves badly, somebody must explicitly challenge them. If a relationship is destructive, the narrative must clearly explain why. If a villain commits an atrocity, they must eventually suffer an appropriately terrible punishment so that readers understand the author doesn't approve.

Otherwise, apparently, the wrong message might be conveyed.

But fiction isn't obliged to operate as a public information campaign.

Sometimes terrible people escape punishment. Sometimes victims never receive justice. Sometimes the person who behaves most responsibly suffers consequences they don't deserve, while somebody considerably less deserving walks away untouched.

Those outcomes can be uncomfortable precisely because they contradict our expectations of fairness. That discomfort can be part of what makes a story effective.

An author might choose to explore the consequences of injustice without resolving it, or examine what happens when somebody's wrongdoing remains hidden. A character might achieve everything they wanted despite the damage they caused, leaving readers to consider the implications rather than offering them the satisfaction of seeing justice served.

None of that automatically means the author believes the outcome is desirable.

There's certainly room for stories in which villains receive their comeuppance and moral order is restored. Those endings can be enormously satisfying when they suit the narrative. But requiring every book to follow that pattern would limit the kinds of stories writers can tell and the questions fiction can explore.

Readers are capable of recognising wrongdoing without being provided with an accompanying explanation every time it occurs.

And frankly, if I wanted every horrible person to learn an important lesson before the final chapter, I'd write considerably fewer horrible people.

Enjoying a Character Isn't a Character Reference

There's another distinction that often gets lost in discussions about morally dark fiction: enjoying a character doesn't necessarily mean admiring them.

Readers can become attached to fictional people they would avoid like the plague in real life. They might enjoy a villain's intelligence, humour, charisma or sheer audacity while remaining perfectly aware that their behaviour is appalling.

A character can be entertaining because they're dangerous, unpredictable or entirely lacking in the social restraints that govern ordinary life. Fiction allows us to explore those qualities from a safe distance, where their consequences belong to imaginary people rather than actual victims.

That distance matters.

Somebody enjoying a crime thriller isn't announcing an interest in committing murder. A horror enthusiast doesn't necessarily want to experience a zombie apocalypse, regardless of how enthusiastically they discuss their survival plans. And a reader who enjoys fictional relationships involving manipulation, obsession or violence isn't automatically expressing a desire to experience those things personally.

The same distinction applies to authors.

Writing a compelling villain doesn't mean wanting to meet someone like them. Creating a destructive relationship doesn't mean believing such relationships are healthy. Making a character attractive or entertaining doesn't automatically transform their actions into something admirable.

People can engage with uncomfortable material for all sorts of reasons, including curiosity, suspense, emotional intensity, psychological complexity or the simple enjoyment of a well-told story.

Naturally, readers are also entitled to dislike those portrayals. Some might find a particular character's behaviour too disturbing to enjoy, while others may feel that a story handles its subject matter poorly.

Neither response requires an assumption about the moral character of everyone who enjoyed or created the book.

I've written characters I'd happily spend hours developing on the page but wouldn't trust to collect a parcel from my doorstep.

That's not hypocrisy. That's understanding the difference between a fictional personality being interesting and a real person being tolerable.

Responsibility Doesn't Require Sanitisation

Authors do have responsibilities when dealing with difficult subjects, although what those responsibilities involve will vary depending on the story and the way it's presented.

Research can be essential when portraying experiences outside our own. Thoughtful character development can prevent serious subjects from becoming shallow plot devices, while content warnings can help readers make informed decisions about material they may find distressing.

Readers can also identify weaknesses in a portrayal that the author didn't recognise, and those discussions can be valuable even when the writer disagrees with the criticism.

But taking a subject seriously doesn't require making it comfortable.

Violence can be ugly. Relationships can be destructive. Characters can make decisions that are selfish, cruel or completely unjustifiable, and sometimes those decisions should remain unresolved because that's what serves the story.

There's a difference between handling disturbing material carelessly and choosing to write about disturbing material in the first place.

If writers become so concerned about appearing personally virtuous that they refuse to depict anything morally unpleasant without immediately condemning it, the result isn't necessarily more responsible fiction. It may simply be fiction that's less willing to examine the complicated, contradictory and frequently horrible aspects of human behaviour.

I don't particularly want to write worlds populated exclusively by sensible people making thoughtful decisions after carefully considering everybody's feelings.

For starters, half my characters would be unemployed, and the other half would have absolutely fuck all to do.

The Page Is Not a Confession

When I write about violence, I'm interested in what it does to people, how they justify it, what drives them towards it and what happens when their choices begin affecting everybody around them. When I write morally questionable characters, I'm interested in the contradictions that make them convincing and the decisions that reveal who they really are.

Sometimes those characters behave admirably. Sometimes they're thoroughly reprehensible, and quite often they manage to demonstrate both qualities within the same chapter.

Their actions are part of the story I'm telling, not a catalogue of things I personally consider acceptable.

That doesn't place my work beyond criticism. Readers can question the decisions I've made, challenge the portrayal of particular subjects or conclude that a story doesn't handle its themes effectively. Those are legitimate responses to fiction, and authors shouldn't expect their intentions to override every possible interpretation.

But there's an important difference between criticising what a story communicates and assuming that its creator must personally endorse every objectionable action within it.

The former involves examining the work. The latter involves making assumptions about somebody you've probably never met.

I can write a murderer convincingly without admiring murder. I can explore an abusive relationship without considering abuse romantic. I can create a villain whose motivations make perfect sense within the story while believing that, in reality, the bastard belongs behind bars.

And readers can enjoy those stories without needing to defend their own morality for doing so.

A writer can create a monster without being one.

If we genuinely believed otherwise, crime novelists would be permanent police suspects, horror writers would require extensive questioning, and anybody who'd ever written a fictional serial killer would probably find themselves explaining some extraordinarily unfortunate browser history.

Although, having seen what I've researched in the name of getting a scene right, I suspect that last one might already be a problem.