A Protagonist We Can Root For: Likable, Relatable, Neither, Or Both?
The question of likability, especially for female protagonists, is a topic that has sparked heated debate. Male protagonists have, traditionally, had an easier time of it. There have been rascals and rogues as well as knights; for every Atticus Finch, there’s a Rhett Butler. Yet female protagonists have had a more difficult history. Eccentricity is permitted (think of Elinor Oliphant). So too, anti-heroines are allowed in psychological thrillers such as Flynn’s Gone Girl or Hawkins’ The Girl on the Train. Yet a protagonist like Olive Kitteridge is rare.
Sometimes the notion of relatability is offered as an alternative, especially for female characters. “Your heroine doesn’t have to be perfect,” we’re told. “She can have weaknesses, make mistakes. That makes her someone we can connect with. It makes her relatable.”
Some critics have rejected both concepts. They point out that great characters in literature have been self-centered, self-deluding, ambitious, jealous, craven, angry, broken, and utterly un-relatable. As Mohsin Hamid notes in the New York Times (September 24, 2013), we can love a book without liking its protagonist. It’s often the “fatal flaw” and ensuing struggle that make us turn the pages.
What is likability, and is it desirable in our characters?
In simplest terms, likability is the quality of being readily or easily liked. In his 2005 book, The Likability Factor, Tim Sanders parses the concept into four aspects: friendless, relevance (connecting with others’ wants and needs), empathy, and realness (integrity, authenticity).
Psychologist Stephen Reysen has, in fact, developed an 11-point likability scale, covering perceptions of warmth, friendliness, attractiveness, approachability, and similarity to oneself. The assumption is that likability is intrinsic to the person. That is, it’s something that any reasonable person, or a majority of reasonable persons, would feel about Mr. X or Ms. Y. The impact of factors such as culture, gender, and temperament is not considered. Likability is a “thing,” and an asset.
It’s not surprising, therefore, that there are countless articles for writers offering advice about how to make characters “likable,” especially a book’s protagonist. Otherwise, why would we care whether or not she achieves her goal?
On the other hand, there’s been a backlash against likability. A well-known example is author Claire Messud’s interview with Publishers Weekly (April 29, 2013), in which Messud lets loose on the interviewer’s comment that she “wouldn’t want to be friends” with the protagonist of Messud’s novel, The Woman Upstairs. “If you’re reading to find friends,” Messud snaps back, “you’re in deep trouble.”
Others critics have expressed similar feelings. In the January/February 2018 issue of The Literary Life, a publication of Poets & Writers, Stephen Almond writes “in praise of the unlikable.” Novelist Tara Burton also cautions against too much concern for likability. We must know a character’s “brokenness” and “terribleness” too. “And, ideally—when the work is good and well told—we must care about them anyway. We must learn to become invested in the journeys of whole, complete people, who are, like all human beings, both likable and unlikable.”
The focus on “whole, complete people,” rather than on likable ones, has given rise to the notion of relatability.
What is relatability, and what is its role in literature?
If someone is relatable, we mean that it’s easy to understand and feel connected to her. She’s like me, in some fundamental way. I can bond, empathize, identify. “Relatability” answers the question: likable to whom?
At first glance, this seems like a obvious “must have” for a protagonist. Yet here too, it’s more complicated.
For example, what about those extraordinary larger-than-life heroes, or characters who live in circumstances that are nothing like ours? At times, certainly, we read fiction to enlarge our world, not to confirm what we already know. Historical fiction, folklore, mythology, fairy tales, science fiction, fantasy, thrillers—huge chunks of literature lie precisely outside the realm of the “relatable.” If they were “relatable,” we wouldn’t read them.
As Rebecca Mead asks, in her 2014 article in The New Yorker on the “scourge” of relatability: Should characters in literature be people we can easily understand and assume we can relate to? In other words, should reading fiction be an automatic and unambiguous experience?
Mead objects to the expectation that a book should reflect, conform to, and confirm what we already know, or think we know—that it ought to serve as a mirror in which the reader recognizes himself. “The notion of relatability implies that the work in question serves like a selfie: a flattering confirmation of an individual’s solipsism.”
She goes even further, decrying the laziness and passivity this implies. “To reject any work because we feel that it does not reflect us in a shape that we can easily recognize—because it does not exempt us from the active exercise of imagination or the effortful summoning of empathy—is our own failure.”
What are the benefits—and risks—if our protagonist is not easily relatable?
Do we dare to have an unlikable, or unrelatable protagonist? The answer is: it depends. Genre, audience, and the needs of the story will help to answer that question. It may also depend on the gender of the main character and the experience of the author herself.
While there’s been a prejudice against the unlikable female protagonist—despite such well-known main characters as Emma Bovary and Anna Karenina—this does appear to be changing. The issue may now be a matter of culture rather than gender, in a polarized society in which people seem less and less willing to consider the viewpoint of those who see life differently.
There may also be a difference, depending on whether one is a new or well-established author. Stephen Almond, cited above, points out: “There’s another unspoken factor in all this: the market. If you’re an unpublished writer seeking representation, and you submit a manuscript with an abrasive protagonist, chances are you’re going to hear from agents concerned about likability.”
How can we assess the likability and relatability of our novel’s protagonist?
At a minimum, we need to be clear about where our protagonist fits on this continuum and which aspects of her character are likable, relatable, or neither.
By way of example, I’ll use the protagonist of my current novel, Elizabeth. Elizabeth is likable in that she’s smart, hard-working, and a loving mother. We can relate to her feeling for her children, her passion for her work, her longing for something more in a relationship, and her willingness to (finally) step outside her comfort zone. On the other hand, there are aspects of her life and character that many readers will not be able to “relate” to. Few readers are on track to get a PhD in Art History, and most would have difficulty imagining themselves posing nude in imitation of Georgia O’Keeffe.
However, it is this combination of the relatable and unrelatable that makes Elizabeth a potentially intriguing character. The features we understand draw us in; the features we don’t understand keep us reading. Without the latter, we’d be bored. Contemporary readers are drawn to complexity—to characters that combine traits we like, traits that make us uncomfortable, and traits we love to hate.
Consider your own novel and ask yourself:
- What are the aspects of my protagonist that I most admire and would like to embody or find in a friend? These are her likable features.
- What are the aspects that I feel comfortable with and feel as if I can understand? These are her relatable features.
- What are the traits that cause my character to make wrong decisions, compromise her sense of self, or compel her to struggle? These are her unlikable features.
- What are the traits that I’ve included, even though I have no direct experience of them, because I feel they’re integral to my character or her story? These are her unrelatable features.
There should be several items in each category. If one category is empty or thin, you may want to thicken it. You may also want to assess the amount of “story space” given to each trait—its significance to the plot, as well as the number of scenes in which it figures.
Remember that complexity is what makes a novel memorable!
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Barbara Linn Probst, author of the groundbreaking book on nurturing out-of-the-box children, When the Labels Don’t Fit, is a writer, teacher, researcher, and clinician living on a historic dirt road in New York’s Hudson Valley. She holds a PhD in clinical social work and is a frequent guest essayist on major online sites about the craft of writing. To learn more about Barbara and her work, please see http://www.barbaralinnprobst.com/
Links to articles cited:
https://www.pw.org/content/the_darkness_within_in_praise_of_the_unlikable
https://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/29/books/review/are-we-too-concerned-that-characters-be-likable.html
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/scourge-relatability
https://www.vox.com/2018/6/5/17425736/tara-burton-social-creature-characters-likable-books
Category: Contemporary Women Writers, How To and Tips
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I have been reading posts regarding this topic and this post is one of the most interesting and informative one I have read. Thank you for this!
Girls are greatly encouraged to become empowered, strong young women. This contradicts the views of the past, where females are seen as weak and lesser than males. Times are changing, and many are using their voice to empower females, demanding equality. Check this out The Do's in Developing a Compelling Female Protagonist Hope this will help. Thank you.
Cheers,
Monique
I agree with what is mentioned above. You’ve generally had the force, my dear, you just needed to learn it for yourself. One kid, one educator, one book, and one pen can change the world. Thanks a lot for sharing your blog.
A “smart, hard-working, and a loving mother” on a track for a PhD in art history, is beyond average “smart.” This will make a woman character unlikable for many readers. The most brilliant women in fiction are typically antagonists, or women we regard with envy but really do not like.
This is indeed a tough juggling act for a fiction writer, and bravo to Probst for her insights, research, and advice. Ironically, a protagonist who is too likable can end up being so saccharine or perfect that she is actually unlikable! I hate to say this, but I also think a reader’s politics may affect whether a character is seen as “likable.” I recently asked Tom McAllister, the author of the new and highly praised novel “How To Be Safe,” about this: He says outright that his main character, Anna, is intentionally unlikable — indeed, she’s bitchy, paranoid, and depressed, for starters. Yet, he says, he has not gotten complaints that she’s unlikable. I asked him if he thought liberal readers ultimately sympathized with Anna because she is driven by a passion for gun control, and he agreed.
For me, I enjoy reads where the character is more complex and I think Probst has done an excellent job of analyzing this whole question of likeability. When a character is too likeable (loves her kids, her husband, volunteers for those less fortunate, holds down a job while being a Martha Stewart homemaker) I can’t relate. I’m going to use the checklist she’s listed here to make sure I’m creating a well-rounded, intriguing POV character, not a bland perfect woman.
Great article. Well-researched and I appreciate the examples. This reinforces, for me, that characters can falter, behave badly, perhaps even do unforgivable things, and still remain interesting, even relatable, if the reasons or motivations for those actions make sense.