I almost always prefer character-driven novels to plot-driven ones. I care what happens less than to whom it happens. As times passes, I may even forget the plot, but if the characters are fleshed out in ways that make them real, they stay in my mind like real people.
Same with memoir: This happened, then that happened, then I did this: these memoirs pale in comparison to those that reveal the vulnerable, struggling, conflicted, complex, peculiar person telling the story. I want to relate to the teller, to know her inner world, to see how what happens changes, scares, delights, or deepens her. I don't want her to tap-dance in patent-leather-shoes on stage and show me how pretty she is; I want to go back stage to her dressing room and see who she really is, without makeup.
Fran, the main character in this novel I'm reading (The Dark Flood Rises) is so relatable for women of a certain age, women over sixty. Fran is in her seventies; she has a wry sense of humor, she admits her inner turmoils, she sometimes feels invisible, she loves driving around and looking, she admits her vulnerabilities, she struggles to decide what to do in the limited years left of her life. Her very British voice is so authentic I'm quite sure I could call her up and we'd be friends.
I've reached a point in the novel where the the story moves to the Canary Islands and focuses on three men, one of whom is Fran's son. I'm plodding through this part, hoping to hurry up and get back to Fran.
I recently watched three seasons of BBC's Hinterland--recommended by Betty. I enjoy watching good mysteries, but still it's the detective, DCI Matthias, who keeps me engaged. He's a troubled man (he blames himself for the drowning of his daughter; he's not stellar at personal relationships) but he's an impeccable detective. He builds his cases on evidence boards--those large cork walls on which inspectors pin pictures of suspects and victims, items found at the crime scene, and forensics reports; ultimately, in every episode, the pieces of story click into place and the crime is solved--but it's the interplay of his focused mind and his emotionally struggling self that makes the series so good.
This same dynamic mirrors real life for me. It's not so much "the facts" that connect us to certain people, but the inner life of the person telling the story--her transparency and vulnerability, her quirks, flaws, and weakness, the way she tells who she is. These are the touchstones of bloody-good conversation. We want to know: How did you survive the catastrophes and heartbreaks? In what ways did the various facets of yourself struggle with each other? Where is your shame, what are your secrets? When did you realize you were being less than honest with yourself or other people? Where's your messy?
Years later, we may forget exactly what happens, even to ourselves and our closest friends, but we never forget the real human being who told us and the funny, tragic, poignant ways they told us. In the telling of story, the person endears herself to us because she tells us--really, not superficially--who she is.
A connection is forged when people reveal the truly personal--not just private, sometimes-shocking secrets but the revelations of who they are way deeper than superficial facts. When friends are engaged in this kind of conversation, you see them leaning forward, nodding, saying yes yes yes, that's it, that's it exactly!
“What is most personal is most universal.”
― Carl R. Rogers, psychotherapist
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