Do You Have to Like the Main Character?

Years ago, struggling to write fiction, I asked a literary friend how to make a character likeable. He shot me a look of pure disdain. “Why would you want to?”

“Not every character,” I stammered, “but I want the main character to at least be somebody people want to spend time with.” This no doubt sounded inane, but it struck me as logical. To ask a stranger to give you hours of their life, you need to give something back, and who would want to spend even one hour with someone they did not like at least a little?

Maybe what I am still calling logic (because this exchange happened years ago and still troubles me) is only the suffocating niceness one learns as a Catholic schoolgirl. My friend argued that real complexity and interest come from the not-nice. When I defended likability, I sounded, even to my own ears, naïve, fatuous, and childish.

All the same, I ignored him and continued to read and write as I pleased. It feels significant to me, a small grace, if someone has made sure to sand down their own rough edges, smoothing the inevitable scars, knots, and hollows so others can come close without wincing.

This debate, it turns out, is larger than our fleeting exchange. Literary critics deplore people like me, sure that we have no tolerance for psychological complexity, moral ambiguity, or the truth of human nature. Some even say we lack empathy, but I can assure you that empathy is not in deficit. I can connect with frightening ease, even with those serial killers. Villains, family members, buddies, supporting characters, they can all be despicable, and I will learn from the ways they act out their darkness. But I need to feel my way into the main character’s mind and want to stay there a while. If they are mean, grasping, ice cold, or insufferably pretentious…I recoil.

Short stories are different. One copes as one does with a substitute teacher, a temporary boss or an impulsive friend’s latest love, sure that any discomfort will soon end. I would read a short story that took me inside Hitler’s mind. But as a rule, I prefer longer forms because their power unfolds slowly, subtly, and you are drawn into the characters’ lives. You connect with them.

Some advise connecting with the deeper issue, or the author’s talent, rather than the character. But to me, that feels like giving up on fiction, turning it into sociology or literary analysis. I read to feel what people are feeling, to experience their world, to deepen my understanding. Were I a book reviewer, I would read for artistry and complexity and might adore the villains. But I could not even bring myself to major in English lit. because I was afraid it would kill my love of reading, turning it into an analytical exercise instead of a joy.

I go looking for validation and find little. On Reddit, someone writes, “If they’re a shitty person but they’re interesting it should be a fun read. You might be rooting for them to fail.” Someone else adds, “If I can’t like them then I would at minimum like to be able to laugh at them.” And here am I, not liking these people. I bet they laugh when somebody slips on a banana peel, too. The next responder is also “a big fan of unlikable protagonists,” claiming they “add a little originality to a story.” Which does remind me of Tolstoy’s observation: “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Is likability that homogenous, bland, and predictable? Curmudgeons are eminently likable, as are neurotic artists, absentminded scholars, fiery divas, shy nerds, and rogues. They have little in common. But if they are honest, at least with themselves, and capable of compassion, I like them.

Just as I cherrypick my characters, I cherrypick opinions, applauding one guy’s point that likeable characters anchor us in the story, making what is difficult or painful easier to absorb. Author Morris Gleitzman remarks that if “childish” means looking at the world with openness and a desire to connect, then adults might want to reclaim those tendencies. Especially, I would add, as we are losing our ability to connect with anything but an avatar. You would think that in a time of anxiety and dread, all sorts of likable characters would be popping up to engage and inspire us, but what do I keep seeing on the book lists? Gothic horror, supernatural anything, and an inordinate number of female serial killers, which is not yet a statistical norm but truth may well imitate the fiction.

Critics say people like me are trying to avoid discomfort. But when you like somebody, you are even more miserable when they suffer life’s slings and arrows. Still, my habits are definitely escapist. In my twenties, I soaked up dark, grim, sad, serious works and sat eagerly through seven hours of Shoah. I have lost that hunger; other people’s suffering is too real now. I need a leavening of warmth, humor, and joy to cut (and in fact, deepen) the sadness.

John Updike wrote so elegantly, I jotted down phrases as I read—but I switched to his essays when the main characters in his novels grew so selfish, immature, and misogynist, I wanted to throttle them. David Foster Wallace, himself no stylistic slouch, pointed out that not only did Updike’s characters become progressively less likable, but they did so “without any corresponding indication that the author understood that they were repellent.”

Technical excellence, stylistic brilliance, and thematic depth should be enough, the critics say. Any of those attributes can engage audiences without requiring emotional attachment. But I would rather bring my heart along.

Read more by Jeannette Cooperman here.