Julie Berry lives in suburban Boston with her husband and four young sons. She is the author of several novels for children and young adults including The Amaranth Enchantment published by Bloomsbury and works in software sales and marketing. You can read more about Julie and her favorite books here.
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At a recent meeting of a Boston-based salon-style women’s group, the discussion leader, Kimberly Carlile, posed these questions, following a conversation on the transformative power of literature in our lives.
Can we see our lives as stories, and ourselves as protagonists?
If so, are we flat characters, or round?
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In fiction we’re fascinated by characters who, like real people, are flawed, unpredictable, conflicted, self-deceived, smart yet irrational, courageous yet fragile, prudent yet occasionally reckless, irresponsible yet sometimes noble, righteous yet privately naughty. Books I love best confront and embrace their characters’ roundness. The author’s empathy for, amusement at, and delight in their little cast of loonies shines through on every page.
When Kimberly asked, “Are we flat characters or round?” I realized something about myself that I hadn’t articulated until I put it in the language of literary character.
I occupy many roles – wife, mother, author, marketing director, choir director, neighbor, friend, daughter, citizen, and so on. But what character do I play as I occupy these roles? Is it an honest one?
In my town I often play The Frazzled Mother of Four Rambunctious Boys. This is scarcely an artistic stretch. I’ve spent years polishing my performance. The community is happy to place me there. I get a lot of, “Four? All yours? God bless you!” as if I’d sneezed my sons into being.
Source: istockphoto
The problem starts when I adopt this character consciously, hamming up my performance, so to speak. Egocentric Me is stroked by the positive attention (“Four boys! How do you do it?”). Lazy Me believes less will be expected of me in this role (“Tardy again, Mrs. Berry? Oh, that’s all right.”). I wear it as a sandwich board, a pre-emptive excuse for the chaos in my life. If Frazzled Mother of Four Boys is what you think of me, you’ll, perhaps, overlook my messy house, filthy car, late paperwork, missing school snacks, forgotten trumpets, unanswered messages, etc.
Except – and here’s the kicker – what you’ll actually think of me is entirely independent of this little charade I play in my head, and, furthermore, who cares what you think? This performance is staged by my ego, for my ego. It’s narcissistic at its core, caring nothing for those to whom I owe honesty, friendliness, or punctual permission slips.
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And, it’s a lie. I’m bigger and better than I let on. I’m defrauding you when I play this game. The fact is, I can manage my life better, when I choose to. The truth is, I’m making choices other than to be a better manager of all my duties. Some of those choices may be worthy, and some may not. It doesn’t really matter. The more I play roles to con you, stroke my ego, and appease my anxieties, the less I am looking at you, thinking about you, getting to know you, or learning to serve you.
Flat roles are invidious weeds that choke the honesty out of relationships. I’ve got to keep Nervous Maiden and Insecure Wifey out of the bedroom, because they sap my marriage of its potential, and focus its resources on my needs, instead of his or ours. I must keep Super Busy Young Mom out of my relationship with my own mother, lest I deprive her of attention she deserves at this more isolated stage of her life. I’ve got to banish Well Intentioned But Forgetful from my friendships. Above all else, I must, must, must keep Overstressed Mother of a Herd of Hooligans out of my relationship with my sons, or heaven help them all.
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Possibly the worst deception wrought by adopting shallow roles is that I, myself, come to believe in them, to accept the definitions and limitations that I’ve so long projected to others. This form of “losing myself” carries no prize for virtuous self-sacrifice, but only leaves me stuck and starved, pretending and powerless.
What then? Will my round bumps, my glaring self-delusions, run away with the story of my life? Am I casting myself as a supporting character, a pawn in my own existence?
This very defect is one of my psychic curves – this manipulative, self-deceptive streak of mine. I’m emotionally rotund, and convinced I can fool others into believing I’m flat.
And that, if nothing else, makes me funny.
(Round, flat ... couldn't I be svelte? Is that so much to ask?)
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As I write and revise the novel of my own existence, how shall I view my unruly protagonist? I can choose contempt, despair, and torn, abandoned pages. Or I can wink and nod next time I catch her pulling her shenanigans, give her a stern lecture, perhaps, and ultimately paint my heroine with empathy, amusement, and delight.
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What roles do we play? Or do we play some richly and roundly, and others flat? For those in which we play flat, why? Roundly -- why?
Can we say brava to ourselves for the roles in which we are round (smart yet irrational, prudent yet occasionally reckless, etc)? Maybe even ask our flat characters if they might understudy to the round?
As we write our story, how do we paint ourselves? A pawn in our existence, or the hero -- with empathy, amusement and delight? Or a little of both?
After reading Julie's essay, you may want to re-read Jaime Cobb Dubei's: School's In Session. As LaNola pointed out in the comment section, Jaime narrates her story purely, neither self-vaunting nor self-deprecatory.
The 'dare to dream' imagery has circles/Venn diagrams. It's easier to dream when we dream together. Is it also easier to dream when we play 'round', are willing to do things badly/be in beta?
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