The Invisible Hero: A Dialog with Zoë Ferraris

David Corbett and Zoë Ferraris

Today on Wildcard Tuesday, David Corbett converses with author Zoë Ferraris about writing heroes outside the normal mold.

Zoë is the author of two novels, Finding Nouf  and City of Veils, with her third, Kingdom of Shadows, due out from Little Brown in June, 2012.

Zoë’s novels take place Saudi Arabia, and while providing a tense, smart, suspenseful read, they also explore the uniquely disturbing relationship between the sexes under the shadow of strict Islam. Laura Wilson, in her review of City of Veils  for The Guardian, wrote:

Ferraris's second novel more than lives up to the promise of her magnificent debut …. The plot is thrilling, with plenty of twists and turns, and all the characters well drawn, but what makes this novel really extraordinary is Ferraris's knowledgeable and sensitive depiction of a place where religion, used as a blunt instrument, has given rise to a stultifying, paranoid and sex-obsessed society, where women are forcibly infantilised and men are emotionally bonsaied. Highly recommended. 

David: When I first read Finding Nouf, I was bowled over by how insightful it was about what damage a culture premised on male superiority could inflict not just on women but on men.

But the other thing that made me take notice was the timing. The book came out in 2008, with America still in the throes of post-9/11 Muslim-bashing. Muslim men in particular were often viewed as terrorists until proven otherwise.

I thought you were incredibly brave, hoping readers would see as human someone so many Americans had already stigmatized, demonized or dismissed.

And yet I didn't get any sense of a political agenda on your part, though I did sense a desire to lend a voice to one particular type of voiceless—or invisible—character. Am I correct in that?

Zoë: Thanks, David. And yes, I’ve been hanging around Muslims for twenty years. At some point I took stock of all the Arab men I knew and asked myself how many of them are similar to anything I’ve seen in the media—bearded fundamentalist, sleazy souq merchant, wife-beater, oil baron, or billionaire sheikh. The only one who fit any of the above categories was an American I knew who had converted to Islam. His idea of being Muslim was culled from old National Geographic photos; he became a fundamentalist and grew the craziest beard I’ve ever seen.

Same goes for Muslim women. Checklist: any belly dancers out there? Nope.

If you wear the same perfume three days in a row, you’ll stop smelling it. It’s this energy-saving device inside your brain that eliminates new perceptions of familiar things. I think most Americans don’t stigmatize Arabs so much as we’re presented with ideas that become odorless, invisible after a few encounters.

It’s easy to break a stereotype for a minute or two, much harder to set up a situation where you care enough about a character to follow him through a rich series of events. The key is getting a reader to care. And with all the attention on the Muslim world these days, I figured that shouldn’t be too hard.

Much harder, I imagine, to tackle the subject of immigrants in this country, especially Latinos, as you’re doing in Do They Know I’m Running? In many ways that hits closer to home, because it’s a matter of looking at one’s own community and how it deals with strangers.

David: Yes, most people have made up their minds on who and what an “illegal immigrant” is. But I’m not sure my task was harder than yours.

As you say, the problem is creating a character (or characters) people care about enough to follow through a series of crises, intimacies, betrayals, victories. But if the reader’s mind is already made up, your character remains as invisible as Ellison’s hero.

I think this remark of yours is illuminating: And with all the attention on the Muslim world these days, I figured that (getting a reader to care) shouldn’t be too hard.

I succumbed to the same impulse. But what I found was a kind of topical overload. When you’re bombarded with information 24/7 you get pounded into believing there’s nothing more to be contemplated on an issue.

The difficulty of portraying a community’s view of the strangers in its midst is really one of intimacy. And yes, the intimacy ironically works against you. The closer to home the invisible hero is, the more likely he will slip under the radar of preconception and arouse feelings not just of sympathy but guilt.

Zoë: I can see how you ran into topical overload. A novel’s relationship to current events is one of those things that relies on the slot machine of destiny. And I’m sorry, but you and me are competing with vampires, which sometimes makes me think that people are suffering topical overload on everything and the best thing that fiction can do right now is nourish fantasy.

You said that if a reader’s mind is already made up then your characters remain invisible, but I think even the most absolutely rigid minds can be flexed by good fiction. One of the most awesome things a writer can do is take someone completely vile and make you fall in love with him—even if you’re not prepared to admit it. May I call the jury’s attention to Exhibits Hannibal Lecter and Tony Soprano? Dear cannibalistic serial killer, how did you get so charismatic? Ditto you, plump little sleazebag from Jersey? Why do I like you? That’s just shamelessly good writing.

I like your point about intimacy making it more difficult for a reader to accept an invisible hero, especially if anger and guilt are involved. But I just keep believing that when you write about topical things, you’re working with an advantage. And if Thomas Harris can make me like a sociopathic serial killer, then shoot, anything can happen.

David: I’d like to spin the intimacy angle a little, or take it in a new direction. John Hawkes wrote in a short story called “A Little Bit of the Old Slap and Tickle” that to be loved is to be seen. We all want to be seen honestly—and ultimately accepted—if only by one person. And that’s particularly true in a culture where sex roles are so regimented.

And yet, if women are veiled, how are they actually, truly seen? Removing the veil could go deliciously well or disastrously wrong, is my guess.

Zoë: This reminds me of something people usually ask at my readings: What do Saudi women wear under their burqas? It’s a strange, yet totally natural question. And yes, a friend of mine in Saudi often says that women just want to be seen, and she blames this on the burqa.

The first time I encountered a super-devout Muslim face to face, he came to my front door. He was looking for my husband, and when I answered the door (without a veil or head scarf, naturally—this was in Daly City), he turned aside so fast that he nearly got whiplash. He spoke very tenderly and politely to me, but he refused to look at me, and at age nineteen, I was tortured by that. Not only was it awkward watching him have a conversation with the side of my house, I felt like my own presence on my doorstep was dirty, or I was breaking some mysterious Muslim protocol. My husband later said that, in the mind of the visitor, he was showing great respect for me. He was, by not looking at me, loving me in his way—by giving me the freedom to be exposed and not stared at. But I persist in feeling that when someone pointedly avoids looking at my face while they’re talking to me, it’s insulting and disturbing.

David: Wow, that really beats my greeting-the-Jehovah’s-Witnesses-in-nothing-but-my-Batman-cape story.

Circling back to a point we addressed at the start, in a certain sense, we both, in our choice of heroes, honored the age-old challenge of giving a voice to the voiceless—or, a face to the invisible. But is this wise with one’s protagonist—especially in the crime genre?

James Lee Burke famously dedicates himself to standing up for the marginalized, but his heroes David Robicheux and Billy Bob Holland fit perfectly the mold of the chisel-chinned (if heavy-hearted) plains gunman. Lee Child’s Reacher and Michael Connolly’s Harry Bosch epitomize the type, which accounts for much of their series’ vast appeal. I’m sure there are those who might argue that, by having heroes who for most readers seem to be outsiders, we’ve violated a cardinal rule of crime writing.

Did we fail to get the memo—or worse, ignore it?

Zoë: Nah, we read the memo, we just didn’t like it.

I think we’re showing respect for the genre by hitting it with a gene gun. Ye Olde Chisel-Chinned Plains Gunman was born a long time ago, and he’s still the main comfort food when it comes to digesting the ugly parts of our country’s history. But you and me, we’re not just doing all this to be nice, giving those poor voiceless their say. We’re evolving something. We’re part of a whole new menu of crime fiction that encompasses the world. (Check out the Independent’s “Around the World in 80 Sleuths”.)

We’ve defined an invisible hero as someone who’s been “stigmatized, demonized or dismissed.” That fits with the tradition that almost every successful crime hero is tortured in some way. (I believe that was the….other memo.)

Genre loves its antiheroes! And so do we. We may drag new people into that mix—the devout Muslim, the illegal immigrant—but what are they beyond that? How are they tortured?

I think we’re re-seeding the genre, so let’s make a date and see what’s grown up in thirty years.

* * * * *

So Murderateros—do you know of any other invisible heroes? Do you think that the marginalized are best employed as secondary characters? Or is the outsider in fact the archetypal protagonist?

And is topicality a blessing, a cure, or an irrelevance?

* * * * *

Jukebox Hero of the Week: It seemed fitting to find an artist with both Latin and Arab roots, which points directly at Shakira, whose lineage is both Colombian and Lebanese. This song, "Ojos Así," more than any other captures that dual heritage. It’s based in the Phrygian dominant scale, contains interludes of Arabic, and Shakira herself sings in Arabic in the album version, single version, and various remixes of the song. (In this video, she also, yes, belly dances—sorry, Zoë.)

Muckabout, Outcast, Hero

David Corbett

Alexandra and Allison this past week blogged about heroes, and I mentioned in a comment that my favorite heroes are seldom the kind so many others seem to find so compelling. I realize this may seem like apostasy, but as much as I enjoyed Reacher and Harry Bosch and Dave Robicheaux (my favorite series hero), I felt no great need to revisit them. One bite of the apple and I was pretty much sated.

I know. Shoot me.

What can I say—I prefer the muckabout or lost soul, the guy down on his luck and wildly imperfect but not contemptible or contemptuous, the despised or disregarded outcast who comes through in a selfless act of courage.

Not only does this sort of hero feel more real and thus convincing to me, his arc is more gratifying because it travels a more difficult and unlikely trajectory. I can't buy in to a final victory if it's foretold all along by the hero's too-conspicuous strengths and virtues.

And the hero I'm talking about can't just possess a flaw, or a haunted past, or a lack of foresight. The flaw has to undermine his abilities or his will in such a way the climactic confrontation is realistically in doubt until the very end. That's what creates suspense for me—not plot twists or overwhelming odds. The sheer complicated noble blind perversity of the human heart.

This type of hero appears in more permutations that one might think at first blush—everyone from Gal Dove in Sexy Beast:

To Kid Collins in After Dark, My Sweet:

To Freddy Heflin in Copland:

To Mickey Ward in The Fighter: 

To, yes, Seabiscuit (the horse everyone gave up on):

I think heroes reflect a kind of love affair. We don't choose who we're attracted to, who we fall in love with. That's done for us by forces in our hearts and minds—and bodies—far beyond the radar's sweep. And what can I say, the heroes so many others love often leave me cold. They remind me too much of the star quarterback, whereas I've always admired the guys in the trenches, the big uglies with muck and blood on their faces and hands, who fight and claw with little recognition, out of honor or pride or just cussed meanness. The Grunt, not the Officer & Gentleman. Sergeant Rock, not Captain America.

Now, it may well be that this love affair I'm describing is self-love. The kinds of heroes I like best are an almost embarrassingly obvious reflection of myself. They strike a chord because I see You Know Who in them.

But they also remind me of my father, whom I loved deeply and admired, whom I watched every morning dress for work like a warrior putting on his armor—this man my mother savaged with ridicule throughout their marriage, and left to die alone in a nursing home thousands of miles away. I wanted to rescue this proud man from his lovelessness, to redeem both him and me.

But I'm not sure pursuing this from an overly personal perspective gets us anywhere, so I'd like to discuss it in terms of one particular book and film, a relatively little known crime story from George Harrison’s HandMade Films titled Bellman & True (1987), and the novel by Desmond Lowden on which it's based.

Here's a trailer for the film, and the similarity to Sexy Beast should be obvious. 

They're both British crime capers with a bank heist at their cores, with similar themes of the hero being drawn in against his will. But Bellman & True's Hiller lacks Gal Dove's fallen-angel sex appeal -- something that, in the end, strangely works to Hiller's advantage.

The title comes from an old Cumberland song titled “D’ye Ken John Peel,” specifically the lyric:

            Yes, I ken John Peel and Ruby too.

            Ranter and Ringwood, Bellman and True.

            From a find to a check, from a check to a view,

            From a view to a death in the morning.

But there’s a pun in the term “bellman.” It also refers to a criminal who specializes in getting past bank alarms.

As good as the movie is—and it’s not just one of my favorite crime films, but one of my favorite films, period—I recently spent a sunny Sunday reading the book on which it’s based. I’ve now ordered everything else I can find that Desmond Lowden’s written—most of which, sadly, is long out of print and can be had for a song.

Don’t confuse obscurity with lack of talent—in writers or heroes.

This book provided me with one of the most gratifying reading experiences I’ve had lately. As I said, I read it in a day—it’s a mere 183 pages—almost in one sitting. (I’ve only done that with two other books: Double Indemnity and Kim Addonizio’s brilliant poetry collection, Tell Me.)

The book is briskly paced, deftly executed, with brilliant dialog and a well-researched and richly detailed high-tech heist at its core. But what makes it truly unforgettable is the writing, especially the characters.

Consider the following sketches, which are deceptively simple:

Of Hiller, the hapless hero: He was middle-aged, with thinning hair, but there was something of the schoolboy about him. It was the tweed suit, ready-made, from a High Street tailor’s. The sort of suit you bought on leaving school for your first job. The man had kept to the same style ever since, though heavier now in the stomach and seat. And he’d looked after them well, as he walked he kept the suitcases carefully away from his trouser creases.

Of Hiller’s stepson, known only as the boy: He was small, the back of his head was soft and rounded. But his face was pale, sharply pointed with the effort of being eleven years old.

Of Anna, a former high-priced call girl (“on the game, what you’d call the big game, South Africa and the Bahamas”): She wore no make-up, she was strangely neutral, like a fashion model walking from one job to another, her face and hair in her handbag, and no expression for the journey in between.

Of a minor character, a shop clerk: The man was grey-haired. He had bacon and a suburban train-ride on his breath, and he caught the smell of whiskey on Hiller’s.

Even the setting descriptions enhance character, in this case Hiller's again:

The room, when they reached it, was small. There was an old striped carpet, and a basin in the corner held up by its plumbing. Hiller went straight to the window. He stood close to the glass and smelled the sourness of other people’s breath. Across the street he saw the four houses in a row that were empty, their insides gutted and piled at the kerb, their insides dark. And Hiller felt safe. No-one could see he was here.

But the book rewards most poignantly in the interactions between Hiller and the boy, specifically the stories Hiller tells him to keep him entertained—stories about Lulu Land, where they only had Wagner on the jukebox, and about the Princess, who only smoked French cigarettes and was beautiful when she wasn't looking. 

In one particularly revealing bit of storytelling early in the narrative, accomplished with sly indirection, using subtext beneath the dialog, we observe Hiller’s struggle with drink and his tender if troubled relationship with the boy; we see flickers of mawkish anger beneath his wit, especially anger at vapid bourgeois pretension—and resentment of the financial success that has eluded him, or which he himself has sabotaged; we learn of the Princess, who is the boy’s mother, and the infatuation they share for her, despite her cruel desertion of them both; and we feel that desertion bitterly, even though (or perhaps because) its extremes are merely hinted at. 

The other great joy of the book is watching Hiller’s character solidify—and his love for the boy deepen. It’s easy to assume that Hiller is doomed, because of the feckless oblivion that's led to his involvement with men far more ruthless than he realizes. But it’s not as simple as that, and Hiller is not that simple a man. His fondness and concern for the boy crystallize with a mutual realization that they only have each other, and it’s never been otherwise.

Hiller engages me in ways more conventional mystery/thriller heroes just don’t (which no doubt explains a great deal about my career). He’s not just the clichéd “tarnished hero,” nor can he be tidily tucked into the anti-hero drawer. He’s a recognizable man with a complex past and an insidious, almost overwhelming problem in the present, caused by his own thoughtless flirtation with darkness, his ongoing accommodation with despair.

And by the end he isn’t the same just more so, like so many heroes one comes across, especially in the genre. Without giving too much away, he achieves a distinct nobility, that of a man who gets up off his knees—if only to prove he can.

Note: The film was remade (and butchered) for American audiences by the same director (Richard Loncraine) with Harrison Ford in the lead. Curiously, this version, titled FIREWALL, includes no mention of Lowden in the credits. When I mentioned this to Don Winslow, he conjectured that Lowden got paid and “told to fuck off,” an all-too-frequent arrangement in the film world. Oh, and the American version is godawful. Harrison Ford has never sleepwalked through a performance more shamelessly. He looks like he's expecting every scene to climax in an enema.

So, Murderati: Are you drawn to heroes with a crucial flaw, one that renders the likelihood of their prevailing always in doubt? Or do you prefer knights of a conspicuously whiter and more reassuring shade? In either case -- why?

And ever notice how easy it is to mistype herpes for heroes?

Last--yes, I recognize the parallel between Hiller and the boy and my father and me—though I didn't until Monday, when I wrote this piece. Talk about oblivious. Sheesh...

* * * * *

Jukebox Hero of the Week: In keeping with my theme, here's a video of Bettye Lavette, who for almost 40 years wandered the desert of R&B obscurity, until she gave the following performance of The Who's "Love Reign O'er Me" at the Lincoln Center, and revealed not just that the woman has a soulful voice, but a cagey, fierce, indomitable spirit:

No Man Is An Island

By Allison Brennan

Late last night I finished the last of my Thriller Best First Novel entries. Reading three books in one day wasn't fun, especially since I'm in the middle of revisions that are due now. Well, it wasn't exactly three full books, because I had started each of them long ago, but these were the three that I really had a hard time with and thus kept putting aside because I just didn't want to finish them.

But I'm sure other people loved them. I know at least one person did--the editor who bought the book. I'm rarely critical of books because I know that my tastes are not everyone else's tastes, just like I know that some people love my books--and some people don't.

Editors buy books they love. They have to love them--they're going to be reading, and re-reading, that book many times. They'll be fighting for that book in editorial and marketing and sales and art meetings. 

For me to love a book, and give it a high score, there has to be three things present.

3) An interesting story. Whether a romance or a mystery or a thriller, or a blend of all three, I need to be interested in the story itself. This is what I'm really looking for when I read cover copy--the basic plot. Most books I put back on the shelf because the plot doesn't sound interesting to me.

2) Voice. Voice is an interesting story told well. It's what makes the multitude of similar plot lines fresh and unique. Voice is the rhythm an author "speaks" on the page. There's some voices that hit us and we cringe; others that are like music. Voice is what has me falling in love with an author. 

1) Characters. I have to care about SOMEBODY. I have to want the hero to live and not strangle him because he's an idiot or toss the book because he's a jerk. The plot is important--what are the stakes, why are they important, what will happen if the bad guy wins? But I need at least one character I can believe in. He can be flawed. He can be imperfect. But he has to be more good than bad, and his bad can't be evil. Maybe I'm too simple in my tastes, but I want a good guy.

There's also the matter of getting into the character's heads. Some authors are incredible this way--I feel like I'm in the POV character's shoes. There's a depth of character, inner conflict, personal strife, that I can feel as the story unfolds. If I'm there with the characters, and care that they survive, and the author's voice is music to my ears, and the story is interesting--I'll always score the book high, even if the writing itself isn't brilliant or there's a plot problem or two. Why? Because if my personal criteria is met, I can read without sensing the passage of time. And if I can lose myself in a book, it's like living a completely new life for a few hours. It's quite a heady experience.

The television show HEROES had me greatly worried for awhile. It still has me a little worried. There is one Good Guy and lots of nearly good guys and lots of nearly bad guys and a Very Bad Guy. Peter Petrelli is the Good Guy. (We won't go into Claire because she often annoys me and sometimes does TSTL things, but because she regenerates she always lives.) I need Peter to stay the Good Guy. He can do the wrong thing for the right reasons, and he can make mistakes, but his goals must remain noble. For a few episodes, I feared that Peter was being sent down the wrong, dark path. Which would have been completely against his character and tick me off. Fortunately, he ended up making the right choices.

Some of the characters I met in my contest reading were cardboard cut-outs. The book may have been a thriller--and usually met my "interesting story" criteria--but I didn't care about the characters in the the story, and thus didn't care what happened to them or the world. 

Before I was published, I never put a book down unfinished. Even if it was awful, I'd finish it (albeit I might skimread it!) But now I have far too many unread books, and I don't have time to waste on a so-so book, or a book that just doesn't do it for me.

But I made the commitment, so I had to finish these books. 

I discovered that they all had one fatal flaw, for me at any rate. I didn't care about anyone in the story. I didn't care about the hero, the villain, the victims (if there were victims) or even the stakes. The books were well-paced and technically well-written, but, as Rhett Butler would say, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." Without the depth of character, I felt like I was observing a black-and-white B-movie with no subtext. There was no color, no emotion.

I thought I was done with contests, but my RITA books are on their way. Fortunately, I only have to read seven books (two of which I've already read) and I have two months, as opposed to thirty books in three months. Much, much easier!

I'm presenting a class on Rule Breaking this month. It's one of my favorite subjects :) . . . one of the things I talk about is passion in writing. That you have to love what you're writing. You have to love your characters--even the bad guys. You also have to challenge your characters, hurt them, make them suffer. In unpublished contests I've found that too many authors pull their punches. Well? What's interesting about characters who are just like everyone else?

I've been reading Donald Maass' FIRE IN FICTION. I like Maass' books because they're straightforward and "talk" to me in ways that other writing books don't. He wrote some things that struck me as I was in the middle of writing ORIGINAL SIN last year:

"Is your protagonist an ordinary person? Find in him any kind of strength. . . . Without a quality of strength on display, your readers will not bond with your protagonist. Why should they? . . . So what is strength? It can be as simple as caring about someone, self-awareness, a longing for change, or hope. Any small positive quality will signal to your readers that your ordinary protagonist is worth their time."

A protagonist is different than a hero, to which Maass says:

"Is your protagonist a hero--that is, someone who is already strong? Find in him something conflicted, fallible, humbling or human. . . . Be sure to soften the flaw with self-awareness or self-deprecating humor . . . What is a flaw that will not prove fatal? A personal problem, a bad habit, a hot button, a blind spot, or anything that makes your hero a real human being will work."

And perhaps the most valuable point:

"The effect of one character upon another is as particular as the characters themselves."

These last two points is where I found the most problems in the recent books I read. Heroic characters whose flaws weren't integral to the story, they were forced or worse, there were no flaws--or the flaw was seen as something positive by the character, i.e. they had no sense of how their actions affected those around them. The characters often seemed to act and think in a bubble--as if everyone was a catalyst, and no one changed by the end of the book.

There was one book I read that I scored very high that wasn't the best written book in the pile. But from page one I was sucked in because I cared about what happened to the characters. They grew over the course of the book and I could absolutely feel the impact they had on each other, not just the main characters but the other characters they met on the way.

"No man is an island." We all affect the people we meet. Characters should, too.

What are some of the more powerful characters you've seen recently in fiction or film and why?

Three Things I've Learned From Law & Order

By Allison Brennan

I never watched Law & Order when it first aired, and to this day I've only watched a handful of the original L&O episodes. But in 2005, after I quit my "day job" and started writing full-time, I used to watch re-runs late at night as I came down off my caffeine high. The spin-off that hooked me was SVU. The original L&O has many of the same elements as SVU, but SVU has--for me at least--the most interesting characters, both the series stars and one-show stars.

Anyone writing crime fiction, mysteries or thrillers should at least invest a couple hours watching L&O, though I think the lessons learned would benefit most commercial fiction writers. There are other shows that "teach" the same lessons (HEROES, for example) but L&O is the most obvious.

1) Enter Late, Leave Early

Most writers want to over-explain. They like hefty set-ups, establishing character and backstory, and "setting the scene." If you watch L&O you'll see they start each scene just after the beginning of the scene. They don't show Olivia and Elliott driving to the scene of the crime, they show them AT the scene of the crime--often after the CSI team have gone through it to give them information they need.

Sometimes, you want to show the painstaking CSI investigation--to establish clues or a red herring. But most of the time, it's unnecessary. L&O has done a great job in showing us the parts of the investigation we need to see to stay invested with the story, but keeping other parts off-scene in such a way that we know it's going on, we can "almost" see it, but it's not in front of us. We never think they aren't covering all the bases even when we don't see them working each piece of evidence. Truly, masterfully done.

Leaving early is just as important. I'm a big offender of this--sometimes, my characters think too damn much at the end of scene, prolonging the story. While it's important to get inside your character's head, it's best to do it as much as possible during the action of the scene to avoid long narratives between scenes. Scenes should answer story questions as well as ask story questions--so going into the scene you give your reader information and/or answers; then raise more. Leaving a scene "early" provides a great venue of such story questions, as well as cliffhangers to get the reader to turn the page, start the next chapter, finish the book.

WARNING: Entering late and leaving early is a great way to keep your story moving at a brisk pace. But after reading hundreds of thrillers, I've noticed that some never let up. You're worn out because there is NO downtime. Sometimes, you SHOULD move into a scene slowly or wrap up a scene more completely, or even offer a "quiet" chapter so that your reader isn't overwhelmed with one action after another with no let-up. I've found that these less frantic scenes are well-suited for right before or right after major story turning points, such as crossing the first threshold, the mid-point, or before (or after) the black moment (all is lost.)

Strong pacing is important, but strong pacing isn't non-stop, story-on-steroids pacing

2) Shades of Grey 

I have always been fascinated by moral dilemmas. My first Lucy Kincaid book, which has been postponed to Spring 2011, deals with a complex moral dilemma. We in society often have sympathy for people who do the wrong thing for the right reasons, and often we have compassion for people who take the law into their own hands when they've played by the rules but were victimized.

Any one remember Dirty Harry? Wasn't it MAGNUM FORCE that had cops killing criminals who'd beaten the system? On the one hand, it's the worst betrayal of trust and duty to have cops kill in cold blood; on the other hand, many of us believe it's unfair--and plain wrong--for violent offenders to beat the system and walk the streets, knowing that they'll kill again.

We believe in the justice system because it is the most fair, but at the same time it is flawed. When I first learned decades ago that John Adams defended the British after the Boston Massacre, my gut feeling was how could someone fighting for Independence defend murderers? Yet, Adams believed so much in the system of a fair trial that I realized that his defense of the system was one of the backbones of our fight against British tyranny. If we denied them a trial, we were betraying the country we were trying to create. 

Few situations are black-and-white. We all have opinions and values that are important to us, but rarely is there a case in which anything we believe is all-or-nothing. It's the shades of grey that make a story compelling--because life is never simple, nor most of the decisions we make, nor our values which have taken a lifetime to develop.

L&O explores many of these shades of grey, which makes the stories "page-turning." Tonight I watched an episode from a few weeks ago called HARDWIRED about a group of predators who believe that sex between adults and pre-pubescent minors can be "love" and "consensual." During the trial of the leader of the organization that was similar to NAMBLA but different, they had a girl testify that when she had a sexual relationship with the leader (when she was 11 through 14) that she consented, that because of him and his love for her, she got out of her abusive family home, moved in with her grandmother, and ended up staying in school and getting her Masters. While we all would (hopefully) agree that a sexual "relationship" between an 11 year old girl and a 30 year old man is vile and wrong, we can't help but think what might have happened to the girl had she stayed with her physically abusive father, that the school and her drunk mother failed her, and this sick pedophile helped her get out of the situation. Fiction, yes, but we all know that there are good people in bad situations. It doesn't make the relationship right, but it makes us pause and wonder how we, as society and human beings, could fail in such an atrocious manner that an 11 year old girl sees sex with a 30 year old as her only way out of a miserable life.

This is just one example of the "shades of grey" that L&O explores so well--without over-explaining or being preachy--that I find intriguing, and speaks directly to the next, and perhaps most important point:

3) Characters Are People Too 

In a one-hour drama, it's hard to convey well-rounded, full characters who you believe really exist. In a series it's easier, but every show runs the risk of two-dimensional stereotypes. CASTLE is my guilty pleasure, and it's probably the worst at surface characterization. I just can't help myself, I like the show. HEROES does a better job at creating characters who are neither all-good or all-bad, who are complex and flawed and sometimes do the right thing for the wrong reasons; or the wrong thing for the right reasons. But L&O is masterful at characterization. The series repeat characters have grown over the series, but in many ways they haven't changed drastically. We understand them and how they will react in certain situations, and that is comforting even when they don't act as we would. They are staying IN CHARACTER. The supporting cast provides just as much depth. They don't agree on everything, they argue their points effectively, they are not all perfect or all flawed. And even more important, they don't have to agree on everything and they can still work together effectively. 

But it's the guest stars, whether famous or not, who make the show. Some bad guys are just bad. Some are bad but you have sympathy. Some are more complex than others. Some lie, some don't. They are REAL. You feel like you've really caught a snapshot, or a short video, of their life. If a one-hour (44 minute!) program can create REAL, complex characters on television, we as authors should be able to do the same in a 100,000 word novel--while adhering to point #1 above. They use stereotypes effectively to keep the story moving (not everyone needs a backstory shown, like the traffic cop who relays information, of the paramedic who has two lines) but smoothly, so you don't *think* stereotype. But the characters important to the story have depth.

So what have you learned from your favorite TV shows?