Why We Write Heroes

by Geneva Hutcheson, Writing Fellow ’17

In the plethora of articles on the anti-hero, few seem to acknowledge that the anti-hero, despite his/her questionable means and motives, is essentially good, and beyond that, still a hero. And, on some level, we know this.

Critics praise the anti-hero for being human and relatable, for screwing up. But, unlike most screw-ups (which we all are at some point or another), the anti-hero ultimately makes the selfless decision — and, because the anti-hero must atone for greater sins than his magnanimous counterpart — goes beyond being selflessness, and becomes self-sacrificing.

One could argue, and I often find myself doing so, that we write heroes because we want to believe that humans are intrinsically good: that the bad boy will clean up his act, that the deadbeat father will come home, that the distant mother will realize her failures. Films and novels with truly unlikable heroes fail. No one wants to read about the schmuck who continues to be a schmuck — even in our fictional serial killers we seek remorse, and, when they fail to show it, we label them psychopaths. So, I do not believe we can blame the necessity of relatability for our inhumanly benevolent characters.

When we are shown characters, especially of the sitcom or romance novel variety, who seamlessly succeed in, if not solving their faults, producing the proper emotional reactions, we begin to view our own failures of the heart and mind as uniquely person faults. Perhaps the true reason we seldom write wicked, remorseless protagonists, is because they are more difficult to write.

In writing the darker sides of human nature, one must reflect, without blotting out the parts that bring guilt and sadness, on one’s own weakness.

Anxiety

by Geneva Hutcheson, Writing Fellow ’17

There is the moment of three am panic that arises when you has been sitting in Butler for far too long — three coffees deep, no reasonable excuse to stand up from the computer — when suddenly the cogs in your brain begin to turn, your fingers type without much cognitive processing and a paper is produced.

This anxiety is undeniably addictive. I often find myself saying, “Oh, it will get done; it always does.” And, in the Writer’s Process course, I was surprised, when our Professor acknowledged this panicked — if not procrastination fueled — method, as a valid writing process.

But, what happens when the cogs fail to turn? When you sit at your computer and three turns to four turns to five? When you find yourself drafting an email to the professor: “I find myself unable to write… Could I please have an extension… I’ve drafted and underlined… I’ve emailed the librarian…” and then finally, “I cannot write.”

This breaking point where no matter how many hours you dedicate to sitting in front of the computer with Facebook blocked and your phone silenced, where no matter how clear your outline is, you cannot form sentences, words maybe — something about juxtaposition — but definitely not phrases, is quit simply terrifying.

What do we do here. Yes, we call our mothers and cry. We may sit outside Butler and pick up chain smoking. We may even consider dropping out and becoming an organic farmer — and why don’t we. No, writing is a worthwhile endeavor. I believe, at least for me, this anxiety comes from the fear of judgement. You are here, and you believe, perhaps with some justification, that something is expected from you.

This thing expected from you becomes more abstract the more it is pressed upon. No, it cannot be beautiful language; that has been disproven by every tight-lipped professor red-lining through your self-indulgent use of adjectives. For a moment you may entertain that you are expected to be brilliant! You — a young Thoreau — must come up with something great! This too is a lie. That is too much to expect.

Writing is, in its truest form, communication. Write simply and write well (you can see above that I have failed). When I am not sure where to start I start with a quote. Rather than expecting something great from myself I expect something great from the author or the data. Be Hermes not Zeus (You see here that I’ve failed again.)